The Uchiha courtyard was still damp with the morning dew. The dark soil held the marks of
old footprints, some deeper than others—evidence of years of repeated training. Silence
lingered in the air, broken only by the distant sound of wind passing through the trees and
the soft creak of wood being handled with care.
Ren was alone.
He held the practice sword with both hands, feet firmly planted on the ground. He did not
move quickly. He did not move forcefully. Every action came after a brief pause, as if his
body waited for permission from his mind.
He stepped forward.
Twisted his wrist.
Stopped.
Returned to his starting stance.
There was no rush. No one watching—at least, that was what he believed.
Ren repeated the movement, subtly adjusting the angle of his arm. The strike came out
almost imperceptibly different from the previous one. More aligned. Less wasted effort.
He frowned slightly, as if comparing the two motions inside his own head.
He tried again.
On the other side of the courtyard, standing beneath the shade of one of the trees, Fugaku
watched.
He had made no sound upon arriving. Had not drawn attention. He had simply stopped
there, arms crossed, gaze fixed on his youngest son.
It wasn't strength that caught his attention.
It was the absence of it.
Ren trained like someone who had nothing to prove. There was no anger in his strikes, no
urgency. His body seemed to respond to an internal calculation rather than impulse.
Fugaku remained silent.
Ren advanced once more. His front foot slipped slightly on the damp earth. He lost his
balance for a moment, but did not fall. He corrected his posture and stopped.
He stood still for several seconds.
Then, he repeated the movement from the beginning.
Fugaku narrowed his eyes slightly.
Most children, when they made a mistake, tried to force through it harder. Ren did not. He
reset.
"Do you usually train at this hour?" Fugaku asked.
Ren turned immediately, his body stiffening for a brief instant before relaxing as he
recognized who stood there.
"Good morning," he said, bowing his head respectfully.
Fugaku nodded once.
"Good morning."
Ren remained still, sword lowered, waiting.
Fugaku took a few steps forward, close enough to observe his posture more clearly.
"How long have you been training alone?"
Ren thought for a moment before answering.
"Since I noticed the courtyard is empty early in the morning."
Fugaku did not react right away.
"You prefer it that way?"
"It's easier to think."
Fugaku observed the wooden sword, then Ren's feet, then his hands.
"Show me what you were doing."
Ren hesitated briefly—not out of fear, but organization. Then he returned to his starting
stance.
He took a deep breath.
The movement came controlled and precise, without excessive force. The sword cut through
the air in a straight line, stopping exactly where it should.
Ren did not look at Fugaku when he finished. He simply waited.
"Again."
Ren repeated it.
Fugaku stepped a little closer now, focusing on the smallest details: weight shift, tension in
the shoulders, the way Ren kept his center of gravity stable.
"You don't force your strikes," Fugaku remarked.
"If I force them, I miss more," Ren replied.
Fugaku raised an eyebrow slightly.
"And who told you that?"
"No one."
A brief silence followed.
"You observed?"
Ren nodded.
Fugaku took another step forward.
"You've trained with Itachi."
"Yes."
"And with Sasuke."
"Sometimes."
"But you don't train like they do."
Ren thought before answering.
"They train to win," he said. "I train to understand."
Fugaku remained silent.
"Understand what?"
"The movement," Ren replied. "And the mistake."
Fugaku looked away for a moment, as if evaluating something beyond the courtyard.
"Come with me."
Ren blinked, surprised.
"Now?"
"Now."
They walked toward a more distant part of the courtyard, where the ground was more
uneven. Fugaku picked up a practice sword and held it with one hand.
"Attacking isn't just about striking," he said. "Show me how you react."
Ren adjusted his stance.
Fugaku advanced abruptly, without warning.
Ren stepped back half a pace, rotating his body out of the line of attack. His response was
restrained, defensive, with no immediate attempt at a counterattack.
Fugaku stopped.
"Why didn't you attack?"
"There was no opening."
"You missed a chance."
"I would have missed."
Fugaku narrowed his eyes.
"Are you afraid of making mistakes?"
"No," Ren replied. "I just don't like making them for no reason."
Fugaku remained silent for a few seconds.
He advanced again, this time faster. Ren evaded once more, his movement precise and
economical. Still, his rear foot lagged a fraction of a second longer than it should have.
Fugaku noticed.
"Your reaction time is good," he said. "But you anticipate too much."
Ren nodded.
"I think ahead."
"In battle, thinking too much gets you killed."
Ren lifted his eyes.
"Thinking too little does too."
The silence that followed was longer.
Fugaku lowered his sword.
"You don't talk much."
"Not when I'm learning."
Fugaku studied his son's face for several seconds.
"You have good chakra control," he said. "Have you noticed?"
"A little."
"How?"
"When I get tired, I don't lose rhythm," Ren replied. "I just slow down."
Fugaku took a deep breath.
"Do you want to become stronger?"
Ren did not answer immediately.
"I want to be useful."
"Useful to whom?"
Ren took his time.
"To the family."
The wind passed through the trees.
"You're not seeking recognition," Fugaku said.
"I don't know how to seek it."
Fugaku let out a short sigh.
"Maybe that's for the best."
He turned and walked a few steps before stopping.
"Starting today, I'll train you."
Ren's eyes widened slightly.
"Are you sure?"
"I am."
"Why?"
Fugaku turned his face to the side.
"Because you take training seriously," he replied. "That alone says enough."
Ren absorbed those words in silence.
"But know this," Fugaku continued. "My training will not be gentle."
Ren nodded.
"I don't expect it to be."
Fugaku watched his youngest son for a few more seconds.
"We begin tomorrow, at dawn."
"I'll be here."
"Don't be late."
"I won't."
Fugaku turned and began to walk away.
Ren remained standing, watching until he disappeared from the courtyard.
Only then did he release the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
The courtyard returned to silence.
But something had changed.
Ren returned to his starting stance, raised the sword, and repeated the movement.
This time, there was something new there.
Not haste.
Not anxiety.
Anticipation.