Chapter 5: The Facade of Defeat
In the center of the makeshift arena, the two figures stood in stark contrast against the green grass. The air was thick with anticipation, charged by the buzzing whispers of the encircling students.
A group of boys, emboldened by the crowd, began a rhythmic chant: "Sa-suke! Sa-suke! Sa-suke!"
The chant died abruptly as Iruka stepped into the ring, his presence imposing order with a single raised hand. "Enough," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. He looked between the two students. "In Konoha, when comrades engage in a formal challenge, we begin with the Seal of Friendship. It is a reminder that our strength is for the protection of one another, even in competition."
He demonstrated the gesture—a simple, formal clasp of the right hands, a brief connection before a contest. "Before you begin, perform the seal."
"The Seal of Friendship?" Both Naruto and Sasuke echoed the thought, though only Naruto voiced his mild surprise. After a moment's consideration, he extended his hand toward Sasuke, his expression open, his smile a quiet invitation.
Sasuke hesitated, her cold mask slipping for a fraction of a second into visible discomfort. She stared at his offered hand as if it were a strange, potentially dangerous animal. The idea of physical contact, of a ritual implying camaraderie, seemed to grate against her every instinct.
"Sasuke," Iruka prompted gently, his tone leaving no room for refusal in this tradition.
With clear reluctance, Sasuke finally reached out. Her hand was cool and smooth in his, the skin pale against his own warmer, slightly calloused palm. The moment they clasped, Naruto looked up and gave her that full, sun-bright grin, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
Sasuke's response was an immediate, sharp "Hn," as she averted her gaze, a faint flush of irritation or something else coloring her neck. She hated that smile. It felt like an invasion, a denial of the grim reality she embraced.
Her hand was cold, a chill that seeped straight to the bone, speaking of lonely nights and a heart wrapped in frost. In contrast, Naruto's grip was a steady, living warmth. That warmth, so unexpectedly familiar, sparked a fleeting, painful memory—the ghost of her brother's hand on her head, a lifetime ago. The association startled her, and she jerked her hand back as if scalded, breaking the seal almost as soon as it was formed.
Seeing the ritual complete, however perfunctorily, Iruka nodded and stepped back. "You may begin."
"You can have the first move, Sasuke," Naruto said, his voice calm. He pulled a single kunai from his thigh pouch, holding it in a reverse grip. Facing the Uchiha heir, the presumed top rookie, complacency was not an option. The blood of the Sharingan clan flowed in her veins, and with it, a legacy of battle genius.
"Hn." Her derisive sniff was her only reply. Her expression remained a masterpiece of icy disdain, as if the world and everyone in it were beneath her notice. Naruto felt a pang of curiosity. Did she walk the same hellish path as the Sasuke I knew? Is that what forged this chill?
Then, she moved.
It was pure, unadorned speed. One moment she was three meters away; the next, a blur of black hair and pale skin was before him, a small fist already driving toward his solar plexus with shocking force. No weapons, just ruthless, efficient taijutsu.
Naruto's left hand shot down, his forearm intercepting her wrist, arresting the punch an inch from his shirt. The impact sent a jolt up his arm. Strong.
A flicker of surprise showed in Sasuke's dark eyes—he had tracked her. Instantly, her body flowed into the next attack. Her left leg snapped up in a vicious high kick aimed at his temple. Naruto brought his right arm up in a guard, catching her ankle. The force behind it wasn't just technique; it was raw, focused power. It shoved him sideways, forcing him to roll with the momentum to disperse the energy.
He came up in a crouch a few feet away, shaking the slight numbness from his right arm. His heart beat a quicker rhythm. He hadn't used his full strength to root himself, but even so, to be moved that easily… her power was no joke. The number one ranking was clearly not for show.
The playful curiosity vanished from his eyes, replaced by focused caution. The time for testing was over.
As expected of the clan's genius, Sasuke didn't give him a moment to reset. She closed the distance again, a relentless pale phantom. Her attacks were a continuous barrage—sharp jabs aimed at his throat, sweeping kicks targeting his knees, elbows driving for his ribs. Each movement was economical, vicious, and seamless.
Naruto became a flurry of defensive motions, parrying, dodging, and blocking. The sharp cracks and thuds of their impacts punctuated the silent awe of the crowd. To any observer, the narrative was clear: the brilliant Uchiha prodigy was systematically dismantling the class dead-last, who was putting up a surprisingly stubborn, but ultimately futile, defense.
"Sasuke is incredible!"
"See? I told you! There's no way the monster could win!"
