3rd person POV

THUD THUD THUD

Three kunai embedded themselves in the bullseyes of three distant targets, vibrating slightly from the impact. Ryuichi stood still for a moment, watching them with a blank expression before he slowly walked toward the targets. His movements were deliberate, each step heavy as if weighed down by the thoughts that had been swirling in his mind for days. He reached the targets and plucked the kunai out one by one, the metal cool against his fingers. A sigh escaped him as he stared at the empty targets, their red centers now marked with faint scratches from repeated practice.

It had been a week since his father left for the frontlines, and the silence since then had grown unbearable. No word. No message. Not even a fleeting rumor from other shinobi returning from the battlefield. The village seemed quieter in his absence, the air thick with tension and uncertainty. Ryuichi had tried to stay focused, tried to keep up with his training, but each day that passed without news gnawed at him.

As he gripped the kunai, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. His father had always been punctual with updates, even in the heat of battle. And yet now, there was nothing—just a hollow void where his presence should have been.

He threw the kunai again, harder this time. THUD. THUD. THUD. Each strike felt hollow, a poor substitute for the battles his father was likely fighting far away. Ryuichi had always looked up to him, admired his strength, his discipline. He wanted to be just like him, to fight alongside him one day. But now, all he could do was wait—wait and hope that his father would return home safe.

"You might want to stop before you destroy the targets—or worse, hurt yourself," a familiar voice called from behind him.

Ryuichi turned, startled, to see his mother approaching. She wore the same soft smile she always had, a calm warmth that never seemed to fade, no matter the weight of the world on her shoulders. Her presence, though comforting, made the tension in his chest feel heavier.

"Mother," he greeted, trying to hide his frustration, but she knew him too well. Her eyes, though gentle, missed nothing.

"You've been out here for hours," she said, her gaze drifting to the targets riddled with kunai holes. "I know what's on your mind, but pushing yourself like this won't bring him back any sooner."

"I know, but..." Ryuichi's voice trailed off, frustration seeping into his words. "He told me he'd be back in a week," he said, his shoulders slumping. "But he's still—"

"I just received a letter from your father today," Mikoto interrupted gently, her tone soft but firm. "He informed me that something urgent on the battlefield requires his attention, so he'll be staying a little while longer."

Ryuichi's eyes widened slightly, his heart sinking. "Did he say anything about me?" he asked, a hint of hope creeping into his voice, worried that his father might have forgotten him in the chaos of war.

Mikoto smiled warmly at his question, her maternal instinct sensing the need to lift his spirits. "Yes, he did. He asked about your training and how you've been progressing. I'm sure when my reply reaches him, he'll be pleasantly surprised by how quickly you've mastered the Clone Jutsu."

A small smile tugged at the corners of Ryuichi's lips, his mother's words melting the anxiety that had been building inside him. Her reassurance was like a balm, easing his worries.

"However," Mikoto continued, her expression growing more serious but still kind, "your father also asked me to oversee your training until he returns."

Ryuichi straightened at her words, his smile growing. He wasn't just waiting idly for his father; he had more to prove.

"Since you've already completed the Clone Jutsu," she said, a hint of pride in her voice, "I think it's time we move on to the next technique: the Transformation Jutsu."

Mikoto noticed the spark of anticipation in Ryuichi's eyes and smiled softly, proud of his eagerness to learn. She knelt down beside him, her voice taking on the calm, instructional tone she always used when teaching.

"The Transformation Jutsu, is a basic but incredibly useful technique," she began. "It's a form of illusion jutsu, designed to allow a shinobi to take the appearance of someone or something else. This can be useful for infiltration, deception, or escaping dangerous situations."

Ryuichi listened intently, hanging onto every word. His father's absence had been weighing heavily on him, but now, with his mother stepping in as his teacher, he felt a new surge of determination.

"The mechanics of the jutsu are fairly simple in theory," Mikoto continued, her gaze locking onto his as she explained. "You mold your chakra and focus on an image in your mind—what you want to transform into. The more detailed and precise your mental image, the more convincing your transformation will be. But remember, the jutsu only changes your appearance, not your physical form. So if you transform into something significantly larger or smaller than you, it won't be perfect. You have to consider both your form and the situation."

