Watching a fight was a great source of entertainment for Takao, but when it came down to it, he was a man that sought to act rather than observe. He lived for the thrill of a good bout, for the euphoria of adrenaline coursing through his veins like hot blood. It was only natural that he find himself an opponent of suitable capability to quell this burning desire for combat.

The raven-haired shinobi had donned his typical battle-preparedness attire for the trip to the designated location. Upon arriving, he was greeted with a sight that was nothing more than a bridge, and even beyond that it was rather uneventful looking for a bridge, at least in his humble opinion. He had only briefly scanned the options of location for these bouts, and each seemed to have its own effect on the combatants. The bridge would be no different, and given its design to be destroyed over time, it didn’t seem as though they cared much for the destructive fallout of a battle between high ranking shinobi. He had agreed to a handicapped bout with his opponent beforehand, that disallowed the use of techniques against one another. A pair of highly skilled close quarter combatants could be its own source of entertainment, without the more ridiculous theatrics that typically accompanied such bouts.

“I'm early? That doesn’t usually happen.” Takao mused to himself, dull grey eyes scanning the length of the relatively empty bridge. The sun had shifted toward the later half of the day, casting a warm orange glow upon the cold stone. He shrugged the coat from his shoulders and turned his palm upward, revealing the bandages wrapped around his forearm. They held a seal, and used his opposite hand to form a seal. A plume of smoke appeared around the coat in his grasp, and disappeared with the article of clothing. Another rung of the seal appeared, as an indication that it had been safely stored within the seal placed upon the cloth wrappings.

Whilst he waited, Takao pulled a pair of gloves over his hands, and adjusted the form fitting shirt that clung to his torso. He was without the majority of the equipment that would accompany him in a true battlefield, the absence of such bringing forth its own unique sensation of anxiety in the form of a lack of preparedness. Those feelings were stuffed into the back of his head, lest they interrupt him in an unfortunate manner during combat. It brought him the slightest bit of solace to know that said gear was locked safely away within the very same seal that he had stored his jacket within. If need be, they were entirely accessible in an instant's notice, but he did not anticipate their usage. Not for this bout, at least.

He rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles, and mentally prepared himself for the first proper fight in far too long. It was the perfect way to shake off the rust.

STATS
400 Chakra

Strength - S
Speed - SS-2
Reaction Time - SS
Perception - S
Endurance - B-2

Much to Takao’s chagrin, he was largely unfamiliar with the abilities of shinobi from Kumogakure. His sole purpose in these exhibition matches was not solely for the sake of entertainment, although he would argue that such was largely the driving force behind his attendance. It was also partly to gain intelligence, and to learn more about whom the powers of the world were. He liked to investigate what he didn’t know, whether it be for his benefit or for his entertainment.

His patience eventually proved fruitful, and his opponent approached from the opposite end of the bridge. The smell of smoke had alerted him to the presence of the approaching shinobi long before his eyes had laid upon him. Unfamiliar in every regard, sans the foul odor of burnt tobacco that he was intimately familiar with. Yet there were clues that lead Takao to make assumptions over what he could expect in the bout. They boasted taijutsu prowess of unknown, yet certainly varying degree to one another. It wouldn’t have made sense to agree to a handicapped match in the manner that they had otherwise, lest deception lurk in their shadows. When the introduction was given, Takao’s dark eyes narrowed just slightly. A coy attempt at determining what he could through name and reputation, or simple respect and honour? Judging by the bow, the latter seemed to make the most sense, but the art of deception ran deep.

“Takao Kimura,” He said in response, offering the fellow shinobi a nod of recognition prior to speaking as he approached, closing the distance between them until a mere meter and a half remained. When he stood closer, Takao lifted his hands and pressed them together, bowing in respect to his opponent who had done the same for him just a moment earlier. Whilst he assumed his stance, he offered the last of his identifying introduction, and stated the words simply and clearly. “Konohagakure, Jōnin.” His right arm was lifted and remained open, hovering closer to his face than his left, which hovered at stomach height. His feet shifted into a wide stance, and his jaw lowered.

