Akio lunged first.
The boy's small but sturdy frame shot forward like a coiled spring finally released; his sandals scraped against the dirt with a sharp skrrk! as he closed the distance in less than a heartbeat.
Satoru fought the urge—the deep, instinctual pull—to let his Sharingan whirl to life. His eyes itched for it, begging to flare red, but he ground his teeth and resisted.
"No," he muttered under his breath, body tensing as adrenaline surged through his veins. 'Not yet. This is my first real spar. I need to know if I can do this… just me, no crutch.'
Akio's fist came straight for his chest. Satoru twisted his torso, pivoting his right foot into the dirt, and managed to dodge; the strike sliced through empty air with a sharp fwssh!
A thrill sparked through Satoru.
'I dodged it. I actually dodged it!'
But his confidence lasted only a second. Akio skidded to a stop, dark eyes narrowing as he looked up at the slightly taller boy. "Why are you looking down on me?" Akio's voice was low, tight with irritation. "You're not even using your Sharingan."
Satoru blinked, his mouth falling open. "What—how—what are you talking about?!"
He didn't get an answer.
Thwack!
Akio's short fist sank into his ribs, knocking the breath out of him. Pain exploded across his side, hot and immediate.
"Ghhk!" Satoru stumbled back, clutching the spot, eyes watering.
"Why… why the hell did I think tanking a hit would be fine?" he thought bitterly, his entire chest throbbing.
"Never again. Screw this."
The decision was instant.
With a rush like fire racing across his retinas, his vision shifted. The world sharpened as his right eye bled red; a single tomoe swirled into existence with an almost audible shhk!
And just like that, everything changed.
The world slowed.
Akio moved again, charging at him, but now it was as though Satoru stood outside of time. His opponent's body tensed, hips twisting before the strike, and Satoru could see it—no, feel it—the inevitable arc of the punch before it even left the boy's hand. His brain filled with possibilities, every motion mapped out in advance.
Satoru's lips parted in awe. 'It's… like the whole world's slowed down. Every movement… I can see it before it happens. This is insane.'
Akio's fist came toward his chin. Satoru ducked without thinking, his body moving almost lazily compared to the frantic attack. He side-stepped the follow-up kick, bent his knees to avoid the sweeping strike. His Sharingan fed him streams of predictions, branches of possibilities collapsing into certainty before his eyes.
Fwish!Swish!Thump!
He dodged them all.
To everyone else watching, it looked effortless. To Satoru, it was overwhelming—his body buzzing with information and instincts, his heart hammering from exhilaration.
Akio's face twisted with frustration. His fists clenched tighter. "Stop dodging!" he snapped, voice cracking with anger. "I was going to go easy on you… but looks like you can take it!"
His movements changed.
Satoru caught it immediately; the shift wasn't random. The attacks were different now—tighter, sharper, carrying a rhythm that built into itself. Punches connected to elbows, kicks slid seamlessly into sweeps. It was structured, connected like a flowing chain.
Recognition dawned on him mid-dodge. 'Wait… this isn't random brawling. This is the Sarutobi taijutsu style. The clan's flow-based combat system… it's like he's planning eight steps ahead in a sequence, chaining every strike into the next.'
Keiko's expression darkened as she watched from the sidelines. Her eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a line. "Akio… you're going too far," she muttered under her breath. This was supposed to be a spar, not a real fight.
Still, she held herself back; Satoru was dodging, somehow, though it was clear the boy was struggling under the relentless storm of attacks.
Satoru was struggling—but he was also fascinated.
Every strike Akio threw was like a puzzle piece, clicking into the larger picture his Sharingan painted. The movements intertwined like flowing water, connected by invisible threads. Satoru's own body began to mimic them. He leaned into the rhythm, copying the arcs, matching the flow.
One strike. Two. Three.
By the fifth move, his own body snapped into action almost instinctively. He redirected Akio's punch with a sharp parry, his other hand snapping forward to jab at his opponent's shoulder. Akio staggered back, eyes wide, caught off guard.
The next sequence, Satoru's foot swept forward, catching Akio's ankle; the boy stumbled.
"Wh—what?!" Akio gasped, barely regaining balance before Satoru's fist pressed to his chest, stopping just shy of a clean hit.
For a heartbeat, the two froze.
Satoru blinked at his own hands, then at Akio, realization crashing down on him.
"I… I just copied him. Five moves, and… I won?"
A giddy grin tugged at his lips as his Sharingan gleamed. "This… this is so broken. The Sharingan is overpowered!"
"Enough," Keiko's voice rang out sharply, cutting through the air like a whip. She stepped forward, raising a hand. "The spar is finished. Both of you return to your lines."
Akio's face was a mix of shock and frustration, but he obeyed, retreating back with his head low.
Satoru, for his part, was buzzing inside, his blood hot with excitement. He walked back to his spot, eyes practically glowing with adrenaline, though he tried to calm his breathing. He didn't want to look too smug.
Keiko glanced at her list, her voice calm again as she called out the next pair.
"Next… Uchiha Itachi and Hyūga Hoshino."
The effect was immediate.
The moment the names left her lips, the rows of students erupted in excited murmurs.
"Itachi's up!"
"No way, against Hoshino? This'll be amazing!"
"Top two students in the class—finally!"
The chatter rose, the children buzzing with anticipation.
Even Satoru felt it; his pulse quickened with genuine interest. He leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on the centre. "Finally. This is what I've been waiting for. If I can pick up even one or two of Itachi's moves… or maybe some of the Hyūga's style… it'd be a huge gain."
The two prodigies stepped forward into the sparring circle.
Hoshino, pale eyes steady, carried herself with the quiet poise of the Hyūga. Her stance was graceful, hands lifted slightly in the beginnings of the Gentle Fist.
Itachi, by contrast, moved with a calm that bordered on detached. His dark eyes scanned her for a fraction of a second, then settled into a loose, almost casual stance.
The murmurs grew louder as the two faced off, the anticipation hanging heavy in the air.
Keiko's hand rose. "Seal of confrontation."
The two pressed their hands together, then stepped back.
"Begin."
And then it was over before it began.
Itachi's body blurred forward. Whump! His first strike disarmed her stance.
Thwack!
His second sent her stumbling.
Thud!
The third landed squarely enough that Hoshino fell back onto the dirt, eyes wide with shock.
Gasps rippled through the watching students.
Satoru's face darkened instantly. His Sharingan spun, but it didn't matter—there was nothing to see, nothing to analyze.
"…That's it?" he muttered, his lips twisting in frustration. "Three moves… and she didn't even get to showcase her style. He didn't even use his Sharingan."
His eye twitched. "…Well, that was anticlimactic."
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