Dad was gone. This time, the clan's mission had taken him away for several weeks. The house felt strangely silent without his constant presence, without the rhythmic echo of his footsteps in the training yard, or the murmur of his instructions. But I, Itori, knew I couldn't relax. Dad had insisted on it with a seriousness that allowed no argument: training doesn't stop, no matter what. So, every morning, I returned to the yard, doing my Taijutsu exercises with the same dedication, immersed in the deep meditation that connected me with the vast river of chakra within me, walking on trees until my feet ached, controlling chakra to stick leaves to my skin as if they were part of me.
One day, as I practiced a series of quick punches and dodges that Dad had taught me, a voice scoffed from the stone wall surrounding the yard. The tone was sharp and full of disdain, resonating with an irritating familiarity. "Look at the fire-haired kid. Does he think he can be a true Uchiha just by jumping in trees like a monkey and sticking leaves to his face?"
It was Ren. Always Ren. He was almost eight years old, a year older than me, and always looked at me with that mix of superiority and annoyance, as if my mere existence was a personal offense. He was always accompanied by two or three of his friends, who supported him in everything with condescending smiles, their dark eyes and black hair seeming to scream: "I'm a pure Uchiha! You're not!"
"What do you want, Ren?" I asked, lowering my fists but maintaining my guard, my Taijutsu stance ready for action. Dad had taught me to avoid unnecessary fights, to be cunning and conserve energy, but also to defend myself with everything I had if attacked.
"I just want to see if the 'prodigy' can really fight, without his dad beside him to protect him," Ren said, his voice loaded with provocation. And without waiting for a reply, he lunged at me with a direct attack. His friends watched with anticipating smiles, expecting to see me humiliated.
Ren threw a straight punch at my face, a blow with brute force but predictable. I dodged by tilting my head to the side, the wind of his fist brushing my cheek, barely by a hair. He attempted a low kick to my supporting leg, trying to unbalance me; I jumped backward, narrowly avoiding the blow. I moved with a fluidity he didn't expect.
"You just dodge, fire-hair! Fight for real!" Ren shouted, frustrated by my evasion, his face reddening.
I threw a roundhouse kick to his side. It didn't hit with my full strength, as I wasn't trying to hurt him, but it was enough for Ren to have to block it with his forearm; the impact resonated. He grunted in contained pain. It was an opportunity. My foot barely touched the ground before I pushed off again, unleashing a flurry of quick blows: a punch to the abdomen, a palm strike to the shoulder, an uppercut to the jaw. Ren tried to block, his arms moving clumsily against my speed, but my blows were fast and my movements fluid, almost a dance. My body felt light, as if I could dance around his heavier, more predictable attacks.
I remembered Dad's lesson: "Feel the intention." I felt Ren's rage boiling, that frustration making him careless. His next attack was a direct, powerful punch, full of anger, but graceless. I saw it coming with surprising clarity. I ducked under his arm and, in a quick, coordinated movement, used my shoulder to unbalance him. He stumbled forward, losing his center of gravity. It was my moment. A firm palm strike to his back, just below the shoulder blade, and then a push with my shoulder, using his own inertia. Ren completely lost his balance and fell face down on the ground, raising a small cloud of dust and a muffled grunt of frustration.
His friends fell silent, the condescending smiles wiped from their faces, replaced by astonishment. Ren got up, his face red with shame and fury, but he didn't attack immediately again. For the first time, I had defended myself, and I had won a Taijutsu skirmish against someone bigger and with more "pure lineage" than me. I felt a pang of triumph.
As Ren brushed the dust off his training uniform, his gaze fixed on me, and something changed. His eyes, which a moment before were a well of anger and shame, widened, and for a moment, a red gleam appeared in them, spinning with a small pupil in the center. A tomoe! It was the Sharingan. He had awakened it, not from a moment of mortal danger, but from the humiliation of defeat. My own victory had been the catalyst for his power. My eyes widened in shock; I wasn't the only one surprised. His friends also noticed and whispered excitedly, disbelief giving way to euphoria.
"You did it, Ren!" "He awakened the Sharingan!" Cheers from his friends surrounded him, bolstering his confidence.
Ren looked at me again, but this time with renewed confidence, a cold, arrogant spark in his now scarlet eyes with the first tomoe. A smug smile appeared on his face, full of a new superiority. "Now we'll see, Itori. Now things change. With the Sharingan, no 'fire-hair' can beat me."
