Two hours must've passed before I woke again.
The world outside my window was darker now, the lantern light flickering across the wooden floor in long gold stripes. My head felt clearer, though my body still carried that strange cold hum — like the frost under my skin had become part of my heartbeat.
The door slid open quietly.
"Uncle Jinx?"
Her voice was soft, but steady — the kind of voice that could calm a genin squad or freeze an enemy mid-hand sign.
I turned my head and found Haname standing in the doorway, still in her patrol uniform. Her hair was pulled into a tight braid that swung behind her like a whip, and her Uchiha crest caught the lantern light on her shoulder plate. Despite the armor and the forehead protector, she looked too young for the weight that came with being a chunin.
She crossed the room quickly, her sandals barely making a sound against the tatami. "You're awake," she said, relief washing through her voice. "The medics said you'd been unconscious since morning. You scared half the clan, you know that?"
I smirked, voice still hoarse. "Scaring the clan might be the only thing I'm good at."
Haname huffed — a sound halfway between exasperation and affection. "That's not funny."
"It's a little funny."
Her glare said otherwise. She leaned forward, studying me with eyes that mirrored Kagami's — calm, dark, sharp enough to catch lies before you even thought of them. But hers had something softer, too. The kind of sincerity that the rest of our clan had long since traded for pride.
Then her expression shifted, curiosity lighting behind her eyes. "Uncle… is it true?"
I blinked. "Is what true?"
She hesitated, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "The rumor. About you using Ice Release."
Ah. Of course. Uchiha gossip traveled faster than chakra through paper bombs.
I raised a brow. "And where exactly did you hear that from?"
"One of the scouts who found you," she said quickly, too honest for her own good. "He's a friend. He said the entire battlefield was frozen solid. And that you—" she paused, lowering her voice, "—killed a rogue Iwa-nin by yourself."
I sighed, dragging a hand down my face. "Remind me to never trust half-dead witnesses again."
Her eyes widened slightly. "So it's true?"
There was no suspicion in her tone — just wonder. She wasn't asking as a shinobi evaluating a threat. She was asking as family. As someone who still believed in impossible things.
I stared at her for a long moment, then opened my palm. "You really want to see?"
Her lips parted, eager. "...Yeah."
I let my chakra flow. The air cooled instantly, the temperature dropping like a held breath. Frost gathered in my palm, swirling like smoke before condensing into form — a small lotus of ice, its petals pure and translucent, edges glinting faintly with violet light. It pulsed once, softly, like a heartbeat.
Haname gasped. "It's beautiful…"
I smiled faintly. "You're too easy to impress."
She ignored that, leaning closer to get a better look. "It's real. You're really using Ice Release. That's… that's not supposed to be possible for us."
I shrugged, letting the lotus rest for a second longer before reaching forward. "Hold still."
She blinked as I tucked it gently behind her ear, threading it into her braid. The ice didn't melt; instead, it shimmered faintly, catching the glow of the lantern like crystal glass.
"There," I said quietly. "Now you can tell everyone your uncle nearly froze to death and started a new fashion trend."
Haname laughed, the sound bright and genuine — the first warmth the room had felt in hours. "You really shouldn't joke about dying, you know."
"Family tradition," I said, leaning back against the pillow. "Your father used to do it too."
Her smile softened at that. The mention of Kagami always carried a ghost with it — a silence that both of us understood but didn't name.
"You remind me of him sometimes," she said quietly. "Not in the scary way, though."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It is."
We sat there in silence for a bit — her perched beside my bed, tracing the icy flower in her hair, me watching the frost slowly fade from my fingertips. Outside, snow began to fall again, blanketing the courtyard in quiet white.
For a rare moment, I felt… peaceful.
Haname stood after a while, tugging her gloves back on. "I'll let you rest, Uncle. Try not to terrify the medics again, okay?"
"No promises."
She smiled, shaking her head. "I'll come by tomorrow. Maybe bring some plum-sugar candy from my patrol route."
I smirked. "Good. I nearly died for that stuff."
"Yeah, I heard," she teased, sliding the door open. "Next time, just ask me to get it."
When she left, the silence returned — gentle this time, not lonely. The faint trace of her laughter lingered in the air, and the lotus she wore glowed faintly in my chakra sense even from across the hall.
For all the cosmic cruelty of the universe, that little spark of normalcy felt like a victory.
After Haname left, the room felt oddly quiet again — not empty, just… still.
The snow outside had thickened into a soft white curtain, muffling the usual noise of the compound. I sat there, half-awake, half-bored, when a thought hit me like a thrown kunai.
The cards.
I'd completely forgotten about the damn jutsu cards.
