A sharp kick came sweeping toward her face—fast, low, the instep angled from his right leg to strike her jaw. She shifted left, her head barely clearing the path of the strike as it passed just above. At the same time, her right hand came up, kunai in reverse grip, slashing upward. The blade scraped against his pant leg, cutting through fabric just under the knee. No pause, no blood—just a hiss of torn cloth.
She landed and hopped back two paces, already pulling and throwing two kunai. One spun left, the other curved right, both aimed to box him in. He weaved between them, the left barely grazing past his temple. His right hand moved, tapping the other one aside with the flat of his blade.
As he stepped forward, she yanked hard on the thin wires attached to the kunai—tightening them mid-air. A crisscrossed trap snapped into place between them. The sudden halt in his advance was brief, but she took it.
Her hands blurred through signs.
"Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu!"
The fireball roared forward, igniting the threads, rolling hot and fast toward him. He moved low again, slipping beneath the edge of the flames, letting them pass behind him as he broke into a shunshin.
She was already moving, leaping upward, her eyes tracking the blurred movement. More shuriken flew from her fingers in a wide arc, a kunai mixed in to catch a tighter angle. He reappeared a few meters off, feet planting cleanly as he slid back into view. Hands already moving through signs.
"Katon: Gōkame no Jutsu!"
The fireball that followed was large—dense and fast. It rushed across the clearing with more weight than hers, kicking dust into the air before the flames even touched down.
She landed in a crouch, flicking her wrist to draw another blade. No hesitation. Just movement.
She surged forward again—kunai in hand, eyes locked on him. Her Sharingan spun rapidly, catching every twitch of muscle, every slight movement of his center of gravity. She tried to stay ahead of him, predicting where he would go, striking before he could act.
She went low with a feint stab toward his ribs. He shifted his hips and pivoted, letting the blade scrape past his side. Before she could correct, his left hand grabbed her wrist—tight. His right hand came in fast, palm-first, slamming into her chin with a brutal upward strike that rocked her head back.
The force staggered her. She barely had time to register it before his knee drove up, sharp and fast, slamming into her abdomen. The impact forced the air from her lungs, and she folded forward with a grunt.
Before she could drop to the ground, his grip on her wrist twisted, throwing her over his shoulder and into the dirt with a heavy thud. She bounced once and rolled, groaning, but already pushing herself back up to a knee.
He didn't wait. He was on her again—closing the gap with controlled speed.
A left hook came for her cheek. She raised her arm to block, but his fist slipped past, catching her jaw. The next blow was a right straight to the chest, and she flew back a full meter, skidding to a stop.
She coughed, shoulders trembling from the strikes, but still moved to stand again. He stood still now, not even out of breath, watching her as she tried to recover, his eyes unreadable.
He hadn't even broken a sweat.
He relaxed slightly, rolling his shoulders and letting the tension ease from his stance.
"Okay, Itachi. That's enough. You did good—better than last time."
Itachi lay there, breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling as she tried to suck in enough air to keep her thoughts straight. "Thank you, Tobi-sensei."
Every inch of her body ached. Each spot where he'd landed a blow throbbed with deep bruises, but she could feel it—she was better. Not perfect. Not strong enough. But better. She closed her eyes briefly, reviewing the fight in her head. She had lasted longer. Moved better. Read him faster.
Obito stepped closer and crouched beside her. "You're improving fast, Itachi. It's impressive. Not even two months, and you've already come this far. If you keep this up, you'll be able to wipe the floor with most jonin."
She opened her eyes, still staring at the slowly darkening sky. The clouds were shifting overhead, streaked with soft orange and violet hues. "I understand. Thank you, Tobi-sensei."
Obito groaned and dropped to the ground beside her with a thud, legs stretched out.
"Stop that."
Itachi turned her head slightly. "I do not understand. What should I stop?"
Without warning, he slapped the top of her head—light but firm.
"That."
She blinked, one hand rising to touch the spot. "What exactly is that, sensei?"
