The midday sun hung high above the private training grounds, drenching the open space in a golden haze.
"Clang!"
The rhythmic clang of metal striking metal echoed through the secluded training grounds, accompanied by the sharp whistling of the wind as two figures moved with blinding speed.
Sparks flew as wood met steel, the resounding impact sending a sharp tremor through the air. Renjiro twisted his staff in his hands, muscles coiling and releasing as he moved with lethal precision. His Bō, the smooth, polished wood cool against his calloused palms despite the heat of the midday sun.
Across from him, Miwa wielded her twin sabres with a relaxed confidence, the silver edges catching the light as she flowed between movements with an almost hypnotic grace.
Both their eyes gleamed a dangerous red—the Sharingan spinning, tracking, predicting.
The battle was at a stalemate.
Each strike was met with a counter, every movement anticipated by the other. It was like fighting against a mirror, neither of them able to land a decisive blow. The tension between them was razor-thin, yet neither backed down.
Renjiro lunged forward, his staff swinging low in an attempt to sweep Miwa's legs from beneath her.
"Clang!"
Her sabres crossed just in time, intercepting the attack with practised ease. With a flick of her wrist, she pushed the staff away and retaliated, one blade slicing toward Renjiro's shoulder while the other aimed for his ribs.
Renjiro twisted his body mid-air, avoiding the deadly arcs by mere inches. His Sharingan caught the minute shift in her stance—the way her weight distributed slightly to her left foot—and in that instant, he knew she was about to pivot into another strike.
Anticipating it, he brought his staff up to block—
But instead of the expected attack, Miwa shifted at the last second, changing her angle completely.
Renjiro barely had time to react.
"Tch!"
He threw himself backwards, feeling the sharp breeze of her blade cutting through the space he had just occupied. His heart pounded in his chest.
"You're slipping, brat," Miwa smirked, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.
Renjiro scoffed, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. "Or maybe you're just getting predictable."
She laughed, the sound light but edged with amusement. "Predictable, huh?" She blurred forward again, sabres flashing.
Renjiro braced himself, his Sharingan tracking her every move.
Yet, something was... different.
The way she was wielding her sabres—it was familiar. The sharp, precise strikes, the way her blades moved like silver streaks in the wind. He had seen this before.
It took him a few more exchanges to place it.
'The Hatake Saber Style.'
His grip tightened on his staff. That was the same technique Hiro used during their spars.
Sharp, efficient, and devastatingly fast.
Renjiro parried another strike, eyes narrowing. "You're using the Hatake Clan's style."
Miwa smirked, twisting her blade to redirect his staff in a seemingly effortless motion. "Something I picked up along the way."
Renjiro's brow furrowed as he pushed back, breaking the engagement. "You copied it?"
"Obviously."
Renjiro exhaled, watching her carefully. The Sharingan made it easy to copy techniques, but not many could master them.
At first, he thought her movements mirrored Hiro's almost exactly. But as their battle continued, he realized something.
This wasn't just the Hatake style.
There was a fluidity to her strikes, a subtle elegance that Hiro's techniques lacked. Her movements weren't just fast—they were sublime. A modified version of the style.
A style she had made her own.
Renjiro gritted his teeth.
'Damn it.'
He had been banking on his familiarity with Hiro's movements to find an opening, but now—
Miwa smirked, clearly noticing his realization. "Figured it out, huh?"
Renjiro exhaled through his nose, resetting his stance. "You don't fight fair, do you?"
"Fair fights are for fools."
He couldn't argue with that.
The spar continued, both fighters adjusting to the other's tactics in real-time. Renjiro had to constantly shift his strategy, but Miwa kept the pressure relentless.
She was pushing him. Testing him.
And he refused to lose.
Their movements blurred together—staff clashing against sabres in a mesmerizing display of precision, skill, and raw instinct. The sun hung high in the sky, casting elongated shadows across the training ground, the heat making the air shimmer between them.
Finally—after what felt like an eternity—Miwa jumped back, flipping her sabers before sheathing them with a smooth flourish.
"Enough," she declared.
Renjiro let out a heavy breath, sweat dripping from his brow as he lowered his staff. His arms burned from exertion, but he felt good.
Miwa placed her hands on her hips, eyeing him with something akin to approval. "You're getting faster."
Renjiro smirked despite his exhaustion. "You're just getting old."
Miwa snorted, shoving his shoulder lightly. "Watch your mouth, brat."
Their breathing was still heavy, the tension of the battle lingering in the air. But now that the spar was over, another matter weighed on Renjiro's mind.
"I'll be leaving the village for a while," he said, rolling his shoulders as he spoke.
Miwa's gaze flickered with something unreadable. She didn't ask why. She knew better.
"Wasn't everything finalized at the summit?" she finally asked.
Renjiro shook his head,"Yes, but this is for a mission."
Miwa exhaled, crossing her arms. "With everything that's happening, you should be careful."
"I don't really have a choice," Renjiro admitted. "Hokage's orders."
Miwa's brow furrowed slightly, unconvinced.
Sensing her concern, Renjiro added, "I'm sure the Hokage has considered all possibilities. And besides, I can take care of myself."
His smirk returned, albeit a bit softer. "At the very least, I know when to run if things get bad."
Miwa stared at him for a long moment before shaking her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "You sound just like your grandmother."
Renjiro chuckled. "I'll take that as a compliment."
She sighed. "Just don't do anything too reckless, Renjiro."
"No promises," he quipped, earning him an eye-roll.
With that, he turned, slinging his staff over his shoulder as he walked away.
Miwa watched him go, her gaze lingering for just a second longer.
Then, with a quiet sigh, she followed suit.
======
The sun hung low in the sky, casting an orange glow over the sprawling cityscape of the Fire Capital. The grand palace loomed in the distance, its elegant architecture standing as a testament to the Daimyo's power.
Inside, within the dimly lit corridors of the palace, Hiruzen Sarutobi stood still.
His hands rested behind his back, his eyes locked on the vast horizon outside. The setting sun painted the sky in shades of amber and crimson, the last remnants of daylight bleeding into the deepening blue.
A storm was coming.
War was inevitable.
The peace they had so desperately tried to maintain had crumbled at the summit—and now, Konoha stood at the precipice of yet another battle.
Hiruzen's fingers twitched slightly. He had fought in the previous war and had witnessed firsthand the devastation it wrought. And now, he would have to lead his village into another.
A quiet set of footsteps broke the silence.
An attendant approached, bowing deeply. "Hokage-sama."
Hiruzen turned, his face an unreadable mask.
"The Daimyo is ready for you."
For a moment, Hiruzen did not respond.
Then, with a slow inhale, he stepped forward—toward the meeting that would determine Konoha's next course of action.
=====
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