Naruto: Beyond The Dreamscape

Today is the day.

The day Mayumi faced Uchiha Yuko.

She stood in the middle of the training field, small but unshaken. Her feet were planted firmly, her shoulders squared, her breathing steady. But beneath the calm surface, her heartbeat thundered.

This wasn't just a duel between children.

It was a test.

A test of will.

Of strength.

Of everything she had fought to become in just three months of grueling, soul-breaking training.

A declaration.

A message to everyone watching that she—Mayumi, youngest daughter of the clan head—was not to be overlooked.

Her father's voice rang out from the sidelines. "Mayumi, are you ready?"

"Yes, Father," she replied, her voice clear despite the tightness in her chest.

She knew Madara-nii-san was awake, recovering at home. The medics had forbidden him from attending the duel, but she could almost feel his presence anyway, as if part of him was here—watching, willing her to win.

Everyone else was present. Even Izuna, who clung shyly to their mother's side, quiet and wide-eyed. Izamu was whistling, then called out loudly, "Try not to embarrass me today!"

What a brat.

The clan elders lined one side of the field like silent statues, their expressions unreadable. And near the front—arms folded and chin high—stood Uchiha Yuko's grandfather, his pride radiating like heat.

She knew what he thought.

That his grandson was destined to win.

That she was just a small, soft girl who hadn't even finished learning the clan's basic forms.

It was an opportunity. His grandson, defeating the daughter of the clan leader?

What an honor.

She glanced at Yuko as he stepped into the ring. His hair was tied neatly behind his head, his practice blade strapped across his back. He moved like someone used to winning—confident, precise, effortless.

And yet… she smiled.

He's already underestimating her.

"Alright," the old Shinobi said, raising his hand. "Are both fighters ready?"

Mayumi gave a small nod. Yuko barely acknowledged the question, his eyes already locked on her.

"Then… begin!"

The judge's hand dropped.

The crowd stilled.

Mayumi and Yuko didn't move.

Not at first.

They stood like statues across from each other, the tension between them stretching like a taut wire. Every breath Mayumi took felt loud in her ears.

Then, suddenly—

Yuko exploded forward, fast as lightning.

His foot struck the dirt, sending up a small cloud of dust as he darted forward with sharp, explosive speed. In a single fluid motion, his hand slipped to his pouch and flicked three shuriken through the air—each aimed with surgical precision.

Three shuriken flew through the air before Mayumi even finished her inhale.

Her body moved before her mind caught up.

She twisted to the side—barely clearing the first shurigan—then dropped into a low roll, the second slicing past her shoulder close enough for her to feel the wind off its edge. The third embedded into the ground just behind her heel as she came back up, feet steady, breath sharp.

The crowd murmured. A few impressed whistles broke the silence.

She had dodged them all.

Yuko didn't hesitate. He was already on the move again, closing the gap between them with frightening ease. His wooden blade was in his hand now, a flicker of dark wood in the sunlight. His strikes came hard and fast—clean, efficient arcs aimed not to maim but to overwhelm.

Mayumi's breath hitched as she ducked beneath a high swing, her small frame giving her an advantage in agility. She stepped in and aimed a punch at his ribs—but he blocked it with the back of his arm and retaliated with a spinning sweep meant to knock her legs out.

She jumped—barely.

Her toes grazed the sweep as she twisted in the air, landing in a crouch just out of his range.

Too close.

Far too close.

He's very good.

His strikes were relentless—measured and practiced. Not wild. Not angry. He moved with the calm confidence of someone who had won a hundred battles.

She watched Yuko readjust his stance—composed, unfazed. He didn't look angry. If anything, he looked amused.

"You're fast," he said under his breath. "Faster than I expected."

Mayumi didn't answer.

She narrowed her eyes.

And charged.

Her breathing quickened as she shifted into evasive motion. She couldn't match power with power. That wasn't the path Takaro-sensei taught her.

She had to be faster. Smarter.

Every strike he threw landed with precision—aimed straight at her joints.

Mayumi gritted her teeth, struggling to withstand the relentless barrage. She wasn't fighting back—she was holding on, barely managing to defend against the sharp, practiced blows that forced her on the defensive.

Yuko wasn't even trying his hardest.

His face was unreadable—calm, almost bored—but his eyes carried the faintest hint of amusement. She had surprised him earlier, sure, but not enough to make him see her as a real opponent.

To him, she was just a little girl who had put on a decent show.

But for Mayumi, every second in the ring was costing her something.

Her arms were growing heavy, her ribs ached from close grazes, and bruises had already started blooming across her forearms and shoulders.

She was accumulating damage, little by little.

I can't keep this up.

I have to dodge—then find his weakness.

Takaro-sensei's brutal training echoed in her mind. No mercy. No shortcuts. He had drilled her reflexes over and over until her body moved before her brain caught up.

She had learned how to read motion.

How to slip through narrow gaps between attacks.

And now, those lessons were saving her.

Her own counterattacks were still weak, lacking weight—but her evasions were improving. Her timing was sharpening, her steps lighter, more precise.

And Yuko noticed.

His brow furrowed slightly. He narrowed his eyes.

She's getting faster…?

She's adapting in the middle of the fight?

The shift was subtle, but it was there.

Mayumi's breathing quickened as she slid beneath his next strike, his wooden blade whistling just above her head. Dust kicked up around her feet as she spun out of his range.