A brief moment passed before them, and the bell of the fight was rung, signaling them to start. Takao took initiative and struck first. His right arm swung up quickly as he stepped in, feinting a back fist that was just barely out of measure, not intended to fully connect, but rather to seem like it would and feign defense. Utilizing the speed of rotation from his hips, Takao completed a full spin in place following the back fist feint, and aimed a proper back fist with more rotational velocity and power behind it at his opponent’s head. A test strike, to help him further gauge the ability of his opponent.

Takao was largely a reactionary fighter; his strength came from utilizing his opponent's movements against him. It wasn't an original take on close quarters combat, far from it in fact, but he had trained to do it better and faster than those whose brushes painted with the same strokes when making the art of battle. Each movement had the perfect reaction to it, and it was merely a matter of finding that opportunity fast enough to adequately react. In the seconds that followed his back fist making contact, he was not starved for choice of the opportunities he savoured.

Takao easily judged the distance of the incoming elbow, a strike that lacked the same maneuverability of a punch and therefore was easier to predict both trajectory and distance, and tipped his weight onto his back foot just enough to move his head out of its perceived path. It was a feint, however, intended to open his defenses for the forceful thrust of his head toward his own nose. The simple motion of pulling his head back wasn't enough to preoccupy him from reaction, and the necessary range needed to close that distance gave Takao's left arm enough time to thrust forward with an open palm. In addition to the distance, the shift of weight onto his rear leg offered additional force to his palm thrust. His intention was not necessarily to break anything, but push back hard with enough force to circumvent the attack entirely, stopping the headbutt dead in Syekren’s tracks. With his strength however, a solid fracture to the sternum would not be outside the realm of possibility. Should the headbutt have remained true on its path to him, the open palm thrust would surely be dealt.

Within seconds of the battle beginning, the ground beneath them began to rumble violently. Cracks tore through the stone and cement edges of the bridge up to a rough two and a half meters distance. Thankfully they had started their bout toward the center of the bridge, and as the edges began to crumble and fall away, neither of the combatants would feel a great sense of unbalance. Should his earlier palm thrust have made contact, he would grasp the fabric of Syekren’s shirt, and use it as leverage to pull him closer whilst simultaneously lifting his left knee, hell bound toward his opponent’s lower rib cage. This strike connecting would be painful, likely fracturing a pair of lower ribs if it made full, unadulterated contact. The opportunities that both presented themselves naturally through human motion as well as those created artificially through the same conduit were something Takao was choosing carefully. When he struck, he did so in such a way that he left an opportunity to defend himself from a counter. When he reacted, he did so to further his own chances to strike again.

He’s going to kill you. Burn him down into ash.

Takao mentally flinched as the voice plaguing his psyche spoke, the disembodied voice whispering right into his left ear. He knew why it was speaking up. A worthy adversary was a rare commodity as of late, and it posed a threat to his well-being. The voice, as detrimental to his mental health as it was, seemed to advocate for Takao not putting himself in danger. If nothing else, it was prone to underestimating his own capabilities, and tended to put him down. Fire was his solace, his proverbial fortress of solitude. When he was threatened, it made sense to burn it all down and reduce everything but himself to ash. But Takao pushed the thought back, ignoring it entirely. He was sure it would be back as the fight raged on, and it would be repressed each time it showed itself, so long as he remained in control.

A classic exchange of blows occurred when the pair of well-trained shinobi traded strikes. His palm thrust to Syekren’s torso followed through and brought momentary pause to the headbutt that had previously been aimed. As he pulled him forward for the follow up with his knee, the opportunity taken was misjudged, and the sturdy joint collided with another. The pair of bones colliding was equally as painful to him as it was to Syekren in theory, although his opponent might have been just a tad worse for wear should his ulnar nerve have suffered the brunt of the blow. Takao bit back the pain as his leg returned to the ground, but not before one of the trifecta of strikes landed upon his torso. The pressure from the strike sank deep into the dermis of his midsection, causing burst blood vessels to leak into his skin and develop a very noticeable bruise, had it not been for the shirt that hid his bare torso. Beneath the freshly bruised skin, a hairline fracture scratched the surface of his lowermost rib on the right side, just above where the strike had connected. Sitting up in the morning would be a considerably more painful chore until that healed, but it beat the hell out of receiving a proper blow at full power-- or three, for that matter.

