That afternoon, the sun began to lean westward, stretching long shadows across the now-empty academy grounds. The noise of children had been replaced by a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of the wind. Yuji stood there, waiting, having already dropped his bag at home after giving a fabricated excuse to his friends.
"You're not coming?" Naruto had asked, his face a pout. "Shikamaru said his dad got a new Shogi board! We could try to play!"
"Can't," Yuji had replied, trying to sound bored. "I have a very important research project. I have to observe the migration patterns of ants in my backyard. It's crucial for my understanding of insect logistics."
Naruto had just stared at him with a blank look, too confused to argue. "You're... weird," he'd finally said, before running off to catch up with Shikamaru and Choji.
Now, alone, Yuji took a deep breath. There were no ants. No research. Just the promise of pain and a faint hope that the pain would be worth it.
The sliding door to the academy building opened and Iruka-sensei stepped out. He had changed, no longer in his standard Chunin vest, but in simpler, more practical training clothes. He looked more relaxed, but there was a seriousness in his eyes that Yuji never saw in the classroom.
"On time," Iruka said, walking to the center of the yard. "I appreciate that."
"I don't like to waste time," Yuji replied, walking to meet him.
"Good," Iruka said with a faint smile. "Then let's not waste any more. Take off your sandals. You'll feel the ground better with bare feet."
Yuji did as he was told, feeling the fine, slightly warm dust under the soles of his feet. It felt grounding.
"Alright, Yuji," Iruka began, taking a relaxed stance across from him. "Before we start training any techniques, I need to know where you stand now. I've seen your fights in class, but that's different. I want to see how you move under pressure. So, we'll do some light sparring."
"Light," Yuji repeated flatly.
"Of course," Iruka said. "My goal isn't to hurt you. My goal is to see what you need to work on. Think of it as a diagnostic test. Attack me whenever you're ready."
Yuji nodded. He took another breath, trying to calm his heart which was starting to beat faster. He settled into his stance, the same one he had practiced endlessly. Low, balanced, ready.
For a few seconds, no one moved. They just looked at each other. Yuji tried to read his opponent, looking for an opening, a tell. But Iruka was a calm wall. There was nothing to read.
'Fine,' Yuji thought. 'If he won't move, I will.'
With a sudden burst of energy, Yuji shot forward. He didn't charge blindly. He used his footwork, circling slightly to the left to approach from an unexpected angle, and launched a quick side kick towards Iruka's thigh.
And then, his opponent vanished.
One moment Iruka was there, and the next, there was only empty air. Yuji's kick hit the wind, throwing him slightly off balance.
"Too slow."
Iruka's voice came from behind him.
Yuji spun around in shock, his heart leaping into his throat. How?! He hadn't even seen him move! Iruka was now standing where Yuji had been a few seconds ago, his arms crossed over his chest.
This wasn't normal speed. This was something else. Something Yuji had never experienced firsthand.
"You're surprised," Iruka stated, not as a question. "That's your first lesson. Never underestimate the speed of a Chunin. Now, try again."
Yuji swallowed, his mouth dry. He had expected this. Iruka said he wouldn't hold back. But to experience that speed directly... it was something else entirely. His pride from beating the other kids felt so foolish now.
He attacked again, this time more cautiously. He tried a series of quick punches, trying to press Iruka, not giving him room to move. But it was like trying to hit a shadow. Iruka dodged every punch with elegant, minimalist movements. A tilt of the head, a small step to the side. He didn't even look like he was trying.
"You're relying too much on your arms," Iruka said in the middle of Yuji's flurry of punches. "True taijutsu power comes from your hips and your legs. Your arms are just the delivery system."
Frustration began to creep in. Yuji jumped back, creating distance. He needed to think.
'He's just toying with me,' Yuji thought bitterly. 'He's analyzing my every move. He could end this whenever he wants.'
The thought should have scared him, but instead, it fueled his stubbornness. He wasn't going to give up that easily.
He saw an opening—or what looked like an opening. As Iruka was talking, his guard seemed to drop slightly. Yuji seized the opportunity. He ducked low, lunged forward, and aimed a straight punch at Iruka's stomach.
This time, Iruka didn't dodge. He just stood there.
THUD!
Yuji's fist connected. He felt a solid impact on his knuckles. He had hit Iruka with all his might.
