Comment section responses:
Chaellum: Thanks, man! I appreciate the positive review.
Yeah, sadly, there aren't many fics about Obito. Off the top of my head, there's To Be Lost on the Road of Life—a classic and a really good one—and Obito-sensei, which is great too.
These fics are solid, but I feel like there could be way more written about him. It's kinda sad, considering he's my favorite character.
--
Leaves rustled. Not from the wind—but from something moving.
The forest wasn't silent. It was listening.
The air pressed in, thick and suffocating, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.
Wind lashed against their faces, biting, frantic. The shadows weren't empty anymore.
Four glowing red eyes in the dark.
Unblinking.
Running.
Watching.
They ran. Harder. Faster.
Their breath came in ragged gasps.
"Huff—huff—huff—"
A brief clearing opened before them, just wide enough to stop without smashing into branches.
"Tachi," Shisui rasped, his chest heaving. "How long?"
Itachi didn't look at him. Her eyes stayed on the black woods around them. She answered like a soldier counting down a sentence.
"Ten seconds."
Shisui's heart skipped. "Shit… what do we do?"
Itachi spoke like the words weighed her tongue down. "We fight. There's nowhere to go."
And then—he spoke.
Not loud. Not shouted.
A whisper, like a knife through silk, curling through the trees and straight into their bones.
"Run or hide… safety is a lie… for I will have your hide."
Every muscle tensed.
Back to back, they turned slowly, eyes scanning, fingers twitching on blades.
"He's here," Shisui muttered, voice tight. "He's here."
Schlack.
One of their traps triggered. A kunai launched into bark.
Shisui flinched. "No—no, he didn't touch it—"
Schlack. Schlack. Schlack.
All of them. Every trap they'd laid. One by one.
Sprung.
Mocked.
"He's not avoiding them…" Itachi whispered. "He's disarming them. Toying with us."
Silence.
Then—cold.
The kind of cold that seeps into your spine and sits. The kind that tells you you're not alone. That something is behind you.
And suddenly, he was.
Obito stood between them. No sound, no flash—just there.
His Mangekyō spun slowly. Not in threat—in patience.
In his right hand: a kunai.
Pressed to Shisui's neck.
In his left: another.
So close to Itachi's throat that a strand of her hair floated down, severed.
They didn't move. Couldn't.
"Training," Obito said, voice low—almost gentle. "Starts now."
He leaned in closer, voice like the scrape of steel.
"Fight back."
Shisui moved first.
His elbow shot back toward Obito's mask—a sharp, precise strike meant to disorient. But it wasn't just a strike—it was bait. In the same motion, his free hand gripped the hilt of his tanto, drawing it with lethal speed. He brought the blade down in a brutal arc, aiming to cleave straight through whatever stood behind him.
But Obito wasn't there.
He had already moved.
In the blink of an eye, he was behind Itachi, one hand wrapped tightly around her neck—effortless, unshakable. And he shoved her forward—into the path of the strike.
Shisui's eyes widened in horror and he twisted his wrist, stopping the blade inches before it touched her skin.
Itachi didn't waste the moment.
Using his grip on her neck, she planted both hands on his forearm and dropped her weight down, trying to wrench him off balance. Her movements were efficient, trained, and forceful.
But it was like pulling against a mountain.
He didn't budge.
"Better," Obito said calmly, Mangekyō still spinning. "But still too soft."
He released Itachi with a flick, sending her skidding backward across the dirt. Shisui barely had time to shift his stance when Obito vanished again—no sound, no blur—just gone.
A whisper came from the trees, deep and venomous.
"You hesitate."
Another voice. The same, but from the opposite side.
"You die."
Shisui and Itachi split without a word—the plan already agreed upon. One would run, draw the wolf out. The other would watch. Hunt the hunter.
Itachi took off, leaping from branch to branch with fluid, desperate precision. She flickered in and out of sight, barely visible even to a trained eye. Each movement was deliberate, calculated.
But it was also real fear.
She could feel it clawing at the edges of her thoughts.
Because somewhere in the dark, Obito was watching.
Shisui followed from a distance, just off her right flank, staying low, his Sharingan spinning. He scanned the woods like a hawk, waiting for a flicker, a movement, a whisper.
They had made it obvious on purpose—Itachi, the weaker of the two, alone and exposed. A tempting morsel for the predator. Just enough distance that Shisui couldn't reach her in time if something went wrong.
And then it did.
"Itachi!!"
Shisui's voice tore through the stillness like a blade.
She turned mid-air—but he was gone. The sound vanished with him. Like a candle snuffed out.
Silence.
No footsteps. No rustling leaves. No breath.
Itachi landed and stopped dead, blade drawn in a heartbeat. Her fingers were clenched too tight around the handle—she could feel the sweat. Her own heartbeat suddenly sounded too loud.
Left.
Right.
Above.
Below.
Nothing.
And then—
A grunt.
It was wet, sharp—real.
She dashed toward it, fast as her legs could carry her, branches whipping past her cheeks. And then—
She found him.
Shisui, face twisted in pain, his own tanto impaled through his shoulder, pinning him to the forest floor like a butterfly in a display.
Obito stood over him, calm. Cold.
One hand gripped Shisui's arm, and without a word—
Crack.
"ARGHHHH!!"
Shisui's scream tore through the forest like a dying animal.
Itachi didn't think. She didn't plan. She moved.
Her blade slashed toward Obito's side in a blur—but she cut nothing.
He was already behind her.
Breathing against her ear.
"Now... it's your turn."
Shisui screamed, "Run! Itachi, run!"
She didn't move. The world narrowed—her vision tunneled into red-ringed focus. Her Sharingan spun, fast enough to blur. Her heartbeat slowed, breath evened, and her tanto flicked into her hand like an extension of her will.
She vanished sideways—shunshin—while her free hand launched a precise flurry of kunai and shuriken at her previous location, forcing Obito to react or be swallowed by steel.
He didn't. He flowed through the blades like water through reeds. A slight tilt of the head, a lean of the shoulder, a step back—not a single wasted motion. The shuriken barely grazed the edges of his cloak.
