If there's one thing you never want to see in a throne room—besides, you know, a coup or a flying brick—it's Gaara raising his hand with that look on his face. You know the one. The "I'm about to turn this place into a giant hourglass" expression.
That's exactly what happened.
Gaara lifted his palm, and the sand obeyed like a billion golden soldiers storming the palace. It exploded from every crack and crevice, a roaring wave of grit that swallowed half the throne room in seconds.
Viola's eyes widened. "Wait—!"
Too late.
The sand tsunami surged forward and lifted her off her feet like she was a plastic bag caught in a hurricane. She flew screaming down the hallway, vanishing into the eastern wing.
"Well," Kurenai said calmly, adjusting her sleeves. "That's one way to divide the battlefield."
Senor Pink blinked. His sunglasses remained perfectly perched on his nose. "That was unnecessary."
"And awesome," Lee grinned. "Good work, Gaara!"
Neji didn't smile. He never did when the enemy was still standing. "We should focus. He's trying to escape."
And he was right.
Senor Pink, ever the escape artist, dipped into the tiled floor like it was water. He began breaststroking through the marble, heading after Viola like a determined otter in a romper.
"Not today," Neji muttered.
He slammed his foot into the ground. A pulse of chakra, infused with a faint electric edge, rippled across the floor in all directions. Tiles lit up with blue veins of energy, and Senor Pink let out a low grunt as his path shivered and solidified—no more smooth sailing.
That's when Lee struck.
He shot forward like a missile in green spandex and came down with a kick that had more horsepower than a freight train. His heel smashed into the floor where Senor Pink's head had been a moment ago.
BOOM.
The entire palace shook—but the floor held.
Barely.
Senor Pink staggered back upright, dust in his hair, but otherwise unfazed.
"Tough floor," Lee muttered.
"Reinforced," Neji noted. "Naruto's chakra is holding the palace together."
Senor Pink rubbed his jaw. "I see. The golden-haired loudmouth is a support pillar now. Noted."
Lee clenched his fists. "You're not going anywhere. It's time to settle this, man to man."
Senor Pink cracked his knuckles, and for the first time, his smile vanished.
"Fine," he said. "You want to fight like men? Let's see if you can handle the weight of real pain."
He charged.
Meanwhile, down the hall…
Tenten flipped over a fallen pillar, Sakura charged chakra into her fists, Hinata activated her Byakugan, and Kurenai calmly walked behind them like she was on a Sunday stroll through an active volcano.
Viola hit the ground hard but rolled to her feet, eyes scanning the oncoming kunoichi.
"I won't make this easy," she warned. Her fingers glowed with energy as she prepared her ability. "You're trespassing on Doflamingo's kingdom. There's no going back."
Kurenai gave a small, tight smile. "We weren't planning on it."
-------------
The moment Viola vanished in a flurry of sand and distant shouts, the tension in the throne room thickened like fog over the Black Lake. Dust swirled. Cracked marble tiles trembled. Every shadow seemed to twitch.
Senor Pink stood motionless, shoulders squared, arms loose at his sides. He was the picture of calm brutality, dressed absurdly in his tight pink bonnet and unbuttoned vest, the pacifier around his neck bouncing gently with every breath. But his eyes—cool, calculating—were already dissecting the two young men who stood between him and escape.
Two close-ranged types, he thought, watching Neji's poised stance and Lee's clenched fists. The soft one reads me like a book. The hard one punches through mountains. Perfect.
He glanced once toward the corridor Viola had been thrown through.
She was on her own now. He'd seen enough in her stare—too much hesitation. She'd stall, maybe survive, but he had no illusions. He would hold the front. Crush who he could. Make space for the next move.
Neji moved first, his Byakugan veins bulging at his temples like vines wrapped around stone.
Lee moved a split-second later, and there was nothing gentle about it.
He cried out, and chakra erupted around him in blistering green flames as the Sixth Gate of Joy burst open with a roar that cracked the air. His aura whipped around his body like a storm given form, and for a moment—just a heartbeat—Senor Pink blinked, impressed.
"You open your wounds to open your strength," Pink muttered. "I respect that."
Then he dove.
Literally.
With the grace of a breaching shark, he slipped through the marble floor like water—arms extended for a full-body tackle aimed straight for Lee, who was still finishing his final breath before his charge.
But Neji was already there.
The moment Pink breached the surface, Neji intercepted—his hands glowing with the sharp, electric blue edge of chakra-forged needles.
"Eight Trigrams: Rapid Fang!" Neji cried.
His palms struck out in a whirling dance of precision and death, aiming for nerve clusters buried beneath even the hardest muscle. Most opponents didn't even understand what was happening before their limbs went numb.
