I landed hard on the dew-slick grass, my boots skidding a little in the torn-up dirt as Sakumo's hand let go of mine mid-swing. The momentum from our clash still hummed through my arms like leftover lightning, that pins-and-needles feeling that comes after channeling too much chakra too fast, but everything just… stopped. One second I was rocketing upward with blue flames roaring around my fist, Mikoto's blade crackling overhead like a storm about to break, and the next, there he was—the White Fang himself—plucking us out of the air like we were a couple of kids roughhousing in the backyard.
My heart hammered against my ribs, not from the fight exactly, but from the sheer casual power in that grip. It wasn't crushing or showy. There was no dramatic flare of chakra, no shouted technique name, no earth-shattering display of force. It was just there, solid and final, like the guy could've snapped a mountain in half if he felt like it and wouldn't even have broken a sweat doing it. His fingers had closed around my fist with the kind of easy confidence that came from decades of ending battles before they could even really start. I blinked sweat out of my eyes and looked around, and that's when the shock really hit me.
The training ground wasn't just messed up. It was wrecked. Like, end-of-the-world wrecked.
A massive scorched circle stretched out where our final techniques had collided, the grass burned down to black ash that still smoked in lazy curls that drifted across the field like ghosts. The circle was at least thirty feet across, maybe more, the edges still glowing faintly orange where embers hadn't quite died out. Cracks spider-webbed across the earth like someone had taken a giant hammer to it, deep fissures that split the ground open and exposed the darker soil beneath. Chunks of turf were flipped over and scattered everywhere, some of them still smoking, others already cold and crumbling to dust.
Trees on the edge of the clearing leaned at weird angles, their leaves curled brown and crispy, a few branches still glowing faintly from stray embers that refused to go out. One of them had a lightning scar running down its trunk, a blackened furrow where Mikoto's electricity had gouged deep into the wood. Another was missing half its branches entirely, the wood splintered and charred from the heat of my flames. The air smelled like ozone and burnt pine, sharp enough to sting the back of my throat, mixed with that faint metallic tang from my spirit flames that hadn't quite faded yet. It was the smell of violence, of power unleashed and barely contained.
I could feel the heat radiating up from the ground through my sandals, the residual warmth from the firestorm still baking the earth. And somewhere in the distance, a couple of birds were finally daring to chirp again after all the thunder, their tentative songs a reminder that the world hadn't actually ended.
What the hell had we done? I thought, my chest tightening as I took in the full scope of the destruction. I don't think even a high-tier jonin could've stopped me and Mikoto's clash without breaking a sweat. But Sakumo had. Just like that. No flashy jutsu, no big speech. He'd just… been there. Like he belonged there, like stopping two special jonin mid-clash was just another Tuesday for a man of his caliber.
Sakumo stepped back, brushing a bit of ash off his sleeve like it was nothing, his white hair catching the morning light in a way that made him look almost unreal. The sun was higher now, fully above the trees, and it turned his hair into a kind of halo, made the edges of his silhouette soft and golden. He scanned the damage with those calm, steady eyes of his, taking in every scorch mark, every fissure, every fallen branch and burned leaf. Then he let out a low whistle, the sound almost cheerful despite the destruction.
Sakumo: You two did well.
His voice was even and warm, like we'd just finished a light spar instead of turning the field into a war zone. But then his gaze lingered on the biggest crater, the one where the firestorm and lightning lance had met, and he shook his head slowly, the movement almost regretful.
Sakumo: But… it wasn't just destroyed. It was wrecked. You two did a bit too much.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry from the smoke and exertion. The words tumbled out before I could overthink them, the apology automatic, the way it always was when you'd broken something you weren't supposed to break.
Ryusei: Sorry, sensei.
Mikoto's voice overlapped mine in the same breath, both of us sounding a little sheepish, like kids caught sneaking extra sweets from the pantry.
Mikoto: Sorry, sensei.
My muscles were still buzzing from the fight, that post-combat adrenaline letdown that made everything feel a little shaky, a little unreal. But underneath it, I could feel the endless well of chakra humming along, untouched, and the youki purring like a satisfied cat. I could've kept going for hours. Days, maybe. Infinite chakra and all that yokai nonsense hummed under my skin like a second heartbeat, a constant reminder that I wasn't quite human, wasn't quite normal. But I let my shoulders slump a fraction anyway, playing the part of the exhausted shinobi who'd pushed too hard. The fox inside me stirred, pleased at the destruction, whispering instincts about claiming territory and burning threats, about marking this field as mine. But I shoved it down. Not here. Not with them watching.
Sakumo waved a hand, that easy smile creeping across his face again, the kind that reached his eyes and made the scar on his cheek crinkle. It was the smile of a man who'd seen worse, who'd walked through battlefields that made this little scorched clearing look like a picnic spot.
Sakumo: No worries. I'll cover it myself.
