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Chapter 22: The Victor's Spoils (Bonus Chapter)
"Brilliant, Minato!"
On the elevated viewing platform, Jiraiya shouted, his earlier worry replaced by exhilaration.
A substitution to negate a fatal blow, followed by an aerial maneuver to unleash a high-level technique. The tactical mind was impeccable. More impressively, the ninjutsu itself was not some simple academy trick. In the official scrolls, the Shuriken Shadow Clone Technique was classified as an A-rank ninjutsu. In actual shinobi combat, it was a large-scale, destructive art—a single shuriken multiplying into tens of thousands, a lethal storm of metal.
For Namikaze Minato, a student who hadn't even graduated, to master an A-rank technique was a testament to a talent that bordered on the unimaginable.
"To execute a substitution under that kind of pressure, in that instant… that is a terrifying instinct," Tsunade admitted, her arms crossed. Even she had to acknowledge the blonde boy's phenomenal shinobi gift. It was one of a kind.
"Hah! This is the future of our Konoha!" Hiruzen Sarutobi, the Third Hokage, beamed with genuine pride, the lines around his eyes crinkling. His joy was personal; the Shuriken Shadow Clone Technique was one of his own signature jutsu. Looking at Minato, he saw a flash of his younger self, learning at the side of the Second Hokage on the blood-soaked fields of a past war.
"It seems the outcome of this match is settled," Jiraiya declared, though his tone held more hope than certainty.
Though she hated to admit Jiraiya was right about anything, Tsunade couldn't help the knot of concern tightening in her stomach as she watched Ragnar. The strength and composure Minato displayed placed him firmly at the chunin level, a far cry from arrogant bloodline holders like Uchiha Shirou. This was a different caliber of opponent entirely.
The students surrounding the arena were beyond commentary. This was a textbook-perfect shinobi engagement. The fluid transitions between taijutsu, high-speed movement, and substitution, now capped with the spectacle of an A-rank jutsu… it was breathtaking. Many sat in stunned, awed silence. Regardless of the final result, this battle would be remembered, spoken of in hushed tones as a classic.
And the situation on the field remained volatile, capable of changing in a single breath.
Minato's technique completed its descent. The sky was blotted out by spinning metal, a cacophonous, gleaming net that left Ragnar no room for retreat, no angle for escape.
Off to the side, Kushina watched, her knuckles white where she clenched her fists, her heart pounding a frantic prayer against her ribs.
'Lord Ragnar…'
"Lord Ragnar, you are a formidable opponent," Minato said softly as he landed, his expression grave and respectful. "But I must win this duel."
Surrounded by the descending doom of a hundred shurikens, Ragnar's world narrowed to a point of perfect calm. He could use Shave. A single burst of speed would carry him outside the technique's killing zone. But he dismissed the thought instantly. It was a retreat. A evasion. It ran counter to everything he was, everything his path demanded.
He believed in one principle: Overwhelm all methods with absolute force. No matter how clever or intricate the attack, in the face of absolute power, it was nothing but a bubble—pretty, fragile, and doomed to pop.
"Armament… Harden," he whispered.
His right arm, from fist to elbow, was sheathed in the impenetrable black lacquer of Armament Haki. He clenched his fist. Muscles, already dense from inhuman training, swelled further. A white, shimmering vapor—condensed air and escaping energy—wreathed the darkened limb. His body coiled, bending like a drawn bow, every tendon and fiber gathering potential energy. A faint, fierce red hue flushed across his skin—the sign of his system-augmented physique pushed to its brink.
"Level Three. Armament: Iron Fist."
With a guttural roar that tore through the whirring sound of shurikens, he unleashed the accumulated power. He did not strike the shurikens. He struck the air between them.
BOOOOM!
The detonation was not of fire, but of pure, concussive force. It was the sound of thunder given form, of a tiger's roar magnified a hundredfold.
CRACK!
From his fist, a terrifying, invisible wave of power shot skyward. It was a runaway avalanche given direction, a furious dragon ascending. The very space around it seemed to warp and stagnate. The hundred shurikens, mid-descent, shuddered and hung motionless for a single, impossible heartbeat.
Then, destruction.
The naked eye could see the leading shurikens crumple, fine cracks spider-webbing across their surfaces before they snapped clean in half. The wave hit the main body of the swarm.
BOOM!