And nothing happened.
It was like punching a stone wall. Iruka didn't even flinch. He just looked down at Yuji, his eyebrow slightly raised.
"A good hit," Iruka said calmly. "You got in. But as you can see, without enough power behind it, it means nothing."
Before Yuji could pull his fist back, Iruka's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. The grip was like steel. Then, with a seemingly effortless movement, Iruka pushed.
Yuji was thrown back. He crossed his arms in front of his chest to brace, his feet dragging in the dirt as he tried to resist the force of the push. His arms felt like they were about to break. His joints screamed in protest.
Damn, this hurts.
He managed to hold his ground, his breath coming in ragged gasps from the effort. Iruka released his grip.
"You have a good stance," Iruka said, a note of approval in his voice. "You've been practicing on your own. It shows. But your core strength is still lacking. We'll need to work on that."
The fight continued. It was no longer a fight, but a brutal lesson. Iruka started to attack. His attacks weren't fast or powerful. They were controlled, designed to test Yuji's defense.
A punch came towards his head. Yuji ducked. A kick swept towards his legs. Yuji jumped. He was constantly moving, constantly reacting. His brain was working as fast as it could, trying to predict, trying to survive.
'This is exhausting,' he thought, sweat starting to bead on his forehead. 'He's not giving me a moment to breathe. He's constantly pressing me.'
He could feel his muscles starting to burn. Each block felt heavier than the last. He was reminded of his ridiculous fight with Naruto, where he had felt like an adult being toyed with. Now, he truly felt like a child being taught a lesson by an adult. There was no more illusion of superiority. Just the harsh reality of the power gap.
But he wouldn't give up. Every time he thought he was about to collapse, the image of Sasuke's empty face flashed in his mind. The image of his smiling parents, oblivious to the dangers of the world around them. The image of Naruto, who had so much spirit but was so vulnerable.
I don't want to be helpless.
Fueled by that thought, he found new strength. As Iruka launched another punch, Yuji didn't just block it. He parried it to the side and tried to counter with an elbow strike.
The move surprised Iruka. He had to jump back slightly to avoid it. For a split second, there was an opening.
But Iruka was a Chunin. A split second was more than enough for him.
While Yuji was still in the middle of his elbow strike, Iruka's leg was already moving. A low, fast, and perfectly executed leg sweep hit Yuji's supporting ankle.
Yuji's world turned upside down.
His leg was gone from under him. He had no time to react. His back hit the ground hard, knocking all the air out of his lungs. His head bounced slightly, making his vision spot for a moment.
He was down. Lying flat on his back in the middle of the training ground, staring up at the spinning blue sky, his chest aching, every muscle screaming. He hadn't even seen the attack coming.
Silence returned to the yard.
After a moment, a face appeared above him, blocking out the sun. It was Iruka. And he was smiling. Not a mocking smile, but a genuine, impressed smile.
"You lasted longer than I expected," Iruka said, his voice warm. "You have fighting spirit, Yuji. And you learn quickly. That elbow strike... it was a good move. You just need to learn not to leave yourself open after doing it."
He held out his hand.
Yuji looked at the hand for a moment, then took it. Iruka pulled him to his feet easily. Yuji's legs felt like jelly, but he managed to stand straight.
"That was... a good lesson, Sensei," Yuji said, his voice hoarse.
"This is just the beginning," Iruka said. "Now you know where you stand. Later, we'll start working on improving it."
…
That night, every muscle in Yuji's body screamed in protest. He lay on his back on his futon, staring at the dark ceiling of his room. He didn't even have the energy to turn on the light. Every small movement sent a dull wave of pain through his limbs. His first training session with Iruka-sensei was more than just a taijutsu lesson; it was a brutal introduction to reality. He had felt the difference between himself and a real shinobi, and that difference was measured in bruises and sore muscles.
After soaking in a hot bath for nearly an hour, the pain had subsided slightly, replaced by a deep exhaustion. However, his mind refused to rest. Fueled by leftover adrenaline and a new awareness of his weakness, he had spent the last hour sitting at his desk, practicing.