She came from above, flipping midair to add momentum, both hands gripping her tanto in a downward arc, aiming straight for the hollow of his collarbone. Her body curved with the strike—hips twisted, knees bent for impact, every inch of her frame following the blade.
He stepped inside her guard.
His right arm rose, palm open, catching her wrist mid-strike. Fingers closed like iron, locking her in place. In one smooth, brutal motion, he yanked downward, pulling her body with him, and drove his knee up.
It met her face with a crack—cartilage bending, blood spraying. Her neck snapped back, and she staggered, her tanto slipping from her fingers.
He let go.
She stumbled back, but twisted on instinct, sweeping her right leg low to try and trip him—her body rotating into the kick with all the force she could muster. Obito lifted his foot just in time, then pivoted.
His spin ended in a back kick to her ribs.
It hit with a thud, lifting her off her feet. She flew backwards, barely conscious, limbs slack.
He wasn't done.
He blurred forward, arm already extending. His hand caught her ankle in mid-air—fingers tight like a vise.
She gasped.
With a roar of effort, she twisted her torso and swung her free arm downward—tanto reclaimed in hand—aiming to cleave through his wrist.
He moved faster.
Obito yanked her downward in a sudden, violent arc. Her blade never met flesh.
She hit the ground like a boulder. Her back struck first, then her head bounced with a dull thud. The ground cracked beneath her, leaves and dirt bursting outward from the impact.
Her chest convulsed—air stolen. Limbs spasmed.
She tried to roll. She couldn't.
Her fingers twitched around the hilt of her blade, but it felt so far away now—like a memory.
Obito's grip on her ankle remained unmoved. He stepped forward, placing one boot directly on her stomach.
She choked.
His weight pressed into her solar plexus, locking her in place. Her lungs screamed for air. Her free leg flailed, but he twisted the one he held.
Her thigh twisted unnaturally—hip joint popping halfway out. A fresh scream clawed its way out of her throat.
She writhed, not from defiance anymore—but from sheer survival instinct. But she couldn't get free.
She wasn't fighting anymore.
She was breaking.
Obito crouched slowly, deliberately, eyes never leaving hers—his mask an unfeeling void. His hand slid from her ankle up to her knee, and with mechanical precision, he bent it backward, forcing the joint toward an angle it was never meant to reach.
Itachi screamed—a raw, primal sound, cut short by a cough of blood.
Her hands clawed at the dirt, nails digging in, trying to gain leverage, to move, to do something—but the pain muted her body, dimmed her limbs like the flickering of a candle about to die.
"You're slower than before," Obito said flatly. "What happened, Itachi? Where's that genius I heard about?"
She hissed through gritted teeth, sweat and blood dripping down her chin. Her Sharingan still spun, though slower now. Duller.
He released her leg with a shove, letting it drop limp to the side. She tried to pull away, but he was already over her, a knee pressed beside her ribs, hand raised—and then he slapped the side of her face.
Not hard. Not to hurt. But to insult.
The sharp crack echoed through the clearing.
"You hesitated. Again." His voice was low, disappointed. "Hesitation kills."
Itachi's eyes flicked to the side—just for a moment. Obito's head tilted.
"Looking for him?" he asked.
He didn't wait for her response.
A rustle of leaves. A blur of motion.
Shisui came from the treeline like a bullet—his form almost invisible as he moved through shadow, tanto raised for a diagonal slash across Obito's back.
Obito didn't turn.
His body shifted slightly, leaning just enough that the blade whistled past his shoulder, missing flesh by an inch.
With a single, brutal motion, Obito reached back and snatched Shisui's arm mid-strike, spinning with the younger Uchiha's momentum. He slammed him headfirst into the nearest tree.
The bark cracked.
Shisui hit the ground on all fours, blood leaking from his scalp.
But he didn't stay down.
He leapt back up with a burst of chakra, Sharingan gleaming bright, weaving hand signs in a blur—Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu!
The fireball exploded forward.
Obito stood in place.
The fire washed over him—then vanished.
A swirl of smoke.
He was gone.
Itachi barely had time to blink before Obito reappeared behind Shisui, a kunai pressed against his throat.
His other hand pointed straight at her. Fingers extended. Like a judgment.
"You both failed… but you got the gist of what to do."
He released Shisui without care, letting him collapse beside Itachi, whose limbs still trembled on the forest floor. Her body was shaking, not just from pain—but from the kind of fear that settled in the spine and whispered that it wasn't over.
From beneath his cloak, Obito tossed down a compact medkit. It hit the dirt with a muted thump, scattering the first aid contents in front of them.
"Treat the worst of it. You'll go to the hospital after."
He crouched beside them, his presence heavy like a storm cloud. He wasn't checking on them—he was inspecting them. Dissecting the failure in their movements, their choices, their fear.
"You lasted ten minutes," he said. His tone was ice. "Better than average, but nowhere near good enough."
He turned to Shisui, whose face was contorted in pain, hand clutching his ruined shoulder, his breathing ragged.
"You relied too much on your speed. Predictable patterns. You flickered right where I expected. You're 'Shisui of the Body Flicker,' not 'Shisui of the Same Two Tricks.' Use that title properly—prove it deserves to be yours."
Shisui gritted his teeth, but nodded.
Then Obito's eyes snapped to Itachi. Her blood-smeared face was angled downward, but her Sharingan still glowed faintly through her bangs.
"Itachi," he said, voice dead and cold. "Is this the first time you've tasted real fear? The kind you can't swallow? The kind that chokes and freezes your body even as your mind screams at you to move?"
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
"You saw me injure Shisui, and you lost everything. Your reason, your form, your judgment. You didn't fight me—you tried to hurt me. There's a difference. And that difference is the line between life and death."
She blinked, slowly. Her fingers clenched around the hilt of her tanto, white-knuckled and shaking.
He rose to his feet.
"Control yourself. Or someone else will have to bury you."
He turned, and silence returned to the woods, broken only by the harsh breathing of the two teens. They fumbled with the medkit, working on each other's wounds—wrapping bandages, rinsing blood, sharing glances that said more than words could.
When Obito finally moved again, it was wordless. He approached and without warning hoisted Shisui's good arm over his shoulder, then bent low and picked Itachi up under her knees, supporting her back with the crook of his arm.