Ren lunged again, but this time it was different. He could see my movements—not all of them, but my intentions, my chakra flow, the direction of my attack before my body moved. My dodges weren't as effective; his fists and kicks seemed to follow me, anticipating my next step. He tried to block my punch, and his red eyes followed my arm, anticipating my target. He countered with a quick blow to my stomach. The impact made me reel back, the air leaving my lungs with an "oof." The Sharingan was real, and its power, even in its initial stage, was undeniable.
My seven-year-old mind raced, processing the new threat. Dad had told me about the Sharingan, how it copied movements, how it saw the opponent's chakra, how it predicted. I couldn't hide from it with just speed. But Dad had also taught me adaptation, unpredictability.
When Ren threw a side kick, his Sharingan fixed on my supporting leg, trying to predict my dodge. Instead of moving as he expected, I shifted my weight at the last second, twisting my body and letting his kick pass by mere inches. Then, I quickly ducked, unleashing a low leg sweep he didn't expect. Ren, still focused on my previous movement, couldn't react in time and fell again, this time with a harder thud.
He got up faster this time, his Sharingan spinning with more speed, his eyes filled with a mix of fury and confusion. He launched a series of more coordinated and faster punches and kicks, trying to use his eye. But I began to vary my attack and defense patterns, introducing feints and unexpected movements. A quick move to the left, then an unexpected pivot to the right, changing my direction in an instant. A feigned punch followed by a real low kick to his shin. Ren tried to follow me with his Sharingan, but I was more unpredictable, more fluid, more chaotic in my approach. I didn't just move; I danced around him, blending Dad's styles and my own.
Finally, Ren, desperate and frustrated, launched a direct attack with all his might, a furious charge, his movements, though anticipated, were powerful and fast. At the last moment, I twisted my body, dodged him completely, and with my own momentum, used his own inertia to throw him. I grabbed his arm and projected him over my shoulder with a technique Dad had taught me to use the opponent's force. Ren flew through the air and landed with a loud thud! on the ground, his Sharingan still active, but his body exhausted and bruised, his pride wounded.
I stood there, breathing heavily, sweat dripping from my forehead. My arms and legs ached, my muscles cried for a rest, but a sense of triumph washed over me, sweeter than any previous victory. Ren lay on the ground, looking at me with his Sharingan eyes full of anger and frustration, unable to understand how he had been defeated by a kid without his special eye. His friends had fallen into stunned silence, watching the fight they didn't understand, their leader's defeat.
Unanswered Questions and Dad's Return
Months passed after that incident. Ren and his friends left me alone in the training yard. His Sharingan was now a constant topic of conversation among the clan's children, a sign of his "superiority." They trained harder, trying to copy adult movements, trying to imitate elite warriors. I watched Ren practice, trying to perfect his eye.
And I... I kept training with the same intensity, or even more. I still felt that vast river of chakra inside me, that boiling energy. I kept walking on trees and meditating, kept perfecting my punches and dodges, honing my elemental abilities. But the Sharingan... my eyes remained a deep black, with no trace of red. No gleam, no tomoe. I began to feel a pang of worry. Was something wrong with me? Was the red hair the reason? My heritage?
A few weeks later, Dad returned from his mission. He was tired, his healthy eye looking even more fatigued, with deep dark circles, a visible testament to the Mangekyo's exhaustion. But a genuine smile appeared on his face when he saw me, a smile he rarely granted. He hugged me tightly, his embrace warm and protective, something I had deeply missed.
That night, as we ate the simple meal Dad had brought from his mission, the silence of the house felt less oppressive. I couldn't hold back anymore. I had been thinking about it for months, the weight of the question growing in my chest.
"Dad," I asked, my voice small but laden with genuine concern I couldn't hide. "Why... why haven't I awakened the Sharingan? Ren did. He's a year older than me, but I train every day, tirelessly. I have chakra, a lot. I try very hard, really. Is something wrong with me? Maybe because of my hair... or because of my mom?"
Dad's gaze softened. He sighed, a long, heavy breath. And in his single functional eye, I saw a mix of melancholy, a deep understanding of a secret I couldn't yet conceive, and perhaps, a flicker of something that looked like worry. It was a question he expected, but whose answer would not be simple.