Consciousness returned to Kakashi in fragments—first sound, the distant thud-thud-thud of practice dummies being struck with rhythmic precision; then sensation, the ground beneath him hard and uneven, packed dirt instead of the familiar wooden floor of Renjiro's home; finally vision, blurry shapes slowly resolving into clear images through his still-focusing eye.
The sky above was pale blue, scattered with thin clouds. Trees bordered the edges of his vision, their leaves rustling in a light breeze. The worn earth beneath him was scattered with small stones and patches of trodden grass.
Then memory crashed back—the conversation about the Daimyo, the reveal about the extended observation period, Renjiro's eyes flashing with that telltale ripple of chakra, and then nothing but darkness.
His eye snapped open fully.
"…You did it again."
The words came out flat, but beneath them lay a current of genuine irritation that Kakashi made no effort to hide. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, his gaze finding Renjiro standing a few meters away, completely unbothered, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching him with that infuriating calm that seemed permanently etched into his features.
Renjiro tilted his head slightly, a gesture that might have been curiosity or might have been amusement. "You should be grateful."
Kakashi blinked, his processing momentarily derailed by the sheer absurdity of the statement.
"…What?"
"At least this time you still have all your clothes on."
A pause. Kakashi slowly looked down at himself—flak jacket intact, pants still present, sandals still on his feet. Everything exactly as it should be. He looked back up at Renjiro, his visible eye narrowing.
"That's not the point."
Renjiro shrugged, utterly unrepentant. "It's an improvement."
Kakashi pushed himself fully to his feet, brushing dirt and small pebbles from his clothes with sharp, irritated movements. His mind was still catching up, still trying to piece together what had happened, how much time had passed, what he might have missed.
Then he froze.
This wasn't Renjiro's house. This was one of Konoha's public training grounds—a wide open space of packed dirt and worn grass, practice posts lined up against the far end like silent sentinels, scattered shinobi going through their own exercises at a respectful distance. The air smelled of sweat and earth and the faint metallic tang of recently used weapons.
Kakashi's eye narrowed further, suspicion coiling in his gut. "…When did we get here?"
Renjiro's answer was casual, almost bored. "While you were asleep."
Kakashi stared at him, trying to process the implications. "You carried me?"
Renjiro didn't even look at him, his gaze fixed on something in the middle distance.
"You're lighter than you think."
Kakashi opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. There was no good answer to that. No response that wouldn't make the situation more absurd than it already was. He settled for a glare that Renjiro completely ignored.
Renjiro stretched then, a long, fluid movement that rolled through his shoulders and spine with the casual grace of someone who had all the time in the world. When he turned back to Kakashi, his demeanour had shifted—still relaxed, but focused now. Business-like. The amusement in his eyes had been replaced by something more calculating.
"What do you really want to learn?"
Kakashi frowned, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "…What?"
"The Sharingan."
Renjiro's voice was calm, patient—the tone of an instructor beginning a lesson. "What exactly are you trying to achieve with it?"
The question was simple on its surface, but Kakashi's instincts—honed by years of ANBU operations—sensed layers beneath it. Renjiro was gauging him. Assessing his level, his goals, and his potential. The Sharingan was a tool, but like any tool, its effectiveness depended entirely on the user's understanding and intent.
Kakashi stared at him for a long moment, suspicion flickering openly behind his visible eye. "You don't already have a plan?"
"I do." Renjiro paused, letting the word hang.
"I just prefer to tailor my training to the student."
Kakashi's eye narrowed further. Something about that phrasing rubbed him wrong—the implication that Renjiro was the expert, the authority, the one who would judge and direct. It chafed against every independent instinct Kakashi possessed.
"Tailor your training?" There was an edge in his voice now, sharp and defensive.
"That sounds condescending."
Renjiro didn't react. Didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.
Kakashi pressed forward, irritation bleeding into his words. "Or did you make that offer without actually thinking it through?"
"I thought it through." Renjiro's voice remained even, unbothered by the accusation.
"I just don't assume everyone needs the same lessons."
Kakashi stood fully now, squaring his shoulders, letting his annoyance show openly in his posture.
"You talk like you already know what I need." He took a step forward, closing the distance between them slightly.
"That's either arrogance…" He paused, letting the word land. "…or delusion."
Renjiro didn't deny it. Didn't defend himself. Didn't offer any of the expected responses. He simply looked at Kakashi with that same calm, assessing gaze, and when he spoke, his voice carried no heat at all.
"Maybe."
The word landed like a stone in still water. Kakashi had expected deflection, argument, some kind of pushback that would justify his irritation. Instead, Renjiro had simply… accepted the accusation. Acknowledged it as a possibility without conceding anything.
It threw him off balance completely.
Renjiro took a step back then, creating deliberate space between them. His posture shifted—subtly, but noticeably to someone trained to read such things. The casual slouch was gone, replaced by something more grounded. More deliberate. The readiness of someone who had spent years learning to fight, to kill, to survive.
"Before we begin," he said, and his voice carried a new weight now, a seriousness that hadn't been there moments ago, "I need to confirm something."
Kakashi's frown deepened, his instincts screaming that he was missing something, that this conversation had layers he couldn't quite see. "What?"
"That you're disciplined enough to learn."
The words hung in the air between them, a challenge wrapped in calm observation. Kakashi opened his mouth to respond—with anger, with defiance, with some retort that would reassert his position—but Renjiho had already turned away.
He walked a few steps to where a weapon rested against a weathered practice post. A bo staff, simple and unadorned, the wood was worn smooth from countless hands, dark with age and use.
Renjiro lifted it casually, testing its weight with a slight tilt. Then he spun it once in his hand—a single, fluid motion that sent the staff whistling through the air in a perfect arc before settling against his shoulder. The movement was practised, effortless, the kind of casual mastery that came from years of dedicated training.
He turned back to Kakashi, and a small smirk played at the corner of his mouth.
"If you can't handle this…" He paused, letting the words land with deliberate weight.
"…there's no point teaching you anything else."
Kakashi's visible eye narrowed to a slit. His hand drifted toward the kunai at his hip, an instinctive response to the implicit challenge. The air between them tightened, charged with the promise of violence. Around them, the training ground continued its ordinary rhythm—distant thuds of weapons against practice dummies, muffled conversations from other shinobi, the rustle of wind through the bordering trees—but here, in this small pocket of space, time seemed to slow to a crawl.
Renjiro stood motionless, staff balanced, waiting.
Kakashi's fingers brushed the handle of his kunai.
=====
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