Neither of them protested.
"You're not walking," he muttered. "You'll bleed out."
And with that, he vanished into the trees.
The world blurred past. Wind whipped at their skin. Pain pulsed with every flicker of movement. But neither of them dared make a sound.
Then—the outskirts of the hospital appeared through the canopy.
Obito landed silently atop the rooftop, shrouded by shadow.
From there, he moved to the rear of the building, avoiding lights, avoiding windows. He approached a barely-used staff entrance, slipped through the back alley, and deposited them gently against the wall near the emergency ward door.
No cameras. No witnesses. Just the silent groan of the emergency door as it opened automatically, sensing movement.
He activated a simple genjutsu—nothing fancy, just enough to cloak his retreat—and then he knocked. Hard.
The sound echoed inside.
Footsteps. Shouting.
Nurses and orderlies spilled out, eyes wide at the sight of the two bloodied Uchiha collapsed outside. No one saw who knocked.
By the time they were lifted onto stretchers, Obito was already gone. Back into the dark. Watching. Silent. Unseen.
Just the way it needed to be.
A few moments later at the hospital:
"What were you thinking, Itachi?!" Mikoto's voice cracked through the room like a whip—sharp with anger, raw with worry.
She stood at the foot of the hospital bed, arms stiff at her sides, hands clenched. "I understand the need to train—I was a kunoichi too—but to end up in that state? Did you hear what the medics said?! You're barely eleven, and already you've sustained injuries that could haunt your future as a shinobi! Do you know what that means?!"
Itachi sat upright in bed, wrapped in bandages from the waist up, her face still slightly swollen, one eye nearly closed. But she didn't flinch. She didn't speak.
Mikoto turned toward the corner. "Fugaku! Say something—she's your daughter too!"
Fugaku remained where he was, flak jacket still on, arms folded across his broad chest. He said nothing at first. His gaze was locked on Itachi's, heavy and unblinking.
A full minute passed in silence—just the steady hum of hospital equipment and the faint murmurs from the hallway.
"Is it worth it?" he asked at last, voice low but cutting.
"Yes, Father," Itachi answered immediately, without hesitation.
Fugaku's eyes narrowed slightly. He didn't look away, not even for a second. Then, with a small nod, he exhaled and closed his eyes.
"You can train," he said, voice like steel, "under two conditions."
Itachi's posture straightened.
"First condition: no injury shall ever again be allowed to jeopardize your path as a kunoichi. You will train—but not recklessly. You will master your body as well as your mind. Understood?"
"Yes, Father."
He opened his eyes.
"Second condition: every month, I want a full report—detailed. Missions, injuries, skills learned, jutsu practiced. I want to see the results of this hardening you're putting yourself through. If you truly believe it's worth it, then prove it."
"I will."
Fugaku gave one final nod before turning to leave. Mikoto lingered a moment longer, torn between scolding and comforting her daughter. She settled on a sigh, brushing a stray strand of hair behind Itachi's ear before quietly following her husband out the door.
The room fell silent again—until the curtain rustled slightly.
Shisui peeked in, slouched and wrapped in gauze, grinning despite the bruising along his jaw.
"You're officially insane," he said, hobbling over to the side of her bed. "But… thanks. For coming back."
Itachi's one good eye glanced at him. Her lips barely moved.
"You'd have done the same."
Shisui plopped down into the chair beside her. "Yeah. But next time? Let me get a few more hits in before going berserker mode."
Itachi's eye closed. The barest twitch of amusement crossed her battered face.
"Next time," she murmured.
Outside, unseen on the hospital rooftop, a single masked figure stood in silence. Watching. Measuring. Waiting.
The training wasn't over.
It had just begun.
Just as their bodies had begun to relax, muscles uncoiling, breath settling, Obito dropped from the ceiling with the silence of a shadow, landing in a crouched position between their beds. The floor barely creaked.
Both Shisui and Itachi tensed instinctively, shoulders going stiff, eyes locking on the masked figure. They hadn't expected him to come here, not into the hospital, not so soon. But their chakra reserves were drained, their limbs aching—they couldn't fight. Not now.
Obito rose slowly, his presence looming despite his stillness. Arms folded across his chest, one finger tapped against his bicep in a steady, suffocating rhythm, like a countdown.
"You got through the first session, kids," he said, voice flat, unreadable behind the mask. "Well done. You want more?"
The words didn't sound like a question. More like a challenge. A dare.
Shisui swallowed. His throat was dry. He turned slightly, stealing a glance at Itachi. He was already in. Set. Determined. But what about her? Was she ready for another descent into that crucible?
Her eyes met his. There was no hesitation. No fear.
Only steel.
He nodded once, then looked back to Obito.
"Yes," he said, voice firmer now. "If you're that strong, then maybe you can help us. So please…" He gripped the bed sheets in clenched fists. "Train us. I won't lie—it was hell. But if hell makes us stronger, then so be it."
Only after he finished speaking did he realize he'd answered for both of them. His gaze flicked toward Itachi, apology written across his face.
She sighed softly, shaking her head. No offense taken.
"I am ready as well," she said quietly, but with unmistakable weight. "If what you say is true… that you were trained by Madara Uchiha… then you might be the strongest shinobi alive. Please. Train me too."
Obito didn't respond at first. He just stood there, watching them both.
Then he turned slightly, his voice lower, like the rumble of distant thunder.
"Good."
He began walking toward the window, each step silent.
"You'll report to the clearing in the woods, same place as last time. Three days. That's how long you have to heal. Come half-broken, and I'll break you the rest of the way. Come ready, and I'll show you what it means to fight beyond limits."
He paused with one hand on the window frame. The moonlight caught the edge of his mask.
"You kids have a potential that is being wasted by these warmongers, a pity."
And with a gust of wind, he was gone.
The silence that followed was dense, filled with a mixture of dread and excitement.
Shisui let out a slow breath. "He's terrifying."
Itachi nodded once, eyes still on the window. "He's what we need."
And three days later, the real training began.
The kind that would make even Fugaku Uchiha reconsider his life choices.
The clearing hadn't changed—same scattered leaves, same half-rotten log Shisui always tripped on when he wasn't paying attention. Birds chirped above like nothing insane ever happened here.
