Sarada tasted both with the seriousness of someone signing off on a mission plan. Boruto’s plate was loud and comforting—salt, umami, crunch. Kawaki’s was clean and efficient—focused on texture and temperature. The vote from an impartial Himawari (who’d wandered in for crumbs) went to Boruto for “fun,” while Sarada handed Kawaki the honor of “best technique.” They called it a draw. The alley behind Ichiraku became their arena. Darts had been a village pastime since before either of them could remember: cheap, precise, and a rare test of calm under pressure. Boruto’s approach was flashy—he spun the dart once between his fingers, winked at Kawaki, and threw with theatrical flair. Kawaki’s throws were quiet, compact, and exact.