Takuma wasn’t expecting Toridasu’s appearance, but his words had made it a welcome thing. It made sense that Toridasu would come as Masumoto was trying to impress the guy, but Takuma thought he would observe without being seen. Perhaps that was a wrong assumption for a flashy man like Toridasu.

However, Takuma discerned from Toridasu’s words that he didn’t think Takuma would win. His true want was a fight between Anko and Masumoto—he was playing with the chunin, and Takuma was just the best way to make it happen. He couldn’t guess why because he didn’t have any real understanding of the man. Maybe Toridasu was bored and wanted some entertainment.

“I personally think this is a waste of time, but if you see some merit, I will comply.” Masumoto had long hair that he tied up in a messy bun with a hair stick as he entered the ‘field.’ He regarded Takuma with an air of superiority. “Maybe you think you earned your arrogance, but you just haven’t been knocked around enough, kid. I'll make a quick lesson out of this.”

Masumoto accused Takuma of being arrogant, but his words were full of arrogance and overconfidence that his own ability was so much better than Takuma’s. He considered those words, savored them, and decided that it was time to start the battle.

He bent down to fold his pants above his calves and pulled his shirt off, then the weighted gear, followed by the chainmail undershirt, and finally the innermost white vest, leaving his torso bare. Takuma usually wore full-sleeved clothes because his scars drew too much attention but he wanted Masumoto to know who he was fighting.

He noticed the whispers when he ditched his wrist and ankle weights. He knew it would happen, but he didn’t mind it—he had long gotten used to it. In some ways, his current attire was freeing. It took him back to his days in the Ring. He closed his eyes, and breathed through nose, filling it with the heavy scent of sweat—and as distant as it was, he heard the crowd’s roars.

“Knocking those weights isn’t going to help much,” said Masumoto, but his eyes lingered on Takuma’s scars as he watched Takuma throw his clothes away. “You should at least put the chainmail back on. It won’t make a difference, but at least, you’ll feel safer.”

Takuma’s reply was to take out two blank masks from his pouch and toss one of them to Masumoto.

“I will wear one if you wear one,” Takuma held up the mask in his hand. “There’s no dome, or that awfully bloody floor, or a roaring audience screaming at the top of their lungs—but I think those masks will be enough to bring that hateful vibe here.”

Masumoto’s eyes widened in surprise at Takuma’s very pointed words. He looked at the mask in his hand, and realization dawned on him. He looked around, at the crowd, at Toridasu, for their reactions and recognition. He looked half-worried even though he had been bragging about the thing a few nights ago.

“Bishop,” said Takuma, clearing any and all doubt.

The surprise dripped away from Masumoto’s face. He looked at Takuma’s exposed torso and arms.

“…Scars, was it?” he said. “I don’t think we ever fought, did we? You were after my time.”

“We fought, we did. But I was a baby back then. You beat me good,” Takuma smiled.

“This is what… revenge?”

“Oh no, I don’t care about it enough for it to be revenge… It’s a simple rematch.”

The growing grin on Masumoto’s face said that he didn’t believe Takuma. “Sure, it’s not like I have a choice in the matter.” He asked, “Ring’s rules?”

“No rules.”

“No rules, ballsy. Fine by me. A repeat performance it is.”

“A reverse performance,” Takuma corrected him. “I’m going to thrash you so hard that you will lose a few inches. Not that you have many of those.”

“I doubt that, boy.” Masumoto threw the blank face mask away. And unlike Takuma, he didn’t remove his clothes. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Takuma smiled. He threw the mask as well.

“No rules, remember,” he said.

———

.

Some distance away from Takuma and Masumoto, Anko was in her own mind. She was going to fight Masumoto after Takuma, and she was planning to carefully observe the fight to gain insight into Masumoto’s combat style. She readied herself—watching a fight and observing a fight to get actual insight were two very different things.

But then she heard her name called. Anko turned back at Toridasu’s voice and walked to him.

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“Yes, sir?” she asked. Toridasu was once again playing a game, and she was displeased to be a part of it without knowing what it was.

“What are they talking about?” he asked her.

“Pardon, I’m not sure what you mean,” she returned.

“Don’t act clueless, girl. They obviously know each other somewhere else, but not by their true identities. Scars and Bishop—those are aliases of some kind. What are they?”

“And why do you think I would know about them, sir?”

“Let’s just say it’s a hunch… Both of them were stationed in the Hidden Leaf village, and so were you.” Toridasu stared at her from the side, expecting an answer from her.

Anko sighed before starting. “They’re talking about an underground fighting ring called the Ring. Scars and Bishop are obviously their stage names. Takuma mentioned a dome and a bloody floor; all Ring arenas are chain-linked domes.” She pointed at the masks both of them had thrown away. “The fighters wear masks to hide their identities— and male fighters fight bare-chested with shorts like Takuma’s emulating now.”

