The three young people stood there, faces pale and vacant.
Kisame stared at them a beat longer.
They looked like they'd just crawled out of a pile of corpses.
Dead eyes. Detached expressions. Not unfamiliar to him.
He'd worn that exact look once—back in the Mist Village.
Before he learned how to smile while killing. But the one with a pigeon on his shoulder?
That kid reeked of blood.
The kind of cold, casual killing that soaked deep into your bones.
A killer, through and through.…But strength-wise?
Let's not even talk about it.
Kisame sipped his drink, letting his gaze drift lazily toward the trio.
They didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just… stood there. Then
"You're very curious about us."
The voice didn't come from the kids.
It came from the pigeon.
Kisame's eye twitched.
"…Huh?" He turned toward the bird, expression scrunching in confusion.
The pigeon tilted its head, utterly unfazed.
"Staring like that makes people uncomfortable. You know that, right?"
Kisame blinked again, finally looking at the boy beneath the pigeon.
"…Heh." A slow, toothy grin stretched across his face.
The kind that made barroom lights dim and bottles rattle.
"Little brat… ventriloquism, huh?"
Sure, he'd seen a lot in his day.
But a talking bird with an attitude?
That was new.
Still—he'd once been a top-tier killer in the Blood Mist. These cold-eyed kids?
He'd seen their type before. He used to be their type. The smile he gave them now was cold. Razor cold.
The temperature in the room dropped. Air got heavy. Even the dust on the shelves stopped moving.
The pigeon-kid met his gaze with a blank, detached look.
"Should I take that as a provocation?" he said quietly.
Kisame's grin widened, voice dropping an octave.
"Hah… You got guts, I'll give you that."
He leaned back in his chair, still holding his drink.
"But that stink of blood on you? You probably just killed some garbage."
"Don't go thinking that makes you special."
He slammed the drink back and set it down with a thunk.
"You better reel in that bloodlust of yours—before someone like me teaches you what real killers look like."
The mood flipped.
All three kids tensed at once—fingers twitching, bodies ready to move.
A spark of danger flashed in the air. Kisame didn't even blink. He let out a small snort and swirled the dregs of his drink lazily in the glass.
"Amateurs."
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't move a muscle. But his words landed heavy, like weights dropped on a pressure plate.
"First rule of assassination—" he said, raising the glass again.
"—never show your intent before you're sure you can win."
He turned his chair slightly to face them head-on.
"Show your bloodlust too early, and all you're doing… is speeding up your own death."
Up close, he noticed it even more clearly:
These three had the same aura as the bartender—like they'd all been molded in some twisted blood-soaked training camp.
And Kisame, with his shark-teeth grin and war-born swagger, was clearly playing the part of the grizzled veteran who's seen way too much.
Unsurprisingly, the three didn't like that.
Especially Pigeon Guy.
The boy stood abruptly, adjusting his jacket in slow, precise movements.
The pigeon on his shoulder fluffed its feathers and spoke again—its voice smooth, but sharp:
"I don't know when I'll die. But I do know—you're not far from it."
Kisame burst into laughter. Deep, rolling laughter that filled the bar.
"Cocky little brat!"
Kisame didn't flinch.
Didn't even blink.
The killing intent pouring off the kid didn't faze him in the slightest.
Just another punk with something to prove.
The young man—brimming with arrogance—scowled at Kisame's calm, unreadable expression.
In the next instant, his figure blurred, vanishing in a flicker of motion.
"Shave."
Kisame recognized the move immediately. The kid reappeared right in front of him, fingers stiffened like spears, aiming straight for his heart.
"Finger Pistol, huh… CP-style."
He'd seen that exact technique on the ship—the white-robed agent that lunged at Kakuzu had used the same deadly move.
But Kisame wasn't the type to get caught flat-footed.
Without hesitation, he reached for Samehada.
CLANG!
The blade met the blow with a brutal crack, absorbing the force and sending a shockwave rattling the floorboards.
The strength behind that strike… was no joke.
Kisame raised an eyebrow.
"Tch. Youth these days—always so reckless."
Across from him, Pigeon Boy's eyes flew wide open in disbelief.
He'd blocked it?
No one—no one—had ever stopped his "Shigan" like that.
Before he could process it Kisame struck back.
Samehada whirled in a savage arc, tearing through the air like a sawblade toward the boy's chest.
"WHUMP—"
Too fast. The kid barely moved in time.
Cloth tore. Flesh split. A few deep gashes bloomed across his torso.
