"Everyone's betting Asakurin's going to lose to Katori Shiki?"
Raizen sat back in silence. He didn't need to ask why — he'd seen this pattern play out across time itself. Even in the future Naruto world he remembered, the story never changed: clan-born shinobi always outpaced the commoners.
It wasn't destiny, just math. Clan children learned jutsu before they could walk. Civilians got hand-me-down scrolls and tired instructors. One side grew up in blood and battle; the other in textbooks and rationed chakra. By the time both reached adulthood, the difference was carved into their bones.
Sure, every generation had its miracle — a Minato, a Might Guy — the kind who clawed their way up through sheer obsession. But for every one of those, a thousand others burned out as Chūnin and vanished into the mud of history.
Raizen didn't look down on them. He pitied them. He knew the odds were rigged.
But if the future really belonged to a place like the Konoha he remembered, then the people who'd hold it up wouldn't be the clans. It'd be the nameless, the orphans, the wanderers — the ones who had no clan to fall back on.
And that was the problem.
Clan loyalty ran deeper than blood. He'd seen it before: the kind of loyalty that made men like Uchiha Itachi choose between their family and the village, and still lose both. A system like that would always eat itself alive.
So if Raizen wanted to build something lasting, something real, he needed to bet on the ones who had nothing to lose. The civilians. The wanderers. The discarded. That was the only power he could truly call his own.
He let out a slow breath, eyes flicking back to the arena as the referee signaled the start of the match. His thoughts would have to wait. Dreams of rebuilding systems and empowering the powerless weren't won in a day.
Down below, Katori Shiki and Asakurin squared off, blades low, chakra sharp.
The crowd murmured restlessly.
Asakurin moved first — nerves got the better of him. His strike came fast, but not clean.
"Finally lost his patience," someone whispered.
Shiki didn't even flinch. His hands formed seals with surgical calm.
"Water Release: Rising Spring."
A surge of water erupted beneath Asakurin's feet, coiling up like a serpent. He slashed through it in panic, blade flashing.
Shiki's eyes gleamed. "Now."
He dashed forward, chakra flaring. Another stream of water burst from his palms, hammering Asakurin off balance. The civilian boy barely had time to parry before the next strike came, faster, heavier.
Within moments, the match was over.
The Katori heir stood tall; Asakurin lay on the ground, blade spinning from his grip.
Raizen's jaw tightened. "He broke before the fight even started."
Asakurin had talent. Enough to make it a real match, maybe even an upset. But the moment the crowd's doubt sank in, it was over. The boy fought not to win, but to prove he wasn't doomed. And that kind of fight always ends the same way.
Raizen exhaled through his nose. The road ahead — the dream of giving those like Asakurin a real chance — was going to be long, and lonely.
The next match began before the arena dust even settled.
This time, it was Nasha versus Daiji Temple's heir — another clan prodigy. The crowd buzzed with the same cruel certainty as before.
Nasha was a wanderer's child, small and wiry, eyes sharp with the kind of hunger only desperation could forge. She stood alone, hand resting on her short blade.
"I'll win," she whispered. Then louder, "I will win!"
The referee's hand dropped.
Nasha vanished.
A single white blur cut across the field, splitting into three flickering silhouettes mid-stride.
The Daiji clansman cursed, twisting aside as all three clones swung down at once — indistinguishable in chakra, form, even breath.
"Which one's real?!" he shouted.
He dodged left, right, back — too late. A blade kissed his arm, leaving a shallow crimson line. The crowd gasped.
"There!" he shouted, forming quick seals. "Wind Release!"
A blast of air exploded where Nasha stood—
and passed through nothing.
"What—?!"
A whisper of movement came from behind. Two Nashas closed in, blades crossed at his throat.
"Both… real?!" he stammered.
The strike didn't kill him — just froze him in place. The referee raised his hand.
"Winner — Nasha!"
Silence filled the arena for a moment, then thundered into applause.
Even Raizen's lips curved faintly. "Not bad, kid."
Maybe there was still a future worth betting on.
...
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