But Senor Pink wasn't most opponents.
He twisted mid-surge, dropping one shoulder and flowing like syrup around the strikes. Neji's fingers grazed the surface of his jacket, but Pink grabbed for his wrist, trying to anchor the Hyūga down into a full-bodied suplex.
Neji saw it coming and ducked, slipping out of the hold with a backflip so tight and clean it would've impressed a Beauxbatons duelist.
Pink smirked. "Fast fingers. Let's see how long they last."
The two circled each other, darting in and out, the clash of styles almost poetic—one dancing on pressure points like a calligrapher's brush, the other aiming to crush bones like quarry stones.
But then the air screamed.
Lee had finished.
He surged into the air like a cannonball. "Morning Hurricane!" he shouted, legs spinning like a typhoon.
Senor Pink looked up, saw the incoming human missile, and grinned.
A mistake.
He launched upward to meet Lee, arms spread, aiming to snatch the boy out of the air and slam him to the ground. It was a bold move, perfectly timed—
Until Neji appeared beneath him like a ghost, chakra glowing from his fingertips.
"Lightning Fang!"
His palm slammed into Senor Pink's right thigh—straight into a nerve cluster.
The effect was instant.
A snap rang through the chamber, and the nerve exploded like a frayed wire. Pink's leg buckled in midair. His grip faltered. Lee's kick came crashing down—not into his chest, but right onto his injured leg.
CRACK.
Pink howled, vanishing into the floor again like a wounded whale diving deep.
The room was silent for a beat. Dust hung in the air like the last breath of a giant.
Lee landed beside Neji, his green jumpsuit soaked in sweat. "That... was close."
Neji didn't smile, but his voice carried a ghost of approval. "He's tough. But he's bleeding now. He knows it."
Beneath the floor, Senor Pink's breath came ragged, sweat pouring down his temple as he limped beneath the tiles.
"Two of them," he growled. "Fine. Then I'll drag at least one of you with me... kicking and screaming."
-----------------
Senor Pink was hurting.
There was a pulsing throb in his thigh where the Hyūga prodigy had struck, and a ghostly ache in his ribs that sang with every breath. But he had endured worse. Far worse.
The pain was not a wall—it was a compass. It told him where the fight was thickest, where he could still act, and most importantly, where he could still win.
Now, he knew the danger of the pale-eyed boy. Neji Hyūga was not a showy fighter. He did not scream his techniques or leap about like a firework. No, Neji was quiet. Precise. And utterly lethal.
But Pink had lived too long in the spaces between impact and silence to be easily outdone.
And as he sank again into the marble floor like a stone into still water, he saw his chance.
Below the surface, he swam. The world above rippled and wavered—voices muffled, footsteps like thunder underwater. The floor, to him, was no more solid than the surface of a cold pond. And in that murky space between stone and air, Senor Pink gained speed.
Faster.
Faster.
He circled beneath the two shinobi like a shark before the breach.
He would strike Neji.
He would grab the boy, drag him into the stone, and end it.
Above, Neji stood still, unbothered, eyes milky-white with chakra. He was watching—but not with his eyes. The Byakugan pulsed faintly, tracing the vibrations through the floor, the pressure in the stone, the ghostlike trail of Pink's approach.
Lee, unaware, looked around with anxious energy. Neji mimicked him, pretending to scan in panic, drawing Pink nearer.
It worked.
The tiles exploded.
Pink surged up like a torpedo, arms outstretched, teeth bared—but he met only whirling light.
"Rotation!" Neji spun in place, arms extended, chakra blazing in a perfect, blinding sphere. The air screamed, and dust shot out like a cannon's breath. The barrier enveloped him like the shell of a snapping turtle—impenetrable, violent.
And Pink hit it—hard.
The impact sent cracks shattering across the floor like lightning veins. He ground his teeth and pushed, muscles straining, diving into the spinning wall of chakra as though he could burrow through it.
But that was the moment Lee had waited for.
With a green blur and the sound of air igniting, he appeared behind Pink, foot raised high like the hand of a vengeful clock.
"Dynamic Kick!"
Pink sensed it, just barely. With a grunt, he shifted, letting the spinning chakra of Neji's Rotation hurl him backward. Lee's kick missed by inches—and that was exactly what Pink had hoped for.
He twisted in mid-air, arms snapping up like striking snakes, and caught Lee's ankle.
The boy's eyes widened.
But Lee was not built for hesitation. He bent in a heartbeat, flipping over and kicking with his other leg, landing a powerful blow against Pink's shoulder. The impact forced the older man's grip to loosen, and he began to sink again.
