By the time Renji turned five, the compound had already marked him. Whispers trailed after him when he passed, the half-blood child who bore no Uchiha name. Mothers pulled their children away, and the boys of the clan treated him as an outsider, some with cruelty, most with indifference. His mother's quiet dignity was his only shield, but the coldness around them never thawed.
Miyako began teaching him chakra control in earnest. They sat in the yard of their modest home, the sky still dim with morning.
"Chakra is not just power," she instructed softly. "It is intent. Feel it in your lungs, your blood, your fingertips. For us, fire answers first."
Renji focused, pressing chakra upward as she taught him. A faint warmth gathered at the back of his throat, sputtering into a weak spark before vanishing. Miyako's stern face softened. "Good. Even a spark is progress. The rest will come."
But Renji wasn't satisfied. That warmth meant something—energy moving, shifting. If chakra could coax fire, could it not also stir the ground or the rain?
When Miyako left on her night missions, Renji turned their yard into his laboratory. He pressed his hands against the soil, sending chakra into the earth. It resisted, heavy and unyielding, but once, a pebble rolled an inch, and Renji's heart thudded with triumph. Earth resists. But it moves if you insist.
On nights when rain slicked the ground, he crouched by puddles. He let chakra seep into the water. It rippled, slid through his grasp, then stilled again. Once, a drop clung to his palm longer than it should have, trembling. Water does not fight. It flows.
He told none of this to Miyako. To her, he showed only sparks of fire, enough to earn her nod of approval. She ruffled his hair once, tired from a mission, and said, "You'll be a fine fire user. That's all you need to be." Renji smiled faintly, but his eyes betrayed thoughtfulness far older than his years.
Life in the compound reminded him daily that he was not truly one of them. Itachi Uchiha, three years his senior, walked the same grounds with a poise that even adults respected. Already a prodigy, already whispered about with awe, Itachi embodied everything the clan admired. Renji sometimes caught glimpses of him during training sessions—fluid hand seals, effortless fireballs. The contrast stung. Children his own age mocked him for failing to form even the smallest jutsu, while praising Itachi as a genius beyond compare.
Yet when Renji watched Itachi, he didn't feel jealousy. He felt curiosity. He studied how Itachi molded chakra, how his movements were so precise, how even silence seemed to bend around him. He thought, If he can bend fire so perfectly, why not water? Why not earth? Why only one path?
Around this time, Sasuke was born. The clan celebrated, banners raised, voices warm with pride. Another pure Uchiha child, the younger brother of their rising star. Renji stood apart, watching as the people who never acknowledged him poured love into the infant. Miyako's grip on his hand tightened, and he felt the unspoken truth: no matter what he did, the clan would never welcome him.
Still, Renji persisted. He knew no jutsu, no finished technique, but in his quiet trials he began to shape an understanding deeper than most children could dream of. The other boys laughed at his failures, the elders ignored him, and even his mother thought he was behind. But alone, in silence, he asked questions no one else dared:
What is chakra truly capable of? Why should it obey only one shape, one flame?
And while the Uchiha heirs shone in fire, Renji bent low over soil and rain, searching for the hidden sparks that no one else could see.