Sitting up, I opened my hand, focusing on the faint trace of the system still hovering somewhere in my consciousness. "Alright," I muttered, "how do I summon these things…?"
I tried picturing them — just thought about the words jutsu cards — because honestly, there wasn't exactly a tutorial.
And thank whatever cosmic programmer built this system, that was apparently enough.
Two translucent cards shimmered into existence above my palm, spinning lazily in the air. One bore a large letter C with a faint rain-drop symbol etched in blue, and the other glowed with a proud, golden A that pulsed faintly with power.
"Okay," I whispered, "C-rank first. Always start small."
I reached up and crushed the blue card between my fingers. It dissolved instantly, bursting into motes of light that sank into my skin. A rush of energy surged through my temples, followed by a flood of information that felt both alien and familiar — like remembering something I'd never learned.
A new screen flared before me.
[New Jutsu Unlocked – (C) Water Release: Soap Bubble Ninjutsu]
A C-rank technique that generates chakra-infused bubbles capable of floating through the air with deceptive gentleness. Originally a child's game, the technique was repurposed for combat and reconnaissance. The bubbles can be triggered to explode on contact or infused with scents to act as subtle tracking markers. While modest in chakra cost and appearance, the jutsu's true potential lies in the user's creativity—especially in confined environments like forests or alleyways. When combined with elemental alterations such as acid, mist, or even Ice Release, it can evolve into a powerful and unpredictable weapon.
The data sank in, and I blinked, feeling the pattern of chakra molding settle naturally into memory.
"...Wait a second."
I squinted at the description. "Soap bubbles?"
I tilted my head. "Isn't that Utakata's technique?"
I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face. "Oh, that's clever. Bubbles that explode, carry scent markers, or infuse with other elements? That's way more versatile than people give it credit for."
Then another line caught my eye: acid alterations.
That made me pause.
"Acid?" I muttered. "If my memory's right, Sāiken's the only one with that kind of release… But ice and acid?" I let out a low whistle. "That's the kind of combo that could turn an ambush into a mass grave. Frozen acid shards — yeah, that's just beautiful in a horrible way."
I couldn't help but laugh quietly, my pulse quickening as I reread the description again, thinking through the possible combinations. Explosive mist. Tracking frost bubbles. Frozen smoke bombs that detonated into shrapnel.
My imagination was running laps.
But if the C-rank was this good… what the hell was the A-rank going to be?
I didn't even hesitate. I reached out and crushed the golden A card.
The rush that hit me this time nearly made me jolt upright. Lightning — pure, searing, untamed lightning — tore through my chakra network like a storm had decided to take up residence in my veins. My hand twitched, crackling faintly. My heart skipped, then adjusted to the new rhythm.
The screen flared bright gold.
[New Jutsu Unlocked – (A) Lightning Release: Chidori]
A high concentration of lightning chakra channeled around the user's hand, producing a distinct chirping sound reminiscent of a thousand birds. The jutsu dramatically enhances piercing power and movement speed, but requires sharp visual perception to control — making it ideal for Sharingan users.
I stared.
Then broke into the biggest grin I'd had since waking up in this world.
"...YES."
I whispered it at first, then clenched my fist, the grin widening. "YESSSSSSS!"
Lightning crackled faintly between my fingers before fading, like it couldn't resist showing off.
"This—this is perfect," I muttered. "Of all the jutsu I could've gotten… this one's a match made in heaven. Or hell. Whichever."
Chidori.
Kakashi's signature move. A technique literally built around the Sharingan's perception ability — and now mine.
I laughed quietly to myself, leaning back on the bed. "Death, you magnificent bastard, I take back at least one insult."
For a brief moment, I thought about trying it out right there. Just to feel the lightning. Just to see if it was as powerful as it looked in the anime.
Then I remembered where I was — Uchiha territory, medic ward, public place.
Yeah, no. Probably not the best time to punch a hole through the wall and explain later.
I exhaled through a smile. "Soon, though. When I'm alone."
My fingers still tingled from residual charge. The chakra pattern for the technique had already burned itself into my mind — clean, efficient, familiar. It was like the muscle memory had always been there, just waiting to wake up.
The system faded quietly after that, leaving only the hum of power under my skin and the faint glow of the moon spilling through the window.
Soap bubbles and lightning blades.
Delicate and deadly — just like me, I thought with a smirk.
I leaned back, letting the cold in my veins settle and the exhaustion roll in again.
The world was still dangerous. Still cruel. But for the first time, I didn't feel like its target.
I felt like its equal.
(timeskip)
The summons came at first light.
A runner with the clan crest on his sleeve slid the door aside and bowed just enough to be polite, not enough to be friendly. "Lord Tatsuma requests you in the southern yard."
