The circle had just begun to loosen when Daimaru, the boy that stood in the distance watching, shouldered his way through, the sound of his sandals grinding against the packed sand sharper than it should have been. His presence pulled at the air like a storm front.
He didn't look at Temari, at first, he looked straight at Isan, then at Shira, eyes narrowed to slits. His lip curled.
"Cute show.", his voice carried, loud enough for nearby students to hear.
"Didn't know the Academy started letting orphans and nobodies play at being shinobi."
Shira stiffened, his fists clenched, but he said nothing. Daimaru's grin widened.
He stepped closer, close enough for the heat of his body to press into Shira's space, then slammed a shoulder hard against him. Shira staggered back a step but stayed on his feet, glaring up through his lashes.
"Careful, desert rat.", Daimaru drawled.
"Wouldn't want you to break before the exam. Though maybe that's what you're good for, breaking."
Daiana's eyes flared. She stepped forward, lips curled in a snarl, but Isan lifted a hand to stop her. His dark gaze locked on Daimaru's, flat and unblinking.
"It seems that you have a problem with us.", Isan said quietly.
That only made Daimaru's grin sharper, uglier.
"Problem? I don't have a problem. You're the problem. You strut in here, act like you belong, and are an eyesore.", his gaze cut sideways to Temari, quick and hot.
"When everyone here knowns Temari is wasting her time on you."
The training yard had gone silent around them. Students stopped their drills, eyes darting between the circle. Whispers hissed like snakes in the sand.
Temari hadn't moved. Her fan rested against her shoulder, expression sharp but unreadable. She didn't rise to defend herself, nor did she intervene. Her gaze, however, was fixed squarely on Daimaru cool and cutting, a warning he seemed too blinded by pride to heed.
Shira stepped forward suddenly, his stance was crude, fists raised, shoulders squared.
Daimaru laughed, a harsh bark.
"You think you can stop me? You've got no chakra, no jutsu, nothing but fists."
He stepped in, shoving Shira's chest hard enough to send him stumbling back again.
Isan's hand shot out, catching Shira's arm to steady him.
Then, slowly, he stepped into Daimaru's path. His voice was quiet, so quiet it forced everyone to lean in to hear.
"Try it. If you're so sure."
For a moment, Daimaru hesitated, but his pride didn't let him back down.
Daimaru's fist came in wide, fast but sloppy with anger. Shira rapidly stepped forward while raising his guard and taking the hit head-on.
He staggered a little, before planting his feet and raised his fists.
"Pathetic.", Daimaru sneered, swinging again. Shira ducked this time, his fist snapping up into Daimaru's ribs.
The thud drew a grunt, the first crack in the older boy's arrogance.
Shira pressed forward, fists flying in a rhythm that was not elegant, but brutal. Each strike carried weight, each step drove Daimaru back, grit kicking up under their heels.
The crowd gasped as Daimaru reeled. He tried to counter with a wide hook, but Shira ducked under it, his shoulder slamming into Daimaru's chest with the force of a battering ram.
Daimaru staggered back, air blasting from his lungs, but Shira was already there, relentless.
A fist cracked across Daimaru's jaw, followed by another hammered into his stomach.
Daimaru's guard fell, faltering under the barrage.
Shira's movements were raw and unrefined, but they were fast, heavy, and merciless.
"Get up.", Shira growled, his voice shaking with the effort of every blow.
"Get up!"
Daimaru swung wildly, desperate, but Shira caught his wrist and twisted, dragging him down. His knee shot up, slamming into Daimaru's face. Blood sprayed across the sand as Daimaru collapsed onto his knees, groaning.
The yard erupted in shouts and gasps. Students pressed closer, disbelief written across their faces. Shira, the boy everyone mocked for having no chakra, no jutsu, had just beaten an older, trained fighter into the dirt.
The ones that weren't that affected by the result and, in fact, were already aware of the imminent result were the ones that traversed through the desert with them, although many of them got injured before witnessing the ridiculous speed and power Shira displayed while using the Eight Gates of Death, the mere memory of him facing the sand bandit leader was enough for them.
Daimaru tried to rise, staggering onto his right hand.
Shira loomed over him, chest heaving, fists still raised. The older boy's eyes darted around, wild, searching for some way out, but there was none.
Slowly, deliberately, Shira turned his back on Daimaru, walking toward Isan and Daiana without another word.
For a moment, silence ruled the yard. Then whispers rose, spreading like fire through dry brush.
Daiana's grin was sharp, her voice loud enough for the circle to hear.
"About time."
Temari watched Shira walk past with a faint curve to her lips, sharp and approving. Her fan tapped once against her shoulder.
"Not bad.", she murmured, the faintest nod marking her recognition.
On the far edge of the yard, Daimaru spat blood into the sand, his pride bleeding faster than his nose. His glare followed Shira like a curse, but no one missed the fear hidden beneath it.