Itachi stood with her arms crossed, perfectly composed. Shisui, on the other hand, was bouncing on his heels, trying to look relaxed and absolutely failing.
Obito dropped from a tree branch with a soft thud, cloak fluttering. His arms were tucked behind his back like some kind of budget sensei from a children's scroll book.
"Alright," he said, glancing between them, "today's lesson is simple: one-on-one format. First taijutsu, then bukijutsu, then freeform."
Itachi raised her hand slightly, like she was in class. "For what purpose… sensei?"
Shisui snorted before slapping a hand over his mouth.
Obito's visible eye blinked once. Then again. "Did... did you just call me sensei?"
Itachi didn't waver. "You said you trained under Madara. That makes you one of the strongest shinobi alive. If we're learning from you, then it's only appropriate to show respect."
There was a long pause.
"Well, damn," Obito muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Didn't think I'd hear that word again in this lifetime."
He cleared his throat and crossed his arms, trying to look composed again. "Right. As I was saying before the emotional ambush—this session will expose your weak points. Taijutsu reveals instinct. Bukijutsu, your control. Freeform? That's where you show me what makes you dangerous."
He turned to Shisui and pointed.
"You're up first. Try not to embarrass your clan."
Shisui cracked his knuckles. "I make no promises."
He stepped forward, took a deep breath, and then—flicker. He vanished from sight, reappearing behind Obito with a sharp elbow strike aimed at the neck. Obito didn't even look—he tilted just slightly and caught the motion with his forearm, redirecting the strike before sweeping low.
Shisui jumped, twisted mid-air, and sent a heel spinning toward Obito's shoulder. But Obito leaned back with an annoying amount of ease, slapped the leg aside, and stepped in with a palm strike straight to Shisui's chest.
Shisui hit the ground with a grunt, rolling into a crouch, coughing. "That was... rude."
Obito shrugged. "You telegraph your rhythm. Be faster, but unpredictable."
He turned to Itachi next.
"Your turn. Let's see what those big words of respect look like when they're bleeding."
Itachi didn't speak. She just stepped forward, drew a breath, and shifted into a guarded stance—Sharingan already glowing.
Obito tilted his head. "Alright then, student… show me what you've learned."
The clearing felt different now.
Sunlight streamed through the canopy, dappling the ground in lazy gold. Birds chirped somewhere above like they hadn't gotten the memo that someone was about to get humbled. Shisui was off to the side, casually stretching, counting under his breath. Obito stood relaxed, one foot forward, arms hanging at his sides like this was a tea break, not a spar.
Itachi rolled her shoulders, testing the tightness in her joints. Her Sharingan spun lazily, gauging angles, trying to predict him.
"You sure you're ready?" Obito asked, voice dry. "I might trip and you'd go flying."
She didn't reply—only moved.
A flash of speed—she dashed low and fast, trying to sweep his legs out. Obito barely moved. One step back, a shift of his ankle, and her heel passed through empty space. She pivoted, right fist arcing for his ribs. He swatted it aside with the back of his hand, like brushing away lint.
Itachi wasn't deterred.
She spun, twisting on her heel, leading with her elbow. Obito ducked, gliding under it so smoothly it almost looked choreographed.
"She's trying to chain them," he noted aloud, sounding mildly impressed. "Good transitions. Still too tight."
She came again—three quick jabs toward his sternum, a knee following it up. Obito caught the knee mid-rise and tilted his body, sending her stumbling with a single twist. Her back hit the dirt and she rolled, already pushing herself upright, expression unreadable.
Shisui winced from the sidelines. "That looked like it hurt."
Obito ignored him. "Again."
Itachi leapt forward, this time launching into a feint—left punch snapping out, then disappearing into a leg-hook sweep, her other foot rising in a potential jaw-cracker.
Obito side-stepped the hook, raised his leg and caught her rising kick on his shin, absorbing the force like a wall. Before she could recover, his palm flicked forward and tapped her shoulder.
The whole force of her lunge turned into a graceless fall. She hit the ground face-first with a thud.
"Too predictable," he muttered, offering her a moment. "Even with the eyes. You're watching what I do, not why I do it."
She growled under her breath and rolled to her feet again, a bit of blood now at the corner of her mouth. She wiped it with the back of her sleeve.
"That's more like it," he added.
She charged—this time faster.
A blur of motion, her hand aimed at his neck in a chopping motion. Obito leaned away just enough for her to graze his collar, then turned smoothly and jammed his elbow toward her gut. She twisted—barely avoiding it—then tried to capitalize by grabbing his sleeve and yanking.
Big mistake.
He let her pull—and then simply pivoted. Her own strength sent her off balance, and in that fraction of a second, he stepped forward and drove his foot behind her knee. She buckled. He didn't stop—grabbed her collar, dragged her forward and tapped the underside of her chin with a rising palm.
She reeled back, dazed, but on instinct threw a backhand that would've cracked most skulls. Obito ducked it effortlessly and stepped behind her—fast as blinking.
"You overcommit."
He chopped the side of her thigh lightly. Her leg collapsed beneath her.
"And you assume I'm always where your eyes see me."
She barely caught herself with one hand before falling completely, then flung herself backward, flipping through the air and landing three meters away, panting hard. Her chest rose and fell in steady but ragged rhythm. Sweat dotted her brow.
Obito raised a brow. "Better."
Shisui stepped forward as Obito cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp in the still clearing.
"No flicker this time," Obito said. "I want to see if there's a shinobi under all that flash."
Shisui grinned despite himself. "Alright, alright... I'll play fair."
He dropped into stance—low, balanced, hands up, weight dancing across his soles.
Obito didn't wait.
He lunged first.
Shisui's eyes widened as Obito blurred—not Body Flicker, not teleportation, just pure speed and technique honed into muscle memory. A jab came at his face, faster than expected—Shisui barely ducked, but the follow-up uppercut caught his ribs, lifting him an inch off the ground.
Before he could recover, Obito was already turning, slamming an elbow into his shoulder with bone-rattling force.
Shisui stumbled back, air knocked from his lungs.
"Faster," Obito barked. "React!"
