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The dust drifted down in slow, lazy clouds.
Shinichi straightened up, calm as ever. He lifted his right arm. The standard-issue steel katana he'd been using was gone—shattered into a hundred jagged pieces that littered the arena floor like broken glass.
He took a slow breath, glanced at the useless hilt still in his grip, and tossed it aside like yesterday's trash.
Gasps rippled through the stands.
"That power is insane!"
"His sword just… exploded!"
"Shinichi—can he even keep going?!"
Dozens of people shot to their feet, hearts hammering, sweat slicking their palms.
In the center of the arena, Isshin let out a low, satisfied laugh. He planted his halberd in the crater he'd just made, yanked it free with one hand, and gave it a lazy swing to shake off the dust. Then he simply waited, halberd resting at his side, tip tapping the stone with a heavy thunk.
His eyes said it all: Go get a new weapon. We're not done.
The crowd murmured in surprise.
"He's… not pressing the attack?"
"Looks like he's actually giving the kid time to grab something better."
"Damn. For a dirty-fighting samurai, that's almost… honorable."
"Yeah, but remember the gun and the toe-stomp earlier? Guy's still a bastard."
Up on the VIP platform, the Third Hokage's eyes narrowed in quiet thought. After a beat he raised a hand. His eldest son, Sarutobi Shinanosuke, stepped out of the shadows behind him and bowed.
"Shinanosuke," Hiruzen said, pulling a storage scroll from his robe. "Take this to Shinichi. It's my old solid-iron staff."
Shinanosuke's eyes widened for half a second. Even the two advisors—Homura and Koharu—looked genuinely startled.
That staff wasn't just any weapon. It was the one the Third had carried in his youth—black iron, heavy as hell, forged for brutal, no-nonsense combat before he started relying on Enma's Adamantine Staff. Most people only remembered the legendary monkey king transformation. Very few knew about the plain, deadly rod the young Hiruzen had used to crack skulls and train for decades.
And now he was handing it to a chunin in the middle of a public match?
Koharu opened her mouth, then closed it. Homura simply pushed up his glasses and stayed quiet. They both understood.
Shinanosuke took the scroll without another word and vanished in a flicker.
A heartbeat later he appeared beside Shinichi in the arena and offered the scroll with both hands.
"Shinichi," he said, voice low and kind behind the mask, "this is the Third's old weapon—the solid-iron staff. Lord Hokage wants you to have it."
Shinichi's face showed the perfect mix of surprise and respect. He accepted the scroll with both hands. "The Third's personal weapon from his youth?"
Shinanosuke gave a small nod and added softly, "He believes in you. But you've already done more than anyone expected. Don't push too hard. No matter how this ends, the village and the Hokage are proud of you."
Shinichi's eyes sharpened. "Understood. Thank you, sir."
He raised the scroll, formed a quick seal, and released it.
White smoke burst outward.
When it cleared, a two-meter-long, pitch-black iron staff rested in his hands—thick, unadorned, with a faint dark metallic sheen that screamed weight and history. It felt like holding a condensed mountain.
Shinichi gave it a testing spin. The staff whistled through the air with a deep, satisfying hum. He planted his feet, gripped it in both hands—one high, one low—and settled into a rock-solid ready stance.
The entire arena seemed to hold its breath.
He looked up at the VIP platform and gave the Third a single, respectful nod.
Then he turned to the towering samurai across from him.
"Isshin," he called, voice clear and steady, "sorry to keep you waiting. Let's finish this."
Isshin grinned wide, shouldered his halberd, and laughed. "Now we're talking, kid!"
The ground exploded under his feet.
He charged like a runaway freight train, halberd raised high, ready to split the sky.
Shinichi didn't flinch. He planted himself like a tree and met the strike head-on.
BOOM!
The halberd's crescent blade slammed into the solid-iron staff with a sound like two mountains colliding. Sparks flew. Shockwaves rolled outward. The stone beneath both men cracked and sank.
But this time Shinichi only slid back two steps before he locked in place. The staff didn't even tremble.
The crowd lost it.
Shinichi spun the heavy staff in smooth, powerful arcs—smashing, sweeping, thrusting, blocking. Every move was big, clean, and brutally efficient. The iron rod sang through the air like it weighed nothing in his hands.
He was trading blows evenly with the monster who had just demolished two jonin.
The arena exploded with cheers.
"Shinichi knows staff work too?!"
"I thought he was all sword guy!"
"That power—holy shit, he's matching the big guy blow for blow!"
Up on the platform, Homura and Koharu stared, almost nostalgic.
"That stance… that presence…" Koharu muttered.
Homura adjusted his glasses. "He really does remind me of Hiruzen back in the day."
The Third just stroked his beard, eyes crinkling with quiet pride.
Down in the arena the fight raged hotter than ever. Staff and halberd clashed in a relentless storm of metal and sparks. The ground around them turned into a shattered ruin.
Then Isshin's eyes flashed.
"HRAAAGH!"
He stomped, launching himself skyward, and brought the halberd down in a devastating overhead strike.
But this time the blade crackled with blinding blue-white lightning. The screech of a thousand birds tore through the air.
Chidori Blade.
The halberd came down wrapped in raging electricity—faster, sharper, and viciously paralyzing.
Shinichi's eyes narrowed. He raised the staff with both hands to block.
CRASH!
The impact was deafening. Lightning exploded along the staff, racing toward his arms. Shinichi grunted as his muscles locked up from the shock.
The force drove him backward, feet carving deep trenches in the stone.
He roared and twisted at the last second, redirecting the halberd just enough to keep from being split in half.
But the opening was there.
Isshin's left leg—thick as a tree trunk—snapped up like a battle-axe and slammed straight into Shinichi's exposed gut.
THUD.
Shinichi flew like a rag doll. He smashed into the far arena wall dozens of meters away, cratering the stone on impact. Dust and cracks spider-webbed outward.
He slid down the wall and dropped to one knee, staff planted to keep himself upright. A couple of coughs escaped him.
The crowd's cheers died into worried murmurs.
"That samurai's a damn monster…"
"Shinichi's only ten. He hasn't even finished growing yet!"
"He's already gone way beyond what anyone expected. This isn't a fair fight!"
Shinichi stayed on one knee for a moment, breathing steady.
Perfect, he thought. They've seen enough. Time for the next phase.
Isshin didn't waste a second. He charged again, lightning still crackling along the halberd, murder in his eyes.
Shinichi slowly rose. He lifted his right hand, fingers extended like a sword.
A single point of deep-crimson flame ignited at his fingertip—small, but dense as molten steel, the air around it warping from the heat.
The next move was coming.