Jogendra's POV:
The grand arena buzzed with a current I could feel in my bones—a live wire of anticipation crackling through the air as the Fire Daimyō took the stage. His robes shimmered like a sunset ablaze, golden flames twisting across crimson silk, every step deliberate as if he carried the weight of the nation on his shoulders. The crowd's roar faded into a reverent hush, thousands of eyes locking onto the man who held the Fire Country's reins. I stood among the Uchiha ranks, my gaze sharp, dissecting him like a Hyderabad tax form—calm facade, steady voice, but power radiating beneath it all.
"Honored shinobi, esteemed clans, noble guests," the Daimyō began, his voice rolling over the stadium like a tide, measured and rich. "The Fire Country Annual Youth Ninja Competition is no mere test of strength. It's a celebration of our legacy—the fire that burns in the hearts of these young warriors before us."
The crowd erupted, a thunderous cheer shaking the stands. I stayed quiet, my eyes flicking across the sea of competitors—Senju, Uzumaki, Hyūga, and more—each a cog in this chaotic machine. My Father Madara stood beside me, his face a mask of steel, dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. My Grandfather Tajima's chest puffed out, pride etched into every line, while My Uncle Izuna smirked, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the show. "Think he rehearsed that?" he muttered. I snorted. "Probably. Sounds like a politician's pitch."
The Daimyō raised a hand, silencing the din. "This is about growth—bonds forged in combat, lessons carved in sweat. But hear me: this is honor, not war. No killing. Break that rule, and you're out. Matches are by draw, ending in yield or knockout." He turned, gesturing to the stage's center. "Let the competition begin!"
The roar hit like a monsoon, and I felt it—the weight of eyes, the hum of expectation. My Father Madara's gaze slid to me, a silent nod passing between us. No words needed; I knew what he expected.
We returned to the inn after the ceremony, dinner a quiet storm of tension. I shoveled rice and grilled fish into my mouth, my mind racing—*Soru* for speed, *Tekkai* for defense, Haki to read the field. My blood thrummed, primed for what lay ahead. Sleep came hard, dreams a flicker of chakra flares and clashing fists, Retsu's pendant warm against my chest like a whispered promise.
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#### The Next Morning
Dawn broke in streaks of gold and crimson, the sky a battlefield of its own. I was up before the sun, stomach full of breakfast, nerves steady as the Uchiha clan marched back to the arena. The crowd's energy had sharpened overnight—edgy, hungry, a mix of thrill and bloodlust. Whispers snaked through the stands, bets tossed like coins: *"Senju'll dominate." "Namikaze's too fast." "Uchiha's a dark horse."*
I stood at the battleground's edge, Observation Haki tingling as I scanned the field. The host—a wiry man with a voice like a war horn—strode forward, cutting through the noise. "Ladies and gentlemen! The first match is set!" The crowd leaned in, breath held. "On the green side, from the prestigious Hyūga clan, heir to the main house, the prodigy of his generation—Kai Hyūga!"
Kai stepped up, long dark hair tied back, Byakugan eyes gleaming white and cold. His stance screamed discipline—straight as a blade, calm as still water. The crowd murmured approval, a ripple of respect washing over them.
"And on the red side," the host's tone deepened, "from the legendary Uchiha clan, son of the infamous Madara Uchiha—Jogendra Uchiha!"
Silence slammed down, heavy and stunned. I walked forward, steady and deliberate, feeling every gaze like a spotlight. Whispers exploded: *"Madara's son?" "Where'd he come from?" "He's too calm—look at him!"* I ignored it, locking eyes with Kai. He nodded—a flicker of respect. I mirrored it.
The host's hand sliced down. "Begin!"
Kai moved like lightning. "Eight Trigrams: Sixty-Four Palms!" His voice rang out, hands blurring into a storm of strikes, each aimed to seal my chakra points. I didn't flinch—*Soru* kicked in, the ground cracking as I vanished, reappearing behind him in a heartbeat. My fingers hardened with Armament Haki, black sheen coating them like ink.
"*Shigan*!" I thrust, a piercing jab aimed at his spine. Kai twisted, Byakugan catching my move just in time, and my strike punched through a stone pillar instead, dust exploding outward. He spun, palm thrusting. "Eight Trigrams: Vacuum Palm!" A blast of force rocketed toward me.
I planted my feet, *Tekkai* locking my body into iron. The Vacuum Palm slammed into me—a dull thud against an unyielding wall. I didn't budge. Kai's eyes widened, a crack in his composure. "Impossible…"
A smirk tugged at my lips. I launched upward with *Geppo*, kicking the air to soar, then twisted mid-flight. "*Rankyaku*!" A slashing air blade streaked down, razor-sharp and howling. Kai dodged by a hair, but I wasn't done. *Kami-e* flowed through me—my body bent like paper, slipping past his counterstrike. I materialized behind him, leg snapping out, Haki-coated, and drove a kick into his back.
Kai hit the ground, out cold. The arena went dead silent.
*"What was that speed?"* a Senju hissed.
*"His skin turned black—some Uchiha trick?"* a Hyūga muttered.
Tobirama's scowl deepened from the Senju platform. "What kind of hellish regimen did Madara force on him?"
Butsuma chuckled, dark and low. "Not Madara—Tajima's the mastermind." He shot a glance at Hashirama and Tobirama. "After this, you two owe me grandsons. I won't let Tajima win that race either."
Their jaws dropped, speechless.
The host's voice boomed. "Winner: Jogendra Uchiha!"
I walked back to the Uchiha section, face blank. My Father Madara's nod was curt, approving. "Efficient."My Uncle Izuna grinned wide. "Knew you'd make it quick, nephew." My Grandfather Tajima just laughed, loud and triumphant, clapping me on the shoulder. "That's my blood!"
The host called the next match. "On the green side, from the Namikaze clan—Zen Namikaze!"
Zen bounded forward, blond hair glinting, blue eyes sparking with energy—pure speed waiting to ignite.
"On the red side, from the Hatake clan—Zaraki Hatake!"
Zaraki sauntered up, silver hair catching the sun, posture lazy but eyes sharp as a blade's edge.
"Begin!"
Zen vanished in a flash. "Swift Release: Lightning Step!" Afterimages trailed him, a blur tearing across the field. Zaraki shifted, barely moving, then murmured, "Kinetic Adaptation: Momentum Lock." His body synced to Zen's pace, catching a speeding fist mid-strike and countering with a spinning backfist that cracked the air.
The fight was a storm—Zen's speed painting the arena in streaks, Zaraki adapting with eerie precision. Punches met counters, kicks clashed with blocks, thirty minutes of relentless fury. Finally, both dropped, chests heaving, eyes locked in mutual respect.
The host stepped in. "A tie!"
The crowd roared, applause shaking the stands. I leaned back, smirking. "Swift Release and Kinetic Adaptation… this just got fun."
My Father Madara's chuckle was low, dark. "The real show's just starting."
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