The square hadn't emptied. Nakamoto's finger was still up when he changed his mind.
"Second exchange," he said. "Confirm the result."
Kushina made a strangled noise. Izumi's mouth tilted, just a little. He wanted another try. Fine.
We reset on the chalk. The sun had shifted one hand. Dust hung where the last pair had scuffled.
Nakamoto chopped the air. "Begin."
Izumi didn't bother closing this time. His hands flashed and eight shuriken fanned out—four straight for my center, four to cut off the ways out. Uchiha pattern. Clean and cruel.
Hard to dodge? Then don't.
I bent my arm, let the tight skin form over my fist, and punched the air a handspan short of the leading star.
A thin white halo kissed my knuckles. The world made a sound like a hairline crack in glass.
Pff—krk.
Fractures flashed. The air pushed back. The shuriken lost a whisper of speed and drifted off their perfect lines. Steel whistled past my cheek. Three thunked into dirt. One tapped my shoulder guard and spun away.
"What—?!" someone gasped.
"Is that a jutsu?" another voice said. "He didn't weave signs—"
I didn't give the words time to pile up. I moved. Kunai in hand, I met Izumi as he closed the distance he'd given away.
He slashed high, then low, testing. Our blades kissed on the flat.
I let a halo ripple along the metal.
Kcha— Not a clang. A brittle crackle, as if we'd both hit ice.
Shock rode the bridge between us. It wasn't much—just enough to numb his grip and steal a step. He recoiled on instinct, eyes narrowing now for real.
"What did you do?" he asked.
"Good footing," I said, and slid right to keep his angle wrong.
He cut the talk. He feinted, then sprang back, hands blurring—Substitution Technique primed to fire if I answered with a throw. I didn't throw. I sent three stars instead to make him choose.
He chose wood.
Puff. A log took the hits. The real Izumi reappeared behind my right shoulder—the heat of his chakra burned the hairs at my neck before the sound reached me.
"Great Fireball Technique!"
The air swelled. Flame bulged out of his mouth in a perfect sphere, bright enough to paint the chalk lines orange.
Kushina cried out. Someone swore. Even Nakamoto flinched before schooling his face. C‑class at our age was rare and stupid and exactly the kind of thing an Uchiha would choose when pride was on the line.
There wasn't time to roll clear. The fire would chase the space I left.
I chose through.
Heel down. Grk. Faultline under my back foot, a ripple I could ride. Fist up. Halo tight—tighter. Breath set.
I punched the face of the world.
Pff—WHUMP.
Pressure leapt from my knuckles and met the fireball head on. Not enough to kill it. Enough to shape it.
The sphere dimpled as if I'd pressed a thumb into clay. The skin tore along my fracture lines. Flame split and sheared past my shoulders. Heat slapped both cheeks. My hair curled at the edges; my sleeves smoked.
The core of the jutsu lurched skyward in a twisting tongue and burst over the yard like a startled lantern.
I was already moving. The cost came on delay—ears roaring, wrists barking—but the window was open. I stepped into the space Izumi had made, palm sliding across the ripple of air at his ribs.
Pff.
He staggered. I curved behind him and set the wooden blade under his jaw.
The yard remembered how to breathe.
Nakamoto held us for a full count, eyes hard, then clipped, "Point. Match." The word sounded like it tasted bad.
I eased off and stepped back. My forearms tingled. The Halos I'd kept small had still chewed at the joints.
Izumi coughed once and touched his mouth. A bead of blood painted his thumb. He stared at it, then at me, shock fading into a flat, sharp interest.
"What is that?" he asked, too low for anyone else.
I lifted my hands. "Timing."
He looked like he wanted to argue with that, then thought better of it. Pride swallowed, barely. He bowed the bare minimum and left the square.
Kushina sagged like her strings had been cut. She had both hands in her braid and the jar of salve had somehow migrated to the top of her pouch again.
"You— you idiot," she mouthed at me, and then smiled so hard it looked like it hurt.
I tried to smooth the singe on my sleeve. It only flaked. My heart had finally started to slow.
Whispers skittered.
"Did you see—"
"Must be some weird taijutsu—"
"No signs, though—"
Nakamoto barked for the next pair and the yard obeyed. His pen scratched my name on the sheet with a long, irritated line.
I left the square and sat on the edge of the rack, elbows on knees, pretending to check the wrap on my wrist while my ears calmed.
Power like mine didn't belong in an academy yard. I'd made it small today. Next time I would need to make it smaller.
Kushina drifted close and stood without looking at me. "Don't do that again," she muttered. After a beat: "Good job."
"I'll bring the ointment back full," I said.
She snorted. "You never do." Then, quieter: "Thank you for not dying."
"Working on a habit of it."
She bumped my shoulder with hers and walked away before I could see if she was still smiling.
A patch of scorched earth smoked at the far end of the yard where the fireball had finished going out. I watched the heat rise and pictured the line I'd punched through it—the place where the world had said yes to being moved.
I wasn't going to spend this second chance living ordinary. I was going to spend it learning exactly what my limits were and then making them wider, one faultline at a time.