"For fuck's sake! Are you a machine?" He flailed an arm in the air. "No! Stop talking like that. Smile. Frown. I don't know—blink like you care. Look alive for once and not like someone carved you out of marble. You're thirteen, not a kunai."
Itachi frowned slightly, trying to parse his meaning. "But, sensei… we are ninja. We are tools."
Obito let out a long sigh and looked up at the sky.
"This… this is exactly why the system is screwed up, Itachi. You're not a tool. You're a human. Stronger than most, yeah, but still a human being."
At her expression—cool, unreadable as always—he changed his approach.
"Tell me something. Why are you a ninja?"
"...To protect my village."
"What else?"
"To protect my family."
"Why?"
"It is my duty."
"Why?"
"Because I am the heiress of the Uchiha clan. I must represent them with strength."
Obito turned his head toward her, one brow raised behind the mask.
"Yes, you're the heiress. But that's not what you want, is it?"
Itachi didn't answer right away. Her eyes narrowed faintly, tracking the movements of clouds overhead as if she might find the answer there.
Obito leaned back on his elbows and waited, his tone a little softer.
"What do you want, Itachi?"
The silence lingered.
Itachi's lips parted, but no sound came at first. The question gnawed at the edges of her mind. What did she want?
"I…" she started, then stopped. She turned her face away from him, eyes narrowing slightly.
"I don't know."
Obito didn't say anything right away. He let the answer hang in the air. It wasn't a surprise. It wasn't even disappointing. It was… expected. Tragic, maybe. But not unexpected.
"That's fine," he said finally, voice quieter now. "You're Eleven. You're not supposed to have it all figured out."
Itachi's eyes shifted back toward him.
"But you better start thinking about it. Because if you don't know what you want… someone else will decide it for you. And by the time you realize it, you'll be stuck living their dream instead of your own."
She sat up slowly, wincing as her muscles protested. Her fingers curled loosely over her knee, silent.
"Even if you're strong," Obito continued, "even if you can outthink, outfight, and outlast everyone—what's the point if you never choose for yourself?"
The girl glanced toward him. "And you, sensei? What do you want?"
Obito snorted softly. "Heh. What I want?"
He paused. That answer had changed so many times, fractured across pain and years and losses he didn't speak of.
"…Peace and quiet. A good cup of tea. Maybe someone to make fun of in the mornings. That's enough for now."
Itachi raised an eyebrow just slightly. "That sounds… underwhelming."
"Underwhelming?" he laughed. "Kid, when you've been through as much hell as I have, underwhelming is the dream."
She let the corner of her mouth twitch. A micro-expression. But he saw it.
"There. That's better," he said, pointing at her face dramatically. "See? She can make expressions!"
Itachi rolled her eyes. "Tobi-sensei, please."
He got up and stretched, popping his shoulders.
"C'mon. Let's get you home before someone mistakes you for a walking bruise and sends you to the morgue. Tell Shisui to take the day off tomorrow, we are closed."
Itachi stood up with a soft grunt, brushing dust from her clothes.
"Yes, sensei."
"And Itachi?"
She looked over.
"Next time," he said, voice dry and smug, "aim lower when you kick. You're short, use it to your advantage."
She stared at him flatly, and he just cackled behind the orange mask. The spiral eyehole glinted faintly in the fading light.
And together, the two of them walked down the dirt path, one limping slightly, the other annoyingly chipper, disappearing into the evening streets of Konoha.
She closed the door behind her and slipped off her shoes without a word, placing them neatly beside the others.
"I'm home."
Her voice was flat, barely above a whisper. Mikoto's head peeked from around the corner of the living room, her expression shifting from relief to mild concern.
"Itachi! Good, you're here. Your father is in the study—he wants to speak with you. We'll eat later."
Her eyes narrowed slightly as they scanned Itachi's disheveled appearance, the faint bruises on her neck, the torn sleeve.
"I assume… that's from your training?"
Itachi gave a small nod, eyes forward, unmoved. "Yes. It is."
Mikoto's lips tightened, but she nodded in return. "Go wash up and change. Be presentable for your father."
"Yes, Mother."
