In the jōnin viewing section, the atmosphere was a study in contrasts. Rina watched Kana being helped off the arena floor, her dark eyes tracking the Konoha kunoichi's limping form, her jaw tight.
"Tsk! Why did they have to pit them against each other?" Rina's voice was low, but the frustration beneath it was unmistakable. "One of Konoha's strongest remaining genin, and she had to eliminate another Konoha genin. That is poor luck."
Daichi chuckled, "Poor luck? I seem to recall a certain bet. Something about whose team would perform best."
He tilted his head. "You are already one genin down, Rina. Perhaps you should have been more confident in your students."
Rina's eyes narrowed. "The preliminaries are not over. Your own students could still be eliminated. Do not celebrate too early."
She gestured toward the arena floor, where Mariko was helping Kana to her feet. "That was just the second match. There are many more to come."
Taeko, standing apart from the others, turned toward Sayuri. "Mariko has already secured a spot in the finals. That is one of yours." He paused. "How do you feel?"
Sayuri did not look at him. "Ask me after the preliminaries are over. Satoru and Ren still have not fought. They could still face strong opponents." She paused. "I will celebrate when all three of my students have advanced. Not before."
Back on the arena floor, another shinobi approached the wooden box. He reached inside, withdrew two slips, and handed them to Chiyo without ceremony. Chiyo unfolded the slips and glanced at them.
"Number five. Number fourteen." She paused, consulting the roster. "Kaito Kugutsu of Sunagakure versus Aoi Hina of Kusagakure."
Kaito walked onto the sand. He looked confident, but not arrogant; a craftsman approaching a familiar task. His blonde hair fell across his face, and the dark marks on his temples seemed to catch the sun.
His opponent, Aoi Hina, descended from the Grass team's section. Her build was lean, flexible, built for evasion rather than power.
She looks agile, Satoru observed from the viewing platform, his Sharingan active. Not a power fighter. But agility alone will not save her against a puppet user.
Chiyo raised her hand. "Begin."
Kaito moved first; his fingers twitched, and chakra threads extended from his fingertips, invisible to the naked eye but blazing in Satoru's Sharingan. They connected to the scrolls on his harness, and with a hiss of compressed air, a puppet erupted from the largest scroll; a humanoid figure, jointed and angular, its limbs bristling with blades.
The puppet lunged at Aoi; fast, precise, its strikes aimed at her torso and limbs. Satoru expected her to be overwhelmed immediately; puppet users were rare, and their combat style was unfamiliar to most genin.
He was wrong.
Aoi's body bent. Not dodged, not sidestepped, but bent; her torso folded at an impossible angle, avoiding a blade that should have sliced across her ribs. Her legs contorted, her spine curved, and she flowed around the puppet's attacks like water around stones.
What is that? Satoru's Sharingan traced her chakra; it was flowing differently than before, spreading through her body in waves, softening her muscles, loosening her joints.
"Grass Style: Reed Body Technique," Mariko murmured beside him.
"I have read about it. It allows the user to bend and contort unnaturally, reducing impact damage and making them difficult to hit."
Satoru filed the information away. Excellent anti-taijutsu utility, he noted. Useful for evasive combat. If I ever face her, I will need to use genjutsu or area attacks; physical strikes will be wasted.
Kaito did not panic. He adjusted his tactics; instead of direct assaults, he began using multiple attack angles. His puppet struck from the front while a second puppet, smaller and faster, emerged from a different scroll and attacked from Aoi's blind spot. He used feints; the larger puppet pulled back as if retreating, then lunged again when Aoi moved to evade the smaller one.
Aoi's Reed Body Technique kept her alive, but it was draining. Satoru could feel her chakra reserves dropping; each contortion cost energy, and Kaito was forcing her to bend and twist with every exchange. Her movements grew slower; her responses became less fluid.
Kaito pressed his advantage. His puppets coordinated; one forced Aoi left, the other cut off her retreat.
Aoi bent backwards, barely avoiding a blade, but she could not see the third puppet; a tiny, spider-like construct that had been crawling along the sand.
It struck. A needle, thin as a hair, pierced Aoi's calf. She gasped, her concentration shattered, and her Reed Body Technique failed. Her body snapped back to its normal proportions; she staggered, off-balance, and the larger puppet's fist caught her in the chest.
