The Uchiha training grounds.
Seiji gripped his blade, Muramasa, while Shisui squared off with two short swords.
"Idiot. Don't swing at full strength unless you're sure it's a killing blow," Seiji said with a lazy grin. He brushed Shisui's blades aside like swatting away flies, then suddenly cut downward at his face.
Shisui's swords flew wide, and Seiji's strike carried a freezing edge, reaching him in a blink—
The boy's Sharingan whirred desperately. His two-tomoe eyes gave him just enough vision to track Muramasa's arc, but his body lagged behind his eyes. He could only watch as the blade descended—
And stopped a hair's breadth above his forehead.
Seiji smiled warmly, speaking in a soft voice:"Get it now? If you always leave a little strength in reserve, you can recover when your attack's blocked. Otherwise, you'll end up helpless."
He tapped the blade away and added, "Especially for shinobi. With all the jutsu flying around to mess with your eyes, going all-in is a death wish."
Sweat rolled down Shisui's temple as he nodded earnestly. "I understand, brother."
Shisui felt both grateful and a little crushed. He'd thought his swordsmanship was already impressive for his age. Next to Seiji, it was riddled with holes.
What he didn't know was that he wasn't really dueling Seiji. Every exchange was secretly against the ghost of Tobirama Senju.
And Tobirama—well, he grew up trading blades with warlords of the Warring States era, clashing thousands of times with none other than Izuna Uchiha, Madara's right hand. The man's swordsmanship was a ruthless blend of raw practicality, genjutsu feints, and chakra-forged edges—perfect for murdering enemies and wiping out clans.
He even designed special traps to exploit the Sharingan's biggest flaw: the gap between what the eyes could track and what the body could react to.
Now, in Seiji's hands—blessed with Sharingan of his own—Tobirama's deadly system was patched, upgraded, and pushed to terrifying new heights.
Inside Seiji's head, Tobirama studied him quietly."I see now. You're Kagami's descendant. I taught him this sword style. As for my Water Release and genjutsu—they were stolen long ago by Uchiha anyway. With your talent to bind my soul with a forbidden seal, this isn't surprising…"
But then Tobirama's eyes narrowed."Tell me. Are you wielding my sword style… or Izuna's?"
At first, Tobirama had been smug. He thought Seiji had abandoned Uchiha techniques in favor of his superior Senju style. But the longer he watched, the more his confidence cracked. Some strikes looked pure Senju… others, pure Izuna. Eventually, even Tobirama couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Truth was, Tobirama and Izuna's styles were almost twins—both cold, ruthless killers. The difference? Tobirama preyed on psychology, while Izuna used his Sharingan as a shield for bolder attacks.
Seiji blinked, amused. In this world, the eternal question always circled back to bonds. Hashirama and Madara were obvious, but Tobirama and Izuna… their connection was just as tangled.
For a man as calculating as Tobirama, even he couldn't resist poking at Izuna's shadow.
"Does it matter, Tobirama?" Seiji said slyly. "Your swordplay and Izuna's overlap so much it's hard to tell. The only real difference is the Sharingan. So… did he borrow from you, or did you—"
"Of course he copied me!" Tobirama snapped, faster than Seiji expected. "My Flying Thunder God Cut proved it. I defeated him, didn't I? In the shinobi world, winners don't copy losers!"
The words were firm, but beneath them was the faintest quiver of insecurity. Seiji caught it instantly.
"Right, right," Seiji said with mock solemnity. "The Flying Thunder God definitely wasn't you inventing a crutch because your swordsmanship fell short against Izuna…"
"You—! That's not—! I don't copy anyone! Unlike you Uchiha, my ninjutsu and swordsmanship are my own creations!" Tobirama bristled, defensive as ever.
Meanwhile, the familiar electronic chime echoed in Seiji's head:
[From confronting target: Tobirama Senju. You've gained: Enhanced Motor Reflexes!]
Seiji waved him off, grinning. "Sure, sure. Whatever you say."
He let Tobirama stew in righteous indignation while turning back to Shisui, continuing his calm explanations.
Seiji had figured it out by now—when dealing with someone as guarded as Tobirama, you had to milk him casually. Push too hard, and he'd snap shut. Better to skim small gains, here and there.
Besides, Konoha still had Danzo and Hiruzen lurking like a pair of disaster artists. Eventually, they'd blunder into something that would make Tobirama cough up even bigger rewards.
"Don't worry, Shisui," Seiji said gently, ruffling the boy's sweaty hair. "If you don't get it now, I'll teach you again."
The technique was advanced—too advanced for a six-year-old. But that was fine. Shisui's eyes shone with determination as he nodded.
Just then, a broad-shouldered man with gray hair strode into the training field. His voice was deep, confident:
"I have some skill in kenjutsu myself. Uchiha Seiji, if you've got the guts—fight me."
As his words fell, scarlet three-tomoe Sharingan swirled to life.
The newcomer was Uchiha Hachiyo, a seasoned jonin, famous within the clan and a staunch hawk among the Uchiha.
The air thickened.
Seiji's lips curled into a smile.