Her tone didn't change. Her posture didn't shift. Just a quiet pivot of the heel as she headed to the bathroom. The water ran. The bruises were cleaned. The uniform was changed. Hair tied back. The mirror reflected a face that felt more mask than flesh.
Ten minutes later, she stood in front of her father's study door. She knocked twice, evenly.
"Come in."
She entered.
Fugaku was seated behind his desk, arms crossed, documents stacked neatly in front of him. His face was drawn with exhaustion—lines etched deeper each week—but the hardness in his eyes never dulled.
"Itachi," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Sit down."
She did.
Back straight. Hands folded. Silent.
Fugaku observed her for a long moment, his gaze lingering on the faint bruises along her jawline and shoulder.
"You've been training," he said finally, voice low and even. "More than most. You come home bruised, sometimes end up in the hospital every other day. The question now is whether this is something you should continue."
Itachi's eyes narrowed slightly, but her expression remained impassive. She met his gaze without hesitation.
"I suppose it's time to deliver my report, Father."
Fugaku's posture relaxed a fraction at her steady answer. He gave a small nod, folding his hands together atop the desk.
"Exactly. It was one of the conditions for allowing you to continue such intense—and dangerous—training."
Itachi waited until he gestured for her to proceed.
"After one month of specialized training under Tobi-sensei and alongside Shisui, measurable improvements have been recorded," she began, her tone flat and professional. "Previously, during my average missions, my target neutralization time was between twenty to fifty seconds. It has now decreased to between five and thirty seconds."
Fugaku watched her closely, his fingers tapping idly against the desk.
"My injury rate has also declined. On B-rank missions, where I previously sustained between one and five injuries, the range has now reduced to zero to one. A similar trend has been observed in A-rank assignments."
She paused momentarily.
"In addition," she continued, "team coordination with Shisui has improved by approximately seventeen percent, based on mission debrief analyses."
There was a brief silence. Fugaku leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly through his nose.
"And this... Sensei of yours," he said at last, voice sharpening slightly. "You still have not provided any background. No clan ties. No known registration. No military record."
Itachi remained silent for a moment before answering.
"That is correct, Father. His background remains unverified. He maintains the appearance of a civilian, owning and operating a tea shop within the village."
Fugaku's eyes narrowed.
"A civilian?" he repeated. "Yet training you and Shisui to such a degree?"
"Yes," Itachi confirmed simply.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk.
"Explain. Why pose as a civilian? Why sell tea if he possesses such skill?"
Itachi answered smoothly, as if she had already prepared the response.
"Tobi-sensei stated that he has no interest in political structures. He wishes to live quietly. His words were: 'Strength should be a personal matter, not a public burden.'"
Fugaku's brow twitched faintly. His mouth pressed into a thin line.
"A dangerous philosophy."
"Perhaps," Itachi replied. "However, thus far, he has shown no sign of subversive intent. His focus remains purely on physical and tactical development."
Fugaku sat in silence, regarding her with that heavy, searching stare he often reserved for interrogations.
"And his training methods?"
"Direct, practical. Focused on application over theory. Emphasis on survival, adaptability, and efficiency."
Fugaku's eyes darkened thoughtfully.
"Someone that skilled, yet invisible to the system... it is not natural," he muttered. "Be cautious, Itachi. Skill does not guarantee loyalty."
"I understand, Father."
After another long moment, Fugaku leaned back once more, seemingly deciding to leave the matter for now.
"You may continue under his guidance. But if anything changes—you are to report immediately."
"Yes, Father."
Without another word, Itachi stood, bowed precisely, and exited the study, the door clicking shut behind her with mechanical finality.
The hallway was bathed in dimming twilight. Her footsteps were light, unhurried.
There was no rush. No emotion. Only the steady continuation of her orders.
But in truth, tonight marked the first step of her quiet revolt.
Had her father known that Tobi-sensei was, in fact, an Uchiha—one hidden, unknown, and powerful—the fallout would have been catastrophic.
At best, suspicion.
At worst, total annihilation of everything she had quietly built these past months.