Ryuichi nodded, absorbing her instructions. "And the hand seals?" he asked, eager to move forward.

Mikoto's eyes softened at his attentiveness. "The hand seals are simple. The order is Dog, Boar, and Ram. As you perform the seals, focus on molding your chakra and visualize what you want to become. It's essential to concentrate, because if your focus wavers, the transformation might not hold or could look incomplete."

With that, Mikoto demonstrated. Her hands moved fluidly through the hand seals—Dog, Boar, Ram—and in an instant, she transformed into a perfect replica of Ryuichi himself. It was uncanny, seeing his own likeness standing in front of him, down to the smallest details: the messy strands of his hair, the way his clothes hung on his body, even the faint scar on his arm from an old training injury.

"See?" she said, her voice still her own but coming from his mirrored image. "With enough practice, you'll be able to maintain this form for a considerable amount of time, even while moving or talking." She released the jutsu, and in a puff of smoke, she returned to her original form.

"Now, your turn," she encouraged, stepping back to give him room.

Ryuichi felt a surge of nervous excitement. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, then began moving his hands through the seals. *Dog, Boar, Ram*—he recited the sequence in his mind as his fingers moved. He focused hard, picturing the person he wanted to transform into. He thought of his father, Fugaku, with his stern gaze, sharp features, and his unmistakable Uchiha clan attire.

When he finished the hand seals, he molded his chakra, imagining the image of his father in his mind as clearly as he could. In a puff of smoke, he felt the transformation take hold.

Opening his eyes, Ryuichi saw his reflection in the small pond nearby—it wasn't perfect, but the resemblance to his father was there. His face, though similar, was off in the details, and his stature didn't match the full height of Fugaku. Still, for a first attempt, it was a commendable effort.

Mikoto smiled proudly at him. "That's a good start. You've got the basics down. With more practice, you'll be able to refine the details and make your transformation more convincing."

Ryuichi dispelled the jutsu, the illusion melting away as he returned to his normal form. Despite the imperfections, his heart swelled with pride. His mother's approval meant the world to him, and he felt one step closer to mastering another essential skill. He couldn't wait to tell his father.

-{0}-

For the next two weeks, Ryuichi threw himself into his training with single-minded determination. Every morning, he would rise before dawn, eager to get a head start on his practice of the Transformation Jutsu. Though his initial attempt had been decent, he knew that "decent" wasn't enough. He wanted perfection—an illusion so flawless even a seasoned shinobi wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

The first few days were filled with frustration. Ryuichi quickly learned that maintaining a transformation was far more challenging than simply performing the jutsu. On more than one occasion, he would transform into his father, only to notice small but glaring inconsistencies. His height would be slightly off, his father's sharp Uchiha features would appear too soft, or the Uchiha crest on his back wouldn't look quite right.

Each time he noticed a flaw, it was like a jab to his pride, but he refused to give up. He broke the jutsu down into steps, repeating the hand seals with growing precision, molding his chakra more carefully each time. His mother's guidance helped him realize that his mistakes stemmed from rushing the technique—focusing too much on completing the transformation quickly rather than accurately. Mikoto reminded him that perfection takes time and patience, just as his father had taught him.

One day, he transformed into a perfect replica of his mother, only for the illusion to falter the moment he moved. He sighed in frustration, feeling as if he was stuck, but he kept pushing himself.

By the end of the first week, he began to notice subtle improvements. His transformations were lasting longer, and the details were becoming more refined. He practiced visualizing the person he was mimicking in greater detail—the texture of their clothes, the way they stood, the way their hair moved in the wind. It wasn't just about looking like someone; it was about *feeling* like them. Slowly but surely, his hard work began to pay off.

During the afternoons, Ryuichi dedicated time to honing his shurikenjutsu. The targets that stood at various distances bore the marks of countless shuriken strikes from his training. He practiced for hours each day, perfecting his aim and learning how to throw shuriken with greater force and precision. He focused on hitting moving targets, trying to simulate the unpredictability of battle.