“You seem knowledgeable about it all. Did you, perchance, participate in prizefighting? I wouldn’t be surprised,” Toridasu hid his smile behind his fan.

“Purely as an audience member, sir.” She raised her eyes to match his gaze. “I’m surprised you didn’t know about it. You, too, are stationed in the village.”

Toridasu laughed boisterously as though mocking Anko. “I’ve been a jonin longer than you have been alive, dear Anko. Yes, I have heard of the Ring—but I’m not familiar with it to a degree where I can deduce it from a vague conversation. I’m in a far different social hierarchy than all of you here; I frequent the circles the Daimyo is part of. Watching shinobi fight might be of interest to the civilians, but it does nothing for me. I’ve already seen a lifetime of it and continue to see more.”

Anko rolled her eyes. She couldn’t care how posh Toridasu’s life was—he was just a bald git to her.

“But it’s impressive that you could piece it together so quickly. No wonder you were selected into the T&I department,” Toridasu commented off-handedly.

Anko’s thoughts came to a crashing stop. She stared at him, doubting what she had just heard. Even Toridasu looked like he didn’t realize what he had just said.

“What did you just say?” she asked.

“Hmm?” Toridasu stared back and a flash of understanding shone across his face. “Oh!” he laughed. “They didn’t tell you? It’s in your file. Yeah, you got selected into T&I, but you were deployed before you could join. Maybe that’s why they didn’t bother telling you. Pretty funny if you ask me.”

Anko had already stopped listening. She looked ahead, unable to focus on anything happening around her. She wanted to flee to a place where no one could find her so she could be left alone.

The best time of her life was training under Orochimaru. The training was harsh, and he was tough on her, but she felt gratified when he praised her and when she felt she had improved. When she made chunin, she was showered with praise from all over the country—most of them were because she was Orochimaru’s student when he was still the honorable Sannin—but she didn’t mind it as she had made herself a chunin and no one could deny it.

Everything came crashing down when Orochimaru was branded a traitor because of his involvement with criminals. He had even left his mark on her. All the paths that had opened to her as a chunin (and Orochimaru’s student) vanished. People from the biggest clans lined up to work with her, but after his escape, she became something no one wanted to touch—a pariah. It was tough, but she decided to put her head down and work it out. She thought that if she worked hard, her efforts would pay off. She didn’t need to be Orochimaru’s student to succeed; she could succeed in spite of being his student.

She understood that she would need to work twice or even thrice as much to get the equivalent treatment to others—and she accepted that unfair reality. To prove herself and her worth as a kunoichi, she applied to various departments and prominent jonin teams in hopes that one would pick her up. No avenue was not considered important. She studied the departments extensively—from their work, history, and people—leaving no stone unturned. She took more and more missions to improve her qualifications and applied for more dangerous ones, so it didn’t seem she was padding them.

The Torture and Interrogation Department was her dream job. She wanted nothing more than to get selected into its ranks. The department head had the reputation of being fair and judged people on their accomplishments and deeds rather than their background. Anko thought if the head was fair, then the department’s culture would be similar, filled with like-minded people. That’s all she could ever want—a place that would look beyond her taint and accept her for who she was.

In her opinion, she crushed the test assignments, aced the interview process with flying colors, and was confident that the letter for her probation period would come in the post any day.

It never came.

Instead, she got her deployment orders in her mailbox.

For the past several months, she had been under the conception that she had failed to get into the T&I Department—that her everything wasn’t enough—that she couldn’t even blame Orochimaru because of the department head’s reputation of being fair and just.

She wanted those months back where every time she had any time to herself, her mind would dip to a low, and she would torture herself that everything she had gained since she was ten years old was due to Orochimaru, and when he was gone, she couldn’t even get the job she wanted. Her own cruel voice in her head told her that she wasn’t deserving of her rank as a chunin. All that time she had knocked herself down, she wanted it back so she could hold her head high and be confident in her ability as a proud shinobi of the Hidden Leaf.

Anko clenched her fist, digging her nails into the flesh of her palms. The pain was almost not enough to stop tears from pouring out. She couldn’t let those emotions show up in front of everybody, especially not in front of Toridasu. The man would take advantage of her weakness and make her feel even more terrible, which she didn’t think possible, but she wouldn’t put it past Toridasu.

“…It’s good to know that at least someone has an eye for talent,” Anko said, faking her usual front.

“And what about you? Do you have an eye for talent,” Toridasu asked. He was looking at Takuma when he said that. “You seem to be going along with this well.”

“I give my team chances to flourish and prove themselves.”

“Even after what he did?”

“We got a successful massive operation. Net profit.”

“And do you think he will hold up against Masumoto?”

Anko shrugged. “If he does, good for him. At the end of the day, Team-9’s going to take the prize home either way.”

She looked up at him and smiled. If Takuma couldn’t, then she would beat Masumoto into the ground.