The field had gone quiet again, but not because the fight was over—no, it was the silence of everyone trying to make sense of what they were seeing.
Asuma stared at me, his face cycling through expressions like a slot machine in crisis. Confusion, disbelief, maybe a little gas. The man couldn't decide whether I was bluffing or a miniaturized war god in a blindfold.
His pride whispered "just a kid," but that survival instinct in the back of his brain? It was screaming "abort mission!"
And yet, he wasn't backing down.
Typical grown-up.
I wasn't even using my full strength. Chakra-based ninjutsu was off the table for now—too flashy, too traceable. But throwing shuriken? That I could finesse. And when you have absurdly optimized motion tracking, borderline precognitive reflexes, and a physics-defying soul system backing your aim?
Well, you turn shuriken into heat-seeking poetry.
With just a flick of my fingers, I unleashed a storm.
Clink—!
Clink—!
CLINK—!
Shuriken curved, ricocheted, bounced mid-air like choreographed dancers, forming a deadly net Asuma couldn't escape.
He ducked, spun, and narrowly avoided being turned into a colander. The sweat on his brow said it all: he didn't understand what was happening, and he was panicking in lowercase.
Every blade was aimed precisely—not to kill, but to humiliate. His arms, legs, even the hem of his pants were nearly sliced, only to be spared at the last second. And with every miss, the blades bounced back into the fray, creating an inescapable storm.
"Is that even humanly possible?!"
"Bro, did that shuriken just bounce off another one and come back around?!"
"I take it back—he's not hanging the examiner, he's knitting a sweater out of shuriken around him!"
"Look at his face! He's not even trying!"
Voices erupted around us. Even Anko had gone slack-jawed, her earlier teasing replaced by honest awe.
Orochimaru stood still, but I noticed it—the subtle twitch in his fingers.
He was excited.
Perfect calculation, no wasted movement, zero chakra signatures to trace. This wasn't any Leaf technique. This was me—Uchiha Satoru—showing off just enough to be interesting.
As for Asuma?
He was still alive… somehow.
Barely.
The man had avoided everything.
Which was odd.
No one was that lucky, not against my calculations.
He should've been tagged at least once.
So how did he manage?
I watched him puff his chest, wearing a smug grin as the incense timer approached its final moments.
"Cough cough!" He cleared his throat, trying to play cool despite the nervous twitch in his eye. "Time's up, brat. Looks like you won't be graduating today. Come back in two years—maybe then you'll have a shot."
I tilted my head and gave him a patient smile, like a teacher waiting for a kindergartener to finish his wrong answer.
"Hey, Asuma-sensei," I said. "You mentioned earlier… if someone so much as touched your clothes, they'd pass. Right?"
"Yeah, yeah." He waved me off. "Touch the hem of my majestic Jonin cloak before time's up and you win. But time's out, kid. Tough luck."
The crowd murmured again. Some sympathetic. Some frustrated.
"He was so close."
"He should've passed already."
"Guy threw hands with a Jonin and lived. That's gotta count for something!"
I just nodded, ignoring all of it.
"You're right," I said softly, pushing my blindfold up just slightly so he could see the glint in my eyes. "It is a comeback."
I made a quick hand seal.
"Wind Style: Just Blow It."
Yes, that was the actual name.
A gentle breeze tickled through the field like a spring sigh. Asuma looked confused. "That's it?"
But then—
"OH MY GOD!"
"NO WAY!"
"HIS CLOTHES! HIS CLOTHES ARE GONE!"
Shrieks filled the air.
Asuma looked around in slow motion, seeing his students and colleagues either gaping in horror or respectfully looking away.
Confused, he glanced down.
And froze.
His prized Jonin cloak—gone.
Not burned, not sliced—evaporated. Reduced to a confetti-like trail fluttering on the breeze.
My breeze.
I stepped forward casually and picked up a scrap of gray fabric from the grass.
"You said if we touched your clothes, we pass, right?" I asked, holding the fabric up like a trophy.
The other students immediately dove to the ground, fighting over shreds like Black Friday shoppers at a clearance bin.
"Mine!"
"This one's mine!"
"Examiner, look! I definitely touched this!"
Asuma stood there, face blank, soul shattered.
The wind tugged gently at what was left of his pride.
Orochimaru watched with fascination, a wide smile curling at his lips. His eyes glinted unnaturally, perhaps even… hungrily.
"Uchiha Satoru… I must study you."
Meanwhile, Asuma could only stare at the debris of his dignity.
"Uchiha Satoru…" he choked, voice breaking.
"I won't let you get away with this!"
"Bro, your shirt's already gone," I muttered under my breath. "Pretty sure you're the one who got away with nothing."