Neji was ready.
The moment Pink's torso dropped below the floor, Neji moved like lightning.
He lashed out, palm glowing. "Lightning Fang!"
His hand struck—aiming for the exposed arm still visible.
But Pink's fingers closed around Neji's wrist.
Too late.
With a savage yank, he dragged the Hyūga downward.
Stone rippled. Neji's feet left the ground. For a moment, it was like being caught in quicksand—silent, sure, final.
Lee screamed, "Neji!" and took off—faster than flame, chakra blazing at his heels. The palace corridor blurred as he ran on air itself, footsteps too fast to register, each stride burning away the dust behind him.
He caught up beside the sinking figures just as Pink broke the ceiling tiles above. The bastard was dragging Neji upward, into the air, like a fisherman hauling in a stubborn prize.
But Lee reached them.
With a burst of raw strength and terrifying grace, he slammed into Neji from the side, wrapping one arm around his chest and twisting them both away—out of Pink's grasp.
But Pink didn't let go easily.
As Lee pulled Neji clear, Pink's legs jackknifed upward—and both heels slammed into Neji's ribs.
There was a sound—sharp, organic, awful.
Bone gave way.
Neji's breath caught, eyes wide with sudden, blinding pain.
But his arm still moved.
Even as his body twisted from the impact, he fired a final strike—fingers pressed together, lightning dancing from his palm—and drove it straight into Senor Pink's skull.
CRACK.
The force lit up the room. Pink's head snapped back. Blood sprayed into the air like a red mist. He fell—stone unable to hold him—crashing back into the ground with a roar that echoed off every wall.
All three hit the floor within seconds.
Neji lay gasping, arm limp. Lee crouched beside him, shielding him instinctively.
And Pink…
Pink did not rise.
Not yet.
-----------------
If anyone tells you ninja battles are quiet affairs full of stealth and shadows, they clearly haven't seen a Hyūga get yanked into a marble floor by a man in a diaper.
From our spot up in the royal balcony—not the good kind with snacks and folding chairs, mind you—we were watching the whole thing like horrified theatergoers. Except the actors were beating each other to death, and the stage kept exploding.
Tenten had her hands over her mouth. "That—he—Lee just caught him in midair!"
"Yeah," Kiba muttered, gripping the edge of the railing. "He caught him. Like a sack of rice. A Hyūga sack of rice."
Beside him, Shikamaru's eyes were narrowed, calculating. "Lee's in the Sixth Gate. If he goes further…"
"Oh no," Choji said, half in awe, half in dread. "He is."
Because Lee was no longer running. He was blazing.
The air itself shimmered around him, distorting like someone had lit a bonfire on top of a rocket engine. Neji lay behind him, breathing shallowly, his face pale and glazed with sweat, chest rising in jerky movements. Lee had placed him gently down like he was glass—then turned toward Pink with a face that was, in all honesty, terrifying.
It wasn't rage. It wasn't fury.
It was promise.
A promise that someone was about to get wrecked.
I could feel the chakra pulsing from here. The kind that makes your skin crawl and your bones feel hollow. Lee crouched slightly, and—
Boom.
He vanished. The world blurred. The air screamed.
He appeared above Senor Pink with a trail of white-hot wind behind him. His fists ignited with chakra flames, and then—
"Morning Peacock!"
There is no metaphor strong enough for what happened next. It was like watching a fireworks finale, except every firework was a flaming punch or knee to the body of a man already paralyzed.
Fists. Elbows. Kicks. The air exploded with every hit, shockwaves rippling through the palace like someone had set off dynamite in a cathedral. The fire danced around Pink's body, and the man didn't even have the luxury of grunting in pain—he was done. His body was battered, broken, burning.
And through it all—through the searing heat and shattered tiles—Senor Pink… smiled.
It wasn't creepy. It wasn't villainous.
It was quiet.
I couldn't explain it at the time. I don't think any of us could. But in that moment, as Lee's final fist sent Pink crashing into the stone with enough force to create a mini-crater, there was something soft in that smile.
Even as the flames clung to his ruined body.
Even as his broken limbs refused to move.
Even as the silence settled and dust curled like incense through the air—he smiled.
And we saw it.
In the burnt remnants of his coat, clinging to his battered chest, a photo had slipped out—charred around the edges but visible. A woman. A baby. He was holding them both. He looked younger. Happier.
And somehow, complete.
Tenten wiped her eyes.
No one said a word.
Lee stood over him, chest heaving, flames flickering out like dying candles.
And Senor Pink? He didn't speak. He didn't move. But that small smile stayed.
Not for Doflamingo.
Not for revenge.
But because, finally… he was going home.