The bout was far from over, and yet the pair of shinobi raged on with ferocity to match how they started. Once more, the bridge rumbled, and the manufactured fault lines in its construction gave way to an even smaller field of battle. It seemed that with each handful of seconds that passed, their options of mobility grew smaller and smaller as the bridge was eaten away for the sake of added risk and theatrics. If nothing else, the theme was unique and interesting, and provided a challenge unlike he had been willingly subjected to before. Takao, who seemed both aware of their change in foothold but still focused on the battle, was indeed largely unconcerned on the outside. That resolute, unwavering expression gave little if anything at all away; even his pain was well hidden from prying eyes. If anything, the prospect of their options narrowing in line with the bridge brought him more confidence. He had been primarily acting in defense or reaction to the strikes dealt, sans the initial blow that he enacted upon Syekren. When the time came to control the flow of battle, he would outpace Syekren, and truly overwhelm him. But that time had not yet come, and their battle could be decided and ended with a single strike, so each step made was done so with caution.

Syekren’s offensive had not yet ceased. Using the momentum generated from Takao pulling him closer, his opponent opted for another headbutt. This particular move was becoming predictable, and Takao fully expected the risky maneuver that frequented his opponent’s martial repertoire to show itself once again, when the opportunity arose. Having recovered his balance from his knee striking Syekren’s elbow, he turned his torso counter clockwise in preparation for a follow up. However, his deltoid was struck by the brunt force of Syekren’s forehead, eliciting a grunt from deep within Takao’s chest. The muscle in his shoulder was tough, conditioned and hardened through years of intense training and use, and even more so when braced against his torso. But even still, the damage dealt to the muscle was undeniable and significant. More blood vessels burst, and more blood spilled into his skin, staining it in likeness with his ribs. Another uncomfortable surprise he would have in the morning, but nothing that was too debilitating just yet. He certainly wouldn’t want to take another blow in the same spot.

Another predictable maneuver graced their humble bout when Syekren attempted to slither his leg behind Takao’s forefoot again, not too unlike a snake coming out of nowhere. Having made notice of this attempt, Takao utilized the motion carefully and reacted quickly. His right foot slid back and, upon making firm contact with the concrete below, allowed him to shift his weight between feet and slide his left to the side. This opened up a new range of motion whilst Syekren aimed to grab his shirt-- or aimed to appear to do so. Takao, who had been intending to avoid the grab all together, was not expecting the grab to turn into a punch. His torso jerked clockwise to wind up a lightning fast jab, sacrificing the power lost from the weight placed on his left forefoot for the sake of speed. The jab, which was aimed with his left hand that had lifted his index and middle proximal interphalangeal joints (middle knuckles), was aimed directly for Syekrin’s right kidney. This strike did not have the power behind it to rupture organs or splinter bones, having lost the momentum of a proper rooted stance as well as Takao himself holding back from the strike’s fullest potential for the sake of good sportsmanship, and was instead aimed to cause significant and debilitating pain and discomfort to his opponent.

At the same time, Takao’s torso rotation proved to be only somewhat of a saving grace from Syekren’s grapple turned punch. The bottom pair of his base knuckles skimmed Takao’s bottom-most pair of ribs. The force of the strike, despite being unintentionally turned into a glancing blow by Takao’s own choice of action, still managed to grace both of the ribs with a vertical fracture. The bruising, not unlike his deltoid and the mirrored rib on his other side, would be more icing on the proverbial cake of pain. Had he focused more on the damage, perhaps he might have felt the blood spilling from their burst vessels and clouding his skin with an unsavoury shade of red and pink.