He stumbled back a step, breathing shallow.
"Who… are you?" the boy asked, voice tight, finally treating Kisame like a real threat.
His two teammates were on their feet in a flash, bodies low and tense, eyes sharp. The bartender with the horns? He just walked to the door… and locked it with a solid click.
So it's like that, huh? Kisame thought, lips curling.
"Four-on-one?"
The boy straightened his coat, the pigeon hopping to his opposite shoulder.
"Rob Lucci," he said simply.
"You're strong. We just arrived on this island. We'd prefer our identities remain a secret."
Kisame tilted his head.
"And?"
"Which means…" Lucci's eyes narrowed.
"…you're not walking out of here."
Kisame laughed.
"Good. I was looking for a few good corpses."
His grin widened, eyes gleaming like shark teeth under moonlight.
"You four'll do nicely."
The moment shattered like glass. The room snapped into motion.
No more banter. No more posturing. Just blood.
Lucci launched again—same eerie flicker of movement, same lethal "Shigan" stabbing forward.
"THUNK!"
This time, his finger plunged straight through Kisame's side.
Lucci blinked.
"…That easy?"
But something was off... Way off.
Kisame didn't grunt. Didn't groan. Didn't even bleed properly.
The skin around the wound began to ripple, bubbling unnaturally.
Lucci's expression twisted
"A clone?!"
Too late.
Behind him, the real Kisame rose like a shark breaching the surface—
Samehada already in motion.
Rob Lucci's face remained impassive—no anger, no words, just the cold stare of a professional killer.
His eyes said it all.
This guy? This walking fish?
What gave him the confidence to act tough?
But just as he was about to follow up, a gravelly voice cut through the tension like a knife through kelp.
"Celebrating already?" Kisame said from… somewhere.
"Rookie mistake."
Lucci's pupils shrank.
He glanced forward—and the fishman in front of him melted into a puddle of water.
"What—?"
A split second later, a gust of wind whipped in from the side.
"Lucci! Watch out—!"
Kaku's warning came too late.
CRACK!
A blow like a freight train slammed into Lucci's ribs, launching him sideways like a ragdoll.
He crashed hard—bones rattling, vision doubling—as he tumbled into the unfinished liquor shelves. Bottles shattered, glass flew, and half the bar went with it.
Kisame stood where Lucci had been, Samehada resting casually over his shoulder.
"Clone jutsu with a twist," he muttered, stepping through the dust.
"Should've paid more attention to the water on the floor."
A devil fruit user? Lucci winced.
If so—this could be a real problem.
The bar, such as it was, descended into chaos. The other three charged.
Same eerie footwork. Same stabbing fingers. But none of them had Lucci's precision—or power.
Kisame barely looked interested.
"You kids bore me."
Samehada spun once, twice, then lashed out with bone-snapping grace.
CRACK!
One went flying into a wall.
THWACK!
Another crashed through a table that hadn't even been unwrapped yet.
The third tried to flank him, but Kisame kicked a chair into his path and sent him tumbling headfirst into the bar counter.
"Killin'? I'm a specialist." Kisame muttered, stretching his neck with a pop.
"But knocking out? That's where I struggle."
He squinted at the trio—bleeding, broken, groaning but still clinging to consciousness.
"Damn strong-willed little punks…"
For a second, he actually missed Itachi.
At least with genjutsu, you didn't have to redecorate every time someone mouthed off.
The bartender—still silent—stood behind the bar, arms crossed. Not helping, not intervening. Just… watching.
Kisame looked down as Lucci, bruised and breathing hard, glared up at him through one eye.
"…Who the hell are you?" he rasped.
That emotion on his face?
Fear.
Kisame grinned, shark teeth gleaming.
"Kakuzu of the Akatsuki."
No need to explain further.
"Do you know who we are?" Lucci growled.
"CP… part of the World Government. If you kill us, you're—"
"Yeah yeah. Enemies of the government." Kisame waved a hand, completely unimpressed.
"Heard that one before."
He took a step forward. Lucci flinched.
"I kill governments."
Then he raised Samehada high—and brought it down like a hammer.
WHAM!
Lights out.
All four CP agents now lay in a neat little row on the floor, battered, broken, and utterly defeated.
Kisame crouched next to them, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
"Hmm… Strong bodies. Good chakra. Bit young, but they'll do."
And right there in the middle of his wrecked bar, he began the process of turning them into containers for Edo Tensei.
Because of course he did.
(End of Chapter)
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