The proctor's hand dropped like a blade descending; the word "Begin!" echoed across the arena, and the crowd erupted.
Suna supporters immediately cheered for Shigan and Maki, their voices rising in a wave of triumph that crashed against the stone walls and echoed back, multiplied, intensified. Konoha supporters shouted for Satoru, but their voices were drowned out by the overwhelming Suna majority. The final battle had begun.
Satoru activated his three-tomoe Sharingan immediately; the world sharpened into red-tinged clarity, and he studied both opponents with the cold, analytical focus that had carried him through the tournament. His first realisation was immediate and chilling: Shigan and Maki were not moving like three independent fighters. They were already cooperating, their movements synchronised, their positions coordinated.
As expected, they are not going to treat this like a free-for-all, he thought, his mind racing. They already decided their target. Me. Fair.
Without speaking, Shigan and Maki split positions. Shigan moved directly toward Satoru, taking the front position, his masked face fixed on his target, his chakra rising. He forced Satoru to focus on him, to commit his attention to the immediate threat. Maki circled the battlefield, keeping her distance, moving around to the sides and behind. She was not attacking; she was positioning, controlling, preparing.
Shigan is pressure, Satoru analysed. Maki is control. Together, they create a pincer. They are not trying to defeat me quickly. They are trying to drain me. Every second I survive is a second they win.
Shigan raised his hand. The arena temperature suddenly rose, the air becoming thick and oppressive, the heat pressing against Satoru's skin like a physical weight. "Scorch Release: Blazing Mirage."
A wave of superheated chakra spread forward; the air visibly distorted, shimmering like heat haze over desert sand. Everything the attack touched began losing moisture instantly; sand turned dark and hardened, small rocks cracked and split, the arena surface became brittle and unstable.
Satoru barely dodged. He threw himself sideways, rolling across the sand, feeling the heat scorch past him. A small portion of the attack grazed his arm; his sleeve instantly dried and burned away, the fabric turning to ash, the skin beneath reddening with the first stages of a burn.
This is not ordinary fire, he realised, his heart pounding. Shigan is not creating flames. He is manipulating heat itself. The air, the sand, the moisture in my skin; he is attacking everything at once.
Shigan did not pause. He followed with another technique, his hands moving through seals, his chakra surging: "Scorch Release: Desert Sun Fang."
Thin, concentrated beams of heated chakra shot toward Satoru; they were almost invisible until they hit something, their edges sharp, their heat intense. Unlike normal attacks, they did not explode; they silently destroyed whatever they touched, slicing through sand, carving trenches in the stone.
Satoru used his Sharingan's prediction, his body moving before his conscious mind had fully processed the threat. He dodged several attacks, his steps precise, his timing perfect. The audience became excited; Suna fans praised Shigan's precision, their cheers rising. They understood why he was undefeated; his control was absolute, his power terrifying.
But Satoru noticed something strange. Maki had not committed to a major attack. She moved, adjusted her position, watched. Every few seconds, Satoru saw movement at the edge of his vision; small attacks appearing from unexpected directions. Wind blades whistled past him. Water droplets moved unnaturally, their trajectories curved. Pressure bursts slammed into the sand near his feet.
She is not trying to hit me, he realised. She is forcing me to divide my attention. Every distraction she creates is an opening for Shigan.
Maki activated her chakra, her hands moving through seals. Instead of creating a giant vortex like against Mariko, she changed the environment itself.
"Typhoon Release: Whispering Storm Field."
A thin layer of wind spread throughout the arena; moisture in the air shifted constantly, and tiny pressure changes affected movement and sound. Footsteps seemed to come from wrong directions; sounds echoed incorrectly; distances became harder to judge.
Satoru noticed something wrong. His Sharingan saw the chakra, the movement, the attacks. But his brain interpreted them incorrectly. A kunai appeared slightly off from where it truly was; he dodged, and the blade cut closer than expected. Footsteps sounded behind him; he turned, and nothing was there. A real attack came from another direction, and he barely avoided it.
The Sharingan is not failing, he realised. My perception is being manipulated. My eyes are seeing correctly. My brain is being lied to.
He tested counters. He released a genjutsu disruption; the distortions disappeared briefly, and for a moment, everything became normal. Then the false perceptions returned, the environment reasserting its control. He attempted a more advanced chakra disruption, the ripple method he had learned from Sayuri; the technique partially affected the field, and several distortions vanished. But Maki immediately restored them, her control absolute.
The entire battlefield has become the illusion medium, he understood. She is not casting a genjutsu on me; she is changing the environment itself. The air, the sound, the pressure; all of it is under her control.
Shigan noticed that Maki's distortions were working. He timed his attacks perfectly, every Scorch Release technique coming during moments of confusion. Their teamwork became obvious; Shigan attacked from the front, Maki distorted perception, and Satoru was forced to fight two different battles simultaneously. Physical attacks and his own senses.
Satoru struggled to adapt. He stopped trusting his sight, his sound, his distance. He began relying on chakra movement, instinct, pattern recognition. But the pressure continued increasing, the attacks growing faster, more precise. The crowd became silent; even experienced shinobi realized that Satoru was fighting two Suna prodigies working as one, and the outcome was uncertain.
Shigan created another Scorch technique. "Scorch Release: Burning Horizon." A sweeping wave of extreme heat moved across the arena, its edge sharp, its temperature devastating. Maki simultaneously distorted Satoru's perception, shifting the angle of the attack, making it appear to come from a different direction. Satoru misjudged; he moved too slowly, too late.
The attack missed his body, but not completely. His sleeve evaporated, the fabric turning to ash in an instant. Heat burned across his shoulder, searing the skin, sending a spike of pain through his arm. He landed several meters away, his hand touching the wound, his fingers coming away red.
First blood.
Satoru touched the burn, his expression unchanged, but his mind racing. They are even more dangerous together than I predicted. Shigan is pressure; Maki is control. Together, they are overwhelming.
Across the arena, Shigan remained calm, his mask unreadable. Maki smiled, her silver eyes gleaming with satisfaction. The battle was far from over, but the opening exchange had gone to Suna.
Satoru's Sharingan spun faster, his chakra surging. He had been pushed, but he had not been broken. The final battle was just beginning.
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