At first, he struggled to adjust his aim as targets moved, often throwing too soon or too late, but he persisted. With each session, his timing improved. He learned how to read the target's movements and anticipate where they would be rather than where they were.

By the end of the second week, his shuriken were hitting not just the targets, but their centers, each throw faster and more precise than the last.

-{0}-

Ryuichi knew that mastering jutsu wasn't enough. His body needed to be as strong as his mind. He spent the middle of each day working on his physical strength. He began with simple exercises—push-ups, sit-ups, running laps around the training ground—but soon pushed himself further, adding weighted vests and resistance training. He felt the burn in his muscles as he pushed through the fatigue, but every drop of sweat was a step closer to being a stronger shinobi.

His taijutsu training was no less intense. He worked through the katas his father had taught him, moving through each stance and strike with precision. At first, his movements felt mechanical, stiff, as though he were going through the motions. But as he practiced, he began to feel the fluidity of the movements, understanding the rhythm and flow of each strike, block, and dodge. His muscles began to remember the forms, and soon, they became second nature.

He visualized sparring with an opponent, imagining different attacks and counters, pushing his body to respond faster, smoother. Every kick, every punch, was sharper than the last. Though his father wasn't there to guide him, Ryuichi felt his presence in the techniques he practiced.

Finally, near the end of the second week, Ryuichi felt ready to test his progress on the Transformation Jutsu one more time. He stood in the middle of the training ground, the air thick with anticipation. His mother stood a few feet away, watching him closely but without a word of instruction. This time, it was all up to him.

Ryuichi closed his eyes and took a deep breath, centering himself. He pictured his father, every detail etched in his mind—the sharp lines of his jaw, the commanding stance, the Uchiha crest on his back. He molded his chakra carefully, letting it flow through him with the steadiness he had cultivated over the past weeks. He performed the hand seals—*Dog, Boar, Ram*—with precision and confidence.

In a puff of smoke, the transformation took hold.

When Ryuichi opened his eyes, he didn't need to check a mirror. He could feel it. The weight of his father's presence in the way he stood, the subtle shift in his posture. His mother's eyes widened slightly, and then a warm, proud smile spread across her face.

"Well done, Ryuichi," Mikoto said softly. She stepped forward, examining the transformation with a critical eye. Not a single detail was out of place. "You've mastered it."

Ryuichi dispelled the jutsu, his breath coming out in a relieved sigh. His heart swelled with pride at his mother's approval, but there was something more—a sense of accomplishment that came from the struggle, from the countless failures that had led to this moment.

Mikoto's smile lingered as she looked at her son, standing taller and more confident than ever before. Her eyes, however, flickered briefly toward the distant horizon, her thoughts drifting.

When will Fugaku come home to see this? she wondered silently. To see how much our son has grown?

But for now, she kept that question to herself, content in the knowledge that Ryuichi had taken another step toward becoming a strong shinobi—just like his father.

Fugaku's pov

Minato, Sakumo, and I sat in silence on the cold, bloodstained ground, our bodies battered and bruised from the brutal battle we had just endured. The lifeless body of the jinchūriki lay nearby, surrounded by the tri-pronged kunai that Minato had expertly placed during the fight. The cave we had fought in felt eerily quiet now, the echoes of the conflict still hanging in the air, like ghosts of the devastation we had caused.

The plan had been simple—on paper, at least. I was supposed to use my Sharingan to cast a powerful genjutsu on the jinchūriki, paralyzing his mind long enough for Minato and Sakumo to land the killing blows. But the reality was much harsher than any strategy could account for. My Sharingan, still growing in strength, hadn't been powerful enough. The jinchūriki's chakra was immense, overwhelming my illusion in seconds. We had no choice but to engage him head-on.

The battle that followed was nothing short of nightmarish.

Both Minato and I had been beaten within an inch of our lives, our bodies bearing the marks of the jinchūriki's ferocious attacks. His tailed beast chakra had surged through the cave, making every strike feel like it carried the weight of a mountain. I had barely been able to stand at certain points, and Minato—despite his speed and skill—had been pushed to his limits.

But Sakumo... Sakumo had been our salvation.

