The moment the proctor's hand dropped, Shinji and Raku surged forward.
Fast.
Yuki's eyes widened slightly—not in fear, but interest. Shinji moved with a feral grace, his movements synced unnaturally well with the small ninken at his side. Claws flashed and teeth bared, Raku aiming low while Shinji came from the side, a textbook pincer maneuver.
But Yuki was already in motion.
With a clean, fluid draw, his sword swept outward in a tight arc. It wasn't meant to harm—just deflect. The blade caught Raku's fangs with a clang and spun the pup aside. In one smooth transition, Yuki rotated his hips and pivoted, deflecting Shinji's fist with the back of his blade. His sword moved like water—controlled, elegant, alive.
He danced.
Yuki didn't press the offensive at first. Instead, he parried, stepped, turned—his blade acting as both shield and fang, defending against strikes while keeping Shinji at bay. His footwork was light, almost playful, as if the arena floor were a stage and this a well-rehearsed performance.
But the Inuzuka weren't known for letting their opponents dance for long.
"Now, Raku!"
The dog leapt high as Shinji ducked low, spinning with a wild kick. For the first time, Yuki faltered—just for a moment. The pressure doubled. Shinji was pushing him harder than expected, overwhelming him with unpredictable angles and sheer aggression.
Yuki slid back, breathing steadily. He gripped his blade with both hands, and his chakra flared—subtle, but unmistakable.
A soft crackling hum filled the air.
Flames licked the edge of his blade—burning white, the fire swirling unnaturally around the metal. This was no ordinary flame—it was Frostfire, Yuki's kekkei genkai. And now, it was time to go on the offensive.
Shinji didn't hesitate. "Feral Twin Fang!"
He and Raku spun like drills, chakra coating their claws and fangs. They darted toward Yuki with blinding speed.
Yuki exhaled—and vanished.
Body Flicker.
The crowd gasped as he reappeared on Shinji's flank, blade ignited. A horizontal slash seared through the air—Shinji blocked it just in time, chakra-enhanced claws scraping against burning steel. Sparks flew. Yuki was pressing now, strikes precise but relentless, forcing Shinji to fall back while Raku tried to flank.
But Yuki's eyes were sharp, calculating.
He sheathed his blade mid-dash, weaving one-handed signs.
"Frostfire Style: Needle Bloom."
The temperature dropped sharply. With a rush of chakra, dozens of shimmering ice needles formed in the air around Yuki, orbiting him like stars. With a flick of his hand, he launched them—not at Shinji, but into the ground and air around him.
Shinji hesitated.
Raku nearly stumbled.
It wasn't the damage Yuki was after—it was control.
Every needle was perfectly placed to interrupt movement, block escape routes, or split the coordination between the boy and his dog. The tempo of the fight shifted entirely. Shinji's rhythm faltered. His paths were narrowed, angles restricted. Raku lunged to assist, but—
"Frostfire Style: Ice Wall."
A massive slab of ice erupted from the ground between Yuki and Raku, cutting off the ninken mid-charge. Raku crashed into it, stunned. The dog whimpered, not injured, but momentarily out of the fight.
And that was all Yuki needed.
He drew once more.
His sword was wreathed in white-hot fire, Frostfire in its most destructive state. The blade sang through the air, a beautiful arc of flame as Yuki closed the distance on Shinji in a single, decisive step.
Shinji tried to parry—but his balance was off, his coordination gone. The blade stopped just short of his chest, radiating heat.
The proctor raised his hand.
"Winner—Yuki Kazanari!"
The crowd erupted in applause. The match had been fast, technical, and above all, masterful. Yuki had taken control not with brute force, but through strategy, skill, and perfect timing.
He turned to Shinji and gave a respectful nod. "You fought well."
Shinji grinned, winded but not bitter. "Next time, I will defeat you."
Yuki gave him a respectful nod before heading back to the sideline, eyes calm, breath steady. He barely looked winded—only sharper, more focused.
The tournament was heating up—and so was he.
. . .
The next few rounds passed in a blur of jutsu and clashes. Some fights were dominant blowouts, others razor-close duels, and a few barely held the audience's attention. But the competition had clearly reached a new level.
Eventually, only four students remained.
Yuki once again advanced with ease, dispatching his semifinal opponent with clean, precise technique. It was another flawless performance, earning him a well-deserved spot in the final.
But all eyes shifted to the other semifinal.
Tokasu Nara vs Sayaka Senju.
The air in the arena buzzed with anticipation. Students leaned forward in their seats. Even the instructors paused their quiet conversations to watch. This was the matchup everyone had been waiting for.
Whispers and arguments filled the stands.
Would Tokasu's intellect and trickery be enough to slip past Sayaka's relentless pressure? Or would Sayaka overwhelm him with her aggressive taijutsu and crackling lightning-style jutsu, refusing to fall for even a single trap?
No one could say for sure.
But one thing was clear: this fight would be anything but boring.