Looking along the shadow cast on the ground, Kisa spotted sothing unusual—there was a bulging shape within the shadow.
A flicker of realization crossed his mind, and he looked up sharply.
Suspended in the air, a piece of cloth fluttered slightly—stretched taut like a parachute—and a kunai was tied to it, hanging just overhead.
Shikamaru's shadow, originally behind him, had extended through the shadow of the spectator stands, using the sunlight behind them. The bulging cloth and the shadow it cast served as a clever dium, allowing his shadow imitation jutsu to reach Kisa from behind.
At that mont, Kisa finally understood what it ant to be outwitted.
This kid—barely twelve or thirteen years old—had orchestrated the entire battlefield to his advantage. He'd even predicted Kisa's thoughts and words to bait him, creating an elaborate trap just to divert attention from the kunai he'd tossed earlier.
In all honesty, if this had been a team battle, Kisa might have lost. But unfortunately for Shikamaru, this was a one-on-one duel.
And with the minuscule chakra reserves Shikamaru had, there was no way he could hold the jutsu for long.
Kisa's chakra surged violently through his veins, causing his muscles to swell, his monstrous strength bubbling to the surface.
Shikamaru's hands trembled as he maintained the hand seal. Sweat drenched his clothes, and a cold chill slid down his spine.
"Damn it... I knew I couldn't win. This power is way beyond anything a normal human should have..."
He glanced at his torn shirt and winced. "And I ripped my shirt again... Mom's gonna kill ..."
As expected, after barely three seconds, Shikamaru was forced to release the Shadow Imitation Technique.
Kisa's face darkened. He wanted this battle to end already—it was starting to feel ridiculous.
Fighting a Genin this seriously... it was embarrassing.
But just as Kisa began forming hand seals to finish it, Shikamaru sat down abruptly and raised his right hand.
"Referee, I surrender~"
The mont the weak declaration left his lips, Kisa, who had been halfway through a jutsu, halted mid-motion.
He pointed at Shikamaru, sighed, then dropped his hand and walked off the field silently, returning the way he ca.
Muttering to himself the whole ti:
"Nai Nai, no more pretending next ti... If you're not smart, don't try to act like Uchiha Hikaru…"
"Guess I'll just be a good, honest swordsman…"
He walked off with such a dejected expression, you'd think he had been the one who lost.
But the truth was, even though Kisa technically won the match, it didn't feel like a victory—more like an unfair win over soone he respected.
Hayate Gekko, the referee, watched Kisa's retreating figure, raising an eyebrow. He was about to formally announce the end of the match, but again—just like in the last three battles—he didn't even get the chance to raise his hand. The rhythm of things felt off sohow.
Still... thinking from Kisa's point of view, he probably wouldn't have wanted to linger for the applause either.
Shikamaru slowly stood up, dragged himself forward, picked up the torn piece of his shirt, and headed down the passage.
"I'm exhausted... I really want to eat Mom's miso-cooked mackerel and pickled kelp right now..."
A voice echoed from the end of the corridor, familiar and loud:
"Oh? My precious son wants to eat the al your loving mother made?"
Shikamaru looked up instinctively.
At the end of the corridor, Nara Yoshino stood with a woven basket in her hand. Beside her, with a sheepish smile and hands in his pockets, was Shikaku Nara.
"Mom… I'm sorry. I lost…"
Yoshino walked up without a word and smacked Shikamaru on the back—pop!—leaving a red mark that stung slightly.
"You did a damn fine job. Your father told that Kisa is so kind of freak the Hokage calls 'a walking tank'—or 'fried fish,' or sothing."
"Co on, eat. I brought your favorite."
Shikamaru didn't dare et her gaze. He could feel the warmth and pride in her tone—so clear it nearly cracked his emotional dam.
He accepted the basket silently and opened the lunchbox she'd prepared.
It was wrapped in thick cotton cloth, still warm.
Inside, small portions of mackerel lay quietly in light brown miso broth, accompanied by finely chopped green onions. A separate tray held a generous serving of rice and neat rolls of vinegar-pickled kelp. The scent of rice vinegar and sugar wafted up, stirring sothing deep inside him.
"I'm gonna eat now…"
He picked up the chopsticks and started with the kelp. The taste wasn't anything extraordinary—not like the extravagant dishes at Akimichi BBQ—but it was warm, grounding.
Comforting.
The tension that had kept his body rigid during battle finally began to lt away.
He ate in large bites, alternating between the rice and the tender miso mackerel, stuffing his cheeks as if to keep himself anchored in the present.
Shikaku leaned casually against the wall nearby, saying nothing, only watching with a small smile—the quiet pride of a father who rarely voiced it.
Seeing him eat so hungrily, Yoshino lifted the bottom container and handed him the miso soup.
"Slow down, will you? You're gonna choke. The match is over. No one's going to steal your food."
Shikamaru opened his mouth to reply, but the next second—
gulp! He choked.
Panicked, he grabbed the miso soup and washed down the stuck rice, blinking rapidly.
He didn't say another word after that. Just ate quietly.
No matter how smart he was, he could never outmatch his mother's instincts.
Just then, another presence approached from the far end of the corridor.
Gaara stepped into view.
He glanced at Shikamaru, at the small family gathered around him.
He looked down. His chest tightened unbearably.
They looked so... happy.
It hurts… Why does my chest hurt like this?
Would my mother ever have looked at the sa way? With that kind of warmth?
Without saying a word, Gaara walked past the three of them. He didn't kill anyone. Didn't lash out. He simply clenched his fists and endured.
He had made new connections back in the Forest of Death. People who didn't treat him like a monster.
But the words "mother" and "father" were still heavy chains—two towering mountains that pressed down on his heart.
He could hardly breathe under their weight.
His father had tried to assassinate him repeatedly. His uncle Yashamaru had betrayed him, revealing horrifying truths about his mother's death.
So now he walked, haunted by a question that wouldn't let go.
Where is the love that belongs to ?
Am I really just a monster... a Shura who only knows how to love myself?
Pain pulsed behind his eyes, and dizziness threatened to throw him off balance. But he didn't stop.
He stepped into the arena ahead.
"The fifth match! Gaara vs. Abura Shino! Please give them a warm welco!"
The announcer's voice echoed through the stadium, riding on the wind.
And Gaara... found himself thinking:
If I can win the championship... Father will acknowledge . He'll see . He'll love ...
He walked forward with a fixed gaze, eyes filled with cold obsession.
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