Nakamura reached into his pouch and pulled out four small, white orbs—smoke bombs.
Without warning, he hurled them at the ground around Santoryu. They burst instantly, flooding the training field in a thick, blinding cloud of white smoke.
The spectators leaned forward, trying to follow what little they could still see.
Santoryu stood unmoved, his stance unshaken. His swords remained drawn—one in each hand, the third still gripped firmly between his teeth. Despite the growing haze, there was no panic in his body, no hesitation. His focus remained absolute.
He didn't need to see.
Every movement around him pulsed through the battlefield like echoes in water. His Observation Haki was sharp, tracking Nakamura's presence as clearly as if the smoke weren't there at all.
Nakamura, for his part, was moving with precision. He circled through the cloud, footsteps light, barely brushing the ground. He was careful to stay silent, careful to exploit what he knew: Santoryu's left eye was useless—completely blind. And from the way it remained closed, Nakamura could tell that hadn't changed.
He curved his approach, coming in from Santoryu's blind side, blade drawn—a kunai clutched in his right hand.
From the sidelines, only a flash of movement was visible—an arm emerging from the smoke, kunai poised to strike.
To the watching instructors and elders, the strategy was obvious: Nakamura was going for a clean, decisive blow. Santoryu hadn't moved an inch since the smoke bombs went off, and to many, it looked like the fight might already be over.
But the moment the blade closed in, Santoryu moved.
Fast.
With a sharp pivot, the sword in his left hand swung upward in a clean, fluid arc—and met the incoming kunai with a metallic clash.
The smoke swirled around the sudden collision, and gasps rose from the observing shinobi.
He had blocked it. Perfectly. Without sight. Without sound.
Santoryu's sword caught the kunai cleanly, deflecting the strike with a sharp clang of steel. But he didn't stop there.
In a seamless motion, his right-hand blade moved with lethal precision—arcing forward before coming to a halt just as its tip rested against Nakamura's left chest, right above the heart.
The battlefield fell into a stunned silence.
Had the sword moved even a fraction farther, it would have pierced between Nakamura's ribs and punctured a lung. A fatal blow. A clean kill.
Nakamura froze, eyes wide. His breath caught in his throat.
He had gone all out—using smoke, silence, and strategy to exploit Santoryu's known weakness. He hadn't underestimated him. He'd taken him seriously. And yet, he had been countered, disarmed, and bested with effortless precision.
His face turned pale as the weight of the defeat settled in. Everything he had relied on—his planning, his speed, his technique—had failed. The boy he once deemed unfit to be a shinobi had just neutralized him in seconds.
Santoryu calmly stepped back, withdrawing his blade. He spoke clearly, without arrogance.
"You thought my blindness was a weakness, and you tried to use that against me. I don't blame you for that. It's what any shinobi would do."
He paused, eyes locked on Nakamura.
"But I can 'see' just fine."
A beat of silence.
"You might still feel unconvinced after that exchange. So I'll give you another chance. Use your best strategy, your strongest technique—the one you believe defines your strength. I'll meet it head-on."
Gasps and murmurs stirred among the onlookers. Koharu arched an eyebrow. Homura narrowed his gaze. Even Hiruzen leaned forward slightly.
Nakamura backed away, putting a few feet of distance between them. The offer stung—it was as much a challenge as it was an insult. Being offered a second chance in a fight like this felt humiliating. But if Santoryu was reckless enough to extend it, Nakamura would seize it.
He narrowed his eyes and raised his kunai again.
"As your former teacher," Nakamura said coldly, "let me give you one final lesson."
He dropped into a lower stance, muscles coiling.
"Never give your opponent another chance."
His voice hardened.
"Or you'll live to regret it."
Nakamura didn't waste another second. With determination in his eyes, he began weaving hand seals—his movements steady but far from exceptional. His sealing speed was average, nowhere near the fluid precision of genius ninja like Kakashi.
Still, the technique was solid.
"Fire Release: Fireball Technique!" he called out as he completed the final seal.
(Ai generated Fig. in Comment area.)
A massive sphere of flame burst from his mouth, roaring across the training ground. The fireball surged forward with heat and intensity, its light casting flickering shadows across the field as it barreled toward Santoryu.
But Santoryu didn't flinch.
Instead, he bent his knees and launched himself into the air. As he rose above the incoming fireball, he held his two swords parallel to each other and then brought them down in a powerful, synchronized slash.
"Two-Sword Style: Tower Climb Return!" he shouted.
From the arc of his blades, two sharp white wind slashes cut downward, moving with compressed force. The wind blades struck the fireball mid-air, slicing into it with precise power. The sphere of flame split into three fragments, the edges unraveling as the compressed air tore through its core. The remnants of fire scattered and vanished into harmless embers.
The technique was broken. The attack neutralized.
Santoryu landed softly on the ground, his swords still drawn. But the moment his feet touched down, Nakamura made his move.
Now!
From his pouch, he unleashed a flurry of kunai and shuriken, aiming to catch Santoryu off balance as he recovered. The projectiles cut through the air in arcs and angles—some aimed directly, others deliberately from Santoryu's blind left side.
But it didn't matter.
Santoryu's blades moved with fluid precision, deflecting every incoming weapon—those he saw and those he sensed. His Observation Haki flared subtly, mapping each movement in real-time. Shurikens that should have been invisible to him were parried with the same ease as the obvious ones.
Every throw failed to land.
The gap between them was growing clearer with each passing moment—not just in strength, but in perception.
Santoryu hadn't just kept up.
He was in control.
Damn it! Nakamura cursed silently, sweat forming at his brow. How is he able to deflect everything—even the ones aimed at his blind spot?
He watched in disbelief as Santoryu calmly and efficiently deflected every kunai and shuriken thrown his way, his movements fluid and unhindered. It wasn't luck. It was precision—deliberate, calculated, and confident.
And all the while, Santoryu was closing the distance.
Step by step, blade by blade, he advanced, never breaking form.
Nakamura's barrage ended as his last shuriken left his hand. He had nothing left to throw—just a single kunai clutched tightly in his grip.
That's when Santoryu shifted.
He lowered his stance.
One sword in each hand. The third clenched firmly between his teeth.
"Three-Sword Style…" he murmured.
Then vanished.
"…Onigiri!"
He moved like a phantom—one moment in front of Nakamura, the next, behind him. The speed of the dash was blinding, a streak of silver and wind cutting through the air. Nakamura could barely register the motion, much less react to it. His body locked up from the shock of how fast Santoryu had moved.
By the time he turned his head, Santoryu was already sheathing his swords, one by one, in perfect sync.
As the final blade clicked into place, Santoryu said calmly, "You lost."
The kunai slipped from Nakamura's hand and clattered to the ground.
He stood there frozen, mind racing. He had seen Santoryu coming—had seen the attack. But that was all he'd managed. His body hadn't moved. His defenses hadn't activated. There was no counter, no answer.
Just loss.
And the unmistakable silence of the defeated.
----
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