The first match of the quarterfinals was called: Mizue vs Riku Funato.
The two stepped into the ring, the crowd buzzing. Riku's wiry frame was loose, shoulders swaying as if already in motion. Mizue, in contrast, stood rooted, her stance neat and compact, eyes fixed on him like a puzzle she meant to solve.
"Begin!"
Riku moved first, rushing forward in a blur of light steps. His movement wasn't chaotic — it was fluid, like water curling around rocks. Mizue snapped a straight punch as he entered her range, but he dipped low and slid around her guard, his grin flashing as he passed.
He circled, pressed again, and again she struck — and again he slipped just out of reach, pivoting at odd angles, his rhythm unpredictable. Mizue's fists and kicks lashed out, precise but always chasing.
Minutes passed like this: Mizue attacking, Riku flowing around her, never stopping, never letting her plant a decisive blow. Her breaths grew heavier. He smirked, knowing his style was working.
But Mizue's eyes sharpened. He wants me to keep swinging, to drain myself. No… I'll stop feeding his rhythm.
She lowered her guard slightly and went still, waiting.
Riku hesitated. "What, giving up already?" he muttered, but when she didn't move, he surged in with full aggression. His fists darted, his legs cutting low arcs.
This was exactly what she wanted.
Up close, Riku's speed was overwhelming at first, his hands a blur, his footwork keeping him just slippery enough to avoid her counters. But Mizue didn't panic. She watched. She measured. And then she struck.
A sudden feint — her fist whipped high toward his face. He raised his guard instinctively.
Her leg snapped out low instead, cracking against his knee.
Riku hissed, stumbling back, his flow broken. His knee bent awkwardly, forcing him to reset. He realized immediately: She's targeting my legs. She wants to kill my movement.
Snarling, he rushed in again, forcing close combat, determined not to let her land another crippling kick. His strikes were faster, sharper, pressing Mizue on the backfoot. She absorbed them on her forearms, her counters losing a touch of speed as fatigue crept in. Riku grinned — she's slowing down.
He swept low for her legs. Mizue dodged, but he chained into a right hook for her face. She blocked, deflecting the impact, and answered with another feint. Riku bit on it again— but this time, Mizue paused.
That tiny hesitation threw him off completely. His foot planted wrong, his weight shifted, and he stumbled just enough.
Her shin whipped into his already bruised knee. The crack echoed. Riku collapsed with a curse, clutching his leg.
Desperate, he clawed at the dirt and flung a handful into Mizue's face. She turned her head, one eye stinging, but didn't retreat. Riku surged up with a wild punch.
Mizue made her choice. She didn't block. She traded.
Her knuckles hammered his thigh, right into a pressure point above the knee. His body locked for a fraction of a second — just long enough for her to unleash a flurry of short, surgical strikes up his arm and torso. Riku's flow stuttered, his body betraying him.
One final kick smashed his knee sideways. He dropped.
Mizue seized his wrist, rolled, and pinned him flat against the dirt, her knee pressing into his spine.
The proctor raised his hand. "Winner: Mizue!"
The crowd erupted, half in shock, half in awe. Mizue stood, brushing dirt from her uniform, calm and expressionless. For her, it wasn't luck. It was calculation.
She'd taken apart Riku piece by piece — not by being faster or stronger, but by reading him like a book and closing it.
Everyone expected this match to be quick. Aika was known as the academy's undisputed best in raw taijutsu, while Kaien had skill but was considered "just decent" with his clan's style.
The moment the match began, they clashed head-on. Kaien's superior speed showed first—he slipped inside her guard and unleashed a devastating three-hit combo: chin, liver, ankle. The crowd gasped as each blow landed with surgical precision.
Aika staggered but didn't fall. Instead, she lunged to grab him, teeth gritted. Kaien evaded cleanly, but the attempt alone warned him: if she caught him once, the fight could end instantly.
They circled. Aika charged again, her fist arcing in a brutal swing meant to break his defense. Kaien dodged, answering with another sharp liver shot. Her body folded slightly, but instead of backing off she snapped back with a wild haymaker that smashed against his chin, drawing a roar from the crowd.