Burn him now. That strike cracked your ribs. He’s going to take advantage of it. He will kill you.

Takao mentally flinched for naught but a second, and recovered flawlessly from the visceral voice that plagued his psyche. It whispered in his ear like somebody was stood just behind him, hunched over his shoulder, speaking words that urged destruction. He ignored it again, pushed it back down and swallowed it just like he always had.

He’s trying to kill you. Destroy him now. Set him alight and burn him down into ash. Burn it all. The fire will protect you.

With each time it spoke, he could feel it grow louder. If the fight went on for too long, the voice would become impossible to ignore. He would fight back against what it said, and push it down with the strong will that burned within him, and hope that it didn’t overwhelm him. But for now, he was fine, and he could fight unhindered.

With a mere two and a quarter meters of bridge remaining on either side of them, Takao opted out of attempting another second strike. He pushed down hard on his left foot, putting a meter of distance between himself and Syekren, and intentionally centering himself on what remained of their arena stage. When the sides did fall, even if Syekren re-engaged combat immediately, Takao would have the very brief opportunity to right his footwork and regain his balance.

“You’re not bad,” Takao said, a genuine smirk pulling the right corner of his mouth up into his cheek. He wasted little time in falling back into a fighting stance, this time rooting his footwork within a safe margin where he had estimated the next collapse of stage to occur. His hands were tightened into fists, right over left, with either pointing inward toward the other. Takao’s weight came to rest on his back leg, his right placed forward and pointing half a right angle off center with Syekren. “I’ll be feeling those bruises tomorrow.” He added after effortlessly falling into a stance that differed heavily from his reactionary based one before. With his stance firmly rooted on the concrete, he awaited the rumble of the remaining portion of the bridge to give way, and for the real battle between the two Jōnin to begin.

Black eyes glimmered, even behind his dull irises there was an obvious fire burning within. He was steadfast and unwavering, even if every fiber of his mental being was shaking with excitement.

“I think this fight is about to get a lot more interesting.”

The ground around them shook violently as cement crumbled away in predictable fashion, cracking and falling along premade fault lines. A mere half meter wide beam of bridge remained in place, suspended above the large nets below. Takao had little fear of heights, and his balance was impeccable even with the vast majority of lateral movement options having been severely deteriorated as part of the arena’s pre-planned destruction. He adjusted his footwork just slightly, remaining upon the last fragile section of bridge that remained. Had the pair been utilizing jutsu, the battle likely would have been over before the second section of bridge had fallen by itself. Takao himself had a myriad of techniques that would have reduced Syekren’s half of the bridge to dust, and he had little doubt that the other shinobi was without similar destructive capabilities. He stood steadfast like a brick wall, his stance held and firmly rooted like an oak. His change of style was obvious at a glance; when he had the room to maneuver, his style was more mobile and airy, and his stance reflected that. It was loose and limber, ready to react and move around in the space provided. Now that no such additional space existed, he had taken to a heavier stance, intent on being more difficult to approach and dealing out more damage than before.

Syekren decided to entertain Takao’s banter, prolonging the match ever so slightly whilst the remnants of the bridge descended into the deep abyss looming below.

“Same here. Not a lot of people are willing to handicap themselves; usually they just want to win and they’ll do anything to achieve that.” He said, offering a bit of insight regarding his opinions of the match. Takao was somebody who was highly critical of the competitive nature of shinobi, how they were always so eager to win and how it infringed on what the raven-haired shinobi personally viewed the essence of being a ninja was. Surely there was some aspect of stealth that was intended, but largely disregarded for the sake of theatrical and fantastical competition.

“Can’t beat a good challenge. Can’t say no to a free drink either.” He said whilst the faintest of smirks tugged at the corner of his mouth. This battle had turned out to be far more entertaining than he had expected. Given the nature of the handicap, he expected either himself to steamroll his opponent, or his opponent to steamroll him, but the pair were matched evenly enough to enjoy a proper bout. They suffered the folly of their respective skill levels of course, as each strike was deadly and quite dangerous to the other. Either one of the combatants would be lucky to walk away without some kind of severe fracture threatening the integrity of their bones.

