"I understand your strength. Let's stop here for today's spar and rest."
Duan gave Itachi a firm pat on the shoulder before turning and heading into the hall.
"This is for you."
Samui stepped forward, handing Itachi an ice pack. "Press it to your cheeks before the swelling gets worse."
"Thanks."
Itachi accepted the pack, holding it against his sore face. But his mind wasn't on the pain—it was on his uncle's last blow.
How had he been caught in a genjutsu?
Duan hadn't activated his Sharingan. There had been no eye contact. And yet… his consciousness had been swallowed whole for a moment.
Could you… cast genjutsu through a punch?
Itachi's brows knitted. The thought was absurd, and yet the sensation from earlier wouldn't leave him.
His thoughts broke when Duan's shadow fell over him.
"Enough rest. We're moving on to training."
He strode in carrying a pair of heavy dumbbells. "From today, six days a week. Chest, back, arms, shoulders, legs—cycle through in order. No slacking."
Thud. The weights landed at Itachi's feet. Duan turned to Samui.
"You'll be his coach. Make sure his form's perfect."
"Yes, Director."
Samui's tone was brisk. After all, she had endured Duan's own brutal regimen—day after day, year after year. That experience made her more than qualified to guide even a prodigy like Itachi.
And so, under Samui's sharp instructions, Uchiha Itachi began his first step into the world of physical training.
Duan stood off to the side, calmly eating a steak, occasionally throwing out corrections.
Two hours later—
"Ho… ho…"
Itachi lay sprawled on the floor, face flushed, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as if he'd run from Konoha to the Land of Wind.
This was far beyond what he had expected.
Samui had forbidden the use of chakra, forcing him to rely entirely on his body. Every repetition had to be flawless. And just when he thought he'd reached his limit, she'd added more weight.
By the end, his chest and arms felt torn apart, every muscle burning with a deep ache.
And Duan wasn't finished.
From the fridge, he pulled a large piece of raw chicken breast, tossed it into a juicer, and reduced it to a thick, brownish liquid—nearly a full liter.
Before Itachi could speak, Duan held the brimming glass out to him.
"When you're growing, you need more nutrients—especially protein. Since your teeth are out, chewing might be hard. This is cleaner and more efficient. Drink."
A broad grin accompanied the words.
This, in Duan's mind, was uncle's love distilled into one glass.
"…"
Itachi's eyes twitched, but he accepted it, closed his eyes, and downed it in one breath.
The smell hit him first—like damp feathers left in the rain. His stomach rolled, and for a moment he thought it might all come back up.
"Don't spit it out," Duan warned, pressing down on his shoulders. "If you do, it's wasted. From now on, one glass every day. You're only eleven, working in Anbu already. If you burn out and die early, what's the point?"
In the original timeline, Duan knew, Itachi's health had been ruined by overwork—persistent coughing, likely lung disease.
By contrast, Duan at twenty-four had never been sick a day in his life. The difference? Pure, unrelenting strength.
Muscles meant survival.
"Thank you, Uncle," Itachi managed, forcing a smile. It wasn't pretty, but it was the first one he'd given since arriving.
"Go shower and change before you catch a cold."
Duan hauled him to his feet.
---
Ten minutes later—
Itachi stepped out wearing a white cartoon-print T-shirt and loose black shorts. The shirt hung off him awkwardly.
"Those are the curator's clothes from when he was three," Samui explained, hiding a laugh behind her hand.
"…"
No wonder the style was so childish.
Bang!
The gym's door swung open. Two masked shinobi entered.
"Uchiha Itachi. Come with us." Their voices were flat, mechanical.
Itachi's eyes narrowed. Root operatives. He nodded once, turning to bow toward Duan and Samui.
"Uncle. Senior Samui. I'll be leaving—"
"Wait."
Duan's large hand came down on his head. "These your colleagues from Anbu? I thought you worked with a white-haired guy—Kakashi, right?"
The two Root ninja stepped forward, their voices cold.
"Uchiha Duan. Don't interfere."
"You know me?" Duan asked mildly. "Is it wrong for an uncle to care about his nephew?" His hand stayed firmly on Itachi's head.
Itachi tensed, holding back the urge to explain.
The two Root men exchanged glances. They clearly didn't want to escalate against him.
Finally, one spoke.
"We were ordered to bring Itachi to Assistant Hokage Danzo-sama."
So it was Danzo. Not Anbu—Root.
Kenbu might be nominally Anbu's training division, but in truth it reported only to Danzo, not the Third Hokage.
Duan had ignored Root's games before. But this was different. He wasn't about to hand his nephew over without being there himself.
"Itachi's my sister's son," Duan said flatly. "That makes him my son, for all intents. No way am I letting him wander around with you this late at night without me there."
"Impossible," one Root operative replied instantly.
Duan's expression didn't change. "If it's so secret I can't come, then I definitely am. If you refuse, get out."
"Don't be unreasonable," the man snapped.
They shifted, ready to act—
"Mr. Duan."
The voice came from the doorway. A tall figure in a black cloak stepped in—black sunglasses, purple cheek marking.
Aburame Ryoma.
Danzo's confidant. Once Orochimaru's co-guard. After the sannin's defection, he'd become Danzo's most trusted field man.
"Danzo-sama requests you accompany Itachi," Ryoma said smoothly.
At his words, the Root operatives immediately eased off and stepped aside.
"Let's go then."
Duan slung an arm over Itachi's shoulder and followed.
---
In the narrow darkness of a back alley, Aburame Ryoma walked ahead, hands in his pockets.
Duan and Itachi followed close behind, the two Root ninja flanking them to either side—an escort that felt more like a cage.