Shisui surged forward again, feinting low and pivoting into a hook toward Obito's jaw. Obito caught the punch mid-air, twisted Shisui's wrist, and drove a knee straight into his thigh muscle—dead center on the nerve.
Shisui gasped, but pushed through it, spinning into a wide arcing backhand that forced Obito to tilt his head. It missed—barely. Shisui flowed into a reverse sweep, forcing Obito to leap—but the older man landed behind him before Shisui had even turned fully.
He felt the palm strike to his spine before he heard it.
He was airborne, flung forward—and Obito was already there.
A brutal fist slammed into his abdomen mid-air, folding him over Obito's arm like a ragdoll. Spit flew from his mouth as Obito pivoted and tossed him across the clearing. Shisui skidded through dirt and grass, coughing.
He pushed himself up, trembling.
Obito approached slowly, hands loose, voice calm.
"You're relying on reaction time. That's not speed, Shisui. That's delay masked by instinct."
Shisui wiped his mouth. "Then show me."
Obito did.
In a blur of motion, Obito was everywhere. He struck from the left, then the right, then vanished and reappeared behind Shisui—just to tap him on the head mockingly before disappearing again. Each blow was harder. Faster. More punishing.
Shisui blocked one kick—and his arm went numb. He blocked a punch—and the shock traveled down to his spine. A follow-up elbow cracked into his collarbone and made his shoulder sag uselessly.
Obito wasn't using chakra. He wasn't using genjutsu.
Just speed.
He dipped low and swept Shisui's legs out from under him. As the younger Uchiha fell, Obito spun and struck him midair with a rising kick to the ribs that sent him flipping.
Shisui crashed to the ground, gasping, the breath knocked clean from his chest.
"Come on," Obito called, circling. "You want to be better than Itachi? Then move like it. Think faster. React smarter."
Shisui got up slowly. Bruised. Bleeding from his lip. And he grinned.
"That all you got, sensei?"
Obito blinked. "You just called me sensei."
Shisui coughed. "Don't get used to it."
Obito smiled faintly. "Don't do it again."
Then they clashed again.
This time, Shisui didn't try to keep up—he predicted. He let go of instinct and started calculating, movements tighter, counters sharper. He parried Obito's elbow with a rising arm block and retaliated with a knee to the ribs—finally landing a real hit.
Obito grunted, impressed, and returned with a palm thrust that nearly shattered Shisui's guard.
It was a storm. A blur of hands, feet, and blood.
But Shisui stayed standing.
By the end, both were breathing hard—but only one had fire in his eyes.
Obito nodded.
"Better. Not there yet... but better."
He turned to Itachi, who was still watching from the edge, eyes unreadable, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
"You good for another round, princess?" Obito asked with a mocking grin, wiping a streak of Shisui's blood from his knuckles.
Itachi raised a brow. "'Princess?'" Her voice was flat, unimpressed. "I thought you said you were trying to train us, not get killed."
Obito chuckled, stretching his arms with a loud crack of his shoulders. "If you're gonna flinch at words, how are you gonna survive the battlefield?"
She stepped forward, calm but not cold. "Words don't hurt me." Her eyes sharpened. "But I'll show you why you should pick a better nickname."
Obito raised his hands in mock surrender. "Ooh, fiery. Fine. Let's see what you've got this time."
She didn't wait. No warning, no polite pause—she lunged at him, fists already a blur.
Obito leaned to the side, dodging a right hook by a breath, then blocked a follow-up straight punch with his forearm. Her form had improved—strikes tighter, more controlled, less rage.
But he could still read her like a book.
He pivoted inside her stance and jabbed a palm toward her solar plexus. She twisted just enough to absorb the blow on her ribs, retaliating with an elbow to his side—he caught it, turned, and tried to throw her.
She flipped with the momentum, landing on her feet, and swept at his legs without missing a beat.
He jumped—only for her to leap up as well, spinning midair and aiming a kick at his chest. He raised his forearms, absorbing the strike with a soft grunt, sliding back a few feet.
He grinned.
"Not bad, princess."
"I'm not your princess," she snapped, charging again.
This time, it was faster. Sharper. The two moved like shadows circling each other in a storm of blows. She struck low—he parried. She ducked under a swipe and jammed her shoulder into his gut, pushing him off balance—but he recovered instantly and swept her foot from under her.
She fell—twisted midair—and landed in a crouch.
Obito didn't let up.
He blurred forward, not flickering—just raw, terrifying acceleration. He appeared in front of her with a hook toward her jaw. She raised her forearm in time, but the sheer force staggered her.
He didn't follow up with a strike. Instead, he whispered, "Good. Keep moving."
She launched into a flurry again. Jab. Hook. Low kick. High kick. Spinning back fist. Her movements were starting to mirror his—stealing fragments of his earlier rhythm and inserting them into her own.
He saw it.
And smiled.
This was going to work.
After ten more punishing exchanges, he caught her wrist mid-punch and pushed her back with one hand on her forehead.
"Alright," he said calmly. "That's enough."
She didn't lower her hands. Her breath was ragged, but her stance was solid.
"I can keep going."
"I know," Obito said simply
Behind them, Shisui was lying flat on the grass, one hand raised lazily. "Tell her she did good, sensei. I'm gonna need a minute before I can stand again."
Obito grunted, glancing at the two kids before him.
This was going to be fun.
Obito didn't give them time to rest.
"On your feet," he said sharply. "You're both warm. Good. Now pick a weapon."
A small scroll unfurled at his feet in a puff of smoke, and with a flick of his wrist, half a dozen blades embedded themselves into the ground before Itachi and Shisui—katanas, twin short swords, a bo staff, a pair of kunai-tethered chains, and even a heavy-bladed machete.
Shisui sat up with a groan. "Are you serious…?"
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
Shisui picked up his trusty tanto, spinning it in his hand.
"Next time, pick a different weapon, brat."
Shisui arched an eyebrow. "If it works, why change it?"
Obito sighed. "If your enemy knows what weapon you use, they can counter it easily. You don't need to master every weapon, but knowing a few gives you options. And options are good, kid."
Shisui's eyes lit up as the logic clicked. "Ohhh, it does make sense. Alright, sensei, but for today, I'll stick with the tanto. It's helping me get into the rhythm, y'know?"