Requests. Sure.
I was already dressed. The cold that lived under my skin made the morning air feel like a lukewarm bath. As I followed the runner through the compound, I caught fragments of conversation, the click of sandals, the metallic whisper of blades. The southern yard was a stone-ringed bowl with elevated galleries on three sides. Half the clan seemed to have materialized "by coincidence."
Tatsuma stood beneath the gallery shade, arms inside his sleeves. To his left: Daigo, unreadable. To his right: an elder medic whose hair had gone the color of winter ash, fingers resting on a satchel of seal tags and salves. And in the center of the yard, already waiting, was a boy who wasn't quite a boy anymore.
Fugaku.
Sixteen. Taller than me by a head, shoulders set like he'd learned early that weight is something you carry without complaint. The quiet intensity of someone who didn't need to be told he'd lead, only when. His Sharingan sat cool and awake—two tomoe a side—like red crescents floating in the dark.
He looked at me, then at the fans in my hands, and the edge of his mouth ticked down. "Fans?"
"They keep me cool," I said.
A murmur rolled the gallery. Tatsuma didn't turn. "This will be controlled," he said, soft but final. "No killing blows. The medic will intervene if necessary. Jinx, you will restrict yourself to the technique you displayed yesterday."
"Ice," I said.
"Ice," he agreed. "Begin."
Silence snapped taut.
Fugaku moved first—one step and then he was there, a blur riding the vacuum of his own acceleration. Interceptor Fist angles, small circles, light feet. He was testing range, testing me. I let him, sliding half-steps, turning with him. The cold in me hummed, hungry.
He feinted low, heel cutting for my ankle, then snapped a jab toward my throat. The fans whispered open, lacquer black veined with violet, and I let muscle memory take the wheel—turn, catch, redirect. His knuckles barely brushed the steel ribs before I let my breath out in a long, thin ribbon.
"Freezing Clouds."
The world whitened.
Frost breath roared outward, then split as I swept both fans. The gust became a spreading bank of subzero vapor that rolled along flagstone and climbed the gallery wall like a living thing. Crystals formed midair, hanging like glitter caught in a sunbeam—beautiful, if you didn't know they were knives.
Fugaku didn't panic. He pivoted away from the densest part of the mist, fingers already flashing through seals. "Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu!"
The fireball bloomed like a small sun and punched a tunnel through my fog. Heat slapped my face; the cloud screamed and turned to steam. For two heartbeats the yard became rain and hiss and hammering breath.
I smiled despite myself. Good. Make me work for it.
"Barren Hanging Garden."
Eight cuts in one breath—wrist, elbow, shoulder, shoulders—concentric arcs of thin, high ice that spun outward from me like ripples from a stone. Each ring caught shreds of steam and skated them into sudden frost. Where fire had carved a corridor, my rings laid a lattice.
Fugaku read it a fraction late. He tried to step through the seam I'd left on purpose, then realized it pinched shut just as his foot committed. He tucked into a low spin, caught the inner ring with his shin guard, took the sting, and came out with a fist of shuriken already blooming between his fingers.
He threw a fan of steel. I split my next ring to swallow them, felt the vibrations as edges met edges. Two slipped the pattern anyway—Uchiha shurikenjutsu did that, bent expectations mid-flight—and I had to dip, let them go scissoring past my ear. I felt one trim a hair.
He was on me again, close-range—where ice lost its drama and taijutsu made accountants of us both. His hands were hard and economical. Mine were fans, ribs and hinge, parries that doubled as knives. He beat my left fan downward with a short hammerfist and boarded my centerline.
Red eyes. Calm.
"Noted," I breathed. And then I stomped.
A low skiff of ice spread beneath my sandals. Friction died. I slid backward three body lengths without turning, fans out, breath slow. The gallery muttered. Fugaku adjusted, as if he'd expected a trick but not this trick.
He lifted his hands for seals again, then stopped—wire glinted.
He'd laced the yard with almost-invisible lines during our first exchange, trailing them from shuriken that had missed by "accident." He gave a small flick, and wire sang. My ankle caught.
"Clever," I said.
He yanked. I went forward. He stepped in, knee rising to meet my skull.
The fans locked into an X and took the knee with a noise like a bell struck underwater. At the same time, I let the cold pour out from the bones of my foot.
"Lotus Vines."
The stone burst with frost. From it bloomed white lotuses and the vines between them—tendrils of glassy ice that whipped up in intersecting arcs. The first one coiled his calf. The second took his wrist. The third missed when he spun with the pull, using my own momentum to shear the first vine on the wire. He landed light, hand a blur—wire again, heat flare—
His cuffs lit. He'd sealed smolder pellets into his sleeves. The wire hissed red. My vines snapped where heat kissed them.
