The ceremonial drums thunder once more across the Kyobi Battlegrounds.
BOOOOOM.
BOOOOOM.
The mountain wind shifts.
Foxfire braziers surrounding the colossal arena burn brighter, their sacred blue flames dancing across ancient stone carved by generations long forgotten.
At the center platform—
Elder Renkai steps forward once more.
The foxfire along his staff glows softly beneath Mount Kyobi's silent gaze.
His voice echoes across the battleground.
Elder Renkai:
"From the Kitayama Village...."
A slight ripple spreads through the crowd.
"GOROU"
The warrior gate opens.
STONE GRINDS.
A figure slowly emerges.
Heavy boots strike ancient stone.
THUD.
THUD.
THUD.
Gorou walks forward calmly.
Broad shoulders.
Battle-worn armor lined with white fur from the northern territories.
A large foxfire war blade rests over one shoulder—its edge carrying faint crimson markings glowing beneath the mountain light.
A scar crosses his cheek.
Not hidden.
Earned.
Whispers rise immediately.
"Kitayama Village..."
"That explains him..."
"He looks terrifying..."
Kaito leans slightly forward.
Kaito:
"That guy looks like he fights mountains for practice."
Jack remains silent.
Observing.
Analyzing.
Gorou stops at the center arena.
Then—
Elder Renkai speaks again.
"From the Kirisame Village..."
"—OBORO."
The opposite warrior gate slowly opens.
Mist spills outward.
Not natural.
Controlled.
Intentional.
Footsteps emerge from within drifting white fog.
Soft.
Measured.
Oboro appears.
Lighter armor.
Gray ceremonial combat robes.
A curved foxfire blade rests quietly at his side.
Calm eyes.
Still posture.
But the mist around him never settles.
It moves.
Breathes.
Listens.
Yukito watches from lower seating now.
Yukito:
"Okay..."
"That's cool."
Miko grips the railing tightly.
Miko:
"The mist is following him..."
Shiori quietly speaks.
Shiori:
"Mist users create uncertainty."
"Your eyes see one thing."
"Reality becomes another."
At center arena—
Gorou slowly plants his blade beside him.
THUNK.
Oboro lowers his stance.
Mist spreads slowly outward across arena stone.
The drums strike once.
BOOOOOOM.
Elder Renkai raises his staff.
"Let the second battle of the Kyobi Veilcrest Festival..."
"BEGIN!"
THOOOM.
Gorou explodes forward.
Arena stone cracks beneath his step.
No hesitation.
Pure overwhelming force.
His war blade swings downward.
CRAAAAASH.
Oboro vanishes.
The strike obliterates stone.
Dust erupts violently.
Gasps explode across audience terraces.
"Where did he go?!"
Behind Gorou—
Mist gathers instantly.
Oboro appears.
Blade flashing.
SHHHK.
Steel slices across Gorou's shoulder guard.
Sparks burst.
Gorou twists immediately.
No panic.
No delay.
His elbow crashes backward.
BOOM.
Oboro barely blocks.
The impact launches him backward across arena stone.
Kaito grips the railing.
Kaito:
"He hits insanely hard..."
Jack watches quietly.
Eyes narrowing.
Jack:
"Oboro's avoiding direct clashes."
"He knows Gorou wins power exchanges."
Center arena—
Oboro exhales.
Mist thickens.
Suddenly—
Five Oboros appear.
The crowd erupts.
"Clones?!"
"No..."
"Mist illusion techniques..."
The copies rush simultaneously.
Left.
Right.
Front.
Rear.
Gorou stands still.
Watching.
Breathing.
Then—
CRACK.
Crimson foxfire erupts beneath his feet.
KITSUNE ART—
CRIMSON FANG STEP.
BOOOOOOM.
Gorou moves.
Not toward Oboro—
Through him.
His blade tears through illusion after illusion.
Mist explodes apart.
Fake.
Fake.
Fake—
CLANG.
Steel collides.
Real.
The true Oboro blocks.
Arena stone fractures beneath both fighters.
The audience erupts.
"He found him instantly!"
Oboro pushes backward.
Mist coils violently around his blade.
MIST TECHNIQUE—
PHANTOM VEIL.
SHHHHH.
The entire battlefield disappears beneath thick silver fog.
Even audience vision blurs.
Kaito squints.
"I can't see anything..."
Miko grips the railing tighter.
"Where are they...?"
Only sounds remain.
KLANG.
SHHHK.
BOOM.
Steel.
Movement.
Breathing.
Then—
A figure bursts outward.
GOROU.
A slash cuts across his arm.
Blood darkens fur-lined armor.
The crowd gasps.
Other warriors watching rise slightly.
Concern.
Focus.
