The Spar
The group formed a loose circle. The rules were simple: one-on-one bouts, first to land a clean hit. Wooden swords only.
Shisui stepped forward first, tossing his weapon from hand to hand. "I'll go easy on you since you're new."
Akira tilted his head slightly. "I'd prefer you didn't."
The older boy grinned. "Alright then."
The match began with a blur of movement. Shisui darted in, light on his feet, his wooden blade swinging in a fast arc. Akira's mind processed it instantly — too fast for a normal four-year-old, but to him, it was almost slow. His feet shifted, weight rolling to the side, letting the strike pass harmlessly.
Shisui adjusted immediately, spinning for a low sweep. Akira's blade met it with a sharp crack, absorbing the force and redirecting it upward. Shisui stumbled back a step, surprised.
"You're… better than I thought," Shisui admitted, his grin returning wider.
Akira didn't reply. His eyes, however, were sharper now, reading every twitch of Shisui's muscles. The faintest pulse ran through his temples — the urge to let his other eyes open, to see even more. But no… not here. Not now.
The match went on longer than any of them expected, with Shisui growing more excited and the onlookers leaning in. By the time Fugaku called it, both boys were breathing harder, but neither had landed a decisive blow.
Naori gave a small nod toward Akira. "You move like someone older."
"I practice," Akira said simply, leaving it at that.