I grinned. "That's rude."
"Adapt," he said simply, and the wire flicked again.
I cut my ankle free, let the cut bleed a little, then squeezed. Pain broke a genjutsu seed he'd tried to lay in my vision—not subtle, just a soft slanting of the yard lines toward a false opening. He saw me shrug it off and gave the smallest nod. Respect, or a promise to do better later.
Enough chess. Time to set the board.
I inhaled until my ribs creaked. "Freezing Clouds."
This time I did not spread the mist wide. I kept it heavy, waist-high, a river of winter that hugged the ground and pooled against the stone. The front of it lapped at Fugaku's boots, found the wire lines, and painted them white in a heartbeat. He clicked his tongue, flexed a hand for fire, then thought better—burn the lines now and you tell the whole world where they are.
He moved anyway, crisp and sure, cutting angles around the densest banks, fireball ignition and aborts weaponized as feints. I tracked the heat flickers in his chakra, the way they ran along his forearms when he prepared to cast. The Sharingan at one tomoe doesn't make you a god, but it turns the world into gears you can watch turning.
He vanished.
No—that was Body Flicker on a breath, a slant to my blind right, and then a searing line against my ribs where his kunai wanted me to remember him. The cut was shallow. A warning: do not settle.
My reply was old snow giving way in the hills.
"Wintry Icicles."
The yard answered. From the fog bank rose spears—long, thin, and fast enough to draw lines in the air. Some fell from the gallery lip as if gravity had decided to change its mind. Some erupted up from beneath Fugaku's heels. He broke three with empty-hand knife-edges, stepped between two more, turned a fifth with a burn-seared forearm guard. An icicle clipped his shoulder and sent a white bloom across his sleeve. He rolled it off with a hiss.
The medic on the side murmured something about tissue freeze thresholds. The gallery leaned in.
Fugaku exhaled hard, settled deeper, and I felt the change—commitment. His next seal chain wasn't feint. "Katon: Hōsenka no Jutsu!"
Phoenix-flowers—a scatter of smaller fireballs—tore through my mist at different heights, different speeds, each one carrying a shuriken passenger hidden in its light. The heat peeled the fog apart in ragged curtains. Shuriken came singing on the heels of flame.
I took the first two on my fans and let the heat bite my knuckles. The third I allowed to pass my chest; the wire behind it tried to catch my neck. I tucked, spun, let an icicle spear my own mist and cut the wire in a clean, chiming note. The fourth I caught on a vine that I shaped into a braced, flat plane—the shuriken embedded and quivered, the flame died in a cough of steam.
"Frozen Lotus."
The fans drew an overlapping bow. Ice shards spiraled like snow petals, then bloomed as lotuses wherever they landed, hungry things that drank heat and birthed silver fog. The ground began to crust in white. The temperature dropped hard enough that breath hurt.
Now the garden had rules. Move fast through the mist and the lotuses detonated in needle storms. Stand still and the cold crawled into bones. The vines threaded between blossoms, the rings of the Hanging Garden chased the corridors the fire had cut, the icicles punished the high ground when he thought to vault the mess.
Fugaku did not panic. He cut through an opening I'd left, deliberately small. He took a needle storm along his flank and didn't make a sound. Fire fanned across his lips—he didn't launch it, just let it sit there, wreathing his face in heat, a little pocket of summer to buy himself breath inside my winter. Smart.
He slid in at my guard, eyes calm. His left hand grabbed bone under my right fan's hinge and held my wrist the way you hold a snake behind the head. His right hand came low, ready to break my knee and end the dance.
"Princesses," I whispered.
Two lotuses cracked apart at my back like eggs.
They rose, tall enough to make the gallery draw breath—the Cold White Princesses, torsos sculpted in crystal grace, hair like trailing frost, arms opening as if to embrace the yard. They exhaled.
The first breath froze the flagstone behind Fugaku into a single plate of glassy white. The second kissed his shoulder and turned the sweat on his temple to frost. He ripped free before the effect could lock the joint, rolled forward, and finally launched that fire—into a Princess's face.
She shattered in a glare of vapor and ringing shards. Her twin kept singing winter.
Fugaku stayed under her breath and sprinted. I let the surviving Princess's gale bend my mist into a river that flowed not at him but across the yard, skimming above the stone like a living wall. In it, I laced small, tight rings—the shorter burst of the Hanging Garden—to punish any body flicker that didn't respect the new geometry.