She moved toward her room without looking up, her mind sharpening with cold analysis.
Risk factors: Exposure of Tobi-sensei's identity.
Consequences: Immediate investigation. Potential elimination. Clan instability.
Countermeasures: Continued emotional opacity. Absolute loyalty to the village on the surface. Minimize independent movements. Continue excelling at missions.
It was simple logic. She had walked these paths in her mind dozens of times.
And yet... beneath the clean structure of her thoughts, something shifted.
Tobi-sensei was not kind. His training sessions were brutal, without apology. His fists taught lessons better than words. His critiques were sharp enough to carve stone.
But he had planted seeds that no one else had even tried to offer.
You are not a tool, he had said once, after throwing her into the dirt again and again.
You are not just an Uchiha. You are yourself first.
It was an alien idea, one that lodged deep and refused to be ignored.
If she revealed him—even accidentally—she would not only be betraying a secret, she would be betraying the fragile, invisible thread that tethered her to something... different. Something not entirely built on duty, or obedience, or the endless, choking pressure of expectation.
Itachi slid open her bedroom door silently and entered, closing it behind her.
She moved automatically to her drawers, changing into clean clothing, hiding the marks of her training under high collars and long sleeves.
The bruises would heal. They always did.
But the small, defiant thought growing inside her—that was something bruises could not erase.
She sat on her bed, back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap.
Outwardly, nothing had changed.
Inwardly, Itachi Uchiha had taken another step away from the future her father had carefully, ruthlessly carved out for her.
Fugaku sat quietly in the study, the oil lamp on his desk flickering in the deepening night.
He had hoped—expected—to learn more about his daughter's elusive "sensei," yet every piece of information she had offered amounted to nothing substantial. Worse, when compared with Shisui's independent answers, he found a troubling consistency: both of them knew almost nothing, at least on the surface.
No name. No clan affiliation. No real background. Only that he was someone who sold tea , was called Tobi the tea man and that he trained them brutally... and left them improved.
Fugaku's fingers tapped absently against the polished wood of his desk.
He had first learned of this mysterious instructor about a month after granting Itachi permission for specialized training.
It had been subtle at first—the marks on her body, injuries that were too severe to be explained by simple sparring with Shisui, who himself bore similar wounds.
Neither had plausible explanations.
More damning was the pattern: whenever both of them were too battered to walk home, they somehow ended up at the hospital, admitted anonymously.
It didn't take a genius to realize a third party was involved.
Fugaku leaned back slightly in his chair, brow furrowing deeper.
"What are you hiding, Itachi? Why lie to us? Is that man truly that dangerous?"
He exhaled slowly, the breath hissing out between clenched teeth.
If it were only risk to Itachi, he could intervene quietly.
But the clan was at a delicate tipping point. Secrets—especially among the Uchiha—were dangerous currency.
An unknown instructor wielding that level of influence over the clan's most talented heir was unacceptable.
Fugaku sat a bit straighter, the decision solidifying in his mind.
"It might be time for me to meet that sensei of theirs."
A quiet knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He turned, voice calm but carrying authority.
"Enter."
It was Mikoto, her eyes steady. She carried a tray with tea, the soft clink of porcelain loud in the silence.
"You are worried," she said simply, setting the tray down. It wasn't a question.
Fugaku accepted the cup, cradling it absently.
"I am concerned," he admitted after a moment. "Itachi and Shisui are improving at a startling rate... but under a man neither of them truly know."
Mikoto poured herself a cup and sat across from him.
"Perhaps that is a reason to be cautious, yes," she said softly, "but maybe also a reason to observe more carefully before acting rashly."
Fugaku narrowed his eyes slightly. "Observation alone is not enough. If this unknown factor becomes a threat to the clan, I must act."
Mikoto inclined her head, silent. She did not argue. She knew better than anyone how heavy the mantle Fugaku carried was.
After a few long moments, Fugaku set the cup down with finality.
"I will meet him. Directly."
He did not say how.
He did not say what would happen if the man proved... unsuitable.
But the decision had been made.
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Unc' shegi