Conviction Shattered, the Shinobi World Trembles

The spread of chakra covered half the arena.

Several genin in the front row of the stands went weak in the knees and collapsed into their seats. They had not been attacked—it was instinct. Humanity's instinctive reaction to an apex predator.

Minato stood ten meters away, feeling as though he were standing on the floor of the deep sea.

No. He had seen Orochimaru release his killing intent, seen the pressure of Jiraiya's fury. Those had all felt like a towering wall stood before him.

This was not a wall.

The sky had fallen.

Nawaki pressed his palms together.

"Wood Release—"

The ground vanished.

It did not crack, nor did it cave in. The entire stone floor of the arena was shattered upward from below as countless thick roots burst from the earth and spread in every direction like living creatures.

The thickest was as wide as a man's waist.

The fastest had already swept across a spot three meters to Minato's left before he could react.

"Tree Binding Burial."

Nawaki's voice was not loud. Yet amid the thunderous roar of roots tearing through the ground, every word came through clearly.

Minato moved.

Flying Raijin.

His body vanished and reappeared at the anchor point on the right. The moment his feet touched down, a root burst out beneath them. He vanished again and appeared at the anchor point behind him. The instant he landed, three roots closed in from three directions at once.

Another jump.

The anchor point on the left.

The roots arrived before he did.

They were not chasing him. Nawaki's Sage Body perception covered the entire arena; he knew the position of every kunai perfectly. The roots had begun growing toward the anchor points before Minato even jumped.

Anticipating his anticipation.

When Minato appeared at the anchor point on the left, four roots were already waiting for him. He had no time to jump again—the chakra consumption of Flying Raijin had pushed him to his limit. By the fourth jump, he was 0.2 seconds slower.

0.2 seconds.

That was enough.

One root wrapped around his right ankle.

Minato lowered his head and swung his kunai to cut it. Before his arm had completed half its arc, a second root coiled around his left wrist. A third circled his waist. The fourth locked down his right arm.

Within four seconds, Minato Namikaze was suspended upside down in midair by four roots, two meters above the ground.

The tri-pronged kunai slipped from his loosened fingers, bounced off the rubble with a ding, then rolled twice.

The entire arena fell silent, even the sound of breathing gone.

Nawaki released his hand seal and slowly walked over.

Rubble crunched beneath his feet. He walked very slowly, as though giving everyone in the arena ample time to process what they were seeing.

Minato hung upside down in the air. Blood rushed to his head, turning his face red. He was still struggling, every muscle in his body straining, but the roots did not budge.

Wood Release cultivated by a Sage Body possessed a hardness that human strength could not break free from.

Nawaki stopped in front of him.

Three steps away. At eye level, he was looking directly into Minato's inverted face.

"Minato."

Minato stopped struggling. His eyes were bloodshot, but his gaze remained clear.

Nawaki lowered his voice. Very low—so low that even the referee standing five meters away could not hear him.

Close enough that only the two of them could hear.

"You practiced Flying Raijin for three months and refined one version of the Rasengan. Very impressive. Among people our age, even genius would not be enough to describe you."

Minato gritted his teeth and said nothing.

"But think about one thing." A faint curve touched Nawaki's lips. "She chose me not because I got there one step ahead of you."

He raised a hand and tapped Minato on the forehead with his index finger.

"It's because you can't catch up."

Something changed in Minato's eyes.

It was not anger. Anger was something he could still endure.

It was something dull and indescribable, spreading outward from his chest.

His gaze passed over Nawaki's shoulder and turned toward the waiting area.

Kushina stood behind the railing. Her hands were clenched together, her lips pressed tightly shut.

She was not looking at Minato.

She was looking at Nawaki's back.

What filled her eyes was simple. Worry. Expectation. And an unconcealed, unquestioning trust.

From beginning to end, her gaze had never left Nawaki.

Minato's body ceased all struggle.

It was not that he had given up resisting. It was that some taut string, stretched tight for three months, had snapped.

The referee rushed over. He ran so fast it was practically a sprint.

"The match is over! The victor—Nawaki Senju!"

His voice was so loud that it sounded like a cry for help.

Nawaki withdrew his finger and turned to walk back.