I caught him wrong-footed for the first time. A short ring kissed his shin and he flinched. Not fear—surprise weighted with calculation. He backflipped out, landed on one palm, and flung three tags into the lotus beds.
The yard boomed. Fire ran low, skimming the flagstone, blooming heat in pockets that my mist couldn't immediately reclaim. He'd found a way to plow lanes through my garden without spending his lungs on fireballs. He dashed along one, turned, and came hunting.
We traded there, in that narrow lane where his heat ate my winter.
Uchiha taijutsu is a conversation: question, answer, question. He asked with a stabbing front kick meant to make me lower my guard. I answered with a fan edge to the tibialis and a sweep. He levered off my fan with his shin and answered back with a palm to my jaw that I barely rolled with. He asked with a feint for my eye. I answered with a blade between his fingers that didn't cut, just warned.
"Enough," he said, not angry. Hungry.
"Agreed," I said, and stepped away.
I drew a slow breath through my teeth. Chakra reserves were okay; I hadn't touched the bottom yet. But keep this up and I'd be seeing black on the edges. He knew it too—the way his gaze dipped to my diaphragm told me he was listening to my breathing.
So I changed the beat. The mist that had been a blanket became a tide. I sent it past him, around the galleries, up the walls. The clan murmured and stepped back. Frost skinned the railings in spiderweb patterns.
Then I made a box.
Four short bursts of Barren Hanging Garden, interlocked at hip height around Fugaku—rings that expanded until they met their neighbors and hardened into a lattice of razor-thin planes, like someone had drawn geometry in winter glass. The only exits were high or low. He went high.
I'd hoped he would.
"Wintry Icicles."
They fell like rain, not spears—hundreds of smaller teeth that didn't impale so much as bury. He twisted through them like he'd trained in storms, took a dozen bruises, bled from two shallow cuts, and landed in a crouch that almost carried him under the lowest plane of the lattice.
"Lotus Vines."
They came from the floor, thinner now, quicker, their edges duller, built to bind not cut. They wrapped his forearms, his calves. He burned two. The third repositioned. The fourth split and rejoined behind his knee like it had been waiting.
He exhaled, slow. The heat along his arms built into a hum; he was about to detonate all of it, a little one-man summer that would eat a path.
I let my garden do what gardens do when you step on them.
"Frozen Lotus—detonate."
A dozen blossoms sighed.
They didn't explode outward. They shivered, and the air around them became needles—fine as glass dust, fast as hate. Not enough to cut a throat, but enough to erase balance. The humming heat under his skin faltered. The vines tightened. He stayed upright because pride demanded it.
Somewhere above us, someone breathed, "He's going to—"
"Stop," Tatsuma said, calm, and the yard obeyed.
I exhaled. The vines loosened. The lattice sublimated. The mist thinned to a glitter that hung and fell.
Fugaku stood where I'd left him, bound but not humiliated. His eyes were hot, not with anger—with focus. He flexed once and I allowed the vine to crack so he could step free with dignity. He rolled his shoulders, assessing damage, then looked at me like a craftsman evaluating a new tool.
"Yield?" I asked, soft, teasing.
"Today," he said. "Not tomorrow."
I bowed. He returned it, precise.
The medic was already at his side, scanning the frost-bites, the shallow cuts, the patches of skin going pink where heat and cold had played tug-of-war. She nodded, satisfied that I'd held the line between ruthless and lethal. My heart slowed. The cold inside me tucked itself away like a cat circling to sleep.
Tatsuma stepped down from the shade. He didn't smile. He rarely did. But something in his posture eased.
"You carved a battlefield out of nothing," he said. "You forced a superior taijutsu practitioner to fight your fight." His eyes slid to the fractured sheen on the flagstones, the delicate frost along the gallery rails. "It was artless in places, but effective."
"First thing in the morning," I said. "I get artsy after lunch."
A murmur tried to be laughter and then remembered itself and died. Tatsuma ignored it.
"Discipline," he said. "Can you do this without collateral when I tell you to? Can you do it twice in one day? Ten times in a week?"
"Not yet," I said, because lying here would be stupid. "But soon."
He studied me for a long, uncomfortable heartbeat, then gave a small, precise nod. "Training will be arranged. You will spar my son again in three days. Limited terrain, no gallery." A beat. "And, Jinx—no fans next time."
The gallery really murmured at that. Fugaku's mouth twitched, pleased.
I inclined my head. "Understood."
As the yard began to thaw—water running in tiny rivers between the flagstones—the cold inside me settled into a steady, low thrum. I looked at Fugaku, at the elder medic, at Tatsuma. At the clan that had come to see whether I was a fluke, a threat, or a promise.
I wasn't sure which one I wanted to be yet.
