In the stands, the Third Hokage's gaze also changed.
He held a pipe in his mouth, smoke escaping from the corner of his lips and dispersing in the sunlight. In those old eyes, something was moving.
He watched Nobunaga. He watched Ryoko. He watched their blades.
Then he turned his head and looked at Mei Terumī beside him.
Mei Terumī sat there, her posture elegant and her expression calm. She was also watching the arena, watching those two fighting figures. In those emerald eyes, light flickered.
But on her face, there was no expression at all.
Sandaime took a puff of smoke.
"Mizukage-sama," he spoke.
Mei Terumī turned her head and looked at him.
"Does the Sandaime have any advice?"
"That Genin named Ryoko," Sandaime said, "she's from the Hidden Mist, isn't she?"
Mei Terumī nodded.
"An orphan of the Minazuki Clan. Her talent is quite good."
"Her kenjutsu..." Sandaime paused, "is very interesting."
Mei Terumī smiled slightly.
"The kenjutsu of the Hidden Mist is naturally different from Konoha's."
Sandaime also smiled.
"Yes, it certainly is."
He withdrew his gaze and continued watching the arena.
But the light in those eyes deepened.
The "Kazekage" beside him also turned his head and looked at Mei Terumī.
Orochimaru, disguised as the Fourth Kazekage, had a gentle smile on his face. But in those snake-like pupils, something was swirling.
"Mizukage-sama," he spoke, his voice very gentle, "that Konoha Genin named Nobunaga, his kenjutsu is also quite good."
Mei Terumī looked at him.
"Is that so?"
"Yes." Orochimaru nodded, "It bears some resemblance to your Village's Miss Ryoko's kenjutsu."
Mei Terumī's eyes narrowed slightly.
Only for a moment. Very brief. But Orochimaru saw it.
"An interesting coincidence," Orochimaru said.
Mei Terumī smiled slightly.
"Just a coincidence."
She withdrew her gaze and continued watching the arena.
But her finger tapped lightly on the armrest.
Just once.
On the arena, the battle continued.
Ryoko's blade became faster and faster. Her swordsmanship was sharp and ruthless, every strike aimed at vital points.
Nobunaga found it increasingly difficult to block.
But he didn't retreat.
He blocked. Parried. Evaded. Counterattacked.
Strike after strike, he clashed with Ryoko.
Their blades constantly collided in the air, sparks flying, the sound of clashing metal piercing and dense.
Another clash.
Ryoko charged again.
This time even faster.
A flash of blade light, aimed straight for Nobunaga's heart.
Nobunaga sidestepped to avoid it, while simultaneously slashing toward her waist.
Ryoko flipped in mid-air, the tip of her blade touching the ground, using the momentum to spring up and strike down again.
Nobunaga raised his blade to block.
The two were in a stalemate.
Staring at each other at close range.
There was a hint of a smile in Ryoko's eyes. But beneath that smile was seriousness.
Blade against blade, the edges interlocking, making a faint grinding sound.
The distance between them was less than a foot, close enough to see the bloodshot veins in each other's eyes and feel each other's breath.
Nobunaga didn't dare to relax.
His hand gripping the hilt was already starting to ache, but he didn't dare let go. One moment of distraction, and Ryoko's blade would pierce through.
But in this moment of stalemate, his thoughts drifted uncontrollably far away.
It was too familiar.
This kind of kenjutsu. This way of exerting force. This rhythm of offense and defense.
Too familiar.
He thought back to a long time ago—no, that was something from another world.
Biwa Jūzō.
That taciturn man, carrying the executioners blade, leading the two of them.
On the Training Ground, Jūzō taught them the basics of kenjutsu.
"A blade isn't for showing off," Jūzō said, "it's for killing. Every strike must be decisive; don't have any redundant movements."
He and Mei Terumī stood on either side, holding their blades, practicing over and over again.
Practicing until their arms couldn't be raised, until the webs between their thumbs and index fingers bled, until they could perform the entire set of techniques perfectly even with their eyes closed.
Jūzō never praised anyone. At most, he would give a grunt of acknowledgment and then turn to leave.
But that grunt was enough.
Later, they began to go on missions together.
D-rank missions. Helping fishermen mend nets. Delivering goods for merchants. Clearing stray dogs from around the Village.
Those missions were simple, so simple they were forgotten as soon as they were finished.
But Nobunaga remembered that after every mission, he would suggest going to that little shop on the edge of the Village.
"Let's go eat grilled fish."
It was a small shop on the outskirts of the Hidden Mist Village, run-down, but the grilled fish was good.
Three grilled fishes. One for each person.
The fish was a bit charred, but it smelled wonderful. Oil seeped from the skin, dripping onto their hands, making Mei Terumī shake her hands from the heat.
Nobunaga saw it, didn't say a word, but simply tore off the tail of his own fish and handed it to her.
Mei Terumī was stunned for a moment, then took it and ate it in small bites.
Later came C-rank missions.
Escorting merchant caravans. Driving away mountain bandits. Occasionally dealing with a few wandering Ninjas.
Once, Mei Terumī's arm was cut by a wandering Ninja. Blood flowed down her elbow and dripped onto the ground.
Nobunaga glanced at her, said nothing, but pulled a bandage from his pouch and handed it to her.
She took it and wrapped it herself. It wasn't wrapped very well—it was crooked. But the bleeding stopped.
"Be more careful next time," he said.
"Mm."
Even later, there were B-rank and A-rank missions.
Infiltrating enemy territory. Assassinating key officials. Destroying strongholds.
After finishing those missions, sometimes they wouldn't want to talk for a whole day.
Returning to the Village, walking on the empty streets, the sound of footsteps one by one, as if counting something.
But every time they returned, Nobunaga would bring an extra portion of food.
Sometimes it was a steaming rice ball, sometimes grilled fish, sometimes just a piece of hard dry rations.
He would say nothing, just place it in front of her.
Mei Terumī never asked either.
She would just take it and eat it slowly.
Days passed like this.
They developed a tacit understanding through mission after mission.
He taught her the basics of taijutsu, and she helped him compensate for subtle deviations in Chakra control.
He knew where she would dodge, and she knew where he would attack.
Sometimes they didn't even need to speak; a look or a gesture was enough to know what the other was thinking.
Back then, she wasn't the Mizukage yet, and he wasn't any Kazekage either.
They were just two low-level Ninjas struggling to survive in the Village Hidden in the Bloody Mist.
Training together, doing missions together, eating grilled fish at the shop on the edge of the Village together.
Thinking back now, those days were actually thirty years ago.
For Nobunaga, that was the first simulation, a memory from another world.
But for the person in front of him—
No, for her, those were all real.
She had truly lived those fifteen years. Truly experienced those things.
Truly believed in him.
And then was truly betrayed by him.
Ryoko's eyes also became unfocused for a moment.
She also remembered those things.
Those days by Biwa Jūzō's side.
Those times of training and missions together.
That grilled fish.
Those bandages.
Those rice balls he placed in front of her.
In those years, she thought that was forever.
She thought they would go on like this forever. Becoming stronger together, surviving together, together—