With a release of both hands, the Wood Release dissipated.

Minato fell from two meters in the air. His back slammed into the rubble, kicking up a cloud of dust. He did not get up. His eyes remained open, fixed on the clouds overhead, utterly motionless.

Two medical-nin ran over. One reached out to check his pulse and found that his heartbeat and breathing were normal, but his pupils reacted sluggishly to light.

"He's conscious, but..." The medical-nin hesitated. "His mental state doesn't seem right."

They lifted the stretcher. As it passed the waiting area, Kushina glanced at Minato.

Only once.

Then she ran toward Nawaki as he returned, trotting up to him and naturally hooking her left arm through his.

"You're not hurt, are you?"

"When have I ever been hurt?"

"Tch—show-off."

Minato closed his eyes on the stretcher.

In the stands, Jiraiya leaned against the back of his chair. Nothing showed on his face, but the thumbnail of his right hand had dug into the flesh of his index finger.

Orochimaru had appeared in the empty seat beside him at some point.

"Interesting." Orochimaru licked his lips. "Nawaki's chakra reserves, at twelve years old and already at this level—"

"Shut up."

Orochimaru fell silent for two seconds, then smiled and said no more.

The Hidden Sand delegation.

The jonin in the hood tore the intelligence scroll in half and threw it at his feet.

"Send word back to Hidden Sand. The Konoha Senju Clan—raise their threat assessment to Special S."

"Special S? Isn't that only for Kage-level—"

"Do you think what we just saw was chunin-level?"

The person beside him fell silent.

The Hidden Cloud delegation was even quieter. The bald, burly man lowered his head as he bandaged his injured foot, saying nothing. His attendant beside him tentatively spoke up. "Lord Mon, should we separately compile intelligence on that redhead—"

"Don't mention it."

The man's voice squeezed out through clenched teeth.

The three from Hidden Mist finally stopped writing. One of them folded the sheets full of notes and tucked them into the hidden compartment of a ninja tool pouch.

The Third Hokage sat on the main platform.

He did not know how long his pipe had been out. His right hand had continued making the motion of holding it, yet he had never lit it again.

Twelve years old. Wood Release fully developed. Chakra reserves at quasi-Kage level. Capable of predicting the movement trajectory of spatial ninjutsu.

This could no longer be explained by talent.

The Third thought of someone.

When Hashirama Senju was twelve, he had driven back five Uchiha alone by the Naka River.

History was repeating itself.

No—this was worse. At twelve, Hashirama had not systematically gathered political resources. He had not had a Kage-level backer like Tsunade, a Nine-Tails jinchuriki as his fiancée, a defected Uchiha elite as the captain of his assassination squad, or a White Fang who had faked his death and vanished from the world as his shadow.

At twelve, Nawaki already possessed every piece needed to contend for the position of Hokage.

And he was still growing.

The Third set down his pipe. He could no longer hold it steady.

He did not take in a single remaining match of the preliminaries. When the results were reported to him, he remembered only one line—

All three Senju contestants advanced to the finals.

The crowd dispersed.

The moon rose, then set.

Thirty-two meters underground, southeast of Konoha Village.

Bubbles gurgled through the nutrient solution.

Danzō sat in a wheelchair. His severed arm was wrapped in bandages, and the aftereffects of Tsunade's punch still sent a faint ache through the right half of his body.

A crystal ball was embedded in the wall before him, replaying footage from the arena that day.

The image froze on the instant Nawaki pressed his hands together and roots burst from the ground.

Danzō stared at it for a long time.

"Nan."

A Root shinobi stepped out from the shadows.

"How much stock remains at Base Seven?"

"Test Subject Thirty-Seven was destroyed by Nawaki Senju in the Forest of Death. Of the remaining usable specimens... there are twenty-six, but only two have reached the highest maturity level."

Danzō lifted his left hand from the wheelchair armrest.

"Activate the ultimate plan."

The Root shinobi's breathing faltered.

"Sir, the catalyst required for the ultimate plan is—"

"I know." Danzō stared at Nawaki's face in the crystal ball. "Go get it."

He turned his left hand over. Beneath the bandages on his palm, a vertical surgical scar could faintly be seen.

Something was pulsing beneath it.