The moment the match began, Sayaka was already moving.
Lightning crackled at her fingertips, and without hesitation, she launched forward like a cannonball, chakra-charged fists blazing with electricity. Her first strike roared toward Tokasu's chest—he barely twisted out of the way, the force of the blow cracking the floor where he had stood.
Without missing a beat, Sayaka chained her taijutsu into a relentless assault, mixing jabs, roundhouses, and acrobatic spins with bursts of lightning chakra that flared with every hit. She was fighting like a storm given form.
Tokasu fell back, eyes calm behind the flurry. He wasn't fast enough to match her blows—not directly. But he didn't need to be. With a flick of his wrist, his shadow snaked outward, subtly weaving across the ground, slipping between the chaos like oil through water.
Sayaka saw it, though. Her combat awareness was razor-sharp. Every time the shadow crept too close, she'd either leap back or blast the area with a wave of raw lightning to scatter it. The bursts weren't precise, but they were powerful enough to keep Tokasu on the defensive.
Tokasu narrowed his eyes. He tried to time small counters between her bursts—kunai flicks laced with shadow, wires dipped in chakra, misdirections designed to bait her—but nothing stuck. Sayaka danced through them, dodging or destroying them before they could become a threat.
What made it worse—his shadow jutsu, normally so effective, was being muted.
Lightning chakra crackled through the ground wherever Sayaka struck, and Tokasu's shadows conducted the electricity too well. Every time his jutsu got close, a jolt would leap into it and fizzle it out prematurely. He had to keep adjusting, trying new patterns and angles, but Sayaka stayed one step ahead.
And yet, he wasn't losing—just weathering the storm.
His eyes watched every movement, memorizing her patterns. He noticed the rhythm of her combos, the subtle drop in her posture before she used lightning again, the moments when her aggression left brief gaps in her stance. Still, she was constantly moving, giving him no time to capitalize.
Sayaka wasn't just strong—she was smart. She hadn't fallen into a single trap.
She wasn't just watching his shadow—she was predicting it.
"Don't think you're the only genius here," she muttered, darting sideways and sending a stream of lightning kunai toward him. Tokasu ducked behind a wall of shadow, the kunai sparking as they struck it, the lightning bleeding across the inky surface before fizzling out.
Smoke from scorched flooring drifted into the air. The crowd was silent, hanging on every movement.
So far, Sayaka had control of the fight—but Tokasu was adapting, recalibrating, thinking. He needed just one slip, one mistake, one moment to seize the momentum.
The chess match beneath the violence had only just begun.
Sayaka's storm had not let up. She was a blur of raw energy—devastating in both speed and strength. And yet, Tokasu endured.
His arms bore light burns, his shirt was torn at the shoulder, and he was breathing a little heavier now. But his eyes—calm, calculating—never left Sayaka.
She landed another strike, narrowly missing his jaw. Tokasu weaved to the side, shadow flickering at his feet like ink in motion.
"Stop running and fight me, Nara!" she shouted, closing the distance with a chakra-enhanced palm strike.
Tokasu ducked, planting his foot and sliding under the strike. "Such a drag," he muttered.
The moment her palm passed over him, he clapped both hands together.
Shadow Snap.
Sayaka's foot caught for a moment on an odd patch of ground—slick, shadowed, just barely noticeable beneath her. Her body jolted as a thin shadow thread latched onto her ankle.
She reacted instantly, lightning surging to dispel it—but Tokasu wasn't counting on holding her. He just needed her attention for a split second.
And in that second, he'd already moved. He threw a series of kunai, each one attached to near-invisible chakra threads—each embedded with tiny shadow tags he had prepared earlier. As she swatted them away, some landed around her—harmless on their own.
But then the shadows stretched. The entire arena's lighting had shifted just enough that, with those kunai placed precisely where he needed them...
Snap.
Sayaka stopped.
Her eyes flicked down—five different shadows had converged on her position from separate angles.
"Multi-Point Shadow Possession," Tokasu said, exhaling.
She tried to move. Her lightning surged, and her chakra burned hot enough to blister the air—but the shadows held.
Tokasu stepped forward. His breath was labored now, but his gaze was razor-sharp. "I couldn't overpower you… but I didn't have to. You moved just how I needed you to."
Sayaka grit her teeth. Her body was straining, chakra roaring in protest.
"You still have one move left," Tokasu said. "Try to break it. You might even succeed."
She growled. "And if I do?"
"I'll have already won."
Sayaka screamed, lightning bursting in all directions—she shattered four of the shadow threads, but the fifth—the one directly below her, the one tied to her own shadow—held fast.
Tokasu made a seal. From the final kunai's tag, shadow tendrils erupted and climbed up her leg, locking her arms. She dropped to one knee, struggling, then slowly fell forward as Tokasu approached.
He raised a hand, mimicking a kunai slash—just inches from her throat.
The proctor raised his hand. "Winner: Tokasu Nara!"
The crowd erupted, some in shock, others with wild applause. Tokasu backed away, sweat dripping down his face. His entire body ached, and he was nearly out of chakra. But he had done it.
Sayaka stood with his help. "Damn. You tricked me."
"I tried," he said, smiling faintly. "You almost broke through, though. Scary stuff."
"Next time," she said, brushing her arm. "I'll be the one pulling the strings."
The two walked off the field together, heads high. Their rivalry had only just begun.
From the sidelines, Yuki Kazanari stood with a hand on his sword and a glint in his eyes.
The final match was clear now:
Yuki Kazanari vs Tokasu Nara.
Blade versus brain. Flame and frost versus shadow and strategy.
The last fight of the tournament—and the beginning of something far greater.