The instructor's hand was still raised. That hand hung in mid-air, like a blade that refused to fall.
From the first round until now, from the first time Mei Terumī was knocked down until now, that hand had been raised just like that.
It hadn't fallen, hadn't waved, and hadn't called for a stop.
This was the Village Hidden in the Bloody Mist; either you admit defeat, or you die.
However, if your opponent didn't want you to admit defeat and the instructor didn't plan to intervene, then death might be the only thing waiting for you.
"Again!"
Mei Terumī took a step forward.
The wound on her knee tore open with this step, and blood flowed down her calf, soaking the hem of her pants.
But she still took that step, stepping firmly onto the sandy ground and creating a small indentation.
Looking into her resolute eyes, the expressions of the two boys opposite her, which had always been full of mockery and playfulness, finally changed.
Then, they retreated half a step.
That half-step was very small, so small it was almost imperceptible.
But Mei Terumī saw it.
Someone in the surrounding crowd saw it too.
"Bastard!"
The two boys looked at each other. Something flashed in that glance.
It was the shame and humiliation of being forced back by a girl from "that kind of clan."
"Then go die!"
Then they charged forward simultaneously, faster and more ruthless than any time before.
Mei Terumī took a deep breath, lowered her center of gravity, and a self-deprecating smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she prepared for the end of her life.
"Enough."
A voice rang out.
It wasn't loud. It could even be said to be quite soft.
But when that voice reached their ears, it was like a pebble thrown into stagnant water, clearly rippling outward.
The whole scene went quiet for a moment.
In that instant, everyone was stunned. The two boys, who were halfway through their charge, subconsciously skidded to a halt and turned their heads toward the source of the voice.
Among the onlookers, the whispering discussions came to an abrupt halt. Even the instructor was momentarily dazed, his raised hand frozen in mid-air, forgotten.
Mei Terumī turned her head to look.
At the edge of the crowd, Shinji stood there.
He didn't make a move, but no one dared to ignore his words.
"Shinji."
Mei Terumī recognized Shinji. The top of the grade.
That monster who had fought his way out of the slums, whose Chakra capacity was said to have already surpassed that of his Chunin peers.
Yet she had never spoken to this person who, in everyone's eyes, was as silent as a stone.
Not even once.
The instructor frowned, a flicker of displeasure crossing his face. "Shinji? This is someone else's combat practice. Why are you interfering?"
Shinji didn't respond.
He thought to himself: I've waited all these years for this opportunity; how could I not interfere?
He looked at the two boys in the field, his gaze sweeping over their faces before landing on Mei Terumī.
It fell on the blood on her knees, the dust on her palms, and the wound on her forehead that was dripping blood.
His gaze deliberately lingered there for a moment—brief, almost imperceptible—but he knew Mei Terumī noticed.
Then Shinji withdrew his gaze and looked at the instructor.
"She's fought five rounds," he said flatly, as if stating something that had nothing to do with him. "Those two boys have rotated and rested three times."
He paused.
"Is this called a two-on-one combat practice, or a battle of attrition?"
The instructor was stunned for a moment.
The daze was brief, but long enough for everyone around to see.
His expression changed, turning somewhat ugly. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he couldn't find the right words for a moment.
The two boys grew anxious.
"What do you mean?"
One of them turned red in the face, his voice rising several notches.
"The grouping was decided by the teacher. It's not like we did it on purpose!"
"Exactly!"
The other chimed in.
"She's the one looking for death; what does it have to do with us?"
Shinji ignored them, not even giving them a single glance.
These two nobodies didn't even deserve an explanation from him.
He just looked at the instructor, waiting for an answer.
His gaze was very calm. Calm like a pool of deep water, without any ripples. But it was precisely this calmness that made the instructor feel strangely uncomfortable.
There was no emotion in those eyes—no anger, no questioning, no aggression—just a quiet look, as if waiting for a natural answer.
The instructor opened his mouth. He wanted to say, "These are the rules," "The groups were decided this way," and "Don't interfere if you don't understand."
But as those words reached his lips and met those eyes, he inexplicably swallowed them back down.
Those eyes held no threat or pressure, just a quiet gaze. But he simply couldn't say it.
In the Village Hidden in the Bloody Mist, the strong prey on the weak.
Shinji would be a powerhouse, and that was enough.
Finally, the instructor waved his hand resentfully, and the hand that had been raised for so long finally dropped, tracing an impatient arc in the air.
"Fine, fine. The battle is over. Consider it a pass."
The two boys wanted to say more, but the instructor glared at them, so they had to swallow their words.
They left the field grumbling. As they passed Shinji, their gaze lingered on him for a moment before quickly darting away.
It was as if they were afraid to look too much, yet unwilling not to.
Shinji's gaze was indifferent. Sensing the eyes from behind, he didn't rush to curry favor but directly turned and left.
He didn't say a single word to Mei Terumī. It was as if he wasn't the one who had just spoken up to stop the fight.
On the other side, Mei Terumī was still standing where she was.
Her knees still ached, and the blood on her forehead was still flowing, dripping onto the sandy ground and soaking into a small, dark, wet patch.
She looked in Shinji's direction, at his disappearing back, with no expression on her face.
Only after a long time did she lower her head and tighten her loosened wrist guards again.
One loop, and another.
...
In the Hidden Mist Village at dusk, the sky darkened very quickly.
Shinji leaned against a tree next to the bulletin board, watching the group of newly graduated Genin huddled together like a pot of boiling water.
Some were squeezing forward on tiptoe, some were being pushed and grumbling, and some were grabbing the shoulders of the person in front of them, desperately craning their necks.
Everyone was looking for their name and the squad they had been assigned to.
He didn't squeeze in.
It wasn't that he didn't want to know the result, but it wasn't necessary.
His status as the top of the grade was right there, and the instructor's comment about him being the "strongest graduate I've ever seen" wasn't for nothing.
He knew his name would be the first one called and the first one picked.
"Step aside."
A voice came from the crowd—not loud, but carrying a certain quality that made people subconsciously step back.
The crowded mass automatically parted to make a path.
A person walked out from within.
He was tall, wearing the Hidden Mist Anbu uniform, and had a mask on his face.
But the most eye-catching thing was the sword he carried on his back.
kubikiribōchō
The blade was taller than a person, wide and heavy, its edge glinting with a cold light.
The crowd went silent instantly.
That silence was as if someone had grabbed them by the throat.
Kisame Hoshigaki. One of the Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist.
He walked to the bulletin board, his gaze sweeping over the paper covered in names, and then spoke: "Shinji."