The next names echoed across the arena like a whisper through shoji screens.
"Match two: Shikako Nara versus Shino Aburame."
A few cheers rippled from the civilian stands, but much of the crowd leaned forward in quiet curiosity. This wouldn't be a battle of explosions and speed. This would be a chess match.
In the competitor's box, Shikako stood with a quiet sigh. Her mind was still lingering on Naruto's fight — not just his performance, but his evolution. Something inside her, somewhere between admiration and certain feelings, emerged. That boy she once rolled her eyes playfully at, was gone. In his place stood something sharp. And she could feel the edge of it still hanging in the air.
Now, descending the steps to the arena, tugging her dark sleeves straight and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. One breath in. One breath out. With, clinical focus she let go of emotion like folding away a scroll — slipping into the still, calculating mindset of her clan.
Across from her, Shino Aburame descended in silence, his every movement measured. His coat hung like an insect's carapace, and his chakra was a hum — muted, precise, controlled. The kikaichū buzzed faintly around him, almost invisible, already dispersing into the air.
Genma Shiranui raised one hand, senbon gleaming between his teeth.
"Match two — begin!"
No movement.
None.
Shino stood tall and still, hands within his sleeves. Shikako's fingers remained poised just above her pouch. The crowd held its breath.
Seconds passed.
Then — in perfect synchronicity — they both leapt backward.
Ten meters. Then fifteen. The space between them grew wide and exact.
They weren't testing each other. They were mapping each other.
Shikako's eyes darted to the left, watching where the sun cut across the arena walls. She didn't need to attack — not yet. She needed terrain. And terrain began with light.
With a quick seal, her shadow flicked out — not toward Shino directly, but sideways, creeping toward a large chunk of stone debris left from a prior match.
Shino responded instantly. His insects poured out like smoke, shielding his feet, disrupting the ground's contrast — creating turbulence that confused the shape of her shadow. The kikaichū weren't just weapons — they were light disruptors.
But Shikako wasn't aiming for him.
She was setting a stage.
Another hand sign — a flick of her wrist — and her shadow snapped backward, leaping up the wall behind her. A dummy line, one that would trick Shino into watching the wrong direction. The true attack would come laterally, through a second source of shadow she had already extended from a hidden position behind him.
Still, he adapted quickly. His bugs shifted like a radar dish, following her arc. She saw it now — he wasn't just feeding chakra to the swarm, he was using them as motion sensors, interpreting their reactions to read her techniques.
Her lip curled slightly. "Smart."
But not enough.
She dropped a kunai at her feet — the shadow it cast extended just far enough to connect to her earlier line.
Shino's insects reacted again, swarming in, but this time, her shadow had curved from behind him — not directly, but at an angle. One the insects didn't cover.
"Shadow Feint."
In a sudden flicker, her chakra surged. Her shadow twisted like a snake — catching his left foot just barely from behind as he stepped to counter.
And then—
"Shadow Possession: Captured."
Shino froze, caught mid-move, his insects halting in an eerie synchronization with their master.
A long second passed.
Then, slowly, he raised a hand — the universal shinobi signal for surrender.
"Impressive," he said, his voice calm beneath the collar. "You didn't try to fight the insects. You fought the light."
Shikako exhaled, sweat beading along her temple. "You made me use three layers of misdirection. That's more than most jōnin manage."
Above them, the jōnin in the stands — Asuma, Kurenai, Guy, and others — watched with keen eyes. It wasn't a loud match, but it was precise, showcasing strategic brilliance.
Genma stepped forward, nodding.
"Winner: Shikako Nara."
Polite applause followed — not thunderous, but respectful. Thoughtful.
The kind of applause that marked a future tactician.
[Scene: Hiashi Hyuga and Nejire — Truth Beneath the Surface]
The applause for Shikako's match still echoed faintly across the arena as Nejire Hyūga made her way quietly back to the competitor's box after a check up by the medics. Her composure was perfect — posture upright, face unreadable, breath even. But the way her fingers lightly curled and uncurled at her sides betrayed the tension within.
She barely noticed her uncle—Hiashi Hyūga—step beside her.
He said nothing for a time. Only watched.
Finally, he spoke without turning.
"You did well. You honored the clan."
She blinked. "You didn't come to say that."
"No," he agreed. "I didn't."
His gaze remained forward, but his voice softened.
"You've always hated the Main House. I know. I sensed it from the moment you joined the Academy."
Nejire said nothing. The old bitterness, usually tightly restrained, flickered behind her eyes.
"You blame me for your father's fate. You are right to do so."
That startled her. She looked up sharply.
"Hiashi-sama—?"
He turned to her finally.
"Hizashi... was my twin. My brother. We were born on the same day, trained together, learned side-by-side. But only one of us could lead. I became heir. He became Branch."
There was a long pause, broken only by the noise of the crowd below.
"When Kumogakure tried to steal the Byakugan... they demanded the head of the clan to cover the cost of peace when I killed the Kumogakue-nin. The Elders offered them mine."
Nejire stiffened.
Hiashi's voice was low now. "Your father offered himself in my place. Not because he was ordered to. Because he believed if one of us has to live it should be me."
Her throat tightened.
"And I let him."
Hiashi looked down at her then — not as the clan head, but as a grieving brother, and something almost like a father.
"You inherited his strength. And his anger. But if you want justice... don't carry it as hate. Use it to change what made him kneel."
Nejire looked down. Her fists trembled, but not from rage. Her eyes were wet.