The sky-full of A-rank shadow clones met an immovable, irresistible force. They were not deflected. They were obliterated. Shattered into harmless clouds of iron splinters and dust that pattered down onto the arena like metallic rain, glittering uselessly under the sun.
Silence.
A deep, profound, and utter silence swallowed the entire training ground. You could hear the rustle of a leaf in the distant trees. The A-rank Shuriken Shadow Clone Technique… had been erased by a single punch.
Was this something a ninja academy student could do?
"Im… possible…?" Minato murmured, his brilliant blue eyes wide with disbelief, his mind struggling to process the visual heresy he had just witnessed.
"Nothing is," a cold voice stated, arriving at his ear a fraction of a second before its owner.
SHAVE!
In a burst of speed that left afterimages, Ragnar was beside him. The cold edge of a kunai rested lightly against Minato's exposed throat.
In that moment, it was over. Minato had used the Body Flicker, the Substitution, and an A-rank ninjutsu in rapid succession. No matter his prodigious talent, his chakra reserves were nearly exhausted. Even if he could muster the speed to slip this hold, to continue would be pointless. He felt the last of his tension drain away, replaced by a weary, honest acceptance. He lowered his head, a faint, wry smile touching his lips.
"I… lose."
A delayed reaction, then an uproar. The stadium erupted. Noise, cheers, and shouts of disbelief fused into a wall of sound. The first true genius of the new generation had been crowned, and his name was not the one everyone expected.
Ragnar's face remained a placid mask, but his mind was anything but calm.
*Ding! Experience +20!*
*Ding! Experience +50!*
*Ding! Experience +100!*
*Ding! Experience +200!*
*Ding! Experience +400!*
Notification after notification flashed across his mental vision. The final tally from his duel with Namikaze Minato—the protagonist of this era, even now—was a staggering +1,400 Experience Points. It dwarfed the reward for killing the chunin Uchiha Shirou. The system clearly valued the quality of the opponent, not just the lethality of the outcome.
And that was not all. As Minato formally surrendered, a shimmering, silver treasure chest materialized on the scorched earth of the arena, visible only to him. With a thought, he stored it away in his system space, the thrill of potential loot a quiet fire in his chest.
He lowered the kunai, sheathed it, and turned to the stunned chunin examiner. His voice cut through the lingering din. "Instructor. Can you announce the result?"
The teacher jolted, then stammered, finding his official voice. "The winner… the champion of the Academy Tournament is… Ragnar!"
The roar from the crowd reached a fever pitch.
Namikaze Minato turned and walked from the arena, his shoulders slightly slumped, the weight of a first, significant defeat settling on him. Genius he was, but loss was a new and bitter teacher.
Ragnar paid it no mind. His path was forward, never beside. He began walking toward the edge of the field, alone as always.
He did not get far.
"RAGNAR!"
Uzumaki Kushina came barreling toward him, a tide of bright red hair and unrestrained joy, trailed by a small gang of wide-eyed younger academy kids she seemed to have adopted as a cheering squad.
"You were amazing! Incredible!" she shouted, her face alight with a pride that was entirely for him.
"Yeah, Boss! That was the coolest thing ever!" a sniffling boy from the back yelled, eyes shining with hero-worship.
"Boss?" Ragnar repeated, the unfamiliar title pulling a faint, involuntary scoff from him. It wasn't quite a laugh, but it was something.
But looking at Kushina's beaming, blushing face, and the cluster of children bouncing with genuine excitement for his victory, something shifted. In the icy, isolated fortress of his heart, a single stone warmed. The perpetual coldness on his features softened, and for the briefest second, a genuine, gentle smile touched his lips.
The effect on the surrounding crowd, particularly the younger girls, was instantaneous. Sighs and muffled squeals erupted. The cold, handsome victor's smile was a weapon they were utterly unprepared for.
On the Viewing Platform, the atmosphere was different.
"That boy is exceptional. Remaining in the academy is a waste of time," a new, rasping voice declared from the entrance. The tone was flat, authoritative, leaving no room for debate. "He belongs in Root."
A man with a stern, weathered face and a head of spiky grey hair stood there, one eye bandaged. His presence seemed to suck the warmth from the air.
At the sight of him, the expressions of the three Sannin hardened.
Hiruzen Sarutobi's proud smile vanished, replaced by the stern countenance of the Hokage. He turned, his voice firm and final. "Danzo. What is the meaning of this?"
(End of Chapter)
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