The thirteen days without his father had been a trial. But Fugaku's return brought not only exhaustion and war scars, but also a shadow in his eyes. The ambush had cost the life of a close friend, and though he hid it from his family, Itachi was no ordinary child: he felt the weight of that silence.
Listening to fragments of conversation between adults, Itachi began to connect the dots. Fugaku's unit had been attacked at a point whose exact location was known only to a very small circle. It was too precise to be a coincidence.
"A spy in the village? Or someone from above… manipulating the pieces?" he repeated to himself. The name Danzō echoed like a dangerous whisper, making me clench my fists without drawing blood.
"Danzō, I curse you. If I have to take a life in this world, I hope it's yours."
Meanwhile, in his secret life, Itachi was delving into his two clandestine arts:
Genjutsu: He no longer limited himself to simple illusions. Now he practiced chained deceptions, layers of false perception that could last seconds before collapsing. He played with his mind, sometimes testing on himself until he almost lost the notion of what was real.
Seals: He understood he could use them not just as traps or containers, but as logical codes. Small lines of script that regulated chakra flows as if they were gates. It was no longer just about "storing" or "expanding," but about conditioning: "if there's wind, activate fire"; "if the enemy touches, release electricity."
A three-year-old boy shouldn't think about conspiracies or the syntax of the universe, but Itachi did. And the more he observed the clan elders, the more he felt that time was pressing.
The ninja world was a chessboard, and he was just learning to move the pawns. But he already sensed that behind every battle, there was an invisible hand moving the pieces.
And inside, the fire of his theory grew:
"If the brain can alter reality through chakra… then maybe I can find the truth even before it happens."
In the days following the mission, Fugaku seemed more rigid than ever, but also more willing to forge his son. Perhaps the pain of loss, or the shadow of war, was pushing him to prepare Itachi faster than normal.
One afternoon he took him to a secluded training ground within the Uchiha district. "Itachi," he said in a serious tone. "A warrior doesn't survive on brilliant jutsu alone. On the battlefield, the enemy never fights as you expect. You must learn to read them… and to think like them."
The boy nodded.
The first exercise was simple: Fugaku threw a straight kunai. Itachi dodged it without difficulty. But the second came with a spin, bouncing off a stone and changing direction. The third was even more deceptive: a combination of shuriken that concealed an invisible thread.
Itachi quickly understood: it wasn't about reacting, but about predicting patterns, understanding what his opponent was looking for before they showed it. Fugaku pushed him to fail, to stumble, and when he fell, he made him repeat the sequence over and over until he began to see the hidden intentions in every movement.
"When you fight," his father explained as he picked him up off the ground, "don't just think about what you will do. Ask yourself what your enemy would do if they were in your place. Ask what they don't want you to discover."
The panting boy absorbed every word.
That afternoon, Fugaku went further: he showed him the basics of the Uchiha clan's taijutsu. Not just punches and blocks, but how to use minimal movement to control the pace of combat. How one step could be both an attack and a defense. How silence could be as dangerous as a fire technique.
Itachi, at barely three years old, mimicked the movements with surprising precision. His still-small body didn't have the strength, but it had coordination, and above all, the mental clarity to see combat as a chessboard.
Fugaku looked at him with a mix of pride and worry.
"This boy isn't normal… If he continues like this, there will be no limit to what he can achieve. But that same talent could condemn him."
For the first time, Fugaku didn't treat him just as a son, but as a disciple.
And deep inside Itachi, something ignited: he didn't just want to learn to fight. He wanted to understand war itself.
The wind was blowing hard on the training ground, kicking up dust. Fugaku stood in front of his son, firm posture, relaxed hands, an implacable gaze. "Now we'll see how much you understand, Itachi. Attack me."
The boy took a step forward. His heart was pounding hard: it wasn't every day he faced his father in a real fight.
He launched the first move: a low kick seeking to unbalance. Fugaku blocked it with a mere twist of his ankle and counterattacked with the back of his hand, a sharp blow to the forehead. Itachi leaned back, feeling the air cut past him by inches.
Too fast.
He jumped to the side, but Fugaku was already there, with a side kick that stirred up a whirlwind of dust. Itachi blocked it with both arms, but the force dragged him several steps back.
His father gave a faint smile. "Never run from danger. Observe it. Listen to it. The enemy's body speaks before it moves."
Itachi gritted his teeth and watched. Fugaku advanced again, this time throwing a kunai directly at his feet. The boy instinctively jumped, and then he understood the deception: the real attack was coming from above, with a descending elbow.
He rolled at the last second, the blow impacting the ground and raising stones. I predicted it!, he thought, with a flash of satisfaction.
He got back up, and this time he took the initiative: he ran toward his father, faked a direct punch, and changed at the last instant to a spinning kick. Fugaku blocked, but his eyebrows barely lifted: he learns fast.
The exchange continued, blows and blocks that looked like a violent dance. Every time Itachi fell, he got up faster. Every time he suffered a graze or a blow to the stomach, his gaze became sharper.
And then, something new happened. Fugaku threw a shuriken at high speed, a real battle reflex. Itachi, with his body exhausted, couldn't completely dodge it… but in the last instant, he anticipated the trajectory. He barely tilted his neck, feeling the metal graze his ear.
His breathing was ragged, but in his mind, there was calm. Danger forces me to see more clearly. The body reacts, but the mind guides.
His father stopped him by raising his hand. "Enough."
Itachi fell to his knees, sweating, his arms aching. But inside, a spark was shining. For the first time, he had felt the pulse of a true battle, and he had faced it with something more than instinct: with strategic clarity.
Fugaku watched him in silence. He didn't just see his three-year-old son. He saw the warrior who one day could surpass everyone.