Jiraiya was startled by Hoshiyomi's words and instinctively turned to look, but Hoshiyomi quickly grabbed his shoulder.
"Don't look back—he'll notice us. Let's draw him into that alley ahead and see what he's up to."
Hoshiyomi wasn't just being reckless. He was confident because he and Jiraiya were just newly enrolled Academy students—impoverished and unimportant in the grand scheme of Konoha. They hadn't provoked anyone powerful, and this was still within the village. If something went wrong, he only had to shout, and the Konoha Military Police Force would be there in moments.
Feigning casual conversation, the two strolled into the nearby alley. The figure behind them, unaware of their trap, followed without hesitation.
At the alley entrance, Jiraiya crouched beside a stack of discarded crates, gripping a loose brick he'd picked up. When the shadow of their pursuer crept around the corner, Jiraiya lunged with a yell, aiming to smack the figure's head.
The target, clearly startled, reacted with uncanny speed. With a blur of motion, he parried the brick strike with a short, baton-like object—a wooden practice blade, expertly wielded. The impact jolted Jiraiya's wrist, and the brick slipped from his hand with a clatter.
The baton spun in the boy's hand and thrust toward Jiraiya's stomach. But in the final instant, the attacker's eyes widened slightly in recognition, and he pulled the strike—landing it with reduced force. Jiraiya grunted and fell back, more shocked than hurt.
"Hey! What's your problem? Why are you following us!?" Jiraiya barked, holding his side.
The boy stepped into the light.
"Wait—Sakumo?" Hoshiyomi blinked.
It was indeed their classmate, Hatake Sakumo—the prodigious son of the Hatake clan, already known for his mastery of the White Light Chakra Sabre.
Sakumo ignored Jiraiya completely, his sharp gaze fixed on Hoshiyomi as he slowly raised his unsheathed chakra blade—the famed White Fang.
"Where's your ninjatō?" he asked calmly.
Jiraiya, still rubbing his wrist, exploded. "What the hell are you talking about? Hoshiyomi doesn't even carry a ninjatō to school!"
Hoshiyomi gave a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his head. So that's what this was—Sakumo had misinterpreted his behavior during the placement exam as some kind of silent challenge. But that wasn't entirely unintentional on Hoshiyomi's part.
"Jiraiya's right. I don't bring weapons to school," Hoshiyomi replied evenly. "But if you want a match, come to my place. My family has a courtyard. We can spar there."
Sakumo hesitated, then gave a single nod. There was something about Hoshiyomi—something familiar. He hadn't felt this level of interest in a peer in a long time.
Their plan to grab ramen afterward was abandoned. Instead, the trio made their way to Hoshiyomi's home. There, Hoshiyomi calmly selected a shorter ninjatō from his father's practice set and strapped it to his side.
"Ready when you are," he said.
Jiraiya's face paled as the two drew their real blades. "Wait, wait, you're using real ninjatō!? What's wrong with wooden ones? You'll seriously get hurt!"
Sakumo remained silent and drew the White Fang, its blade shimmering faintly with white chakra light. It was more than a simple blade—it was a signature of the Hatake line, and already a feared weapon even in training circles.
"He's lost it," Jiraiya muttered. "He actually stabbed me earlier, and now you're humoring him?"
"That was a lesson," Sakumo stated calmly, not even looking at him.
Without another word, Sakumo dashed forward. His speed was blinding.
Hoshiyomi's eyes sharpened. So he was holding back during the assessment. Drawing his ninjatō in a single smooth motion, he met Sakumo's strike mid-air.
Clang!
The blades met with a metallic ring, and Jiraiya's eyes widened in disbelief. Their movement was on a completely different level. He had always thought himself above average in speed, but the exchange he just witnessed made him question that entirely.
If I'd been on the receiving end of that… I wouldn't have stood a chance, he thought, stunned.
Hoshiyomi and Sakumo broke apart, then launched forward again. This time, it wasn't a test—it was a duel. Steel met steel repeatedly, their footwork sharp, each motion deliberate and precise. Sparks flew as the White Fang and the ninjatō clashed again and again.
Each exchange revealed new layers to their skill. Jiraiya watched in silence, afraid to blink, afraid to miss even a second of the dance between two geniuses.
Since it was agreed to be a swordsmanship contest, neither side used Ninjutsu or Taijutsu techniques, relying solely on their ninjatō for the duration of the duel.
Sakumo attempted several times to close the distance, aiming to leverage his superiority in close-quarters combat, a hallmark of the White Fang's fighting style. However, Hoshiyomi maintained excellent spacing control—each time Sakumo advanced, Hoshiyomi would fluidly retreat or sidestep, creating just enough distance to counter safely.
Even so, Sakumo was no ordinary opponent. In terms of pure kenjutsu, the two were evenly matched. However, Hoshiyomi suffered from a clear disadvantage in physical conditioning. After all, he had only begun formal training a year ago, while Sakumo, born into a renowned shinobi clan, had been undergoing intense shinobi conditioning from an early age.
Though Sakumo's initial strikes failed to land cleanly, he wasn't discouraged. On the contrary, he was thrilled—rarely did he encounter someone of comparable sword skill among his peers. His fighting spirit flared.
Gripping his White Fang tightly, Sakumo surged forward again—this time infusing chakra into his blade. A faint white glow traced the edge, a telltale sign of chakra flow enhancing its cutting power. With a sudden burst of speed, he thrust straight toward Hoshiyomi's throat. The sheer force and speed made Hoshiyomi's hairs stand on end—this was no longer a friendly spar.
But Hoshiyomi's instincts and his entry-level swordsmanship kicked in. He barely managed to deflect the thrust with the flat of his ninjatō.
Sakumo, however, didn't let up. While their blades locked in a one-handed deadlock, Sakumo abruptly struck with his free hand, landing a solid punch to Hoshiyomi's shoulder. Hoshiyomi recoiled in pain, momentarily losing his guard.
Seizing the opening, Sakumo pressed in and unleashed a flurry of rapid, precise strikes—like an unrelenting tide. With his shoulder injured, Hoshiyomi's grip weakened, and his blade movements grew sluggish. Forced on the defensive, he could barely block, let alone counter.
If this continued, he would be overwhelmed within the next few exchanges.
But seeing Sakumo's unyielding offense only fueled Hoshiyomi's own fighting spirit. No way I'm going down like this, he thought. I'm a transmigrator—I've got a cheat, damn it!
Refusing to concede, Hoshiyomi gritted his teeth and steadied his stance. He had only one option left to turn the tide: it was time to reveal his trump card.