Aoi hit the sand and did not rise.
Chiyo's voice was flat. "Winner: Kaito Kugutsu."
Satoru deactivated his Sharingan briefly, rubbing his eyes.
"He barely showed anything," he said. "Kaito remained conservative. He did not reveal any new techniques and won with basic tactics." He paused. "I did not learn much about his true capabilities."
Ren leaned against the railing. "His puppets will be troublesome opponents. He can attack from multiple angles simultaneously, and his control is precise enough to adapt to evasive specialists like that Grass girl."
Mariko smirked. "You should focus on winning your own match before worrying about Kaito." She gestured at herself. "I am already in the finals. You have not even fought yet."
Ren groaned. "Stop gloating. It is annoying."
"It is not gloating. It is stating facts."
Satoru tuned out their bickering, his gaze drifting back to the arena floor. The Suna shinobi was already drawing new slips from the box.
"Number nineteen. Number eighteen."
Satoru blinked. Two consecutive numbers, he observed. The odds of that are low. Almost improbable.
Chiyo unfolded the slips. "Yamanaka Ryo of Konohagakure versus Mio Hoki of Sunagakure."
In the jōnin section, Taeko's posture stiffened. Ryo was one of his strongest students. But Mio's surname gave him pause. Hoki, he thought. The medical clan. Known for exceptional chakra control and precise ninjutsu. Not an easy opponent.
On the arena floor, Satoru's attention sharpened. Ryo was technically his cousin; they shared blood, if not proximity. He had not interacted with the boy much; Ryo kept to himself, and Satoru had been consumed by his own training.
But still, he paid closer attention than normal.
Hoki clan, he recalled. Medical ninjutsu specialists. Exceptional chakra control. But how does a medic-oriented shinobi perform in direct combat?
He was about to find out.
Ryo walked onto the sand with confident steps. He wore the standard Yamanaka training uniform; dark colours, clan markings subtle on his collar, his blonde hair neat and controlled. His hands were ready to form seals; he intended to end the battle quickly.
His opponent, Mio Hoki, was a girl of perhaps fifteen, with dark hair and calm, steady eyes.
Chiyo raised her hand. "Begin."
Ryo's seals completed: Ram, Snake, Boar. The Mind Body Transmission technique; he intended to project his consciousness into Mio's mind, overwhelming her will and ending the fight in seconds.
He never finished.
Mio's hand moved. Not to form seals, but to reach behind her back. She pulled out a collapsed massive war fan; its frame was dark wood, its surface painted with swirling wind motifs, its size almost as large as her torso. The fan snapped open with a sharp crack, and Mio's chakra surged.
"Wind Release: Bursting Compressed Air."
The blast was devastating. Compressed air erupted from the fan, fragmenting into hundreds of razor-sharp projectiles that shot toward Ryo with the force of a gale. He had barely begun his technique; his chakra was still forming, his mind still reaching. He saw the attack coming, tried to dodge, tried to block, tried to survive.
He failed.
The projectiles sliced across his arms, his legs, his torso. He was thrown backwards, his seals broken, his chakra scattered. He hit the sand hard, rolled, and came to a stop at the edge of the battlefield, bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts.
Chiyo stepped between them, her hand raised. "The match is over. Winner: Mio Hoki."
Silence.
The arena was stunned. Genin stared at the fallen Ryo, at the war fan still crackling with residual chakra, at the calm expression on Mio's face. She had not moved from her starting position. She had simply opened her fan, and the match was over.
Even some of the jōnin in the viewing section were surprised. Daichi's teasing smile had frozen; Rina's eyes were wide; Taeko's jaw was tight.
Satoru's Sharingan traced the residual chakra patterns, analysing the technique, the compression method, the release mechanism. The fan stores compressed air, he concluded. She can release it explosively, fragmenting it into projectiles. The technique is fast, wide-range, and difficult to block. She does not need to get close to her opponents; she can defeat them from a distance.
He looked at Mio's calm face, at the war fan now folded and tucked behind her back, at the way she walked off the arena floor without celebration or arrogance.
Another dangerous Suna shinobi, he thought. The roster is even deeper than I expected. The monsters are not just Team Five; there are others lurking in the shadows, waiting to reveal themselves.
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