The arena was silent.
Not out of respect.
But anticipation.
The crowd had come for blood—though most expected it would be Ken’s spilled on the stone.
After all, Noburo was no ordinary instructor. A seasoned jonin, war veteran, and enforcer of the Uchiha’s iron w. He had put down rogue shinobi. Trained elite heirs. Maintained fear without needing to raise his voice.
Ken was ten.
A branch family son with no fire release. A sword wielder. And until now, just whispers.
But the moment Ken stepped into the arena, barefoot, his bde loosely tied to his hip, something changed.
The air shifted.
Even Daen noticed it from the edge of the crowd.
“He’s too calm,” he muttered.
“Isn’t that… good?” Reina asked.
Daen shook his head.
“No. It’s quiet. Like a storm that already decided where it’s going to nd.”
Atop the observation stand, Hiruzen Sarutobi stood still, pipe unlit. He hadn’t spoken since arriving. His eyes never left Ken.
The Elders sat to his left—confident, coiled like smug snakes.
They expected this to end swiftly.
In their favor.
Uchiha Noburo cracked his knuckles.
His Sharingan fred, two tomoe spinning zily.
“I’ll give you one chance,” he said, voice echoing. “Drop your bde. Return to the cn. And I won’t make it hurt.”
Ken’s expression didn’t change.
“I’m not here to bargain,” he said softly.
Noburo smirked. “Then you’ll be buried with your pride.”
The announcer, a neutral chūnin from the Hokage’s office, stepped forward.
“Duel participants. Confirm your intent.”
“I, Uchiha Noburo,” the older man said, “accept this duel without restriction. Combat to the death.”
Ken’s eyes remained locked forward.
“I, just Ken,” he replied, “accept. Combat to the death.”
That alone sent murmurs through the crowd.
“Just Ken?”
“No Uchiha?”
“What kind of stunt is this?”
But before more could be said—
“Begin.”
Noburo moved first—fast, sharp, direct.
His kunai were already whistling through the air, aimed at Ken’s vital points. Midsection. Throat. Knee.
Ken didn’t flicker.
Didn’t dodge.
He stepped.
The kunai missed him by inches—not because he was fast, but because he was precise.
His sword came loose with a quiet ring.
And Noburo blinked.
Ken was already there.
The ft of the bde cracked Noburo’s ribs—not deep enough to kill, but sharp enough to shatter posture. Noburo flew back, skidding across the arena.
The crowd gasped.
No genjutsu. No chakra explosion.
Just... impact.
Noburo rose, coughing once.
He wiped blood from his lip, Sharingan now spinning faster.
“You’ve been hiding your strength.”
Ken adjusted his grip.
“No. I’ve been refining it.”
Noburo snarled and weaved three seals.
Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu.
A fireball twice Ken’s size screamed across the field.
Ken didn’t move.
Instead, he slid his hand across the bde, coating it in moisture drawn from the air.
Suiton: Mizugiri – Water Cut.
He sshed horizontally.
The fireball colpsed in on itself—hissing as steam exploded outward.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
“Impossible—”
“He didn’t even weave!”
“That was a jonin-level fireball!”
Ken stepped forward again.
One foot. Then another.
Like he was walking to a conversation.
Noburo struck again, faster—close-quarters now, unleashing a barrage of taijutsu amplified by Sharingan reads.
But Ken didn’t react.
He anticipated.
The Sharingan predicted movement.
Ken dictated it.
Each strike was turned aside, not with strength—but with intention. Bde angled just enough to redirect. Footwork tight. Elbows close.
It was surgical.
And then came the wind.
Fūton: Shōtotsu Kaze.
A sudden burst from Ken’s free palm hit Noburo’s chest—point-bnk—unching him backward again.
This time, Noburo didn’t nd clean.
He hit the arena floor in a heap, chest heaving.
Whispers broke into full-on shouts.
“Is this real?!”
“He’s toying with him!”
“No genjutsu—this isn’t illusion!”
Even Hiruzen’s brow furrowed.
He leaned to one of his ANBU and murmured, “How many field missions has Ken completed?”
“Seven, Hokage-sama. Four D-rank. Three C-rank. All clean.”
“Impossible,” Hiruzen said, more to himself.
“This isn’t a boy. This is a shinobi with decades of battlefield sense.”
Noburo staggered upright.
Blood at the corner of his mouth.
His Sharingan fred—three tomoe now.
He charged.
This time, with killing intent.
No more games. No posturing.
He moved like a man trying to kill.
Ken moved like a man who’d already decided he would.
The sword came up.
And in that one second—Ken blurred.
Not flicker. Not teleportation.
Just perfect economy.
The bde sank through Noburo’s stomach, angled upward.
Then again—through his cvicle.
Two cuts. Barely visible.
Noburo dropped his weapons. Knees buckled.
He looked up—shocked.
Ken stared down, eyes empty but not cruel.
And then he said it.
Soft. Final.
“Sorry. No hard feelings. See you in hell, huh?”
And with one final motion—Ken sshed cleanly across the neck.
Noburo dropped like a stone.
The arena went silent.
Truly silent.
Not even birds.
Not even wind.
Just stillness.
A jonin had been killed.
Not just killed—dismantled.
By a genin.
By a child.
By someone who had never once cimed to be a prodigy.
But fought like a ghost of a hundred wars.
Hiruzen stepped forward from the viewing ptform.
No one spoke.
He raised one hand.
“I, Hiruzen Sarutobi, witness this duel, and decre it closed.”
He looked at Ken.
“By the terms decred—he is released of cn name, right, and w.”
He paused.
“Let none y cim to him.”
Ken turned without waiting.
He stepped out of the arena.
Daen met him halfway.
Reina and Daisuke stood there too—silent. Pale. Eyes wide.
Ken looked to Daen.
“Quiet time’s over.”
Daen gave a ghost of a smile.
“Took you long enough.”
Shisui sat alone on a rooftop nearby, eyes locked on the blood still darkening the arena floor.
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t speak.
But for the first time, he understood Ken.
And he was afraid of what would happen next.
