The yard carried the heat of the morning like a burden. Stones radiated warmth into the soles of sandals, and the wind did little but stir sand into hissing spirals. Students pressed close to the chalked boundary, their voices rising and falling, restless after the bouts already fought. Those matches had not dulled their spirits but sharpened them, and now all attention gathered on the last two names called.
Temari entered first. Her stride was deliberate, each step placed with precision, posture upright and balanced. Her gaze stayed forward, unflinching beneath the stares that followed her. Shoulders level, arms loose but ready, nothing in her bearing betrayed hesitation. Students watched closely, not with dismissal but with the taut focus reserved for someone who might surprise them.
Shira followed at the call. His pace was steady, his jaw set, fists already wrapped in cloth worn soft with sweat and use. His tunic clung dark with salt marks from long drills. The crowd shifted without thinking, opening a path for him. Their whispers carried unease rather than doubt. Most of them didn't know the true measure of his strength, and ignorance bred wariness.
They took their places opposite one another. Dust hung in the air between them, catching gold in the sun, falling in slow strands with each held breath.
Isan studied them. Temari's guard was sharp: arms high, elbows tight, knees bent for balance. Every muscle coiled to spring. Shira bent lower, fists tucked close, his body compressed to absorb and return force.
Beside him, Daiana shifted slightly but did not speak.
The signal came.
Temari moved first, her steps light, carving a slow circle as she watched Shira from different angles. The scrape of grit marked each placement of her foot.
Shira lowered his stance further, fists still high, his chest rising with a measured pace that did not falter. Inch by inch they drew closer, neither willing to commit first.
The crowd leaned forward as one, the hush stretched taut.
Temari feinted, shoulder dipping as if to strike, causing Shira to react a little although he held himself back and keep calm.
She cut sideways instead and sent a short kick toward his thigh.
It struck with a flat thud, the sound carrying in the stillness. He turned with the blow, weight absorbing it, but she was already moving again.
Her palm flashed out, clipped his ribs, then she slid clear, her sandals brushing grit as she exited at an angle.
The crowd stirred, then hushed again. Temari's chest lifted harder on her retreat, breath sharp. Shira reset his stance, jaw tight, fists high, as if nothing had touched him.
She tried again, pressing in with a sharp step, rapidly closing the distance.
Her palm jabbed for his chest, but his forearm blocked the attack cleanly, the recoil jolting her arm.
His counter came fast, a hook that cracked across her shoulder and spun her half a step. The blow carried a sound like cloth ripping against flesh. Temari's mouth tightened, but she refused to stumble, guard snapping back into place.
Now Shira advanced, shorter steps, fists punching the space between them. Temari was forced to angle out, fan ribs smacking against his guard with sharp cracks that drew gasps. His answer was brutal, a shovel hook to her ribs that bent her hip. She hissed air through her teeth but pivoted out before his raised knee could drive forward.
They reset, dust rising faint around their heels. Temari's left arm reddened where his block had slammed it aside, and Shira's lip split faintly, blood catching at the corner.
Neither fighter spoke. The yard had quieted into that narrow kind of silence that holds only breath and sand, the sound of sandals shifting as the two figures measured each other again, every inch carrying weight toward the next clash.
The crowd shifted with them, bodies leaning unconsciously forward and back with each exchange. Instructors remained still, their focus sharp on every movement.
Just as Isan was enjoying the match, a soft and sweet voice resounded in his ear.
"Why is Shira fighting like that?", it was Daiana that didn't remove her sight from the fight while speaking towards Isan.
"That isn't his style... I don't understand."
"He is doing that on purpose. Shira knows his weakness better than anyone. His strength, endurance, and speed outmatch Temari's. The problem, his major weakness, lies in his technique.", Isan answered her while also keeping his gaze on the match before them.
The crowd shifted with them, bodies leaning unconsciously forward and back with each exchange. Instructors remained still, their focus sharp on every movement.
Just as Isan was enjoying the match, a soft and sweet voice resounded in his ear.
"Why is Shira fighting like that?", it was Daiana that didn't remove her sight from the fight while speaking towards Isan.
"That isn't his style... I don't understand."
"He is doing that on purpose. Shira knows his weakness better than anyone. His strength, endurance, and speed outmatch Temari's. The problem, his major weakness, lies in his technique.", Isan answered her while also keeping his gaze on the match before them.
