After their tense exchange, the two girls drew their swords and stepped forward.
It wasn't as fiery as Tsunade's match with Maki, nor was it filled with the impatience that most students displayed.
Instead, they moved slowly—deliberately—without hesitation, in a silent mutual understanding.
As they closed the distance between them, a quiet solemnity settled over the arena like a veil.
In the art of Kendo, there is a concept called Jianhe—the "sword connection." It refers to the effective striking range between two opponents.
From the side, this distance is obvious. But when viewed head-on, the true space between the fighters becomes distorted, elusive. Mastering that distance—reading it, closing it, controlling it—is the essence of swordsmanship.
This is the foundation of all kenjutsu.
If the distance feels far to your opponent but close to you, then you hold the advantage. To step forward is to gamble: either you enter your enemy's blind spot—or expose your own.
Speed means nothing without control. What matters is entering that invisible space with perfect timing… and cutting down your enemy.
So how do you get close enough to strike without being struck?
There are many methods. Proper posture. Keen perception. Sharper eyes than your opponent.
Or, a simpler, cruder method: extend your reach.
As the girls drew closer, Naori narrowed her eyes and calculated the distance.
Ten meters… five… three…
Then her instincts screamed.
This distance—?!
In a flash, Hitomi moved. Her sword was drawn before Naori could even react.
A mistake?!
Her body moved on instinct. She halted her advance and twisted back, dodging by a hair's breadth.
A silver arc of steel sliced the air before her—like a crescent moon drawn across the sky. A single strand of hair drifted down in the aftermath.
Her forehead stung with cold.
By the time she regained focus, Hitomi had already resheathed her sword. She stood in a finishing stance, her right hand resting gently atop the hilt.
"…Tch," Hitomi clicked her tongue, eyes narrowed. "Disappointing."
There were still over three meters between them.
Naori's heart pounded. She was certain—absolutely certain—that she hadn't misjudged the distance.
But she had made a fatal error: she had underestimated Hyuga Hitomi's range.
It was absurdly long.
Naori's sword couldn't even reach her opponent. But Hitomi's blade had nearly taken her head.
The crowd buzzed with confusion.
"What just happened?"
"Is that a technique to extend her reach?"
"How did she do that?"
Most couldn't understand what they had just witnessed—until a voice from the Hyuga clan cried out:
"That was Gentle Fist!"
He had seen it. The truth behind Hitomi's technique.
She had released concentrated chakra through her blade.
Naori had no time to process the revelation—Hitomi was already on the attack.
"Secret Sword: Thirty-Two Cuts!"
Hitomi surged forward, her blade flashing with impossible speed, targeting all of Naori's vital points in a deadly blur.
So fast. So fast.
Her arm became a phantom. The blade vanished into a whirlwind of shadows.
Naori's eyes widened.
She knew exactly how difficult this was—how inhuman that level of control and speed truly was.
How the hell is she doing that with just her wrist?
Is that sword made of paper?
Even if it were, it shouldn't be moving like that.
Faced with a raging storm of steel, Naori had no choice but to retreat, blocking and parrying with both hands. She deflected each strike with narrow margins, barely keeping up.
Steel clashed against steel, sparks leaping and crackling around them in a dance of danger and precision.
Each swing from Hitomi was a lethal stroke.
Each parry from Naori, a desperate defiance.
The sword dance reached its crescendo in an instant—
A moment of sheer brilliance, peril, and momentum—
The battle had truly begun.
The dazzling display of swordplay unfolded like a blooming flower, silent yet mesmerizing. The onlookers watched in stunned awe, mouths agape.
Even Tsunade's face had turned serious. Compared to Maki's swordsmanship, this was on another level. Against this kind of precision and intent, she wasn't sure she could last a single exchange.
There were no flashy techniques or explosions—just raw danger.
"Impossible… this is impossible…" the Hyuga ninja from earlier muttered, unable to accept what he was seeing. "This isn't gentle fist! It can't be!"
But it was.
The foundation of the Hyuga clan's secret art—the Eight Trigrams, Sixty-Four Palms—had been twisted into something unrecognizable.
Because she wielded a sword in one hand, the original sixty-four strikes were halved into thirty-two slashes. Yet they were just as fast. Just as lethal.
It shattered the worldview that every Hyuga ninja had grown up with. With nothing more than a blade in hand, the once-graceful, defensive gentle fist had transformed into a brutal and overwhelming sword technique.
He didn't want to believe it. Didn't want to accept that the technique he had trained in all his life could be turned into this violent thing.
But nobody paid attention to his disbelief.
The whirlwind of thirty-two strikes came to a close. Naori, dual blades in hand, had managed to block them all—barely. She retreated, keeping a cautious distance, both of them now panting heavily as they tried to recover from the sudden burst of energy.
"This girl…" Hitomi was stunned. Naori had blocked her killing move without even flinching.
But Naori, too, was shaken by Hitomi's swordsmanship.
As her blood-red eyes faded back to their natural black, she came to a quiet conclusion.
This isn't something I can master.
At best, she could imitate a few patterns—but not the essence. That kind of precision chakra control was beyond her.
Like Tsunade's monstrous strength or Maki's broken techniques, it relied on strict, specialized conditions. The principle behind it was simple. Executing it, however, was not.
So, she decided to try something else.
Locking eyes with Hitomi, Naori slowly lowered herself to the ground—completely prone.
Secret Insect Technique: Dance of the Centipede
She clenched a short dagger in her teeth, leaving her left hand free to steer and pivot.
Immediately, she noticed a flaw.
Her vision. From this position, she could barely see anything ahead. To lift her head and glimpse the battlefield took effort. It wasn't ideal. Not for her.
How did Maki manage this?
No—it didn't suit her. But maybe… it was enough.
"Naori learns fast," Maki remarked from the sidelines, her smile playful. "And that Sharingan is convenient. Still, my technique's not so easy to copy."
"She's a clever one," the Third Hokage said, chewing on his pipe. "Against a sword technique based on rigid spacing, Maki's ultra-low angle completely breaks the formation. She forces Hitomi to adjust, disrupting the fluidity of her strikes. A clever counter."
He didn't fully understand swordsmanship—but he understood spacing. Maki's technique was built around the art of controlling distance.
Close to herself. Far to her opponent.
Tsunade had suffered because she didn't grasp that subtlety. This wasn't something normal humans would think of. This wasn't human swordplay anymore.
"They're both geniuses," the Third smiled, eyes filled with admiration.
Even surviving against Hitomi's sword was a remarkable feat.
Still…
"Why isn't she using Fire Style?" a shinobi whispered. "She's Uchiha, isn't she?"
"Hmph," another Uchiha scoffed. "That would ruin it. She wants to win with the sword."
Pride. And a bit of arrogance. The Uchiha way.
Hitomi, cold-eyed, addressed Naori sharply. "Let me give you a warning. Maki's technique doesn't work on me."
"No," Naori replied calmly. "You think it doesn't."
Only one person in class called Maki by name.
And calling someone by name—that meant closeness.
Naori stared at Hitomi with a strange look.
"How will you know if you don't try?"
"Then come at me!"
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