The Temperature of Magma

Minato's first strike was a straight punch.

His right fist came head-on, carrying Wind Release chakra—not much, just a thin layer wrapped around the surface, nearly invisible to the naked eye. Yet a white trail of airflow remained along its path. The air had been sliced apart.

If this punch landed on an ordinary genin's chest—

At least three broken ribs.

Yan closed his eyes.

All the information from Observation Haki spread out three-tenths of a second before the fist reached him—the direction, force, speed, the extent of the Wind Release coating, the angle of Minato's shifted center of gravity when his right foot pushed off the ground, even the slight dip of his left shoulder blade before he threw the punch.

All the data lay in his mind like a picture. Too clear.

Yan did not block.

He did not retreat. He twisted aside.

Another punch.

He merely tilted his head three centimeters.

The fist wind brushed past the rim of his left ear. Strands of hair lifted in the sunlight, floated for less than a second, then settled back into place.

"Gasp—"

The entire crowd sucked in a breath.

That was not "dodging."

That was "just barely not touching." Three centimeters. He stood on that line, as precise as if measured with a ruler.

A chunin-level examiner in the front row sprang from his chair. He lost his balance and knocked over the teacup beside him. He ignored it, his eyes nailed to the field.

"What..."

He did not finish speaking, because Minato's second strike had already arrived.

The instant the first punch missed, Minato's body had already begun turning. His right leg swept out with the momentum—faster than the first punch. At the same time, his left hand drew three shuriken from his ninja pouch. Wind Release coated them. He threw them.

The trajectories of the three shuriken were not straight lines—Wind Release altered their arcs, sealing off Yan's left side, right rear, and above his head.

Together with the sweeping right leg—

Attacks from four directions arrived simultaneously within half a second.

Most chunin could not manage this kind of multitasking. Twelve-year-old Minato could.

Yan's body responded in a sequence so fluid it was almost illegal.

He leaned back. His spine bent at an angle that defied human ergonomics, and Minato's shin, carrying wind blades, swept two centimeters above the tip of his nose. At the same instant he leaned back—his right index and middle fingers caught a kunai, which he flicked in a short motion to knock away the shuriken closing in from the left. The metallic clash was as crisp as a finger snap.

Two remained.

One came from his right rear, the other descended from above.

As Yan leaned back, he twisted his body thirty degrees to the left. The shuriken from his right rear grazed his waist, cutting a thread along the side of his ninja uniform without touching skin. As for the one above—he ignored it. His angle of retreat allowed it to nail itself into the ground one inch beyond his right shoulder.

Two millimeters.

The closest one had been two millimeters from his skin.

The entire venue fell so silent that the sound of the shuriken piercing the dirt could be heard.

Then—

"That Uchiha... is he dodging?"

"No, look at his eyes—"

"They're closed! His eyes have been closed the whole time!"

The murmurs grew from quiet to loud, spreading from the bottom of the stands to the very top. There was no longer any mockery in their voices. There was confusion. Unease. The instinctive resistance that came when one's understanding of reality had been overturned.

At the examination table.

An older special jonin frowned and quietly said four words to the person beside him.

"A sensory-type ninja."

The person beside him shook his head. "Even sensory types can't achieve that level of precision. Have you ever seen a genin-level sensory type dodge the curved trajectories of Wind Release-coated shuriken with his eyes closed?"

No one answered, because the answer was no.

Minato's assault did not stop.

He shifted across the field like a golden arc. A charge from the left—feint from the right—a frontal fake, then an instant move around to attack from behind. Every attack was clean, fierce, and unpredictable. His feet left dense marks in the dirt, and from above, they looked like an abstract painting.

Ten seconds. Fifteen attacks.

Twenty seconds. Twenty-three attacks.

Thirty seconds—

Thirty-one.

Every one missed.

Yan did not take a single step back.

He had not blocked once. He had not counterattacked once. With his eyes closed, he stood within a five-step radius, evading every attack with the smallest possible movements.

His dodges were not wide, dramatic rolls and leaps—they were millimeter-level adjustments. A three-centimeter tilt of the head, a two-centimeter shrug of the shoulder, a five-degree twist of the waist, a one-inch lift of the elbow. Every movement was the minimum needed. No waste, no excess, no fear.

In the VIP section.

Hiruzen Sarutobi's pipe had gone out.

Not because he had tapped it out. He had simply forgotten to smoke. His hand hovered near his mouth, the pipe between his fingers, as the ember died on its own. He stared at the black-haired youth standing in the field with his eyes closed, and the familiar layer of "kindness" in his gaze had completely peeled away. What lay beneath was complicated—scrutiny, vigilance, and something that was impossible to tell whether it was admiration or wariness.

Fugaku's back straightened further, to the point of looking unnatural. His right hand rested on his knee, his fingers tightening once beneath the fabric of his robe before loosening. His face remained expressionless. But the elder beside him noticed—the clan head's breathing had become more rapid than usual.

Danzo did not move. His cane stood before him, his left eye half-closed. He looked like a stone statue. But the gray-clad man behind him—Root's attendant—tilted his head ever so slightly.

In Root's system of body language, that movement meant "record."

Jiraiya closed the little booklet in his hand. Not by placing a bookmark in it—he simply flipped it over and placed it face-down on his knee.

He turned to glance at Hiruzen Sarutobi.

He said only one sentence. His voice was soft enough that only the two of them could hear it.

"Old man. This kid's sensory ability is better than most people in ANBU."

The Third Hokage did not respond.

On the field.

Minato stopped.

Thirty-one attacks, not a single hit. He stood five meters away, breathing heavily, a thin sheen of sweat forming on his forehead.

Every punch had been thrown with the certainty that this time, I'll definitely hit him. His judgment before each strike, his choice of timing, his shifts in angle—all had been correct. If his opponent had been any other person his age, at least twenty of those thirty-one attacks would have landed.

The result was zero.

Zero hits.

A person the entire academy had called "trash" for six years had stood there with his eyes closed and kept him from touching him even once.

Minato looked at the calm face across from him. Sweat dripped from his chin into his collar.

He smiled.

Excitement.

Pure excitement.

"Yan."

His voice carried through the silent training ground. Everyone heard it.

"You've kept it hidden for so long—time to show it, isn't it?"

Yan opened his eyes.

His black pupils were dry and bright beneath the sunlight.

He raised his right hand—fingers spread, palm facing upward. The movement was not fast. It was even a little slow. Slow enough that everyone's gaze focused on that hand.

His lips moved.

His voice was not loud. But in this silent field, it was enough to reach every corner.

"Magma Release."

Dark-red glowing patterns spread across the skin of his palm, beginning at the base of his fingers. It was like something was surging up beneath cracked earth.

A wave of heat spread outward from that hand.

At the first row of examination seats, three examiners simultaneously felt an abnormal rise in temperature. One of them subconsciously reached out to touch the tabletop before him—the wood was hot.

"This temperature—"

The air warped. Within a radius of roughly one meter around Yan's palm, visible heat distortion bent and twisted the background. Like a mirage on a summer road, but thicker and fiercer.

A dark-red substance seeped from his palm. It was not liquid—it was something semi-solid, slowly flowing. Its surface was covered in irregular dark-gray hardened crust, and lava-like red light shone through the cracks.

"Rock Armor," Yan said softly.