"This technique... looks just like Dance of the Three Suns and Moon."
Raizen muttered to himself as three shadowy figures of Nasha blurred across the field. The crowd erupted a heartbeat later. A wave of cheers rolled through the arena — wild, hungry, desperate.
To them, Nasha wasn't just a genin candidate. She was proof. A wandering-nin, a nobody without clan or title, beating a pureblood heir in front of hundreds. In this world ruled by bloodlines, even a single victory like that felt like rebellion.
"Winner: Nasha," the referee announced, voice calm against the storm of applause.
The noise that followed was deafening.
"It's amazing, Nasha!" Shinsuke shouted, fists pumping in the air. His grin was stupid and honest, the kind that made people want to root for him despite knowing better. "Next, it's my turn! I'm not losing to anyone!"
The referee didn't even give him time to bask in it. "Next match: Amamiya Shinsuke versus Hanabira Clan's Hanabira Sōsui."
The Hanabira Clan — once famed for their chakra control and their elegant, almost artistic kenjutsu. Sōsui was their new prodigy, the kind of shinobi parents used to brag about at dinner tables.
When the two stepped into the arena, silence returned.
From the stands, the Hanabira patriarch leaned forward, arms crossed. "Heh. Amamiya Shinsuke... the crane's tail of the academy. This will be over quickly." His smirk widened. He glanced sideways at Raizen, seated among the Amamiya elders. The look said everything: Your clan's finished.
Raizen didn't respond. He just stared at Shinsuke, expression unreadable.
The truth was, the Amamiya were hanging by a thread. Of the six clan children who had entered the exam, only Shinsuke had made it this far. The others had been crushed in earlier rounds.
And Shinsuke, well… even among his own peers, he was famous — for failing. Written exams? Zero. Shuriken accuracy? Zero. Kunai technique? Don't ask. The teachers had stopped grading out of pity.
But Raizen had seen something in him during the qualifiers. A spark buried under all that noise and stupidity.
When the proctor called, "Begin!", that spark finally had its moment.
Sōsui drew his blade in a flash of light. "The crane's tail will make a fine stepping stone."
Shinsuke flinched — just for a second — then grinned back. "Says the guy with flowers in his clan name."
A vein twitched on Sōsui's forehead. "Die."
He lunged forward, blade shrieking against air. Shinsuke didn't move to block. Instead, he inhaled sharply, fingers snapping into hand seals.
"Shadow Clone Technique!"
Poof! Poof! Poof!
Three Shinsukes exploded into existence through white smoke. Sōsui blinked in disbelief, but charged anyway. "You think basic tricks can save you?!"
Shinsuke's clones spread wide, forming a rough triangle. Each hurled shuriken in a crisscrossing barrage. The projectiles clinked and spun, a storm of steel and noise.
Sōsui cut through them in a clean arc — each throw deflected, each clone closing in. He was faster, sharper, everything Shinsuke wasn't.
"Stop wasting my time!" Sōsui roared, driving his blade down. The real Shinsuke vanished in a puff of smoke.
Substitution Jutsu.
From behind, a voice shouted, "Fire Style: Great Fireball Technique!"
A wave of heat rolled over the arena as the massive flame screamed toward Sōsui. He turned, cleaving the fireball in half with a single slash. The flames scattered into dying embers—
—just as Shinsuke burst out from behind them.
"Now!"
His fist connected squarely with Sōsui's jaw, sending the swordsman tumbling backward.
The crowd gasped.
But the body that hit the ground burst into wood. Substitution.
"Tch!" Shinsuke spun, instinct flaring. His kunai lashed out just as Sōsui reappeared behind him. Steel met steel, sparks flying. Both staggered back, panting.
For a brief second, the world went still. Then they clashed again.
Sōsui pressed forward in a blur, his strikes slicing through clone after clone. Smoke filled the arena. The audience couldn't even tell who was real anymore.
"Is this... the crane's tail?" someone whispered from the crowd. "He's—"
"—holding his own?" another finished.
Inside the smoke, Shinsuke's thoughts spun like shuriken. My taijutsu sucks. My aim sucks. But my chakra reserves… they're solid. So I'll keep him guessing. Keep him swinging until he slips.
One wrong move was all he needed.
"Enough!" Sōsui bellowed, slashing through the final clone. "You're out of tricks!"
He dashed forward, blade flashing white. Shinsuke stumbled back until his heel touched the arena wall. No room to dodge.
The crowd held its breath.
Shinsuke smirked. "Perfect range."
His last clone exploded into motion from the smoke, grabbing Sōsui's leg mid-swing.
"What—?!"
"Fire Style: Phoenix Sage Fire!"
Three small fireballs burst from Shinsuke's hands, curving like hunting hawks. They struck in rapid succession — chest, shoulder, knee. Sōsui screamed, the heat forcing him to drop his weapon and fall to one knee.
Before he could recover, Shinsuke was already behind him, kunai at his throat.
The referee's hand rose.
"Winner — Amamiya Shinsuke!"
The arena went dead silent.
Then erupted in thunder.
Even Raizen couldn't help the small, grim smile tugging at his lips. Not bad, kid.
Above them, the Hanabira patriarch's expression curdled into something between disbelief and fury.
And in that moment, Shinsuke — the crane's tail, the class clown, the boy nobody bet on — finally stood tall enough for the whole arena to see.