Obito smirked. "You'll regret it when someone breaks your ribs with a weapon you're too comfortable with."
With that, Obito reached into his pouch and pulled out a sickle—simple, rugged, deadly. A crescent of steel gleamed in the light, its edge honed razor-sharp. A single iron chain was affixed to the pommel, its full length hanging between two dull, worn bracelets—each locked around one of Obito's wrists. The chain swayed gently with each subtle shift in his stance.
Itachi and Shisui watched in silence. This wasn't standard shinobi gear. This wasn't anything they'd trained with.
Obito glanced at them, unimpressed. "What? Never seen a weapon before?"
Shisui gave a half-grin. "Looks cool. Definitely weird."
He spun the tanto in his hand idly. "The balance on this thing though? Top notch. Seriously—where'd you find it?"
Obito waved a hand dismissively. "Took it off some guy. He wasn't using it anymore."
Shisui beamed. "Can I keep it?"
"Yeah, yeah. Just don't die with it."
The boy's grin widened. "Hell yeah."
Obito didn't smile back. He stepped forward, letting the sickle spin lazily once around his wrist by the chain's midpoint. The blade whistled.
"Alright. Take your stance. First to fold buys ramen."
Shisui adjusted his grip on the tanto, feet set wide. His body was tense but eager. "You're on."
Obito cracked his neck once. "Let's begin."
The sickle shot forward, no warning.
Shisui's eyes widened. He managed to pivot, knocking the blade aside with the flat of his tanto. The moment he regained balance, Obito yanked the chain—redirecting the arc—and sent the sickle hurtling toward his flank.
Shisui dropped low again, barely clearing it. He tried to flicker to Obito's side, blade aimed for his ribs—
But Obito had already moved.
The slightly older shinobi intercepted him mid-motion, sickle swinging from a short chain arc and biting across Shisui's thigh with a shallow cut.
He hissed, stumbling back, blade raised.
But Obito didn't let him.
He advanced fast—too fast. The chain lashed again, looping tight around Shisui's forearm and yanking his tanto arm open wide. Before he could recover, Obito delivered three precise slashes—shoulder, side, and ribs. None deep, but enough to paint Shisui's shirt in ribbons of red.
"You're telegraphing your blocks," Obito barked. "Your arms scream where you're going. Tighten up your defense!"
Shisui didn't answer. He surged forward, forcing Obito to flicker back. For a moment, their blades clashed—metal screaming as tanto met sickle. But Obito had the reach, and the weight, and the experience.
He swept Shisui's legs, drove the blunt edge of the sickle's curve into his ribs, and sent him tumbling again.
Itachi, silent at the edge, narrowed her eyes.
Shisui rolled to his feet with a growl. His stance was fraying, but his eyes burned hotter.
Obito stood calm, chain clinking. "Done?"
Shisui spat blood to the side. "Not even close."
"Good," Obito grunted. "Round two. Let's go."
He surged forward without another word. The chain snapped once—twice—trying to snag limbs, misdirect sight, and control the flow. Shisui was quicker this time. He ducked, deflected, danced between strikes, pushing past the chain's chaos.
He finally got in close, slashing hard. The tanto grazed Obito's sleeve, nearly finding skin.
Obito grinned.
"Better."
Then he slammed his knee into Shisui's gut, grabbed the chain by both wrists, and pulled. The sickle whipped around his back and cracked across Shisui's spine.
The boy dropped to his knees, breath knocked out.
"Still predictable."
Shisui groaned and pushed up again, eyes blurred but defiant.
Obito tilted his head. "Still wanna keep that tanto?"
Shisui wiped blood from his lip. "Still gonna kick your ass."
Obito grinned and twirled the sickle.
"Try it, again."
Obito didn't give him a second.
The moment Shisui tried to get his footing, Obito swung the sickle again. It came fast, low, aimed at his ribs. Shisui managed to block it with his tanto, but the impact forced him to slide back half a step.
Obito pulled the chain tight and redirected, sending the sickle around toward Shisui's leg. It caught him just above the knee, a clean cut, not deep, but enough to bleed and slow him down.
Shisui gritted his teeth and flickered left, trying to circle in close. Obito was already ahead of him, stepping to the right and slamming the chain across his shoulder. The hit wasn't with the blade, but it knocked Shisui off balance. A second later, the sickle came down and dragged a shallow line across his cheekbone.
Obito didn't stop. He yanked the chain back, spun it once, and threw the sickle again—this time at Shisui's chest. Shisui deflected, barely, but the chain followed through and swept his legs out from under him.
He fell hard. Obito stepped in and brought the sickle down across his side. It wasn't deep, but it was fast and precise. Shisui tried to roll away, but Obito didn't give him space. He kept walking forward, the chain snapping tight and slashing across Shisui's thigh, then his back as he turned.
Cut after cut.
The fight turned into one-sided pressure. Every move Shisui made had a counter waiting. The tanto was too short, the angles too tight. Obito was using the full range of the chain and sickle to stay out of reach, landing hit after hit.
Shisui tried to close the distance again. He flickered forward and slashed high. Obito ducked and countered with a full spin, bringing the chain around and hitting Shisui across the stomach. A second later, the sickle carved a line from his hip to his side.
His breathing was heavy. He was sweating, bleeding, stumbling.
Obito didn't let up.
He slammed the chain across Shisui's upper back, kicked him in the chest to keep him off balance, then flicked the sickle into his forearm as he raised it to guard.
Shisui fell to one knee.
Obito circled once and brought the chain down again, hitting his shoulder. Shisui collapsed fully, arms shaking, chest heaving.
"Your tanto work is sloppy," Obito said, voice flat. "You're rushing your swings. You don't adjust for distance. You don't protect your hands. You're too focused on attacking."
Shisui didn't respond. He was on all fours, trying to breathe, cuts all over his body.
Obito stepped back and waited.
Shisui pushed himself up a few inches before collapsing again.
Only then did Obito turn away, sickle still in hand.
He looked at Itachi, still standing quietly at the edge, arms crossed.
"You're up. Don't waste my time."
Shisui didn't speak. He didn't move. He had nothing left.
