Uchiha Hayashi took a single scroll from the clan archive, one that recorded the Uchiha's experiences in training and using the Sharingan, then slipped it under his arm and left.
Why refuse something freely offered, he thought. Besides, he was not lacking in basic ninjutsu knowledge. Still, a hot, low annoyance pulsed through him, aimed squarely at Clan Head Yama.
You should recruit someone more capable than me, he grumbled silently. How did a second-year Academy student suddenly end up on the radar of the clan's elders?
Only yesterday he had been a nobody, scraping by. Hayashi had always preferred to work quietly, to build his strength without fanfare. That had been the advice of an older mentor long gone. Now, the clan head had stormed in and declared, as if it were settled by destiny, that he might be the one to carry their ambitions. The logic felt contrived.
He walked the compound's paths with measured steps, alert to whether someone lingered in the shadowed eaves. At night the Uchiha estate took on a hush that made every courtyard feel larger, every house a mausoleum. In that vast, ancient place he felt very small, like a lone marker on a wide field.
If they meant to use him as a pawn, then he would accept that role for now. If he wanted to overturn the board, to become a player rather than a piece, he would need strength, and a lot of it. He would not be crushed because he refused to act. There were questions about his father Uchiha Kagami's death that needed answers, and he intended to dig until the truth came out. None of those who had hidden in shadow would walk away untouched.
When dawn spilled through the leaves, Hayashi woke. Sunlight filtered across the pale wooden floor and warmed his face through the gaps in the foliage outside his doorway. He lay still for a moment, then formed a smooth, practiced hand seal for a Wind Release exercise. A soft breeze answered, stirring the curtains and making the morning smell crisp.
This was training for chakra control more than for combat. He had learned long ago that steady, quiet practice was what sharpened a shinobi's core. With each repetition the flow felt cleaner, less like effort and more like extension. That steadiness had started in the Academy's drills and grown during his private practices. With enough repetition, the smallest techniques became second nature.
He almost curled back under the blanket to steal another hour of sleep, but a soft knock at the door interrupted the temptation.
Rap rap. Three careful knocks. Then the latch turned and Mikoto stepped in, sleeves rolled up and an apron tied at her waist. She had a way of arriving early to make breakfast when she knew someone in the house might need it. Apparently today it was him.
Hayashi smiled and rose, pulling on his Uchiha jacket. Mikoto moved with the easy competence of someone who had done this a hundred mornings, plates clinking and the scent of warm bread filling the room. For all the tense politics and secretive conversations, this small domesticity settled him. He treated Mikoto with the familiar, protective patience of an older brother, keeping his teasing gentle and kind.
"You're up early today, Mikoto," he said, handing her a towel.
"I wasn't tired," Mikoto answered, cheeks pink with steam, smiling like someone who enjoyed the quiet. "Aren't you going to drag yourself out of bed a bit later as usual, Hayashi-san?"
He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sometimes I do wake early too. Maybe I'm growing up."
Her expression became a shade more careful. "Hayashi, what would you like for breakfast? I can try those cookies I burned yesterday again, but I promise I'll be more careful."
"Anything you make is fine," he said honestly, because it was. He had always appreciated these small acts of care. They grounded him, reminding him that people could still be ordinary in a world that demanded so much.
They left for the Academy together, walking through streets that were already bright with morning life. The market stalls opened, children chased one another in the dust, and elders sat under eaves talking quietly. It felt almost ordinary.
On the way they ran into Nawaki walking back from the Senju compound, his posture more buoyant than usual. He greeted them with the easy confidence of one who expected good news.
"Good morning, Hayashi, Mikoto," Nawaki said, grinning.
"Morning," Mikoto replied. She was calm and polite, as always.
Hayashi studied Nawaki for a beat, noting that something about his walk and the light in his eyes were different. He kept his observations to himself mostly, but he could not help asking, "You seem brighter today, Nawaki. Everything all right?"
Nawaki's grin widened, almost too quick. "I am fine. Why would you think I'm different? Maybe it is just the weather."
Mikoto nudged him with an elbow, amused. "Hayashi, stop staring like you are peering into people's hearts. You'll frighten them."
Hayashi let a small smile show. He was careful in the way he looked at people, not leering or intrusive, but protective. The morning's mood was light, and he did not want to ruin it with suspicion. Still, he catalogued details in the quiet way of a shinobi, storing away anything that might matter later.
Nawaki tapped at his chest, mockingly offended. "Me worry? Never. But Hayashi, if you insist on being moral, remember this — my sister trains hard, and she will not be someone you can bully, so you better prepare yourself."
Mikoto laughed, and Hayashi felt the warmth of ordinary friendships push the edges of his darker doubts back into the shadows. For now he could walk as a student with friends, not the center of a political storm.
They arrived at the Academy hall of learning, and Hayashi's face settled into the composed expression he used for classes. There were lessons to attend, techniques to refine, and questions to answer in their proper time. His conscience nudged him toward prudence; his heart kept the flame of revenge and justice banked, not yet unleashed.
He would keep the scroll tucked safely in his bag. He would train. He would listen, and he would learn how to read the games powerful men played.
And when the time came to lift the lid on the mystery of his father's death, he would be ready.
____
Damn, y'all are stingy with power stones,
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