But I knew this: in my winter, even Uchiha fire had to think twice.
And that was a good beginning.
(timeskip)
I left the compound before the sun had properly cleared the roofs, hands jammed into my pockets, breath puffing out in lazy white clouds. Each inhale, each exhale, I stretched a little farther, forcing my ribs to open, lungs to fill completely. Civilians on the road slowed to stare—an eleven-year-old walking like he was about to hyperventilate or pass out—but I ignored them.
Total Concentration Breathing.
I'd mastered it once before; now I was rebuilding the habit from scratch. Every breath stripped the morning colder, sharpened the world. The strain bit at the edges of my lungs, but it was the good kind of pain—the kind that meant I was waking up the muscles everyone forgets they have.
It wasn't just breathing practice. It was system calibration. The Overactive Imagination perk—my little cheat code from Death's "welcome package"—thrummed in the back of my skull, quietly collecting data: posture, gait, the way chakra and oxygen traded rhythm. The skill let me decode any technique I could observe if I met its requirements; that included my own old training. I could watch someone fight, pick apart their stance, and rebuild it inside my body like solving a puzzle. The downside was time. Complex techniques took hours, sometimes days, to finish downloading into instinct. But with the Sharingan spinning behind my eyelids, even that limit would crumble.
By the time the Academy's gates came into view, my chest was burning pleasantly, each breath clean and controlled. Kids were streaming inside, the usual chatter echoing off the walls. I slipped in with them, earning a few side-glances—apparently an early arrival from the clan compound counted as suspicious behavior for me.
Inside, the classroom smelled of chalk and wood polish. Sunlight cut across the floor in narrow strips, catching the dust midair. The teacher was already setting down his clipboard when I slid the door open.
"Just in time, Jinx," he said without looking up, and started attendance.
No lecture, no scolding. In this body's memories, that was normal. Dead last didn't attract attention; dead last was invisible. Obito wasn't even enrolled yet to share the title, so I carried the honor alone.
I dropped into my seat by the window, rested my chin on one hand, and turned my focus inward. Half of me tracked the teacher's droning roll call. The other half fell into the rhythm of breathing.
Inhale — four counts. Hold — two. Exhale — six. Compress the diaphragm, circulate chakra through the ribs. Again.
The pattern smoothed, each repetition burning away the noise of the room. I could feel tiny shifts already—the faint buzz of improved oxygen flow, chakra lines syncing with heartbeat, thoughts sharpening. The system didn't flash a notification, but it didn't have to. I knew progress when I felt it.
Through the glass, the morning stretched wide and bright over Konoha. Somewhere beyond the rooftops, I could sense the faint pulse of other chakra signatures moving—training grounds, patrols, life.
One step at a time, I thought, steadying the next breath. Breathing first. Then power. Then everything else.
I smiled faintly when the teacher called my name and moved on without waiting for a response.
Invisible was fine. Invisible meant time to prepare.
(timeskip)
Thirty minutes into class, I was half-asleep, counting my breaths and the creak of the chalk on the board when the teacher finally said something worth hearing.
"Alright, everyone," he began, closing his lesson scroll with a thump. "Today, we're doing our monthly sparring assessment to check your progress—"
The room perked up instantly. Even the ones pretending not to care started straightening in their seats.
"—and because of a certain someone," he added, his gaze sliding to Kushina.
She froze, crimson hair spilling forward like a curtain as she sank lower in her seat. "Tch… it was one wall," she muttered under her breath, cheeks pink.
The class snickered.
"Since we've had to repair the training hall again," the teacher continued, a vein twitching at his temple, "we won't have time this week for a separate jutsu test. So, we'll combine the two."
That got a few groans. Sparring meant bruises, and a combined jutsu test meant extra chakra exhaustion.
He raised a hand to quiet the noise. "Before anyone gets carried away, I have to make this clear: I will step in if things get dangerous. That's a direct order from the Third Hokage."
The room went still for a beat. Even the loudmouths shut up when the Hokage got mentioned.
"Rogue-nin activity has been increasing lately," the teacher went on, his tone heavier now. "Even academy students need to be ready. The war might be over, but the world isn't done being dangerous."
He looked around the room until his eyes landed on me. For half a second, his expression lingered — curious, maybe cautious — before moving on.
"Alright, everyone. Line up. Training field, now."
Chairs scraped back. The room filled with that mix of nerves and excitement unique to kids about to punch each other with adult supervision.
As we filed out into the hallway, sunlight pouring through the open doors, I kept my breathing slow and measured — Total Concentration steady, calm. The teacher's words about rogue-nin echoed faintly in my head, but my focus stayed on something else entirely.