Itachi stepped forward without hesitation. She grabbed a tanto from the rack and positioned herself with practiced calm. Her stance was tight, knees bent, weapon close to her midsection. Sweat lined her forehead. Her breathing was steady, but her jaw was set—she knew what she was walking into.
Obito stood lazily, chain loose in one hand, sickle in the other.
"Itachi," he said, "same deal. First down buys ramen. Or dango. You pick."
She gave a simple nod. "Yes, sensei."
He rolled his eyes. "There it is again."
Without warning, the sickle snapped forward.
Itachi moved. She flickered forward in a straight line, same as before—just like she'd studied from his fight with Shisui. The sickle passed harmlessly behind her.
But Obito wasn't repeating the same tactic.
He reversed the momentum instantly, swinging the opposite end of the chain. The bracelet-end came at her like a hammer. She saw it too late—ducked—but the sudden motion forced her off balance for half a second.
That was all he needed.
He pulled the sickle back, spinning it once to build momentum, and charged her head-on. She tried to meet him with a quick upward slash, but the chain had already wrapped loosely around her arm during the duck. Obito yanked it, pulling her forward into his range.
The butt of the sickle smashed into her ribs.
She staggered back—but he wasn't done.
Before she could reset her stance, Obito flicked the chain low. It swept her legs out from under her, and before she hit the ground, he stepped in and slammed his shoulder into her chest, launching her back several meters.
She rolled twice and skidded on the dirt.
She tried to get up—Obito didn't wait.
He threw the sickle again, hard. It curved, biting into her outer thigh, not deep, but enough to force her down again.
She grit her teeth, pushed up with one arm—but the chain was already wrapping again. Obito sprinted forward, flickered into position, yanked her forward, and planted a knee directly into her stomach.
The impact drove the air from her lungs.
He didn't stop. Another hit—elbow to the collarbone. Then a backhand across the jaw with the flat of the sickle. Controlled, but hard. She dropped to one knee again, coughing.
Obito circled her. Chain slack now, sickle resting casually in his grip.
"You're smarter than Shisui," he said flatly. "But you're too rigid. You're treating me like a sparring partner. I'm not. I'm your enemy. And I'm not here to give you space."
She tried again to rise.
Obito stepped in and kicked her in the chest—not hard enough to break anything, but enough to knock her flat.
She hit the ground with a thud and stayed down.
Obito exhaled and let the chain fall to the side.
"Again."
Itachi tried to push herself up again, one arm trembling under the strain. Her tanto was still in hand, but her grip was loose.
Obito stepped in.
He flicked the chain low—under her guard—and looped it behind her ankle. A sharp pull yanked her off balance, and before she hit the ground again, he moved with speed. He closed the gap, planted his foot on her wrist to pin her blade, and swung the chain around her torso.
The links locked tight across her back as he twisted it once, then twice, binding her arms flat to her sides. She struggled, but it only cinched the hold tighter.
With a jerk of his arm, he yanked her forward—off the ground—into a hard right cross to the face. Her head snapped sideways, blood flicking from her lip.
Still not finished.
He rotated, keeping the chain taut, and slammed her down on her back with the force of a whip crack. She coughed violently on impact, her limbs jerking against the binding.
"You're too light," Obito muttered, stepping over her. "Too clean. You don't know how to fight from the dirt."
He crouched down, wrapped the chain once more around her midsection, then stood—and with sheer leverage, hoisted her up just enough to slam a knee straight into her ribs.
She gagged and twisted, trying to pull away, but Obito already had a boot on the chain, locking her in place.
"You don't get room. You don't get flow. Not in real combat. This is what it's like when you're overpowered."
Another hit. Left hook to the temple. Controlled, but brutal.
She slumped, dazed.
He unwrapped the chain with one hand, spun her around, and let the momentum drop her face-first into the dirt. Before she could move, he was already beside her, chain slapping around her throat—not choking, but pulling her head back.
"Tap," he ordered.
Itachi's fingers clawed at the chain, but she didn't speak.
Another yank. "I said, tap."
She gritted her teeth—then tapped her fingers once on his arm.
Obito released the pressure immediately. She dropped flat again, coughing, sweat and dirt smeared across her face.
He stood up, tossing the chain back over his shoulder.
"almost as good as Shisui," he said casually. "almost."
Itachi's fingers barely touched the ground before Obito moved.
He surged forward, closing the distance with a single step, and drove a straight punch into her stomach. The hit folded her over, but before she could drop, his knee came up into her chest—lifting her slightly off the ground. Her back arched, air gone from her lungs.
He used the chain to trap her again, looping it over one shoulder and under the opposite arm. With a twist, he locked her arms to her sides, then pulled her in tight.
Another punch—clean, short, brutal—straight to her jaw.
Still holding the chain, he pivoted, swinging her around like a sack and slamming her into the ground hard enough to make the dirt pop under her. She twisted, dazed, trying to roll away.
He didn't let her.
He stomped down on her hand, pinned it, and struck her across the face with the flat of the sickle's blade—not enough to cut, but enough to rattle her.
She lashed out with a desperate kick. He caught her foot midair, stepped over it, and dropped his elbow into her thigh. She screamed.
"Your body position is garbage," he said flatly. "You move clean but think slow."
He flipped the chain in a tight loop and snapped it across her shoulder, then yanked—turning her again. She tried to rise; he drove his knee into her side.
She sagged.
He grabbed her by the front of her shirt, dragged her halfway up, and slammed his forehead into hers. Her head snapped back, blood now mixing with sweat.
She tried again. Obito moved first.
Chain looped around her forearm—yank. Spin. Elbow to her ribs. Hook to the chin. Chain pulled her back—straight into another punch to the mouth.
She hit the ground like a sack of sand.
Still conscious, still breathing—but barely moving.
Obito stood over her, breathing steady. The sickle hung from one hand, the chain loose in the other. His gaze swept down to Itachi, who lay bruised and winded, blood on her lip and scratches along her arms. Her chest rose and fell with effort, but she wasn't unconscious—just spent.
"We're done for now," he said calmly. "Let's get you both to the hospital."
Neither answered.