His room was a mess, a small, silent battlefield. Parchment papers were scattered on the floor, each with a failed ink stroke—an imperfect circle, a shaky line, a slightly slanted kanji character. In the corner, there was a small pile of partially scorched paper, the result of a faulty formula that had exploded with a pathetic little pop. He would never try to make explosive tags or anything like that inside the house. That would be incredibly dangerous. He had tried it once, deep in the forest where no one could see him. He had followed the instructions from an advanced scroll he found in the Nara library, holding his breath as he drew the final character. And it had worked. The small explosion was powerful enough to split a small tree trunk. The success had both terrified and exhilarated him. It was proof that he could do it, but also a reminder of how dangerous this path he was on was.
Tonight, he was just focusing on the simple things. Storage seals. Basic reinforcement formulas. But his hands felt heavy, and his concentration wavered with fatigue. The result was more failures than successes.
He finally gave up and practically crawled to his bed. As he lay there, in the silence of his room, the sounds of the day came back to haunt him. Sasuke's empty face. Iruka's words about the war. And most vividly, the feeling of helplessness as he lay on the ground, looking up at Iruka standing over him.
Knock. Knock.
The soft knock on his closed door startled him from his reverie.
"Son?" His father's gentle voice came from behind the door. "Are you still awake? Can I come in?"
Yuji groaned softly as he pushed himself up to a sitting position. "Yeah," he answered, his voice hoarse.
The door slid open slowly, and Kenji stepped in, carrying two steaming cups of tea. He paused for a moment in the doorway, his eyes sweeping the room. Yuji saw his father take in the mess—the scattered papers, the faint smell of ink, and most importantly, the exhausted look on his son's face. There was a melancholic look in Kenji's eyes, the same look Yuji sometimes saw when his father was looking at an unfinished mask, as if seeing both potential and pain at the same time.
"I brought some herbal tea," Kenji said, walking over and sitting on the edge of Yuji's futon. "Your mother said it's good for sore muscles."
"Thanks," Yuji mumbled, accepting the warm cup. The minty steam was soothing.
His father didn't speak right away. He just sat there, sipping his tea, and looking around once more. "You've been working hard," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.
Yuji didn't answer. He just stared at the tea in his cup.
"Lately," Kenji began carefully, "you've seemed so... withdrawn. More than usual. You're in your own world. Is something bothering you?"
Yuji sipped his tea. It was warm and slightly sweet. He could have told the truth. 'Yes, Dad. I've just realized that my entire existence in this world is incredibly fragile and I could die at any moment, so I'm training to the point of collapse with a Chunin after class.' But he didn't. His walls were already too high.
"I'm just contemplating the great mysteries of life," Yuji replied in his typical deadpan tone. "Like, why does dust always choose to gather in the hardest-to-reach places? Do they have some kind of secret meeting there? Are they planning a takeover? These are the questions that keep me up at night."
Kenji smiled, a tired but loving smile. He was used to these kinds of answers. But tonight, he didn't let it go.
His hand reached out and picked up one of the more successful parchment papers from Yuji's desk. It was a simple storage seal, the calligraphy still a bit clumsy, but the formula was correct. Kenji examined it carefully, his fingers, accustomed to fine details, tracing the lines of ink.
"You're very talented," he said softly. Then he put the paper down and looked at Yuji, his smile gone. "This is because of the news about the Uchiha, isn't it?"
The words hit Yuji like a physical blow. He hadn't expected it. He hadn't expected his father to be so... direct. He could only stare, his defenses crumbling.
"Yuji," his father said, his voice gentle but firm. "I may just be a mask maker. I may not know much about the shinobi world anymore. But I know about fear. I can see it in your eyes."
He paused, letting Yuji process his words. "I know that what happened was scary. Horrifying. To think that something like that could happen in our own village... it's enough to make any adult feel unsafe."
Kenji put his cup down and looked straight into his son's eyes. "And I know... you're afraid it could happen to us. You're afraid you wouldn't be able to protect us. To protect yourself. That's why you're doing all this, isn't it? Pushing yourself so hard."
Yuji looked away, staring at the wall of his room. He couldn't deny it. His father had seen through all his layers of cynicism and absurd excuses, and found the naked, trembling truth at its core.
"But, son," Kenji continued, his voice growing softer. "You don't have to force yourself all the time. You don't have to carry all this weight alone. You're... you're still a child. You're only seven years old. It should be our responsibility, the adults, to make you feel safe. Not the other way around."
