Not far from the battlefield where Arata and the Third Raikage clashed, Doell—the silver-haired elite sensor who had stayed behind—was crouched high in a tree, watching the duel that would decide the fastest man in the shinobi world.
Though the Raikage had ordered everyone to retreat, Doell remained. He was an elite jōnin; covering the rear was his duty. And unlike the others, he had sensed the terrifying scale of Arata's chakra. Where most assumed the Raikage would win easily, Doell was almost certain that the man who had dominated the battlefield for decades might actually lose.
That was why he couldn't leave. The Raikage might be brash, but he always carried the weight of his village on his shoulders. If the Raikage fell behind in this fight, Doell was ready to risk everything to pull him out.
But what followed shattered even his understanding of what a shinobi battle could be. The moment Arata and the Third Raikage shouted their challenge, both men vanished completely. If Doell hadn't sensed their chakra signatures, he might have believed the battleground was empty.
He couldn't see either of them.
Not even a blur.
And he was an elite sensor.
Arata and the Raikage were both masters of close-quarters combat, and now, with their speed unleashed, they were fighting for the title of the fastest shinobi alive. Without a Mangekyō Sharingan-level vision, no one could have tracked them.
Even the future Fourth Raikage, renowned for speed, was slightly inferior to the Third Raikage in raw acceleration.
Arata, knowing this was a pure speed duel, didn't draw his blade—fighting only with his fists.
And for the first time, Arata truly appreciated the power of the shinobi world's upper echelon. He had once thought the taijutsu standards of other worlds might surpass this one, but now he knew: a top-tier shinobi's body could reach monstrous extremes.
Fortunately, Arata had the Lightning Armor enhancing his movements. In pure speed, he was now edging ahead of the Raikage.
Every blink of an eye, the two exchanged multiple blows—but Arata always managed to land one strike more.
That was the power of speed.
However, once attacks reached a certain frequency, it became a contest of reaction time as much as velocity. If your body arrived before your mind processed the moment, the opening was wasted.
Although youth usually granted quicker reactions, the Raikage held an advantage—he had lived in this lightning-fast state for over a decade. His body reacted by instinct alone. Arata had only adapted to such speed for a year or so; naturally, the Raikage's reflexes were sharper.
So while Arata's strikes came slightly faster, the Raikage's well-timed counters always targeted weak points. Arata, pushed to extreme velocity, found his precision declining; many of his blows carried little killing power.
As the fight intensified, their impacts cracked the air.
Missed punches obliterated boulders, trees, and even small rises in the terrain.
Within minutes, everything within 7 or 800 meters had been flattened—what had been a forest moments ago was now a wasteland.
Neither man paid attention to the ruined battlefield. At such speeds, the only thing visible was the opponent.
The Third Raikage, despite being older, was still in his physical prime—perfect endurance, perfect stamina. Even after several more minutes, he showed no sign of slowing down.
What truly shocked him was that Arata—faster than him—was still breathing steadily. At that speed, Arata should have been burning through stamina far more quickly.
But the longer the duel continued, the more Arata adapted. His eyes sharpened, his timing improved, and each strike carried more weight than the last.
This stunned the Raikage.
He had taken years to reach mastery at this speed.
Arata adjusted in mere minutes.
Their battle tore across the field—first the center, then the western ridge, then down by a narrow stream—flashing like lightning from one point to the next.
Only after half an hour of close-quarters combat did both land a heavy blow on each other and break apart.
By then, everything within a full kilometer had been razed.
Trees, stone outcrops, slopes—gone.
The battlefield was a flat scar on the land, carved by nothing but fists and raw power.
Doell had long since pulled back a full kilometer away; earlier, the duel had nearly crossed right through him. If he hadn't moved, the shockwaves alone would have left him unable to walk.
The Raikage, after thirty minutes of nonstop combat, was finally breathing heavily.
Doell let out a sigh of relief—his leader was still standing.
Though neither combatant had shed blood, the Raikage's body bore several scorch marks—evidence of Arata's lightning-charged punches.
Arata looked better off; with superior speed, he had taken fewer direct hits. If not for the early moments where he struggled to adjust, the Raikage's injuries might have been far worse.
Still, the relentless pace had both men gasping for breath. Their endurance was nearly identical.
But Arata was the one who finally smirked and said:
"After today… the title of fastest in the shinobi world belongs to me."