The difference between him and the two of us was staggering. Even though I had heard stories of the White Fang being on par with the Sannin, seeing it firsthand was something else entirely. He fought with a calm, unyielding strength, deflecting attacks that would have crushed any normal shinobi. Despite his age, he moved with a precision and power that we simply couldn't match. While Minato and I were gasping for breath, lying in the dirt, Sakumo was still standing, albeit tired, but not nearly as broken as we were. His exhaustion, I realized, wasn't from the fight itself—it was from the years he had carried on his shoulders, the weight of countless battles, and the toll they had taken on him.

The jinchūriki had been a formidable opponent. He was an older man, perhaps in his fifties, with a lifetime of experience. We had caught him off guard, hiding in a cave for reasons we couldn't quite figure out, but his response had been swift and brutal. His resilience was astonishing. Either Minato or I would have fallen to him if we had fought alone, there was no doubt about that. Sakumo, however... he could have held his own. Perhaps even beaten the man without our help.

As we sat there, huffing and puffing, trying to regain some semblance of composure, my mind wandered back to the village. I missed home. I missed Mikoto and Ryuichi. This war, this endless bloodshed... it was wearing me down. I longed for the peace of Konoha, for the quiet moments with my family, away from the constant threat of death.

But as I stared at the entrance to the cave, something caught my eye.

A small figure stood in the shadows, just beyond the rubble. It was a child—no older than Ryuichi, by the looks of it. For a moment, I felt my breath catch in my throat. The boy's silhouette, the way he stood... it was like I was looking at my son. My heart twisted painfully in my chest, a sudden, overwhelming ache. I had missed Ryuichi so much, and seeing this child—who looked so much like him—brought a wave of emotions crashing over me.

I stood, my legs trembling from exhaustion, but I ignored the pain. I had to get to the child. He was too close to the unstable rubble, too close to danger. My body screamed in protest as I forced myself to move, each step feeling like I was dragging a mountain behind me. But I kept going, pushing through the pain and fatigue.

As I approached, the ground began to tremble again. Dust and debris fell from the ceiling of the cave, small rocks tumbling down with alarming speed. The child didn't move. He just stood there, staring at me with wide, frightened eyes. My heart pounded in my chest, panic surging through me.

"Move!" I shouted, my voice hoarse and desperate. But the child didn't react.

I pushed harder, forcing my legs to move faster, but I knew—deep down—I was too slow. Maybe if it had been Minato or Sakumo, they could have reached him in time. Maybe they could have saved him. But I wasn't fast enough. I wasn't strong enough.

Just as I reached out, mere feet away from the boy, the ceiling gave way. A cascade of rubble fell in an instant, the sound of the collapse echoing through the cave like thunder. Dust filled the air, obscuring my vision, and when it settled... the child was gone. Buried beneath the debris.

I collapsed to my knees, my heart heavy with grief and guilt. I hadn't been able to save him. I had failed.

"I want to go back home," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the ringing in my ears. The weight of the war, the constant loss, was suffocating. I didn't want to be here anymore. I wanted to be with my family. Away from the death and destruction.

Sakumo knelt beside me, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. His grip was firm, steady, the kind of support only a comrade who had seen as much as he had could offer. "There are always casualties in war, Fugaku," he said softly, his voice filled with an understanding that only came with years of experience. "We can't save everyone."

I stared at the rubble, my heart aching, but I knew he was right. War was cruel. It spared no one—not even children. It didn't care about innocence or the lives that were lost in its wake. It was a force of nature, and we were all caught in its path.

Sakumo gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze, trying to pull me back from the edge of despair. "Let's get out of here," he said. "We've done what we came here to do."

I nodded slowly, though the weight in my chest didn't ease. The jinchūriki was dead, the mission was complete, but the cost... the cost was something I wasn't sure I could live with. Another life lost. Another soul I couldn't save.

As we made our way out of the cave, Minato walking silently behind us, I couldn't shake the image of that child—the way he had stood there, so still, so fragile. And I couldn't help but think of Ryuichi. Would this war claim him too, one day? Would I be powerless to protect my own son, just as I had been today?

I missed him. I missed them both—Mikoto and Ryuichi. And all I wanted now was to go back home.

=chapter end=