The crowd was still buzzing from Daiana's victory when the next names were called.
"Sen. Isan. Step forward."
A ripple ran through the students. Some leaned forward eagerly, others crossed their arms, already whispering predictions.
"This isn't even fair."
"Sen doesn't stand a chance against Isan."
"You're wrong. He can't rely on chakra threads here. This will be different."
Sen stepped forward first.
The sun pressed down on her shoulders, sweat sliding along her temple, but heads still turned as she stepped forward.
Her sandy-brown hair, tied back into a high ponytail, shifted lightly in the breeze, the two braids brushing against the sides of her neck. Strands framed her face, softening the sharpness of her expression.
Her red tube dress, bound tight with a dark belt at the waist, moved just enough to reveal the mesh armor beneath, while her gloves, shin guards, and sandals gave her the look of someone prepared for a real fight, not just a schoolyard spar.
Her brown eyes, shaded by long lashes, fixed on Isan with a clear, unwavering intent. There was grace in the way she carried herself, but also hardness like that of steel.
Isan approached at his usual pace, unhurried. His own presence was different, less striking at first glance, but steady and rooted; the kind that settled like weight in the air. He pulled the wrap on his wrist once more, the knot tight against skin already marked by the earlier drills.
The circle cleared. The air between them wavered with heat, and the crowd pressed closer, restless.
The instructor raised his hand.
"Begin."
Sen darted first, sandals scraping sand. She burst toward Isan, leg snapping high at his ribs. The flash of her red dress cut against the pale grit.
Isan shifted back a fraction, hand sweeping her shin aside. Her momentum spun past him, harmless.
Sen landed lightly and whipped around, fist slicing for his jaw. He slid off the line, her knuckles brushing empty air.
His counter came sharply as his fist drove into her stomach with brutal force. Spit and breath tore from her mouth as her body buckled, strength vanishing from her limbs.
She staggered but forced herself back, grit crunching under her sandals.
The crowd stirred and hushed in waves, caught between shock and fascination with every clash.
Sen pressed harder. She blurred in and out with relentless speed, elbows for his ribs, knees for his thigh, heel whips aimed for his head. The storm of strikes left little pause, but each breath grew ragged, her chest heaving harder with every motion.
Isan stayed grounded. His arms loose, eyes calm, he turned each strike aside with measured rhythm. He shifted only when needed, sidestepping, rolling a shoulder, brushing attacks off his guard. He let her tire herself out.
This time he stepped into it, shin colliding with hers. The impact cracked through the circle. Pain ripped up her leg, and she staggered with a strangled gasp. Numb heat spread through the limb, feeling draining away.
Before she could retreat, Isan caught her wrist and shoulder. His body twisted with hers, dragging her balance away. She fought to wrench free, but in an instant her hand was bent behind her back and her weight tipped forward.
She gasped, teeth bared, as his grip forced her down. She tried to lash upward with her free leg, heel cutting for his head in desperation.
Isan's head dipped smoothly, her kick grazing the space above him. He closed the gap, sweeping her base leg out from under her.
The next moment she hit the sand hard, chest jolting, breath breaking. His knee pressed between her shoulders, his grip firm on her wrist. She thrashed, grit scraping her skin, but the weight pinning her down was immovable.
The instructor's hand cut the air.
"Enough. Winner: Isan."
The crowd exhaled as one, disbelief and awe colliding in their voices.
Sen knelt in the sand, chest heaving, her braids plastered to her sweat-slick cheeks. Pain etched her face, but her eyes burned bright, fierce and unbroken. Slowly, she pushed herself upright.
Isan released her and stood tall. After a moment, he extended his hand.
Sen hesitated, then placed her hand in his palm. He pulled her up smoothly, his grip steady. For a heartbeat, her shoulder brushed his, her gaze lingering with stubborn fire even in defeat.
They said nothing.
From the edge, Temari's eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering before she looked away. Baki closed his notebook with a snap, expression unreadable, though his gaze followed the pair with quiet weight.