(timeskip)
After we lined up on the training field, the teacher started calling out names for the sparring matches. The morning air had that sharp chill that made everyone a little more awake than they wanted to be. Kids stretched, whispered bets under their breath, or stood there trying to look fearless.
That's when I finally started noticing who was actually in my class—names that, in another life, I knew would echo through history. The fathers of the future Ino–Shika–Chō trio stood together like it was destiny already calling roll. I caught myself thinking two of them wouldn't make it past the Ten-Tails' first scream years from now. Strange knowing the end of someone's story while they were still trying to write the first chapter.
I drifted, half-listening, until I heard my name.
"Jinx Uchiha versus Akira Hyūga."
Of course.
Akira stepped forward from the main-branch group like the ground belonged to her. Every line of her posture screamed I am the heir of perfection. She flicked her hair back, pale eyes fixed on me with that mix of disdain and curiosity the Hyūga main house had perfected over generations.
"So this is the Uchiha they say can't pass a basic clone exam," she said. Her tone was silk over a knife.
I gave her the same look I gave everyone—blank, quiet, unreadable.
Something about that stare hit her the wrong way. Her smile twitched, then vanished.
The teacher raised his hand. "Begin."
Akira was on me before the echo faded, the air snapping with precision. Gentle Fist strikes came in flurries, every movement exact, built to shut down my chakra flow with surgical grace.
I didn't counter. Didn't block. I just moved.
Her palms cut through air an inch from my ribs, my throat, my temple. I slid between them like the breeze itself decided to change direction. Each dodge was a small dance—step, lean, turn—barely enough to make her miss, but enough to drive her crazy.
"Stop dodging and fight me!" she snapped, voice breaking through the rhythm of her own technique.
I tilted my head, the faintest shrug. Her chakra spiked; she went faster. The Byakugan veins stood out around her eyes as she closed the distance again, furious now.
Still, I didn't use the Sharingan. I didn't need to.
Every motion she made was clean, predictable—the kind of textbook form that looked perfect in scrolls and fell apart against someone who didn't follow the script. I started to yawn halfway through her fourth combination, which probably didn't help her temper.
Finally, boredom won.
I lifted my palm right in front of her face.
The crowd went quiet, confused. Even the clan kids watching from the sidelines tilted their heads.
Akira blinked, thrown off for half a second. "What are you—"
That's when the flames bloomed.
Magenta fire roared to life across my palm, bright and unnatural, the color of dusk and blood mixed together. Gasps rippled through the spectators—Uchiha fire was red, always red. This was something else.
Her eyes widened, too late.
The explosion burst outward, a sudden whoomph that rattled the trees at the edge of the field. Heat slammed into me, rippling off my cloak, and I watched her silhouette vanish behind the blast.
She would've been finished right there—crippled for a month, maybe worse—but the teacher's chakra flared like thunder.
Body Flicker.
He appeared between us in a flash, one arm scooping her out of the fire's reach. The aftershock still hit him full-on; his flak vest smoked, hair singed at the edges as the flames died into fading sparks.
The field fell into stunned silence.
Akira coughed behind him, shaken but conscious. The teacher's eyes locked on me, sharp and burning with disbelief.
I just lowered my hand, the last traces of violet flame dying on my fingertips, and exhaled like I'd just finished stretching.
Somewhere in the crowd, a few older shinobi had been watching—hidden among the branches, observing the students. One of them, an old man with white hair and a cold, curious stare, leaned forward just enough for the light to catch the Uchiha crest on his robe.
Elder Satsuna.
He said nothing, but I could feel his gaze heavy on me.
The crowd didn't know what to make of what they'd seen. Half of them were terrified, the other half couldn't decide if they should clap or run.
I rolled my wrist once, letting the stiffness fade.
Guess the "dead last" label wasn't going to last long.
The teacher still looked half-singed from the last match, his vest smoldered in a way that made him rethink every career choice that had led him here. I still hadn't bothered to remember his name—some substitute tossed in to cover for the usual instructor—but the man looked ready to call the whole thing off.
He opened his mouth to do exactly that when an ANBU dropped out of nowhere, black mask glinting under the sun.
"The Hokage orders the sparring to continue," the ANBU said flatly, voice echoing through the silent field.
The teacher deflated with a sigh that screamed I am not paid enough for this. "Fine. We'll continue. Everyone back in line."
That was that. The rest of the day turned into a parade of quitters. Every time my name came up, whoever was supposed to fight me either paled, stammered, or pretended to suddenly remember they had medical leave. By the fifth no-show, I stopped pretending to care.
I sprawled out on the grass, one arm behind my head, eyes half-lidded as clouds drifted lazily overhead.
