They stepped forward at the same time.
Roen felt it before anything happened.
So this is it I'm about to fight Itachi
In his previous life, this had been a character. A name in debates. A power scale argument. A tragedy arc.
Now he was six years old, standing in sandals on packed dirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
He looked younger than memory had made him.
Smaller. Calmer than he expected. That calm bothered him.
Daichi stepped back.
"Begin."
Roen moved first.
No circling.
He closed distance with a sharp step and threw a straight punch toward Itachi's chest, not to land heavy but to test reaction.
Itachi raised his forearm and redirected the strike instead of blocking it head-on. The contact was light, clean. No wasted movement.
Roen followed immediately with a low kick toward the thigh.
Itachi shifted his weight back half a step.
Just half.
Roen pressed.
A quick one-two combination chest, shoulder forcing Itachi's guard to rise. He pivoted right and tried to cut inside the angle.
Itachi yielded again. Small steps. No panic. Roen felt the rhythm. He increased tempo.
Another punch, sharper now. Itachi parried late enough that the knuckles brushed fabric. Not clean contact. But close.
Roen stepped in and drove a palm toward the ribs.
This time he made contact. Controlled. Light. But real.
A murmur ran through part of the class.
Itachi's expression didn't change.
But his eyes did. They sharpened. The next exchange came faster.
Roen stepped in again, expecting the same defensive give.
It wasn't there. Itachi didn't step back. He stepped in.
Their forearms collided at close range. Itachi's shoulder pressed into Roen's chest, cutting the space he needed to extend. Roen tried to pivot out, but Itachi's hand was already on his wrist, redirecting his balance slightly off center.
Not strong.
Precise.
Roen twisted free and swung again, faster this time.
Itachi wasn't where he expected. Not gone. Just slightly outside the line.
Roen adjusted mid-motion and snapped a backfist toward the head.
Itachi ducked under it and tapped Roen's side with two fingers.
Controlled. Roen felt the difference immediately. The gap wasn't strength. It was timing. He reset. This time he didn't rush.
He watched Itachi's shoulders instead of his hands.
The moment tension built in the upper body, he moved first.
Their arms clashed in quick succession. Short exchanges now. No wide swings. Punch, parry, elbow feint, guard shift.
Roen began adapting faster. Itachi blocked high. Roen attacked low next time. Itachi angled right.
Roen cut the angle on the following step.
The delay between observation and correction shortened.
Daichi's eyes narrowed slightly. Itachi increased pressure. Still no flash. Just tighter spacing.
There was less room to breathe. The room to move shrank. Each time he tried to reset distance, Itachi stepped forward, forcing him to react inside a smaller window.
Roen's breathing rose.
He pushed through it.
He committed to a forward burst, aiming to overwhelm. Three quick strikes in succession chest, shoulder, collarbone forcing guard reactions.
For a second, Itachi's guard shifted wider than before.
Roen stepped in hard.
Itachi was already rotating.
Roen felt his wrist caught, momentum redirected. His own forward drive carried him slightly past his base. He tried to correct, planting his foot early.
Too early.
Itachi's leg swept low, not violently, just at the right angle.
Roen hit the ground flat on his back.
Before he could roll, Itachi's knee pinned lightly against his forearm, one hand pressing his shoulder just enough to prevent movement.
Not crushing.
Not painful.
Finished.
Silence settled over the yard.
Daichi spoke.
"Enough."
Itachi stood immediately and stepped back.
Roen remained on the ground for half a second longer, staring up at the sky.
His chest rose and fell steadily. No embarrassment. No shame. Just clarity.
He had not been overwhelmed by speed.
He had not been overpowered.
He had been out-timed. Every time. He stood on his own.
Itachi's gaze lingered a fraction longer than before.
Not admiration. Recognition.
Roen brushed dust from his sleeve.
The difference wasn't strength. It was timing.