By the time the final round matchups were posted, the coliseum had transformed from a battleground into a stage of political theater.

  Fgs flew higher.

  Officials filled the high balconies.

  Ambassadors from the Hidden Mist and Sand sat shoulder to shoulder with Fire Country nobles. Even envoys from Hidden Rain returned, silent and masked, watching the competition with dead, analytical eyes.

  The people cheered.

  The shinobi watched.

  And in the shadows behind it all, games were being pyed.

  Ken read the updated bracket without expression.

  Quarterfinal Match: Ken (Leaf) vs. Naori (Leaf)

  Below that:Semifinal Match (If Ken Wins): Ken vs. Reina

  His brows twitched—just slightly.

  Naori.

  He hadn’t heard the name often, but he remembered the whispers from the cn.

  A quiet prodigy. Trained directly under Uchiha Council supervision. An obedient child of the Main Line. Polished in form. Sharp in technique. Groomed not for war—but for representation.

  And now, pced directly in Ken’s path.

  A trap.

  “Is this what they’re doing now?” he murmured. “Sending mirrors at me?”

  Daen arrived behind him moments ter, reading the chart.

  “They want you provoked.”

  Ken nodded.

  “She’s not just a genin. They’ve been training her privately.”

  “And they want her to beat you,” Daen added. “Publicly. With grace.”

  Ken’s Sharingan fred once.

  “They want the cn’s 'rightful heir' to erase the stain of exile.”

  Daen offered him a small paper slip.

  “Odds on you are dropping again. Apparently the ‘Uchiha prodigy’ angle is good press.”

  Ken took it. Looked at the number.

  Smirked.

  “I’ll raise the bet.”

  Atop a distant roof near the ANBU barracks, Itachi stood beneath the cooling sun, arms folded, gazing at the vilge below.

  Behind him, Shisui arrived in silence, his chakra signature flickering once before settling.

  “You’ve been quiet about him,” Shisui said.

  Itachi didn’t look away. “Ken is making noise on his own.”

  “He’s making enemies.”

  “He’s making choices.”

  Shisui stepped beside him. “The elders are furious. They see him as a break in the chain.”

  “He is.”

  “That makes him dangerous.”

  Itachi’s eyes narrowed, watching the arena from afar.

  “He’s not trying to be dangerous.”

  Shisui said nothing.

  Then: “So what do we do?”

  Itachi finally turned.

  “We watch.”

  “And when the time comes?”

  Itachi answered without hesitation.

  “We act. According to our will.”

  The morning of the quarterfinals arrived with mist in the air.

  Ken stood in the locker room, wrapping his wrists in fresh cloth, sword checked, chakra humming low.

  Naori entered from the opposite side of the arena.

  She wore the standard fk jacket, but her movements were too clean, too perfect.

  She bowed politely.

  "Uchiha Ken."

  Ken inclined his head slightly. “Naori.”

  “No bad blood today,” she said, calm and rehearsed.

  Ken saw the micro-pause in her voice.

  She had been told to say that.

  A puppet polished to shame him with manners.

  “I don’t bleed easy,” Ken replied.

  The match began with grace.

  Naori moved like a textbook—elegant taijutsu, precise counters, and sharp genjutsu feints masked in Sharingan fshes.

  Ken dodged them all.

  He didn’t overwhelm her. He learned her.

  Every movement.

  Every angle.

  He countered not with brute force, but with fluid jutsu manipution. A whip of water here. A burst of wind there. Pressure. Distance. Reversal.

  Naori’s eyes widened as Ken began dictating the rhythm of the match.

  By the fourth minute, she was struggling.

  By the sixth, she was cornered.

  Ken struck the final blow with Fūton: Vacuum Needle—three thin, slicing currents that shaved her sleeve and cut her shoulder guard clean.

  She dropped her kunai.

  “Match over! Ken of the Leaf is the winner!”

  The crowd went wild.

  But the Uchiha section was silent.

  Stiff.

  Cold.

  Backstage, Reina waited.

  She didn’t speak as Ken passed her.

  But she touched his arm.

  “Still sure you want to do this?”

  Ken met her eyes.

  “I have to.”

  She nodded once.

  Then walked into the sun.

  Semifinal Match: Ken vs. Reina

  There was no grudge.

  No hatred.

  Only respect.

  But respect didn’t mean mercy.

  They circled each other in silence.

  Ken’s bde stayed sheathed.

  Reina’s hands glowed with healing chakra—then pulsed into offensive threads.

  Ken struck first—short bursts of wind jutsu to test her movement.

  She countered with thread-enhanced flips, dodging like a dancer, retaliating with chakra string traps aimed at his limbs.

  One snagged his left wrist.

  He snapped it with a quick jolt of chakra—but the second string caught his ankle.

  Reina surged forward with a palm strike glowing faint green.

  Ken twisted. Redirected.

  Their eyes locked mid-air.

  For a moment, both smiled.

  Then they cshed.

  Hard.

  The battle was long.

  Fluid.

  Reina made him move more than anyone had yet.

  But in the end, Ken’s bde touched her chest—ft side—first.

  “Ken wins!”

  As the proctor raised his hand, Reina wiped blood from her lip and smiled.

  “You’re going to change everything,” she said.

  Ken sheathed his sword.

  “Only if I survive it.”

  Later, as the medics tended to minor wounds, Ken approached the betting tent again.

  He pced another slip.

  Everything he had earned.

  On himself.

  One more match.

  One more strike.

  One more step out of the shadows.

  And when it was over…

  He’d have what he needed to disappear when it mattered most.

  Or to build something they couldn’t touch.