The day after Ken’s swift victory, the tournament arena buzzed with renewed intensity. Vendors doubled their prices, bets flowed like wine, and shinobi from all corners of the continent pced silent wagers—not just on strength, but on style, reputation, and bloodline.

  And now, after his match, Ken’s name was on every board.

  "Ken of the Leaf—Cnless Uchiha. Record breaker. Cold executioner."

  Some said he was a prodigy.

  Others called him a problem.

  Inside the arena's competitor waiting area, Squad 9 sat together, tension low but focus high.

  Reina was next.

  Daisuke leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You ready?”

  Reina nodded, tightening the cloth around her forearm. “Opponent’s from the Sand. Scorpion-style taijutsu and mild poison coating.”

  Ken handed her a small sealing tag. “Mist neutralizer. Burn it if the poison enters your system.”

  She took it without question. “Thanks.”

  The announcer's voice echoed through the stone corridor:

  “Next match—Reina of the Leaf vs. Suma of the Sand!”

  Reina stood, adjusted her gloves, and walked into the light.

  From the observation deck, Ken watched carefully.

  The Sand genin moved erratically—side-steps, low angles, quick jabs with cwed gauntlets. Reina kept her guard tight, moving just enough to let him commit.

  Then she struck.

  Her style wasn’t brute force—it was surgical.

  A chakra-threaded palm strike dislocated his shoulder.

  A needle flicked from her sleeve pierced his side.

  She wasn’t trying to kill.

  She was teaching him a lesson.

  Suma fell after five minutes, twitching as his nervous system betrayed him.

  “Winner: Reina of the Leaf!”

  Ken exhaled.

  Daisuke grinned. “And now it’s my turn.”

  Daisuke’s match was shorter.

  He faced a Cloud brute with strength nearly equal to his own. But the difference was timing.

  While the Cloud genin swung wide and heavy, Daisuke ducked low, used footwork drilled by Guy himself, and brought both fists up in a double impact to the ribs.

  The Cloud genin coughed blood.

  One final elbow ended it.

  “Winner: Daisuke of the Leaf!”

  Ken watched the crowd’s reaction.

  Appuse, cheers, even a chant or two. Squad 9 was no longer the unknown trio.

  They were contenders.

  But not all attention came from above.

  That night, as Ken left the side hall alone—taking his usual route back to the dorms through a shaded walkway behind the tower—he was interrupted.

  A soft shuffle.

  A chakra signature dampened, not gone.

  Ken turned slowly.

  A figure stepped from the dark.

  Cloaked. Masked. Not ANBU.

  Not exactly.

  “Ken,” the figure said quietly. “You’ve made quite the name.”

  Ken’s hand drifted toward his bde. “You’re not here to compliment me.”

  “No,” the man replied. “I’m here to give you a choice.”

  He held up a small seal scroll.

  On it—Ken could feel the ink markings pulse. Blood-sealed. Cn-tech grade.

  “Lose your next match,” the man said. “Convincingly. No injuries. Just surrender.”

  Ken didn’t respond.

  “Do that,” the man continued, “and your family—your mother’s clinic, your father’s record—remains untouched.”

  Ken’s Sharingan activated silently, eyes spinning into crimson focus.

  “And if I don’t?”

  The figure didn’t flinch.

  “You know how these things go. Inspections. Audits. Accidents on patrol. Equipment shortages. Medical deys. We won’t kill them.”

  He stepped closer.

  “But their lives will unravel. Slowly. Quietly.”

  Ken stared.

  Then said, “Who sent you?”

  The man shrugged. “All you need to know is there are people who don’t want you rising further. Not now. Not yet.”

  Ken held out his hand.

  The man blinked, surprised.

  “You’ll take the deal?”

  Ken smirked.

  “I want the scroll. I’ll deliver my answer.”

  Hesitant, but curious, the man handed it over.

  Ken held it.

  Then burned it in his palm.

  The fme was cold and blue.

  “Tell them this,” Ken said softly. “If they come for my family again, I won’t just win.”

  He stepped forward, eyes glowing.

  “I’ll start pulling secrets from their graves.”

  The masked man vanished in a flicker.

  Back at the dorm, Ken sat alone, sharpening his sword.

  Not for the match.

  But for the message.

  The next day, the betting markets were wild.

  Ken’s odds were dropped intentionally. Whispers spread that he’d been “spoken to.” That he wouldn’t be allowed to advance further. That maybe, just maybe, he was pying along.

  Ken heard them all.

  And then walked straight into the administrative tent and pced a personal bet with a chunin record keeper.

  “10,000 ryo,” Ken said.

  “On?”

  “Myself.”

  The chunin blinked. “Confident.”

  Ken didn’t smile. “I don’t gamble.”

  When the match came, Ken stood in the center of the arena, facing a genin from the Hidden Stone—a close-range combatant with body-harden jutsu and stone armor gauntlets.

  The Stone-nin sneered. “I heard you’re not here to win.”

  Ken smiled. “You heard wrong.”

  The bell rang.

  And Ken didn’t wait.

  He closed the gap instantly, bde low, feet fast, chakra humming.

  His first strike shattered the Stone-nin’s stance.

  The second broke through the shoulder guard.

  By the third, the match was over.

  Twelve seconds.

  “Winner: Ken of the Leaf!”

  The crowd erupted.

  And the betting tent scrambled to pay out his personal slip—one that would fuel gear, seals, escape routes, and the long game he was already pnning.

  That night, Ken sat at the edge of the arena roof, watching the fmes of the festival below.

  The bet had paid off.

  But more than money, he had won proof.

  That no threats could control him.

  That he didn’t just survive the game.

  He was starting to rewrite it.