He glanced at the mess one more time, like he was already mentally filing the repair paperwork, calculating how much it would cost to fix the trees and resod the grass and fill in the cracks. Then he clapped his hands together once, the sound sharp and final.
Sakumo: And after this, we'll go to Akimichi's barbecue. My treat. You all earned it.
This guy is so freaking nice, I thought, a weird warmth spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with the lingering flames. I'm a yokai—I can smell lies and deception from a mile away, that subtle sour edge in someone's youki or chakra when they're hiding something. The way a lie tastes like spoiled milk on the air, the way betrayal leaves a greasy film on the back of your tongue. But from Sakumo? Nothing. Just clean, steady intent, like a still lake reflecting the sky. No hidden agendas, no political bullshit waiting to bite, no shadow of Danzo's influence lurking behind his eyes. Just a good man being good because that was who he was.
It hit me harder than any punch from the spar. Right then, standing there in the wrecked field with the sun climbing higher and the smell of smoke still thick in the air, I made up my mind. No questions asked. Sakumo Hatake is not dying. Not on my watch. Even if it means taking on Danzo myself, even if I have to slip into the shadows and end that old bastard before he can twist the knife, even if it means burning every bridge I've built and every plan I've made. I'd wear this borrowed skin forever if it meant keeping someone like him around. The village needed that kind of decency. Hell, I needed it.
Sakumo turned to Mikoto first, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful, almost fatherly. The easy smile didn't disappear, but it softened, became something more serious underneath. He studied her for a moment, taking in the dirt on her face, the sweat in her hair, the way she still held her short blade like she wasn't quite ready to put it away.
Sakumo: Mikoto, your first mistake was underestimating him.
He nodded toward me without looking away from her, and I felt the weight of that acknowledgment settle on my shoulders.
Sakumo: In fact, I could tell he was obviously hoping you would do that—letting him gain the upper hand he shouldn't have had if you hadn't underestimated him.
Mikoto's cheeks flushed a faint pink under the dirt and sweat streaking her face, but she didn't look away. Her pride had taken a hit, that much was obvious, but she wasn't the kind to make excuses or deflect blame. Her ponytail had come half-undone, dark strands sticking to her neck and forehead, and her Sharingan had faded back to those sharp black eyes that still held a spark of that post-fight fire. She stood there with her short blade still in hand, the edge faintly scorched from our clashes, but her posture stayed straight, listening like this mattered more than her pride. Because it did. That was the difference between the shinobi who survived and the ones who didn't—the ability to hear the truth without flinching.
Sakumo: Work on that. You're becoming too complacent since you haven't lost to any shinobi outside your clan. It could very well be your downfall if you're not careful.
She nodded once, slow and deliberate, the kind of nod that said she was filing it away for real, not just going through the motions. Her jaw tightened slightly, the muscles flexing under her skin, but she held his gaze.
Mikoto: Understood, sensei.
Her voice was steady, but I caught the way her fingers tightened on her blade for a second, like the words stung a little. The knuckles went white, then relaxed. I felt a flicker of respect for her right then—most Uchiha I remembered from the stories would've bristled or deflected, would've made excuses about clan techniques or bad matchups. But she took it head-on, accepted the critique without argument. That was the mark of someone who would keep getting stronger.
Sakumo shifted his gaze to me, and I straightened up a bit, trying not to let the faked exhaustion show too obviously. My lungs were fine, my chakra reserves untouched, but I let my breathing come a little heavier anyway, chest rising and falling like I'd just run a marathon. I made sure my shoulders sagged just slightly, made sure there was a sheen of sweat on my forehead that could be from exhaustion instead of just the morning heat. The fox inside me rolled its eyes at the performance, but I ignored it.
Sakumo: Ryusei, you don't have too many issues.
Damn if that didn't feel good to hear after everything. The words settled into my chest like a warm drink on a cold day, spreading through my ribs and loosening something I hadn't even realized was tight.
Sakumo: Your tactical IQ is on point. You took advantages and devised several layers of planning with every engagement—clones, feints, element switches. That's sharp work.
He paused, rubbing the back of his neck like he was picking his next words carefully, the way a craftsman might pick the right tool for a delicate job.
Sakumo: But another thing I noticed… you're good at taijutsu. Good as in average good. You relied on clones a lot. I'm not saying it's a bad thing, but… that's chakra intensive. The battle didn't last six minutes and you're already tired and panting.
Six minutes? I thought, the words slamming into me like a surprise gut punch. What the hell do you mean we've only been fighting for nearly six minutes? It had felt like an eternity out there—every clash stretching out in slow motion, my mind racing through a dozen contingencies, the blue flames itching to come out fully. I'd felt every second of it, every heartbeat, every breath. But six minutes? My internal clock must've been screwed from the adrenaline, from the way time seemed to warp and bend when you were fighting for your life.
