Extreme Offense and Defense, a Dazzling Halt Amid Scorched Earth

Their fists separated.

Both took three steps back. Their soles dragged four deep grooves through the mud.

Minato shook out his right hand. His fingertips were lightly burned—the skin was red but unbroken, though faint blisters could be seen swelling beneath the surface. He neither blew on it nor shook his wrist. He simply clenched his fist once to make sure his fingers could still move.

They could move.

That was enough.

On Yan's side, a shallow white gash had appeared on the surface of Lava Punch—left by Wind Release. Magma seeped from the cut, filling it in less than a second.

Self-healing.

At least four people at the examiners' table caught that detail at the same time. They exchanged glances, all thinking the same thing: This layer of Magma Release armor can heal itself?!

But no one stepped forward to call a halt.

Because Minato gave no one the time to do so.

His fingers drew six kunai from his ninja pouch. They were standard issue, but the way he held them between his fingers was not—each pair was spaced precisely enough for him to release Wind Release simultaneously without interfering with one another.

That grip was not in any textbook. Minato had figured it out himself through sparring.

Six kunai, six wind blades.

Not thrown.

Close combat.

He charged.

The six wind blades swung out at once. Their trajectories were not parallel—they crossed, staggered, overlapped, weaving into a flowing net of cuts. The point at which each wind blade would dissipate was controlled precisely within five centimeters of Yan's body. He was not trying to injure him. He was trying to force him.

Force Yan to move. Force him to use more of what he had.

At that moment, Yan's Observation Haki entered a state of clarity unlike anything before—not merely "predicting" anymore. He could see the path of every wind blade, its dissipation curve, the speed and angle at which Wind Release chakra dispersed through the air. The six trajectories were like six glowing threads in his mind. Their intersections, gaps, and safe routes—all were clear at a glance.

Time stretched out.

It had not truly slowed. His information processing had simply become so fast that a single second felt incredibly long.

Yan's body slipped through the gaps in the grid.

Tilted his head. Drew in his shoulder. Bent at the waist. Took half a step back. Twisted his hips.

Five movements were completed within a second. All six wind blades skimmed past his body. The closest one passed three millimeters in front of his nose.

Quite a few people in the stands muttered their favorite curse under their breath. No one caught the exact words, but the meaning in their tone was obvious—holy shit.

Minato's second wave of attacks followed immediately. He drew the kunai back between his fingers, his arms striking in alternation—right slash, left upward cut, both hands crossing in a scissoring sweep. Every strike was imbued with Wind Release. And he was getting faster.

Minato spotted an opening.

His knee drove forward.

His right knee. Straight at Yan's abdomen. The angle was vicious, the force concentrated. Less than a tenth of a second passed from the moment he raised his knee to impact.

Observation Haki caught it.

Every detail—the direction, force, point of contact, optimal route of evasion—spread through his mind.

But his body could not react in time.

With his center of gravity high in his upper body, his waist and abdomen had no room to twist away. A tenth of a second was not enough.

Yan made a choice.

He would not dodge.

His magma-coated right fist met Minato's knee head-on.

"Bang!"

Bone and flesh struck magma. A dull thud echoed out.

A heat wave burst from the point of contact. The air within a meter surged eighty degrees hotter in that instant. Minato's pant leg—the portion below his right knee—was instantly scorched. The fabric curled, blackened, and smoked.

It hurt.

The pain in his knee was not only the dull ache of impact, but also the sharp sting of searing heat. The two pains combined were enough to make most people their age scream and leap away.

Minato did not leap back.

His left hand was already prepared.

A Wind Release-infused hand chop split out through the gap at the point of contact—aimed straight at Yan's neck.

If that strike landed, forget Wind Release—the impact of the hand chop alone would be enough to knock someone unconscious.

Yan threw his head back.

The hand chop sliced past his chin. The wind blade left a red line beneath it.

A bead of blood rose from that red line.

At the same time he leaned back, his left hand—not the magma-transformed one—shot out and grabbed Minato's left wrist.

Using the force.

He flipped.

Then planted a kick in Minato's chest.

Minato was kicked back two meters. His back hit the ground. He rolled, then sprang to his feet in a kip-up.

The movements flowed without interruption—no awkwardness, no pause. His breathing was a little heavier when he stood, but his posture remained steady. Three scorched marks on his clothes gave off thin wisps of white smoke.

The two faced each other again from five meters apart.

The training ground had gone silent.

Not quiet. It was the kind of silence where everyone's vocal cords seemed to have forgotten how to work.

This was not a graduation exam.

These were two genin fighting for their lives.

No. Even chūnin might not be able to fight like this.

A special jōnin examiner slowly sat back down. He could not even remember when he had risen to his feet.

Minato panted heavily. The scorched patches on his clothes were still smoking, and the burn on his right knee glowed an unnatural red in the sunlight.

His eyes grew brighter and brighter.

That brightness was not a reflection of light. It was something born from deep within his pupils. The kind of excitement that erupted when a born fighter encountered an evenly matched opponent—every cell in his body screaming for more.

"Not enough," he said quietly for the third time.

He pressed his palms together.

His chakra surged.

It did not slowly pour out—it was like someone had cranked a faucet wide open. Chakra rushed through his meridians with such density that cracks spread through the mud beneath his feet. Pebbles bounced up under an invisible pressure, hovering by his feet for half a second before dropping.

In the VIP seats, Jiraiya leaned forward by two degrees.

He recognized what his student was doing.

Minato gathered all his chakra at the acupoints in his feet—compressing it to the extreme—then released it.

Body Flicker Technique.

But this time, the speed could no longer be called a Body Flicker Technique.

A golden afterimage.

Not three.

One.

A continuous, unbroken golden streak extending from Minato's starting point all the way to directly behind Yan. There was no pause in between, no point where he changed direction, no trace of footsteps touching the ground.

A straight line.

Five meters.

Time taken—no one in the arena could give an exact number. It was too fast. So fast that the human visual system could not piece two frames together into continuous motion.

In the previous frame, he had still been five meters away. In the next, he was already behind Yan's head.

A full-power Wind Release punch. Target: the back of Yan's head.

No mercy.

Just as they had agreed—no mercy.

Yan did not turn around.

Observation Haki had already told him—behind him. Zero distance. Wind Release concentrated over Minato's right fist. Enough force to shatter concrete.

No time to turn his head. No time to turn his body. No time to block.

The only thing he had time for—

Down.

Yan shifted his weight downward with his right foot. His knee bent ninety degrees. His body instantly dropped forty centimeters. Minato's full-power Wind Release punch swept past ten centimeters above his head. The wind pressure blasted his hair upward.

Then—

His magma-coated right fist smashed into the ground.