Before Kaien could recover, Aika bulldozed forward, tackling him hard to the ground. She mounted him and began raining down wild, furious punches. Kaien's arms moved like shields, blocking most, but a few slipped through and cracked against his face.
Her strikes began to slow. Kaien saw the opening. With a lightning-fast counter, his fist whipped across her cheek, knocking her back and giving him space to roll free. Both fighters scrambled up—Kaien quicker, Aika a half-beat slower, chest heaving.
They stared each other down.
Kaien rushed first, hands a blur. Punches, kicks, knees—his clan's style flowed like water, battering Aika's guard. But like a juggernaut she kept forcing forward, absorbing the hits, refusing to break. With a guttural shout, she shoved through his assault, caught his arm, and hurled him across the ring.
Gasps erupted. Kaien's body skidded dangerously close to the edge, almost a ring-out. Somehow, he dug his feet in, barely staying inside. The crowd thundered—Aika had just tossed someone bigger and stronger with sheer grit alone.
But Kaien wasn't finished. He shot forward one last time, unleashing his signature three-hit combo—fist, knee, elbow—each strike snapping Aika's head and body back. Her legs buckled. With the final blow, she collapsed to the ground unconscious.
The match was over.
Daichi vs Atsuro
The proctor raised his hand. "Begin!"
Daichi surged forward immediately, broad shoulders set like a battering ram. He knew Atsuro couldn't withstand his punches — if he got close enough, the fight was his.
Atsuro slid sideways, light on his feet. He wasn't foolish enough to stand in front of Daichi's power. As Daichi swung a heavy kick, Atsuro ducked beneath it and punished the opening: a sharp strike to the back of Daichi's knee that dropped him briefly, followed by precise jabs to the ankles, liver, and back of the head.
The crowd murmured — each strike landed clean.
But Daichi didn't go down. He rose, face grim, and swung a feint. Atsuro read it instantly and countered with a crisp jab to the jaw.
Daichi staggered—then fell forward, pressing his weight into Atsuro and driving him back toward the edge of the ring. Atsuro twisted, but Daichi's bulk was relentless, his wide steps beginning to cut off every angle of escape.
Then the barrage began. Daichi's fists fired like pistons — heavy straights that split the air with audible cracks. Atsuro weaved and slipped, but the ring's edge loomed behind him. He dared not block; even deflected, Daichi's blows would numb his arms useless.
Finally, Atsuro made a desperate choice — he took a glancing blow to the shoulder to slip around Daichi's guard and escape the corner. The strike left his arm hanging heavy, but he bought himself breathing room.
He went back on the offensive, peppering Daichi with precise shots. Strikes to the ribs, the thigh, the temple — all clean, all textbook. But after so much dodging, his speed had dulled, and his blows carried little power.
Daichi absorbed them with a grunt, his body refusing to yield. "You can sting all you want," he growled under his breath, "but you can't break stone."
The two traded fiercely — Daichi's fists hammering into Atsuro's arms and thighs, each strike slowing the clan heir's footwork further. Then Atsuro's heel slipped against the dirt.
That was all Daichi needed.
He drove forward, a colossal fist crashing into Atsuro's chest and solar plexus. The blow ripped the air from Atsuro's lungs. As he bent forward gasping, Daichi's uppercut rose like a hammer — connecting flush beneath his chin.
Atsuro lifted from the ground before collapsing hard, motionless.
The proctor stepped in, raising his hand. "Winner: Daichi!"
The crowd erupted, half in shock, half in awe. A civilian boy had just crushed a trained Kamizuru heir with nothing but grit and power.
⸻
Last Quarterfinal Match
The final bout of the quarterfinals was between two nameless general students. Compared to the earlier matches, it was sloppy and short — wild swings, no guard, no plan. One boy tripped on a poor stance, and the other toppled him with a shove. The proctor ended it quickly, uninterested.
"Winner… Jin," the proctor muttered, barely glancing at the scrawny victor.
The crowd barely reacted. Everyone's eyes were already on the semifinal bracket — where the real fights were waiting.