"Impossible…"
Behind the cracked ANBU mask, the jōnin's eyes widened in disbelief.
Too fast.
He had completed his Fire Style in under a second. The formation had been tight. The angles precise.
And yet—
In the instant the flames converged, the boy had appeared in front of him.
Not after the technique.
During it.
That wasn't a standard Body Flicker.
No academy-taught movement technique could compress distance like that.
The jōnin tried to stabilize—
Too late.
Itsuki was already inside his guard.
Wind pressed tight against his frame, lightning crawling faintly over his skin. The chakra field surrounding him hummed with controlled volatility.
His first punch landed in the jōnin's abdomen.
The second followed immediately.
Air burst from the man's lungs as his body folded involuntarily.
The third punch drove upward.
The ANBU mask shattered on impact.
Fragments scattered across the training ground.
The sound of the blow echoed sharply in the sudden quiet.
The entire exchange lasted three seconds.
Three.
Tsunade's expression stiffened. "That's ridiculous…"
Jiraiya stared. "He broke through their formation like it wasn't there."
Orochimaru's smile deepened, golden eyes gleaming.
"Wind and lightning combined… not just acceleration. Cellular stimulation layered over directional propulsion." His voice lowered. "He created a pseudo–Lightning Release Chakra Mode."
Across the field, Uchiha Fugaku swallowed.
"I've never seen that technique."
Kazuma did not look away. "Neither have I."
Hayato's voice was steady but slow. "Then there is only one explanation."
Fugaku turned to him.
"He devised it himself."
Silence followed.
At five?
The idea bordered on absurd.
And yet—
No scroll.
No clan archive.
No known jutsu matched what they had just witnessed.
On the Hyūga side, Hiashi frowned.
His father's Byakugan was active now, veins faintly raised.
"Father?"
"He's not simply moving fast," the clan head murmured. "His chakra flow is layered. Wind external. Lightning internal. The muscle response time is unnatural."
Back at the center—
The remaining two jōnin reacted instantly.
"Earth Style: Swamp of the Underworld!"
The ground beneath Itsuki liquefied.
Mud swallowed downward in a widening radius, threatening to trap him mid-stance.
But the instant chakra shifted beneath his feet, the Sharingan caught it.
He vanished.
Thunder cracked again.
A streak of blue-white tore across the edge of the forming swamp.
Itsuki reappeared at the flank of the casting jōnin.
He caught the man's wrist mid-recovery and twisted sharply.
The jōnin's balance broke.
Even trained Root operatives needed a fraction of a second to compensate for lost center of gravity.
Itsuki did not grant it.
His fist drove forward.
The second mask shattered.
The impact rattled bone.
The jōnin's head snapped sideways, vision blurring.
Itsuki stepped in, maintaining grip, keeping the man upright only to strike again.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Six punches landed in rapid succession—each enhanced by lightning-accelerated musculature and wind-driven torque.
The final blow sent the jōnin collapsing fully this time, body crumpling into the dirt.
He did not rise.
The swamp technique dissipated.
Only one jōnin remained standing.
The spectators had stopped whispering.
There was no laughter now.
No mockery.
Only calculation.
Hatake Sakumo watched in silence.
Beside him, young Kakashi's eyes shone.
Itsuki stood amid settling dust, lightning fading from his skin.
Two jōnin neutralized.
Seconds apart.
He turned toward the last masked operative.
"Still testing me?" he asked quietly.