The skies were heavy and cloudy, a dense slate gray pressing down on the ancient, wooded landscape. Gusts of wind were blowing fiercely through the valley, carrying the smell of pine and damp earth. This natural amphitheater, a traditional ground for sorcerer duels, was already visibly scarred by previous, intense training clashes.
At the foot of a rolling hill, two individuals were seen clashing. Both were young, near the age of fifteen, yet possessed Cursed Energy (CE) reserves that terrified the old clans. One had a tall, and somewhat muscular frame with short hair—Sukuna. The other had black, waist-length, distinctive hedgehog-like hair—Madara. They were fighting not for honor or territory, but solely to prove who was the superior genius.
Sukuna moved first, his body a weapon, every motion driven by raw, cruel intuition.
"Hahaha, come on Madara, didn't sleep well?" Sukuna taunted, a wide, confident grin splitting his face as he launched a heavy, reinforced punch.
Madara's mind was already three steps ahead. He caught the thrown punch, the raw force of Sukuna's CE driving a sharp, jolting pain up his arm. He countered instantly with a powerful kick, aimed to disrupt the root of Sukuna's balance. The kick was caught by Sukuna, who easily blocked the attack. Yet, the focused damage recoil made him wince slightly—a tiny admission of pain that Madara's hyper-aware mind instantly registered.
"You celebrate too early, Sukuna," Madara retorted, his voice strained but steady. In that instant, his pupils shifted violently. They turned crimson, and the three tomoe rotating began spinning slowly and perfectly. He had activated his Sharingan, his Innate Technique.
Seeing Madara activate his cursed eye, Sukuna knew the sparring was over. He released the leg and jumped back about 3 meters, creating necessary distance. Landing, he initiated his innate technique, Shrine.
"Dismantle," he whispered, the sound barely audible.
The attack was invisible, silent, and instantaneous. A violent, razor-sharp slash shot straight toward Madara. The Sharingan tracked the attack not as a physical cut, but as a clear line of concentrated CE intent. Madara leaped high just as the attack passed underneath him, creating a deep crater and kicking up an immense cloud of dust and shredded earth right at his previous spot. The force of the destroyed ground made the very air ring.
Their intense commotion immediately attracted a large gathering. In no time, a sizeable crowd was formed at the perimeter of the valley. High-ranking clan elders and interested sorcerers quickly filled the vantage points. The entire crowd was buzzing with anticipation.
"Did you see that evasion?" shouted a junior sorcerer. "He saw the Dismantle coming—how is that possible without the Six Eyes?"
"It's the Sharingan's prediction," an elder Kamo sorcerer explained coolly. "It maps the fastest path of his rival's cursed energy. It means Madara knows what Sukuna will do before Sukuna's brain finishes the order."
"But will that be enough?" another sorcerer worried. "The score is close! This is their thirteenth fight with seven in Madara's favor and six in Sukuna's."
An arrogant Zenin nobleman sneered. "Madara's technique is fancy, but it relies on seeing. Sukuna's Shrine relies on pure, untamed output. Output always breaks precision. That 7-6 record proves the Sharingan is fallible when faced with true genius."
A subtle figure near the top of the hill, wearing the simple robes of a traveling priest—Kenjaku—watched with detached fascination. 'Seven to six. Chaos versus Strategy. They are two sides of the same glorious coin,'.
Meanwhile, the two combatants had reached the hot stage. They moved into close quarters, where the Sharingan's perception fought against the brute speed of Sukuna's reinforced body. They clashed fist to fist, parrying, blocking, every strike turning the air into a blunt weapon.
Sukuna managed to slip a brutal punch through Madara's guard, hitting him hard in the abdomen. Madara gasped, the shock freezing his diaphragm. This was followed instantly by a devastating kick. In that second, Sukuna focused his Cursed Energy with inhuman clarity; the strike just happened to be a Black Flash.
The phenomenon—the burst of Cursed Energy hitting within millionths of a second—warped the very space around Sukuna's foot. Luckily, Madara's Sharingan had provided the instinctual warning. He contorted his body violently away from the impact, letting the attack barely cut a few pieces of his hair as it passed. The sheer power of the blow sent a massive spiritual wave washing over him.
Groggy from the use of Black Flash—Sukuna raised his head, momentarily dazed by the effort of the attack.
"Illusion: Sharingan," Madara whispered, seizing the window.
In that single, desperate moment of vulnerability, Sukuna's dazed eyes accidentally met Madara's. The illusion technique worked instantly, freezing Sukuna's consciousness for a few seconds. He was trapped in a brief moment of self-doubt.
That temporary paralysis was all the opening Madara needed. With Sukuna's body completely unguarded, Madara's physical body moved with cold precision. A heavy kick slammed into Sukuna's abdomen, winding him completely. This was followed by a final, decisive punch to the chin. Madara channeled his energy into the blow, and it was a coincidental maybe intentional strike black flash.
The force of the punch caused Sukuna's body to slam straight into the grass, lifting a cloud of dust and sending tremors through the hill. Madara stood over him, breathing raggedly. He was sweaty, dirty, and tired, but still standing. He had won the duel.
The crowd erupted into a deafening roar. They surged forward, chanting, "Madara, Madara, Madara!"
Madara stood still for a minute, forcing his racing Cursed Energy to calm, ignoring the pain in his body. He knew he was at his human limit. He finally got up, pushing past the debilitating exhaustion, and stretched a hand to Sukuna.
Sukuna slowly pulled himself up from the dirt. He glanced at the offered hand, the sting of defeat palpable on his face, but the respect was undeniable. He ultimately took it, using Madara's grip to pull himself upright. He was battered, but still defiant.
"You won this time," Sukuna admitted, his voice low with simmering rivalry. "I let my power become a distraction. It won't be same next Time. I will find a way to break that eye."
Madara met his gaze, his crimson Sharingan slowly fading back to black. "I'll be waiting for you to try. I will always be one step ahead," he replied coolly, his expression a mixture of fatigue and triumph.
Madara thought, 'He said that last time. And he will be stronger next time.' He knew this dangerous competition was the only thing that forced his genius to its true limit. The thrilling, terrible reality was that their genius was bound forever, defined by the constant, brutal necessity of competing with one another.
In the present day, the final confrontation had just begun...