“One thousand ryo.
Let’s fight.” Kazama Ryū’s words were like a stone tossed into still water, sending ripples through the hallway of the Ninja Academy.
Asuma Sarutobi’s face shifted from iron-blue to a sickly purple in an instant.
An insult.
A naked, undisguised insult.
He—son of the Third Hokage, pride of the Sarutobi clan—was having his worth measured in money by a nobody, a perennial bottom-ranked orphan.
“You’re asking for death!” Asuma’s fury erupted.
Chakra spilled out uncontrollably, whipping the air around him into turbulent currents.
“What, scared?” Ryū replied calmly, a faint trace of provocation in his voice.
“Or is it that the Hokage-sama’s son can’t even come up with one thousand ryo?” That sentence shattered Asuma’s last shred of restraint.
“I’ll bet!” he roared through clenched teeth.
“Anyone who doesn’t is a coward!” He turned and barked at the lackeys behind him.
“Go!
Get the money!” “Yes, Asuma-sama!” The news spread through the academy as if it had sprouted wings.
After school, at Training Ground No.
3.
Students packed the area three layers deep inside and out, all drawn by the spectacle.
A duel wagering both money and pride was the most exciting form of entertainment in student life.
“Who do you think will win?” “Isn’t it obvious?
Asuma-sama, of course.
Kazama Ryū is just a lucky orphan.” “But he dared to demand a thousand ryo… maybe he really has something.” In the crowd, Kurenai Yuhi clasped her hands together, worry written across her face.
Nearby, Uchiha Nain leaned against a tree with her arms crossed, her dark eyes glinting with unreadable interest.
Soon, one of Asuma’s followers came running back, panting, and handed a heavy money pouch to the instructor overseeing the match.
Asuma shrugged off his jacket, revealing sturdy arms, and fixed his gaze on the unnervingly calm figure standing opposite him.
“Kazama Ryū,” he sneered.
“Today, I’ll show you what real strength looks like!” The duel began.
Asuma didn’t bother testing the waters.
He wanted overwhelming, flashy domination—enough to wash away his humiliation in one stroke.
Hand seals blurred.
“Fire Style: Fireball Jutsu!” A blazing sphere of flame roared forward, heat waves rolling outward and drawing gasps from the spectators.
Under pressure that would have panicked any ordinary student, Ryū’s mind entered a strange clarity.
The final slivers of proficiency in his Substitution Technique and Transformation Technique were filled as if by an invisible hand.
[Ding!
Substitution Technique leveled up!
Lv.2 (1/600)] [Ding!
Transformation Technique leveled up!
Lv.2 (1/600)] Realization surged through him.
Chakra flow, timing, microscopic adjustments—everything became instinctive.
Only when the fireball was about to swallow him did Ryū move.
No clumsy roll.
No frantic dodge.
His body swayed lightly—and in the next instant, the flames engulfed nothing but a charred log.
“Substitution Technique!” “That was fast!” someone shouted.
Asuma’s pupils shrank.
Before he could react, Ryū had already appeared several meters behind him, unscathed.
“Running away again?” Asuma snarled.
“Trash!” He abandoned ninjutsu and lunged forward like a cheetah, his fist slicing through the air.
He intended to break Ryū apart with sheer taijutsu.
Ryū didn’t retreat.
His hands blurred.
“Clone Technique!” Nearly half his chakra poured into the jutsu.
[Ding!
Clone Technique leveled up!
Lv.3 (MAX)!] A qualitative change occurred.
With a burst of smoke, what appeared was no longer a flimsy illusion—but a solid clone, identical to Ryū, calm light shining in its eyes.
The clone raised its arm and blocked Asuma’s punch head-on.
“What?!” Asuma felt as though he’d struck solid wood.
His wrist went numb.
An E-rank clone… with weight?
With substance?
In that split second of shock, Ryū moved.
Circling behind Asuma, he activated his newly mastered technique.
The Lv.2 Transformation Technique.
With a puff of smoke, Ryū transformed into one of Asuma’s lackeys, panic on his face.
“Asuma-sama!
Behind you!” Hearing the familiar voice and seeing the familiar face, Asuma turned instinctively.
Now!
The transformed Ryū dropped low, sweeping Asuma’s ankle with ruthless precision.
Caught completely off guard, Asuma lost his balance and crashed forward.
At the same time, the solid clone dispersed into white smoke, its role complete.
The entire fight had taken less than thirty seconds.
Silence fell over the training ground.
Mouths hung open as students stared at the scene in disbelief.
A flawless demonstration.
Substitution to evade long-range attacks.
Clone to create an opening.
Transformation to deliver the finishing blow.
Every step was polished to perfection, as if refined through countless repetitions.
This was no dead last.
This was the combat sense of a veteran.
Ryū straightened and walked over to Asuma, who was still sprawled on the ground.
He didn’t mock him.
He simply held out his hand.
“Thank you for your patronage.
One thousand ryo.” His calm voice echoed clearly.
“Next time you want to fight, remember to bring money.” Asuma felt blood rush to his head as humiliation swallowed him whole.
He had lost—completely.
Money.
Pride.
Dignity.
Snatching the money pouch from his follower, he slammed it at Ryū’s feet and stormed off without a word.
Ryū picked it up unhurriedly, weighed it in his hand, and slipped it into his pocket.
From that moment on, the name Kazama Ryū carved itself into the memories of everyone present.
The crowd erupted.
“Did you see that?” “He mastered the Three Basic Techniques!” Under the tree’s shade, the corners of Uchiha Nain’s perpetually cool lips curved into a rare, breathtaking smile.
And from a distant corner of the training ground, an elderly man with graying hair—wearing a Ninja Academy instructor’s uniform—watched quietly.
Admiration flickered in his clouded eyes.
“Makoto… you raised a fine son.”