"Is the Daimyo still in the village?" Renjiro asked, his voice casual, as if inquiring about the weather.
Kakashi didn't look up from his bowl. "Yes."
"Why?"
"How the hell should I know?"
Renjiro sighed, setting his chopsticks down with a soft clack. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, a gesture of long-suffering patience.
"Kakashi. Stop playing games with me."
Kakashi's visible eye widened slightly—just enough to register confusion, or perhaps the pretence of it. His expression remained otherwise neutral, the mask of the perfect shinobi firmly in place.
Renjiro leaned back slightly, his tone shifting to something more pointed.
"Last time I checked, you were still in ANBU. Not just a member—a senior operative. You know exactly why the Daimyo is still here."
Silence.
Kakashi continued eating, his chopsticks moving with the same steady rhythm as before. But the silence itself was an answer.
A confirmation. A senior ANBU who didn't deny knowledge was, for all practical purposes, admitting he had it.
Renjiro nodded slowly, as if Kakashi had spoken aloud. "So you're not going to tell me."
"You know ANBU protocol better than me, Renjiro," Kakashi replied finally, his voice flat.
"What you're asking for is information that isn't meant to be leaked."
"You already told me Hiruzen stepped down."
"That's different." Kakashi paused, finally looking up from his bowl. "News of a Hokage stepping down will be known by every villager—shinobi and civilian alike—by tomorrow morning. I didn't leak anything sensitive. I just gave you a head start on public information."
Renjiro studied him for a long moment. The logic was sound, technically correct in the way that Kakashi's arguments always were. But it was also a deflection, a way of maintaining the appearance of protocol while revealing nothing of substance.
"You can trust me," Renjiro said, his voice softer now, more reasonable.
"I won't share whatever you tell me. It stays between us."
Kakashi's eye narrowed slightly. "No."
The refusal was immediate, absolute. No hesitation, no consideration. Just a wall, firmly in place.
Renjiro's expression shifted. The reasonable mask dropped, replaced by something harder. More direct.
"We can do this the easy way," he said quietly, "or the hard way."
Kakashi stiffened. His entire body went still, the chopsticks frozen halfway to his mouth. He turned slowly toward Renjiro, and when he spoke, his voice carried a warning.
"You wouldn't dare."
Renjiro smirked. It was not a friendly expression.
"Who's going to stop me?"
His Sharingan activated.
The world shifted into shades of red and black as the tomoe spun to life, the pattern locking onto Kakashi with the inevitability of gravity. There was no time for Kakashi to react—his own Sharingan began to spin, responding to the surge of chakra, but he was a split second too slow.
Kakashi's eyes went blank. His body slumped forward, catching himself on the counter just before his face hit the ramen bowl.
A soft thump as his forehead rested against the wooden surface, and then nothing. Silence, except for the gentle bubbling of broth in the kitchen and the distant murmur of other customers who hadn't noticed a thing.
Renjiro sat back, deactivating his Sharingan. He waited a moment, letting the genjutsu run its course, extracting everything he needed from Kakashi's temporarily pliable mind.
Then he stood, placed enough ryo on the counter to cover both meals plus a generous tip, and walked out into the night, dragging the unconscious Kakashi with him.
---
A cold breeze passed through the streets of Konoha, carrying the scent of approaching autumn. The village was quiet now, the celebrations long ended, the civilians tucked into their homes. Only the occasional patrol moved through the shadows, their presence felt rather than seen.
Kakashi woke suddenly.
His body jerked upright, his hand instinctively reaching for a kunai that wasn't there. His visible eye was wide, darting around the unfamiliar surroundings—a street, a corner, a faint glow from a nearby lantern.
'What happened?'
Memory returned in fragments. The ramen shop. Renjiro's questions. The Sharingan activating a moment too late.
"Bastard," Kakashi hissed, the word carrying genuine venom.
"He used genjutsu on me."
He pushed himself to his feet, his body protesting the sudden movement. His mind was clear now—the genjutsu had been clean, professional, leaving no lingering effects—but his pride was another matter entirely.
Then he looked down.
His clothes were gone.
Kakashi stared at himself for a long, frozen moment. He was wearing nothing but his boxers, the night air cold against his skin. His uniform, his vest, his weapons—all missing.
'He didn't.'
A few feet away, he spotted them. Folded neatly. Stacked with the kind of precise attention to detail that suggested Renjiro had taken his time, had enjoyed this.
On top of the pile lay a small parchment note.
Kakashi snatched it up, his eye scanning the contents with growing fury.
Kakashi—
*Thanks for the information. You were very cooperative once I got past the ANBU training.
Also, you're too slow. Your Sharingan activation needs work. Since I'm feeling magnanimous, I'll volunteer to train you—properly this time. Think of this as motivation.*
—Renjiro
P.S. Your clothes are folded because I'm not a complete monster. You're welcome.
Kakashi's chakra surged. The parchment crumpled in his grip, crushed by the force of his anger into a tight ball. He stood there in his boxers, in the middle of a Konoha street, holding the remnants of a note that managed to be both condescending and generous in equal measure.
"Train me?" he muttered, his voice rising.
"He's going to train me? After—" He gestured vaguely at his state of undress. "This?!"
He began pulling on his clothes with sharp, angry movements, cursing under his breath the entire time. The words were creative, inventive, and would have made even Jiraiya raise an eyebrow.
But beneath the anger, something else stirred. A grudging acknowledgement that Renjiro was right—he had been too slow. His Sharingan, a gift he had never fully wanted, still felt foreign, still responded with a delay that could mean death against a real enemy.
'Maybe training isn't the worst idea.'
He shoved the thought away and continued dressing, his muttered curses carrying into the night.
---
Renjiro walked through the quiet streets of Konoha, his hands in his pockets, his expression thoughtful.
The genjutsu had worked perfectly. Kakashi's mind, for all its ANBU training, had opened like a book once the initial resistance was overcome. The information extracted was valuable—confirmation of what Renjiro had already suspected, plus details that would help him navigate the coming weeks.
'Using genjutsu on him wasn't excessive,' Renjiro reflected. 'Kakashi's strong enough to handle it. And he needed the wake-up call about his Sharingan anyway.'
The thought was rational, almost clinical. But beneath it lay something warmer—the genuine intention to help Kakashi improve, to prepare him for threats that were still years away. Obito. Itachi. The enemies that would test him beyond anything he'd faced.
'He'll thank me eventually. Maybe.'
The night wind picked up, carrying the scent of distant forests and the faint chill of autumn. Renjiro walked on, his route taking him through the older sections of the village, past closed shops and dark windows.
Then he stopped.
His senses, honed by years of survival and sharpened by the Sharingan's legacy, detected a presence. Close. Waiting. Not hiding, exactly, but positioned with deliberate care.
The wind continued blowing through the street, stirring loose leaves and sending shadows dancing across the walls.
Renjiro didn't turn around. His voice, when it came, was calm—almost conversational.
"To what do I owe the visit…"
A pause, deliberate, weighted.
"Clanhead."
From the shadows behind him, a figure emerged. Dark hair, dark eyes, the bearing of a man who had spent his entire life preparing for moments like this.
Fugaku Uchiha.
He moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly how much space he occupied, who had long ago stopped questioning his right to be anywhere. When he spoke, his voice was low, serious—the tone of a man who had come with purpose and would not be deterred.
"Follow me."
The words were not a request.
Renjiro turned slowly, meeting Fugaku's gaze. For a long moment, neither spoke. The night held its breath, waiting to see which way this would go.
Then Renjiro nodded, a small, controlled movement.
"Lead the way."
=====
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