Takao was moderately surprised to watch his opponent disrobe, or at least begin the process with his shirt. He didn’t think much of it, plenty of folks enjoyed fighting in their skivvies. In fact, for some of the more undesirable people, it was a prerequisite that preceded combat to rip one’s shirt off and discard it.

The raven-haired shinobi examined the marks upon Syekren’s torso, not so much for the sake of admiration (n-not like he likes you or anything, b-baka) but rather evaluation. He bore several defining marks upon his flesh; A large scar from a conical implement, the result of a wound long since healed. The symbol of Sunagakure, which implied some form of tie to the village, whether it be former allegiance or otherwise. Then there were the last pair of symbols that were extra telling. The Uchiha symbol paired with the Sunagakure emblem, and the classic ANBU Black Ops symbol as well. Black eyes narrowed, and he became more aware of where his gaze laid, no longer making eye contact with his opponent. This myriad of imagery upon his body was like an unspoken story; varying pieces of a puzzle that helped Takao to better understand his opponent. His allegiance with Sunagakure, which was most likely shelved following its destruction and his indoctrination into Kumogakure. His possible association with the Uchiha bloodline, which could have been a red herring, or a blatant display of clan pride. His training as an operative of the Black Ops, either of Sunagakure or Kumogakure, or perhaps another village that he had previously sworn loyalty to. In that simple action of shirt removal, Syekren had revealed much about him. But Takao remained skeptical and critical; everything that was revealed were only things that his opponent wanted him to see. The life of a shinobi was rife with deception and manipulation, and he wasn’t keen on being taken for a fool because of the marks upon one’s flesh.

Takao, unprepared for the shirt throwing flourish, reached out and caught the balled cloth of distraction before it could collide with him. The look on his face was one of mild annoyance, as if moderately insulted that the sweat-ridden article of clothing was thrown at him with such wanton veracity.

“Really? We’re resorting to throwing our sweaty clothes at each other no-” Takao said, lowering the shirt just in time to see his opponent in full sprint, closing the distance between them. His jaw tensed, figuring that the shirt was to be used as a distraction, and prepared himself to receive the blow to the leg. He tensed the muscle and braced his footwork, but he was caught off guard by the ludacris wrestling maneuver enacted upon him instead. Takao was prepared to react even after he was grappled by the neck and his balance torn from the remaining surface of the bridge. But as he lifted his elbow, prepared to turn and twist, sending the hard bone straight into Syekren’s damaged sternum, he had taken notice of his predicament. Both of them were plummeting, and continuing the battle mid-air would do very little besides continue a fight that was already over.

“You loony bastard!” Takao yelled as the pair fell, eventually landing on a safe portion of the net below them. Thankfully, the majority of the bridge had fallen through the openings of the net, or collected at the very bottom, where the pair had not fallen and landed. Breath escaped Takao’s lungs in a long, drawn out exhale, enjoying the sensation of no longer being on his feet after the bout. Grunting as his body sat up and the bruises upon his ribs and shoulder ached, he eventually found a more comfortable position to remain in.

“Well, alright then. Guess we’ll call that a draw.” He said, slowly rolling his thoroughly bruised shoulder, and biting back a hiss of pain. The shinobi didn’t wait long before he removed a small, rectangular carton from his pocket, slightly damaged from their skirmish, and shook a single cigarette from within. He pulled it from the carton and let it hang lazily from the corner of his mouth whilst he exhaled a single ember of a flame. The paper and tobacco caught as he inhaled a lung full of smoke whilst his hand stretched out, offering one to Syekren.

“Smoke?”

