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After several rounds of relentless chase and razor-sharp dodges, a sharp glint flashed in Yūhi Makoto's eyes.
He let the blade wind drive him into what looked like a desperate corner—barely scraping by—only to trigger a substitution jutsu at the last second and slip away clean.
The next instant he reappeared more than thirty feet out, feet slamming down hard. His hands blurred through a lightning-fast string of seals. Chakra surged, turning deep and unnaturally calm, yet radiating an invisible pressure that pressed down on the entire arena.
"Genjutsu: Red Lotus!"
The seals finished. Guided by Makoto's spiritual energy, an intangible Yin Release chakra cage snapped into place, locking onto the raging figure who had just shattered the substitution log and was already charging again.
Isshin's unstoppable, berserk lunge hit the barrier like a freight train plowing into invisible quicksand. His body locked rigid mid-stride.
The feral snarl on his face froze. His eyes went blank, pupils losing focus, like his soul had been yanked clean out.
To the stunned crowd the arena looked unchanged. But inside the genjutsu, Isshin's world flipped upside down.
The hard stone beneath his feet melted into an enormous, slowly spinning crimson lotus. Crystal-clear petals glowed with a hypnotic, mind-numbing light. The flower's platform clamped around him like iron bands. The stands, the shouts, the entire battlefield blurred and receded. Only the lotus grew larger and larger, petals folding inward to swallow him whole and crush him into nothing.
This was Yūhi Makoto's signature forbidden genjutsu—Red Lotus. It built a beautiful but lethal mental prison. Once caught, the victim suffered endless quiet erosion, their spirit slowly cut to pieces until it shattered.
"Got him!"
"Jonin Makoto wins!"
"About damn time! Let's see that samurai talk shit now!"
A heartbeat of stunned silence, then the Leaf side of the stands erupted in thunderous cheers.
Everyone saw the arrogant samurai frozen like a statue while Makoto—pale and breathing hard—stood tall in the middle of the ring. The signs of a successful high-level genjutsu were unmistakable.
"Dad won!" Kurenai clenched her fists, crimson eyes shining with pride as she turned to Tsunade, Shizune, and Shinichi beside her.
Shinichi's expression stayed oddly neutral. He said nothing, just gave the excited girl a quick glance.
Up on the VIP platform, Utatane Koharu let out an obvious sigh of relief, shoulders finally relaxing. "Finally… Makoto came through."
"Indeed," Mitokado Homura nodded, a small smile forming. "I know that Red Lotus technique of his. He's spent years perfecting it—pure mental suppression and binding. Perfect counter for a brute like this samurai."
In the clan viewing area, Uchiha Fugaku's three-tomoe Sharingan slowly spun to a stop, eyes returning to normal black. In his judgment, the fight was over.
Hyūga Hiashi and Hyūga Hizashi kept their Byakugan active, staring at the motionless Isshin. In their vision, the samurai's chakra flow had completely stalled.
Victory was decided.
Down in the arena, Yūhi Makoto exhaled a long, tired breath.
Chasing and dodging that human wrecking ball the entire match had demanded total focus. The drain on both body and mind was far heavier than it looked. He wasn't a taijutsu or ninjutsu specialist to begin with. Pulling off a genjutsu on the level of Red Lotus had sucked a massive chunk of his chakra and stamina in one go. His temples still throbbed with a faint, sharp ache.
He steadied himself, forced the discomfort down, and walked toward the statue-still samurai. The edge of the kunai in his hand caught the sunlight, flashing cold.
By the rules, all he had to do was rest the blade lightly against the opponent's throat or heart and the referee would call the win.
He was three steps away, arm already rising, when a very real spike of danger slammed into his gut.
Makoto's battle-honed instincts screamed for him to retreat—but he was still too slow.
The statue that had been Isshin moved.
No flourish, no technique. Just raw, terrifying power coiled into one simple, straight punch aimed straight at Makoto's face.
The fist hadn't even landed and the gale it threw already crushed the air out of Makoto's lungs.
In pure reflex he crossed his arms in front of him.
BOOM!
The heavy, meaty impact sounded like a sledgehammer driving into wet leather. An unstoppable force slammed into Makoto's guard. His arms went numb with pain. His whole body shot backward, feet skidding helplessly across the ground.
In that split second—while Makoto was off-balance, old momentum spent and new momentum not yet formed—Isshin's massive frame vanished from where he stood.
"Behind you—watch out!"
"Where the hell did he go?!"
The stands exploded with shocked cries.
Makoto's pupils shrank to pinpricks. Twisting mid-air, he tried to spin, but a cold line of steel already kissed the side of his neck—fast as a hallucination.
The moment his feet touched solid ground again, he heard the crisp, decisive click of a katana sliding home into its sheath behind him.
"You've lost, Leaf ninja," a calm, unshakable voice said at his back.
Lost?
Makoto's body locked up. He slowly raised a hand and touched the side of his neck. Warm liquid met his fingertips. A hair-thin cut, barely breaking the skin, was already beading with blood.
He stayed silent. In a real life-or-death fight, that single instant would have taken his head clean off.
"How is that possible?! He was caught in the genjutsu!"
Countless spectators shot to their feet, voices rising in disbelief.
"No way! I saw him frozen solid—the genjutsu definitely landed!"
"Gods… did he… did he fake it the whole time?!"
"Dirty as ever! Same cheap tricks!"
"But… faking something like that genjutsu? Is that even possible?"
In the clan seats, Uchiha Fugaku's normally impassive face finally cracked. Brows furrowed, he reactivated his Sharingan and locked onto the samurai who now stood with his blade sheathed.
"That shouldn't be possible. His spiritual fluctuations weren't fake—he really was pulled into the illusion. But the speed he broke free… it was instantaneous. How?"
The Hyūga brothers exchanged a single glance, both wearing the same baffled look.
On the VIP platform, Advisor Utatane Koharu's smile had frozen solid.
Mitokado Homura's hand stopped halfway to his glasses, eyes wide with shock behind the lenses.
Third Hokage Hiruzen Sarutobi took a long, slow pull on his pipe, then exhaled. Smoke curled around his face, hiding the deep, unreadable look in his eyes.