Blood dripped from his palm with practiced ease, stretching into the air to form three spinning spears. Riki tried to anticipate the attack, but his vision wavered, his eyes burning, as if a flame were lit within.
The spears shot out. Riki rolled to the side and tried to create a genjutsu, as Akemi had taught him, aiming at Hina. But the distorted image barely formed. Hina undid the attempt with a slight blink, and then returned fire with a real genjutsu.
Riki felt the ground disappear; he was submerged, not in lava or water, but in blood. The hot liquid rose up his throat, his ears. He wanted to scream, but he was drowning. It was an illusion, it was cruel.
Riki braced his feet and screamed inwardly, his will colliding with the genjutsu like a pulse of brute force. The world reconfigured itself, and he fell to his knees, gasping.
"Impressive!" Hina murmured. "He broke through."
"By force, not technique," Kaede commented. "He's unstable."
"And is that a problem?" Akari asked, approaching.
Riki looked up, his eyes still red, but blinking erratically.
"My chakra isn't flowing properly with this doujutsu yet... it's like it's trying to force something my body can't accept."
"That's normal." Akari looked at Hina and Kaede. "When the Ketsuryūgan awakens, it's slow. But no less powerful."
"I heard yours was during a fight," Riki commented.
"It was," Akari replied without elaborating.
Kaede approached and handed Riki a small dagger. "Cut it, and try to shape it."
Riki hesitated, but made the cut on his forearm with precision. Blood flowed, ran... but didn't shape anything. It had no resistance, no weight. It just flowed, like anyone else's.
Kaede took a deep breath. "You need more training..."
Riki put the blade away thoughtfully, but the feeling was one of inadequacy. For the first time since arriving in this world, he was behind. Even with all the knowledge he had, this new body has its own rules.
"I'm not weak," he said finally.
"We know that," Akari replied. "But it's not about strength."
She extended her hand and helped him to his feet.
"Keep training, Riki. The blood will obey you, sooner or later."
The three veterans retreated, ending the session. Satoru and Renji watched them from a distance, respectful.
Riki looked at his own hand, stained with dried blood, and felt an unfamiliar weight. Not only the weight of failure, but also the weight of legacy.
The lingering heat of Hell Valley enveloped the makeshift training ground like a living aura. The stones still retained the heat of previous sessions, and the smell of dried blood hung in the air. Riki sat on a rock, staring at the discreet cut on his forearm. The blood had already coagulated, forming a thin, dark crust. He was breathing deeply, his eyes staring blankly, or perhaps at what he wished existed within himself.
"That was... disastrous," he murmured.
"It's just the beginning," said a firm voice behind him.
Riki looked up and saw his father silhouetted against the dull sky of the valley. Tekka Uchiha approached with measured steps, a longsword strapped to his waist, his eyes half-closed, and there was something about his presence that immediately silenced all conversation.
"Father..."
Tekka looked at his classmates, who were watching from a distance. Akari, Kaede, Hina, Renji, and Satoru turned their eyes to him with a mixture of respect and curiosity. Tekka didn't often address them; in fact, he barely knew them.
But it seemed he would make them friends, brothers.
"Time for our lesson," he said to Riki.
The boy nodded, but glanced at his friends, noticing the glint in Akari's eyes, the subtle curiosity in Satoru's.
"Can they watch?" He risked asking.
Tekka was silent for several seconds, then turned toward the group, his expression tense, as if he tolerated more than he accepted.
"If you remain silent, that won't be a problem... it's not a problem."
"Right."
His father walked to a flat, rocky clearing where they usually trained in silence. Tekka drew the sword from his back: an Uchiha katana, with a black scabbard and a slightly curved edge, simple, but imbued with tradition.
"The Uchiha clan's kenjutsu isn't a show-off," Tekka began, handing a wooden sword to his son. "It's sharp, direct. An extension of us, of the Sharingan itself."
Riki took the sword and assumed the same stance as his father, as in their last lessons.
"You're not my mirror!" Tekka twirled the katana in his hands. "But he is my son, and he carries my blood, and he will learn to kill like an Uchiha."
Riki didn't answer; the heat of the valley enveloped him like a furnace, and this time he wasn't wielding a wooden sword.
The first move came like a lightning bolt: Tekka lunged forward with a clean, straight thrust, aiming for the center of the chest. Riki barely had time to raise the blade and parry, his arms vibrating from the impact. Even with a sword, Tekka didn't ease up.
—Anticipation, posture. The Sharingan observes... and the blade executes.
The sound of clashing swords echoed through the valley. The friends watched silently, as required. Akari clenched her fists, Kaede watched them with a serene expression, observing each movement. Renji yawned lazily, but didn't look away. Satoru and Hina watched with alert attention, absorbing every detail.
Riki tried to keep up; each of his father's attacks came with speed, technique, and a