Yuji snorted in his mind. A silent, bitter snort. The responsibility of adults. What a beautiful, naive thought. What could adult responsibility do when a shinobi of Itachi's level decided to destroy everything? What could his kind-hearted father with his carving knife do against someone with a Mangekyo Sharingan? Nothing. In this world, responsibility was an illusion. There was only strength and weakness.
"I know what you're thinking," Kenji said, as if he could read his son's mind. "You're thinking that we're helpless. That being a civilian means being weak." He sighed. "And maybe... maybe you have a point. But that doesn't mean you have to lose your childhood because of it."
Yuji remained silent, clutching his teacup.
"Listen," Kenji said, changing his tactic. "You've been in this room, in your own head, for too long. You need some fresh air."
"I don't want to," Yuji mumbled.
"I'm not asking," Kenji said in a tone that brooked no argument, yet remained gentle. He stood up. "Come on. Put on your jacket. We're going for a short walk."
"But I'm tired," Yuji protested, though he knew he had already lost.
"A short walk will be good for your muscles," Kenji said. "And good for your head too. You can't live in the shadow of fear all the time, son. Sometimes, you have to remind yourself of what you're trying to protect."
Reluctantly, Yuji put down his teacup and got up. Every muscle screamed, but he put on his jacket. His father was right. He had been cooped up for too long.
Kenji smiled and placed a hand on Yuji's shoulder. "Come on. I'll show you something."
He forced Yuji out of his stuffy room, down the stairs, and out their front door. The Konoha night air immediately greeted him, cool and fresh against his skin. The sky above was filled with countless stars.
"Where are we going?" Yuji asked.
"Not far," Kenji replied, starting to walk down the lantern-lit street. "We're just going to look around. See the shops. See the beauty of the night."
They walked in silence, father and son, through the sleeping streets of their village. Yuji didn't know what his father wanted to show him, but for now, he let himself be led, stepping out of the darkness of his room and into the quiet light of the night.
They walked in a comfortable silence at first. The streets of Konoha at night had their own quiet beauty. The paper lanterns hanging in front of the closed shops cast a warm, orange glow, creating long, dancing shadows as they walked. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming flowers and the lingering smells of cooking from the surrounding homes.
For Yuji, night was usually a time for vigilance. In his previous life, night in the city meant a different kind of noise, a different kind of danger. Here, he had trained himself to listen for footsteps that were too quiet, to watch for the glint of metal on the rooftops. But tonight, walking beside his father, that vigilance felt distant. Kenji's calm, steady presence was an anchor, keeping him in the here and now.
"Look," Kenji said quietly, stopping them in front of a stall that was still open, the only source of noise on the quiet street.
It was Ichiraku Ramen.
Steam billowed from behind the noren curtains, carrying the rich, savory aroma of pork broth. Inside, a few customers sat at the counter, slurping their noodles with relish. Teuchi, the owner, stood behind the counter, moving with a relaxed efficiency, a friendly smile on his face.
"It's just a bowl of noodles," Kenji whispered, his eyes on the warm scene. "But look at their faces. Tired after a long day's work, maybe worried about tomorrow. But for now, for these few minutes, they're just enjoying a warm bowl of soup. They feel content. They feel at home."
Yuji said nothing. He just watched. He saw a young Chunin, probably just back from a mission, eating ravenously as if he hadn't eaten in days. He saw an old couple, sharing a bowl of ramen and laughing softly. It was such an ordinary, normal scene. A small island of simple happiness in the middle of a complicated world.
They continued their walk. Kenji led him past the main street, pausing for a moment in front of the closed bookstore's window. Inside, children's storybooks were displayed, their colorful covers showing pictures of samurai heroes and magical princesses.
"Even after the worst of wars," Kenji said, his voice wistful, "people will still tell their children fairy tales. They will always want to believe in a happy ending."
Yuji looked at the books. He knew that 'heroes' in the real world weren't like the ones on those covers. Real-world heroes bled, they made impossible choices, and sometimes, they became monsters. But he understood his father's point. Hope was a stubborn thing.
They walked on, past the toy shop where wooden horses and dolls were neatly displayed, waiting to be played with. They walked past the public park, where the empty swings creaked softly in the wind, still holding the echoes of children's laughter from the day.