"He's holding on longer than I thought, though…"
The whispers swirled around them. At the ring's edge, Hinata had her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white, her Byakugan active without her even realizing it. She could see the chakra flows, see Naruto's brilliant, steady energy carefully matching Sasuke's more aggressive, fiery patterns. Don't lose, Naruto-kun… she prayed silently, her heart aching for him.
Thud!
A perfectly timed feint from Sasuke opened Naruto's guard. Her foot hooked behind his knee while her palm slammed into his chest. The combined force broke his balance, and he hit the ground hard, the breath driven from his lungs in a pained grunt.
He lay there for a second, the sky spinning above him. Okay, that one actually hurt. He pushed himself up onto one elbow, rubbing his sternum, and looked up at Sasuke, who stood over him like a conquering statue.
He offered a wry, lopsided smile. "I yield."
Sasuke's brow furrowed minutely. She stared down at him, her gaze searching his face for the shame, the frustration, the shattered pride she expected to find—the emotions that were her own constant companions. She found none. Only that infuriating, placid acceptance.
Her lips curled. "Trash," she spat, the word laced with a venom that felt personal, as if his lack of despair was an insult to her own suffering.
For a heartbeat, a hot wave of anger surged in Naruto's chest. His fingers dug into the grass. Then, as quickly as it came, he quenched the flame. He took a slow, deep breath, the smile returning to his face, this time edged with something harder, like sunlight on steel.
He got to his feet, brushing dirt from his clothes. "Maybe I am," he said, his voice calm but carrying clearly. "But even trash has its own bottom line." As he spoke, he straightened his back. An aura seemed to settle around him—not of explosive power, but of unshakable, quiet confidence. It was so at odds with his position on the ground a moment before that it gave Sasuke a moment of cognitive dissonance. He feels like the victor.
Without another word, he turned and walked away from the ring, away from her frozen figure and the murmuring crowd.
Hinata was there in an instant, a silent, anxious shadow. She half-reached out to steady him, her hand trembling in the air before she nervously pulled it back, fearing to overstep.
Naruto led the way past the staring students, through the school gates, and into the relative privacy of the small woods behind the Academy. Only then did he stop, leaning casually against a broad tree trunk.
"N-Naruto-kun… are you alright?" Hinata finally managed, her voice small.
He turned, and the smile he gave her was genuine and bright, devoid of any shadow of defeat. "I'm perfectly fine, Hinata. Don't worry. I wasn't really going all out back there."
"Eh…?" Her eyes went wide. Not using his full strength? Against Uchiha Sasuke?
"Heh. With her pride, if I'd beaten her in front of everyone…" Naruto's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, and he leaned in slightly. "Let's just say my peaceful days would be over. I pretended to lose to avoid a mountain of future trouble." He gave her a deliberate, meaningful wink. "That's our secret, okay? Just between us."
"Ah—!" His sudden proximity, his warm breath near her ear, the secret shared in a hushed tone—it was a catastrophic overload for Hyuga Hinata. A high-pitched squeak escaped her, her eyes rolled back, and she folded neatly onto the soft grass in another dead faint.
…Right. The Hinata Factor. Naruto stared down at her prone form, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple that had nothing to do with the fight. Note to self: No whispering secrets.
With a resigned sigh, he sat down beside her to wait, using the quiet moment to replay the spar in his mind. His initial instinct had been to test his limits against the best. But mid-fight, cold practicality had overruled that desire. Defeating the Uchiha heir, the village's tragic genius, would not make him a hero. It would make him an anomaly. It would shatter the carefully maintained facade of the lazy, untalented Jinchuriki and draw the intense, scrutinizing gaze of the Hokage's advisors and Danzo's Root. It was attention he could not afford, not until he was far stronger, far more in control of his own destiny. Losing publicly was a strategic retreat, a necessary layer of camouflage.
After a while, Hinata stirred with a soft groan, her eyelids fluttering open. The first thing she saw was Naruto's back as he sat patiently beside her, watching the dappled light through the leaves. A warm, quiet sweetness filled her chest.
"Naruto-kun…"
"Oh, you're back with us," he said, turning with a kind smile. "We should probably get to class. We're already late."
"Late! Oh no!" She scrambled to her feet, flustered anew, and together they hurried back toward the school building.
The rest of the day passed without incident. When the final bell rang, Naruto didn't head straight home. Instead, he went to the training field, spending an hour meticulously practicing kunai and shuriken throws, focusing on the minute adjustments of wrist, elbow, and shoulder. Each thunk of a blade hitting the center ring of a target was a small, private victory. Even in defeat, there was progress. Even in hiding, there was growth.
As the sun dipped lower, painting long shadows, he finally shouldered his small pack and began the walk home, the events of the day settling into the tapestry of his new life—a deliberate loss, a shared secret, and the reaffirmation of the unseen path he was determined to walk.