Takao laid reclined against the net, finding comfort in the woven entrapment device that had retarded their fall after the sudden, intense burst of physical activity. He cast his gaze downward into the abyss that loomed below and gazed unto it, his own eyes black like the chasm under them staring deep into its depths for a moment. The fight would have carried a significant amount of weight had there been no net, however given that they had genin fighting on the fight, it made sense for such a safety precaution to exist. He didn’t suspect that many villages fancied killing off children in the name of sport and entertainment, but he had been wrong before. Perhaps some villages that hosted the exams might seek to see fatalities in the prospective shinobi of another nation, which would surely weaken their forces over time. Takao’s mental musings continued to carry his thoughts in various directions, in typical fashion for the Jōnin with a penchant for overthinking mundane notions.

The sensation of smoke filling his lungs as he inhaled deeply was one Takao found comfort in. The extent in which it calmed him almost made their negative impacts on his health justifiable, but only almost. He had long since learned how to drag them out and make the feeling of safety and comfort they brought last. His gaze moved away from the abyss below them and laid skyward at the bridge, watching the occasional puff of caustic white smoke that he exhaled through his nostrils.

When Syekren mentioned that their next bout would include the usage of jutsu, a smirk pulled the corner of his mouth into his cheek. The locale of this fight had hardly been proper for Takao to use the contents of his shinobi repertoire, which would have left Syekren hard pressed to evade. At the very least, their fight would have left very little of the bridge standing from Takao’s own doing. After one witnessed the raven-haired shinobi’s employment of techniques, it became difficult to deny his incredibly destructive nature.

“Jutsu is it.” He replied simply, talking through the smoke leaving his mouth. His gaze turned sidelong as he was offered the flask, which he took in his left while his right temporarily removed the cigarette. Lifting the opening to his nose permeated the faint smell of cinnamon into his nostrils amidst the overpowering scent of alcohol. He had seen Syekren drink it before handing it over, which appeased his natural suspicion, which urged him to throw back a swig. His expression lightened and his eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise upon tasting it. His attention then turned from the flask to Syekren as he gave context to the contents of the metallic receptacle.

“Fire Brand Whiskey,” Takao parroted, as if speaking the name would help him to remember. “I’ll have to get some of that for myself. It’s good stuff.” He said while handing the flask back to Syekren and returning the cigarette to his mouth. Another long drag burned the paper and tobacco, filling his lungs with more smoke. “My condolences for that tragedy in Sunagakure. Was a real shame.” He said whilst exhaling more smoke. He had little interest in the village and country as a whole, but it was difficult to not find some sense of sorrow in the uprooting of a nation filled with innocents.

When Syekren went on to inquire about the location of a vaguely described hideout, Takao showed little reaction on the outside while his mind quickly surged through a myriad of possibilities. He lifted his hand to slide the cigarette between his index and middle fingers, removing it from his mouth as he exhaled.

“I know of multiple. The Fire Country is filled with them.” He said, sitting up from the net and slowly rising to stand. Whilst his equilibrium was upset by the lack of solid ground beneath his feet, he seemed to have little issue with standing upon the netted surface. As he continued to speak, chakra began to flood his legs in preparation for the ascent.

“But that’s not the sort of thing I speak of frivolously. I’m sure you can understand why. I’m heading to Kirigakure after this, and then back to Konohagakure. Find me in either place, and I’ll tell you what I know. If we meet up again in the Hidden Leaf, I’ll even show you.” Takao said as his legs began to tense.

“Anyway, thanks for the spar, and I owe you for tipping me off about the drink. I’ll see you around.” He finished. Upon doing so, he released the chakra in his legs. Despite the uneven and unsupported footing of the net below him, the chakra allowed him to leap skyward with ease. The pressure exerted from the chakra released when he jumped left a slight gust of wind circulating in the immediate area, though it was largely negligible and little more than an annoyance. His legs kicked out to the side prior to landing, dispelling the chakra outward rather than concentrating it onto the last remaining portion of the bridge he landed upon. Having safely and harmlessly jumped up from the net to the bridge, he began to walk along the narrow surface, offering a wave to Syekren below as he finished the cigarette and exhaled a second ember, burning the remnants of the paper and filter down to ash.