Gorou wipes blood from his arm.
Looks toward the fog.
Then—
Smiles.
Not anger.
Excitement.
Gorou:
"Good."
"Very good."
Foxfire markings beneath his blade ignite brighter.
The arena temperature shifts.
The mountain wind grows heavier.
Within the fog—
Oboro slowly appears once more.
A cut marks his cheek.
Blood slides downward.
His calm eyes sharpen.
Neither warrior lowers their weapon.
Foxfire embers drift slowly between them.
The mountain watches.
The crowd watches.
Even Jack—
Feels the battleground growing heavier.
More dangerous.
More alive.
Far above—
Mount Kyobi remains silent.
Ancient.
Watching.
Judging.
And at center arena—
Gorou slowly lifts his war blade.
Oboro lowers himself into stance.
Mist coils around him once more.
Oboro:
"KITSUNE ART...."
"SILVER FUNERAL DOMAIN."
Silence followed.
Not ordinary silence.
Wrong silence.
The kind that made even breathing sound loud.
The Silver Funeral Domain consumed the battlefield.
No wind.
No foxfire crackling.
No cheers.
Nothing.
Only silver.
Endless silver.
Inside the domain—
Gorou tightened his grip around the war blade.
His instincts screamed.
Every warrior possessed battle instincts.
Trusted them with their lives.
Right now—
Every instinct he possessed was warning him.
Run.
For the first time since entering the tournament—
Gorou could not locate his opponent.
Not by sight.
Not by sound.
Not by presence.
Nothing.
Oboro had vanished completely.
The crowd watched from outside the domain.
Thousands filled the battlegrounds.
Yet nobody spoke.
Because something about the mist felt unnatural.
Ancient.
Predatory.
Like standing at the edge of a frozen lake and realizing something was staring back from beneath the ice.
Then—
A footprint appeared beside Gorou.
One footprint.
Fresh.
Silent.
The northern warrior spun instantly.
Nothing.
Another footprint.
Behind him.
Then another.
Then another.
Slowly circling.
The crowd felt chills crawl down their spines.
Miko gripped the railing.
"Where is he...?"
No one answered.
Because nobody knew.
Not even Jack.
Jack's eyes narrowed.
For the first time all tournament—
He couldn't read a fighter completely.
Inside the mist—
Gorou roared.
Crimson foxfire erupted.
BOOOOOOOM.
Power exploded outward.
Enough force to destroy stone.
Enough force to overwhelm most opponents.
The mist parted.
Then closed again.
As if the domain had swallowed the attack.
The crowd went silent.
Completely silent.
A cut appeared across Gorou's shoulder.
SHHK.
No attacker.
Only blood.
Another cut.
SHHK.
His arm.
Another.
His side.
He turned again.
Nothing.
The audience's excitement began changing.
Into unease.
Then fear.
Because they realized something.
Oboro wasn't fighting Gorou.
He was hunting him.
Like a fox stalking prey through winter fog.
Patient.
Methodical.
Unavoidable.
Then—
Oboro appeared.
Directly ahead.
Still.
Calm.
Expressionless.
Not a drop of wasted movement.
Not a single sign of exertion.
His gray robes drifted softly through the silver mist.
His eyes remained empty.
Cold.
Ancient.
Watching.
The entire arena felt colder.
Even the mountain wind seemed to stop.
Gorou charged immediately.
A warrior's instinct.
A warrior's pride.
His war blade descended with enough force to split stone.
CRAAAAAAAASH.
The attack passed through empty mist.
Oboro had already moved.
One step.
Just one.
A perfect step.
Nothing more.
The difference between them became terrifyingly clear.
Gorou fought the battlefield.
Oboro controlled it.
Then—
Oboro appeared behind him.
Silent.
His blade rested lightly against Gorou's shoulder.
No dramatic pose.
No declaration.
No celebration.
Only certainty.
The mist slowly drifted around them.
Oboro spoke.
For the first time since the battle began.
His voice was quiet.
Almost gentle.
"You never saw the battlefield."
A pause.
"You only saw me."
The words hit harder than any attack.
Silence followed.
Absolute silence.
Gorou slowly lowered his weapon.
Because he understood.
The moment Oboro activated the domain—
The battle had already ended.
He simply hadn't realized it yet.
When Gorou dropped to one knee—
Nobody cheered.
Nobody moved.
Thousands simply stared at Oboro.
Because victory wasn't what frightened them.
It was how effortless it looked.
How calm he remained.
How little emotion he showed.
Even after winning.
Above the arena—
Jack continued watching.
For the first time that day—
His expression became serious.
Very serious.
Because one thought entered his mind.
If Oboro becomes an opponent later...
The tournament just became far more dangerous.