Her eyes never left his face—watching, calculating.

Then, in a sudden flash of movement, she cut across the battlefield with a sidestep feint, weaving behind him.

A sharp roundhouse kick connected with the side of his ribs.

It wasn't a strong blow—but it was clean. A hit.

She used the momentum to leap backward,

her sandals skimming the dirt as she widened the distance between herself and Yuko.

No hesitation.

Now was the time.

She brought her hands together, fingers weaving through a blur of hand signs, her expression focused and calm.

Tiger. Ram. Monkey. Boar. Horse. Tiger.

"Fire Style: Great Fireball Jutsu!"

She inhaled deeply, chakra gathering in her chest—then exhaled, releasing a massive surge of heat and flame from her lips.

A giant fireball roared forth, the flames spiraling with intensity as it surged across the training field. Gasps echoed from the watching crowd as the blaze illuminated the space between the two children.

It wasn't just the size—it was the control.

A fireball nearly two meters in diameter—launched by a girl barely five years old.

Even among the Uchiha, that was rare.

Murmurs rippled through the spectators.

"Impressive…!"

"Is that a Great Fireball?"

"At her age? That's unreal."

"She's already molding that much chakra?"

The Great Fireball Jutsu was foundational, yes—but it demanded precise chakra molding, high output, and rapid, uninterrupted hand signs. Most Uchiha children didn't master it until they were ten or older.

This girl was five.

And yet, she had summoned one with ease.

"She has real potential," one elder murmured.

But not everyone was impressed.

"So what?" a boy near the edge scoffed. "That jutsu's only good for show. It's slow. Easy to dodge."

Another boy next to him elbowed him. "Come on, Yagami. You're just jealous. You didn't manage that jutsu until you were fifteen."

"Hey! That's uncalled for!"

"Be quiet," an older shinobi snapped.

But one voice cut through the chatter.

"Wait… something's off."

"What do you mean?"

"Look—look closely at the fireball!"

The crowd turned back to the field.

Eyes widened.

The fireball was no longer a single mass of flame.

It had split into four.

In midair.

Four equally sized, equally fast projectiles shot out in different directions—curving toward Yuko like flaming spears from every angle.

"What?!"

"Impossible—she split it?"

"She manipulated the fireball mid-flight?!"

Yuko's confident expression faltered. His stance shifted. His eyes narrowed.

He moved.

His body twisted sharply as he ducked beneath one fireball, then flipped back to avoid another. A third clipped his sleeve, singing the fabric. The fourth he barely blocked with a swift spin and downward slash of his wooden blade—sending the flames dispersing in a sharp gust of heat.

Even so… he had been pushed back.

He stood several meters from where he'd started, breathing hard, sweat forming at his temple.

For the first time, Yuko looked at her—not with amusement, but with seriousness.

Mayumi's lips curled into a quiet smile.

This was her creation.

Her version of the Great Fireball.

Fast, precise, and unpredictable.

Yes, the jutsu had weaknesses.

So she made it evolve.

If it was too slow—make it fast.

If it was easy to dodge—turn it into a barrage.

Four fireballs.

Four directions.

One five-year-old genius.

From the sideline, Takaro's arms were crossed. He didn't smile often, but now, a faint smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. He turned his head slightly, glancing toward Tajima, who stood stiff and silent, jaw clenched.

Takaro murmured under his breath, just loud enough for Tajima to hear:

"The saying goes, 'If it's a real gem, even mud can't bury it.' Looks like it's true after all… We can't stop her anymore."

Tajima said nothing.

But his eyes were locked on his daughter now—with something far beyond surprise.

As Yuko shifted his stance—his stance tightening, his aura sharpening, ready to unleash his full strength—Mayumi did something no one expected.

She smiled.

Then, with deliberate calm, she raised one small hand toward the sky and spoke, her voice clear, steady, and without regret.

"I forfeit."

The words sliced through the air like a blade.

For a moment, silence blanketed the entire training field.

Yuko halted mid-stride, the tension in his shoulders locked in place.

The judge blinked.

Gasps echoed from the crowd. A ripple of disbelief spread through the onlookers like wildfire.

Even the elders looked stunned.

She could feel their shock. See it in their eyes. Hear it in the breath they all held.

That was enough.

She had already achieved what she came here for.

Why continue a battle she might not win?

Why take unnecessary hits just to prove something she had already shown?

There was no need to bleed for it.

She wasn't here to win the fight.

She was here to make a statement.

And she had.

A five-year-old girl, standing firm against one of the clan's most promising young prodigies—and making him take her seriously.

To speak plainly, there was no realistic way she could outmatch Yuko—not someone so thoroughly trained in both Kenjutsu and Taijutsu.

If she had to lose, this was the best possible outcome.

She couldn't rival him.

Not yet.

Right now, she stood tall.

Unbroken. Respected.

Better to step away now—while the impression of her strength still lingered.

Takaro-sensei's voice echoed in her memory:

"If you must lose, lose gracefully."

She had chosen exactly that.

Because in this moment, Mayumi hadn't lost.

And in doing so, she had won something greater.

Acknowledgement.

From the crowd.

From the elders.

Even, perhaps, from her father.

They would remember this—not as a defeat, but as the day a little girl stood her ground against the odds and walked away with her head held high.

And Yuko?

He would remember too.

That was enough.

For now.

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