I nodded anyway, keeping my face neutral even as my brain spun. He wasn't wrong about the taijutsu. I knew I was average at best, that I'd been compensating with clones and trickery because I hadn't put in the hours on the basics. That was going to change.
Ryusei: Yes, sensei. I already knew where I stood in my taijutsu. That's why I was hoping you would teach me.
Sakumo's smile softened, that genuine warmth back in full force. It was the kind of smile that made you feel like you'd already been accepted, like you were already part of the team even if the paperwork hadn't gone through yet.
Sakumo: I know. I'll focus more on training you. And if I'm not available, you could learn taijutsu from Kira.
He turned to her then, the Hyuga girl still standing off to the side with her arms crossed, her pale eyes wide like she was still processing the whole thing. Her usual composure had cracked somewhere during the fight, and she hadn't quite managed to put the pieces back together yet. The bandage on her forehead stood out starkly against her skin, the curse seal hidden beneath it.
Sakumo: Kira… I hope you don't mind. No worries—no Hyuga clan techniques. Just pure taijutsu.
Kira: Mhm.
She nodded, short and clipped, but there was a tiny upward twitch at the corner of her mouth, like she wasn't entirely opposed to the idea. It wasn't quite a smile—I wasn't sure Kira knew how to smile—but it was close. Her white eyes flicked to me for a second, assessing, cataloging, the way Hyugas did when they were reading someone's body. Then they slid back to Sakumo.
Sakumo turned back to me, picking up right where he left off, his tone still warm but with an undercurrent of seriousness now.
Sakumo: As for your fire and wind release… they're exceptional. We're also going to work on your spirit flames manipulation. So you two go and clean up a bit, and meet me at Akimichi's barbecue.
Me and Mikoto nodded in sync, the motion feeling almost automatic after the intensity of the fight. The promise of food and a chance to breathe, to decompress, to let the adrenaline finally drain away—it sounded like heaven. I started to turn, muscles already loosening at the thought, when Mikoto stepped closer.
Her hand brushed my arm lightly, stopping me mid-step. The touch was warm through my torn sleeve, her fingers lingering just long enough to get my attention. I turned back to her, and there was something different in her expression now—something softer than the competitive fire she'd been showing all morning.
Mikoto: Hey, Ryusei.
Her voice was softer than I'd expected, almost hesitant, like she wasn't quite sure how to say what she wanted to say. She sheathed her blade with a quiet click, the steel sliding home with a sound of finality, and rubbed the back of her neck, the flush from earlier creeping back into her cheeks. The dirt and sweat couldn't hide it.
Mikoto: I'm sorry for underestimating you back there. Seriously. You were amazing. Really powerful. I thought Kira was my rival since we've been training alongside each other for a while now, pushing each other every day. But now… you're my new rival.
She grinned then, that Uchiha fire lighting up her eyes again, confident but not cocky. It was the kind of grin that said she meant it, every word, and that she was looking forward to the next time they crossed blades. The sunlight caught her face at just the right angle, and for a moment, despite the dirt and the sweat and the torn clothes, she looked beautiful in that fierce, warrior way that Uchiha women seemed to specialize in.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry right there on the spot. Sasuke and Naruto—an Uchiha and a fox. Isn't that the same with me and her, but with extra steps? The thought bubbled up unbidden, laced with that old guilt that always sat heavy in my gut, the one about wearing Ryusei's skin like a borrowed coat that didn't quite fit. The guilt about being here at all, about taking a life that wasn't mine to take, about pretending to be someone I'd never been. I pushed it down, forcing a smile instead. I didn't voice any of that out loud, obviously.
Ryusei: Looking forward to this rivalry, Mikoto. Because I'm not done improving.
Mikoto: So am I.
She shot back quick as a spark, her grin widening, and I could see the competitive fire already burning behind her eyes. She was already planning, already thinking about the next fight, the next chance to prove herself. That was the Uchiha way—never satisfied, always reaching for more.
As if feeling left out, Kira shifted her weight and spoke up, her voice cutting through the moment with that cool Hyuga precision. She'd recovered some of her composure now, her arms still crossed, her expression settling back toward its usual blankness. But there was something in her pale eyes now—a spark of interest, maybe, or the first flicker of respect.
Kira: Me too.
Me and Mikoto both laughed at the same time, the sound echoing a little across the wrecked field, light and genuine in a way that cut through the lingering tension. The smoke and ozone and burnt grass faded into the background, and for a moment it was just three shinobi standing in the aftermath of a good fight, already looking forward to the next one.
I wiped a streak of soot from my cheek with the back of my hand, feeling the first real stir of something like belonging settle in my chest. It was warm and unfamiliar, like a stray cat deciding to curl up on your porch. I wasn't sure what to do with it, wasn't sure if I deserved it, but I wasn't going to push it away either.
Ryusei: Okay, you too, Kira.