Obito slung Itachi over his shoulder without ceremony. The chain quietly clinked as he hooked the sickle to his belt. He walked over to Shisui, who was slouched against a tree, blood running down his cheek, clothes torn and stained.
"You walking?"
Shisui gave a small nod, pulling himself up. "Yeah… I can manage."
No questions were asked. No one stopped them. Moving through rooftops and alleys, they went unseen, avoiding crowded paths. A few body flickers later, they landed behind the Konoha hospital and entered through the service access.
Inside, it was quick work. Nothing too deep, no broken bones—just a mess of bruises, scrapes, and shallow cuts. The med-nin cleaned them up without fanfare, patched them, and sent them on their way.
Outside, Shisui rolled his shoulder and exhaled sharply. "So… Ichiraku?"
Itachi, quiet as always, nodded once.
Obito shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking. "Hurry up before I change my mind."
They made their way to Ichiraku Ramen, the soft glow of the shop's lanterns lighting the street. The smell of broth hit instantly, rich and warm. Teuchi looked up from behind the counter and raised an eyebrow at their battered state.
"You two look like hell."
Shisui dropped onto a stool with a groan. "Feels about right."
Obito clanked down onto the seat next to him, arms swinging, still wearing his orange spiral mask—only one hole for the right eye, the rest completely concealed.
Teuchi raised an eyebrow, pausing mid-wipe of the counter. "You always eat with that thing on?"
Obito waved dismissively. " What if I'm horribly disfigured under here? Or even worse—handsome?"
Teuchi gave a noncommittal grunt and moved to the back to prep the order.
Shisui leaned sideways just a little, trying to catch a glimpse from the bottom as Obito lifted the bowl. Nothing. The masked man slurped from behind it expertly, never giving so much as a hint of skin.
Itachi, more subtle, pretended to adjust her water cup, glancing sideways as Obito tipped the bowl forward. Just steam. No face.
Obito didn't even look at them.
"Y'know," he said casually, "curiosity's a healthy thing. But getting your fingers too close to the wrong place... you might lose 'em."
Shisui flinched and sat back upright like a kid caught snooping. "Just looking at the ramen. Smells good."
"Uh-huh," Obito said, loud slurp echoing through the stand. "A shame some people don't know how to enjoy food without plotting surgical strikes."
Itachi blinked slowly. "Noted, sensei."
"Good! That's the spirit!" Obito chirped, still cheerful. "Focus on the food. You'll need the calories when I run you both into the ground again tomorrow."
He turned slightly and whispered just loud enough for them to hear, "You'll think fondly of today when your legs stop working."
Then louder, to Teuchi: "Another round of pork miso on the kids' tab, bossman! They're growing shinobi—they need the nutrition!"
Teuchi shook his head. "I don't even wanna know."
Obito lifted the bowl again, the mask never slipping, never offering even a flicker of what was underneath.
Shisui leaned to Itachi and muttered, "One day, I'm gonna see what's under there."
Itachi didn't look at him. "No. You won't."
Obito hummed to himself as he sipped, perfectly aware, perfectly amused.
As they were eating, Teuchi struck up a casual conversation with the masked newcomer.
"Never seen you around before. You must be new, then. No one who lives here hasn't come to my shop at least once."
Obito slurped his noodles loudly, then gently set the bowl down with exaggerated care.
"Hmm? Ohhh yeah! I came here a while ago," he said in his usual cheery tone. "Opened a tea shop! Really cozy spot—right near the Uchiha district. You know that big road before their compound? Just look for the sign that says KITF. That's Konoha's Incredible Tea Fragrance."
Teuchi's face lit up. "Ohhh, so that's you?! I heard from a couple of regulars that a new tea shop opened up. Said it was mighty good!"
Obito waved both hands modestly, leaning back on his stool with a chuckle. "Ahh! Such high praise! But really, you should come taste it first before handing out compliments! Don't worry, the first cup's on me!"
Teuchi smiled, his eyes still closed in that permanent calm expression. "Heh. I'll take you up on that. I'll stop by one of these days." He leaned in a bit, voice lowering. "How'd you manage the paperwork for that, though? Not exactly easy setting up shop near a clan district."
Obito recoiled in mock horror, clutching his head dramatically. "Ahhh! Don't say that word! Paperwork! Just hearing it makes my eye twitch!"
Teuchi grimaced knowingly, nodding as he wiped down the counter. "Mmm. I understand, son. Bureaucracy's the real Hokage sometimes."
Obito sighed and nodded solemnly. "The hidden village of forms and fees..."
While the two shared their light exchange, Itachi and Shisui exchanged a glance behind their bowls. Their sensei's act was good—too good. The way he dodged questions, the voice, the gestures. He was clearly playing a part.
Shisui whispered low enough for only Itachi to hear. "He's... really committed to this persona."
Itachi nodded once. "It's not a persona."
Shisui raised a brow.
"It's a layer," she clarified.
Just then, Obito glanced back at them, eyes half-lidded behind the maskhole. "You two whispering about me back there?"
Shisui quickly looked away. "Nope."
"Good," Obito said in a singsong tone. "Because I'm very sensitive. And I know where you sleep, Shisui."
Shisui blinked, unsure if it was a joke. Obito slurped again, perfectly cheerful.
"Ahhh, nothing like ramen after some light exercise!" he said with a stretch. "Say, how long do you two usually take to recover? I'm planning tomorrow's schedule."
Shisui groaned. "Please tell me tomorrow's rest day."
Obito tilted his head. "Sure, sure. You can rest… after the third round."
Shisui looked like he aged ten years in an instant.
--
As they stepped away from the stall, Obito stretched his arms above his head and let out a loud yawn.
"Alright, I'm off. Shisui—be at the tea shop early tomorrow. Usual time. Don't be late."
Shisui groaned. "Yeah, yeah. I'll be there."
Obito looked at Itachi. "You're off tomorrow. Rest up."
She gave a small nod. "Understood."
Obito gave a lazy wave. "Later, Teuchi! Don't forget—first tea's on the house!"
Teuchi waved back, "I won't!"
With that, they went their separate ways. Obito walked off toward the Uchiha district, humming something off-key. Shisui and Itachi took the road back toward their homes, still feeling the dull ache of the day's beating.
Just another day.
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