Every step, every sight, was a silent lesson. His father wasn't lecturing him. He was just showing him. He was showing him life. The normal, boring, and incredibly precious life that went on, even under the shadow of tragedy. He was showing Yuji what he was really trying to protect. Not an abstract concept of 'village' or 'family'. But this. These small moments. A warm bowl of ramen, a bedtime story, laughter in a park.
Finally, Kenji led him to a bench on a small hill overlooking most of the village. From here, they could see the rooftops gleaming under the moonlight, and in the distance, the majestic Hokage Monument watched over in silence.
They sat, and for a long time, no one spoke.
"You know," Kenji began, breaking the silence, "when I see you training in the backyard, or when I see those papers with strange writing in your room... I see myself. A little."
Yuji turned, looking at his father in surprise.
"I see that seriousness," Kenji continued. "The determination to be better, to be stronger. It's a good thing, Yuji. It's a sign that you care." He paused, then looked at his son with a deep, heartfelt gaze. "But I also see the weight on your shoulders. A weight that no seven-year-old should have to carry."
"I'm fine," Yuji said automatically, his voice sounding weak even to his own ears.
"No, you're not," Kenji said gently, but without a hint of doubt. "And that's okay. No one is fine after what happened. Even the adults are scared."
He sighed, turning his gaze to the village below. "My job is to make masks. I spend my days studying faces. Smiling faces, angry faces, sad faces. And I've learned that everyone wears a mask, at one time or another. The ninja wear masks to hide their emotions on missions. Adults wear a mask of courage in front of their children when they themselves are afraid."
He turned and looked at Yuji again, his warm eyes seeming to see through all the layers of defense Yuji had painstakingly built.
"The mask you wear..." Kenji said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "...it looks very heavy."
The words hit Yuji with an unexpected force. Not an accusation. Not a scolding. Just a simple, painful acknowledgement. Someone had seen him. Someone had truly seen him. Not Yuji the weird kid, not Yuji Naruto's cynical friend, not Yuji the reluctant ninja-in-training. But Yuji, who was struggling under an invisible weight.
"You're trying to be strong for us," Kenji whispered. "You're trying to be the shield. And I am so, so proud of you for that. More than you can ever imagine."
Yuji's throat felt tight. He tried to say something, but no words came out.
"But you don't have to wear it all the time," Kenji continued, his voice growing even softer. "Especially... you don't have to wear it in front of me. Or your mother."
He reached out and hesitantly placed his hand on Yuji's head, stroking his hair in a clumsy but loving gesture.
"Protecting us doesn't mean you have to stop being our son," he said. "Protecting us doesn't mean you have to bear it all alone. Let us help you carry it. Let me be your father. Let yourself be a child, at least once in a while. Be angry. Be scared. Be tired. It's okay. We're here."
And that's when it happened. The dam broke.
The weight of two lives, the constant fear of the future he knew was coming, the pressure to be stronger, the loneliness of having to bear it all alone—it all came crashing down in one silent moment.
A small, choked sob escaped Yuji's throat, a sound he never thought he would make again. And then, a single, hot, unexpected tear streamed down his cheek, leaving a warm trail on his cold skin. Just one. But it was enough. It was the first crack in the dam he had built so high and so strong.
He didn't cry. Not really. But for the first time since he had opened his eyes in this world, he let himself feel. Feel scared. Feel tired. And most importantly, feel protected.
"Dad," he whispered, his voice breaking.
Kenji said nothing more. He just pulled his son into an awkward hug. Yuji was stiff at first, then slowly, he leaned into his father's warmth, burying his face in his jacket that smelled of wood and tea.
They sat there for a long time, under the silent gaze of the Hokages on the mountain. A father and a son. A mask maker and a boy who wore a mask of his own. And in the quiet of the Konoha night, for the first time, Yuji didn't feel alone.
The walk home was different. The silence between them was now filled with an unspoken understanding. Yuji walked closer to his father, their bodies occasionally brushing against each other. He still saw the shadows in the alleys, but now they didn't feel so threatening.
The world hadn't become any less dangerous. The future hadn't become any less frightening. But his burden... his burden felt a little lighter. Because now, he knew, he didn't have to carry it alone.
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