Back in the ring, Temari pressed forward again, this time sharp and fast. Her palm shot out for his chest, but Shira met it with both forearms and shoved back. Her arm jolted at the joint. His fist followed, grazing her cheekbone, snapping her head aside. The crowd gasped, then hushed. Temari's balance wavered, guard open for half a breath.
Daiana remained silent for a long time, before saying, in response.
"So... he is holding himself back against Temari?"
"Yes and no. It depends from your perspective."
Shira pounced, fists hammering in short bursts. Temari blocked one, deflected another, but the third slammed into her ribs, forcing a ragged gasp from her throat. She twisted free, sandals grinding chalk into crooked lines as she escaped. Her chest rose harshly now, lips parting as the dry heat burned her lungs. A welt bloomed dark across her ribs.
"Huh... what do you mean?", Daiana was now utterly confused by Isan's words, to the point that she shifted her gaze from the fight to Isan' side face.
"On one hand, you could say he is holding himself back since he isn't fighting to his utmost potential."
Shira planted himself again in the center, unmoving. Blood streaked from his lip, shoulders rising with heavier breath, but his frame remained rooted, carved into the earth.
"On the other... he is fighting in a way that counters that of Temari while also taking the fight more seriously."
Daiana continued silent while shifting her gaze from Isan to the unfolding fight, even though she was still a little confused she was slowly understanding what Isan meant.
Temari circled, smaller now, teeth clenched. She feinted left, snapped a kick high at his guard, then dropped low for his leg. Her shin cracked against his thigh with a flat smack that made him grimace.
Yet his answer was immediate, a fist across that hit her shoulder, jolting her backward.
"He is just being arrogant."
Suddenly a voice sounded from the side, it was Sen still bruised from her recent fight with Isan.
Daiana didn't say anything in return, but her eyes flickered with refusal to that statement about Shira.
She stumbled a pace, dragged breath through her teeth, and reset.
"She is right. He is indeed arrogant.", Isan's voice sounded still calm and firm.
Now Daiana was incredulous looking at Isan, of all people she didn't expect for him to say that about Shira.
"Overall it's a good thing. He is using this fight against one of the best in our year to test and train his technique. Even though he might suffer in the process, since it is still a pretty important fight as Temari won't forgive him. And... she noticed it too."
The crowd sensed it too. Silence grew heavier, every eye on Temari as Shira's steps cut her space smaller.
One clean strike landed against her ribs again, and she gasped sharp, nearly folding. Her arms trembled as she forced them high, refusing to drop guard. Still, the yard had shifted. The fight leaned toward Shira now.
One clean strike landed against her ribs again, and she gasped sharp, nearly folding. Her arms trembled as she forced them high, refusing to drop guard. Still, the yard had shifted. The fight leaned toward Shira now.
Temari's last surge came desperate. She jabbed high for his cheek, grazing it, but his counter smashed across her guard and knocked her wide.
A second strike crashed low into her stomach, the impact ripping the air from her throat.
She reeled, knees buckling, but he pressed once more, a straight that she barely dodged by falling backwards.
Shira did not move to press her further. He lowered his fists, his shoulders rising and falling with steady rhythm, blood darkening the edge of his lip. He held himself tall, his weight still rooted, but the fight in him eased.
The yard stayed hushed, waiting.
Temari let her arms drop completely. She straightened as best she could, her chest heaving, her expression stern but calm. She gave a small nod, the gesture carrying more than words, an open acknowledgment that the fight had ended and that she had given everything she could.
Shira stepped forward, closing the distance by three measured paces. Dust rose faintly with each step until he stopped just short of her. Then he extended his hand, palm open, fingers rough with callus and bandage.
For a heartbeat Temari only looked at it. Her lips tightened, her shoulders shifting with the weight of the moment, then she lifted her own hand. She placed it in his with quiet firmness, her grip steady despite the fatigue trembling through her arm. A small smile touched the corner of her mouth, faint but certain.
Shira answered it with one of his own, slight, the first break in his expression since the match began.
The yard erupted then, the silence shattered by shouts, sandals stamping, voices rising in waves. But between them, inside the ring, only the quiet handshake mattered. Temari withdrew and stepped back to her peers, her chin held high. Shira released her hand and turned toward the chalk's edge, his shoulders square, his breath steadying as he crossed back into the crowd.
Baki's voice cut through the roar, calm and final.
"Enough."
The words settled the space, but the image of their exchange lingered heavier than any order.