So much for testing my limits.
I must've drifted close to sleep when a name pulled me back.
"Next up—Jinx Uchiha versus Minato Namikaze."
That woke me up.
The blonde-haired kid walked into the ring, calm and collected in a way most eleven-year-olds weren't. There was something in his eyes—quiet determination, a stillness that wasn't naive but pure.
I stood, dusting off my cloak, stretching my neck. The whispering started immediately.
Before the teacher could even start the match, I raised my hand.
Gasps. The crowd murmured—thinking I was surrendering before the fight even began.
"Tell me, Minato," I said casually, voice carrying across the training field. "What's your dream?"
He blinked, a little thrown. "My… dream?"
"Yeah," I said, like we were two strangers in a bar instead of standing in a ring about to fight.
Minato hesitated but answered anyway. "I want to be Hokage. And… raise a family someday."
I stared at him for a full second. Then I laughed.
Not a polite chuckle—an unrestrained, full-body laugh that bent me over until my ribs hurt.
"That's so generic," I wheezed between breaths. "So boring I almost died from secondhand embarrassment."
A few kids snorted. Most just stared like I'd lost my mind. Even Minato looked flustered, lips pressed into a tight line.
When I finally stopped, I straightened up, the humor gone from my face. My eyes locked on him, all traces of playfulness evaporated.
The Sharingan bloomed to life.
"But," I said softly, "I have a feeling that dream of yours will come true."
He blinked, unsure whether I was mocking him or not.
"So," I continued, tilting my head, "how about we make a deal? We fight all out, no holding back. If I win…" I paused, tapping my chin like I actually had to think about it. "Hold up. Give me a second."
The entire class sweat-dropped. Even the teacher facepalmed.
While everyone exchanged confused looks, a faint digital chime echoed in my head. A system window slid into view.
[New Quest: Defeat Minato and Make Him Your Friend]
Requirements: Beat Minato without being humiliated.
Bonus: Win in under one minute.
Reward: Rasengan Manual, Moon Breathing (with Kokushibō's Blood Art)
Bonus Reward: Deep Crimson Spiral, Rokushiki Manual
Failure: Permanent Memory Loss
"Well, that's… interesting," I thought.
Minato tilted his head. "What?"
"Nothing," I said with a grin. "Just making sure I'm properly motivated."
He frowned slightly. "You didn't say what you want if you win."
"Oh, right." I snapped my fingers. "If I win, you'll be my friend."
The entire class collectively face-planted into the dirt.
Minato looked like I'd just asked him to marry a toad. "W-What?! How do you earn friendship by beating someone up?!"
I shrugged, utterly serious. "Simple logic. You respect strength, you respect the person. Friendship is just respect without the paperwork."
He gawked. "That's not how that works!"
"Sure it is," I said. "Tell me, do you know who the strongest Hokage is?"
Minato puffed up a little, like he knew this one. "Obviously the Third Hokage."
Every student and even the teacher nodded along. Consensus achieved.
I stared for a second—then broke again. I laughed so hard I fell to my knees. "Oh, gods… that's adorable."
Up in the trees, Elder Satsuna actually pinched the bridge of his nose while the ANBU hidden nearby clenched their fists, barely keeping composure at what they probably considered high treason through laughter.
When I finally calmed down, I looked at Minato like he'd just flunked history.
"Let me educate you, Namikaze," I said, voice low but clear enough for everyone to hear. "There have only ever been two names that truly defined power—Madara Uchiha and Hashirama Senju. They weren't just strong. They rewrote the laws of battle. Entire landscapes bent under their will. Armies broke just hearing their names.
"And those two… were friends before they were enemies. Rivals who pushed each other past every limit imaginable."
I took a step forward, the Sharingan spinning slowly. "That's why I want you to be my friend—and my rival. Because I see potential in you, Minato. I see that same spark, that same dangerous ambition hiding under all that nice-boy politeness."
The words hung heavy in the air. Nobody moved. Even the teacher looked like he didn't know whether to stop me or take notes.
I grinned. "But I'm not blind. There's a huge gap between us right now. So here's my offer: for every minute you last against me—up to three—I'll teach you one of my personal techniques. One of them's an A-rank. The other two… well, they'll change how you move forever. Deal?"
Minato blinked, visibly processing the absurdity of it all—but then, to my surprise, his expression hardened. He nodded once, firm. "Deal."
The teacher sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose again. "Fine. I'll keep time. Three minutes. No killing."
We both stepped into the circle. The wind picked up, carrying a faint smell of ash from my earlier fight.
The teacher raised his hand.
"Begin!"
The second his hand dropped, both of us moved—one chasing a dream, the other testing destiny.