Chapter 3: The Unwanted Mentor
Uchiha Ying, seeing he couldn't crush me with taijutsu alone, broke away from our exchange of blows. He skidded back a few paces, a look of grim determination replacing his earlier arrogance. "Uchiha Tenchi," he spat, "I am a shinobi. Ninjutsu is our true art. Let's end this properly."
His hands flew together, beginning the familiar sequence.
I didn't hesitate. My own hands were already moving, a mirror to his. "You're right," I said, my voice steady despite my racing heart. "A shinobi should use ninjutsu."
"Fire Release: Great Fireball Jutsu!"
"Fire Release: Great Fireball Jutsu!"
Our voices echoed each other. Two spheres of roiling orange flame erupted from our mouths, colliding in the space between us with a deafening WHOOSH. The heat was immense, washing over the street and making the air shimmer. For a moment, the two fireballs warred, a miniature sun struggling for dominance against its twin.
But mine was… different. It wasn't just fire; it was my fire. The knowledge the system had implanted wasn't just rote memory; it was perfect, optimized chakra control. My fireball was denser, hotter, more violently focused. I could feel the difference in the chakra drain, a more efficient and brutal conversion of energy into destruction.
Slowly, inexorably, my fireball began to push his back. Ying's eyes widened in disbelief, his face contorting with strain as he poured more chakra into his technique. His fireball flickered, shrinking under the onslaught.
"No… this is impossible!" he grunted through clenched teeth.
With a final surge, my Great Fireball overwhelmed his, swallowing the smaller sphere and roaring toward him. He stood frozen, a deer caught in the killing light, all his bravado wiped away by the sheer, terrifying reality of his defeat.
A black blur shot from the rooftops. The Hound-masked Anbu captain materialized in front of Ying, grabbing him and flashing away just as my fireball smashed into the line of trees behind them. The explosion was deafening, splintering wood and scattering embers into the night air.
"I… I lost?" Ying stammered from where the Anbu had deposited him, his voice small and broken. "To him?"
The Anbu captain turned his masked gaze toward me. "You two brats," his voice was a low growl, devoid of any humor. "The Uchiha are entrusted with this village's security, and you flout its laws by brawling in the streets. There will be consequences."
"But he started it!" I protested, the heat of the fight still coursing through me.
The mask gave nothing away. "I don't care."
The cold, damp air of the Konoha detention center's temporary holding cell was a sharp contrast to the fire in my veins. The iron bars felt more real, more permanent, than my entire life outside them.
Typical, I fumed, pacing the small, stone room. He attacks me, I defend myself, and we both get thrown in here. I'd heard the guards talking; the moderate faction had pulled some strings and gotten Ying released after just one day. The militant faction, my so-called "supporters," were nowhere to be found. Of course.
That damn Tobirama. This was probably his idea of a lesson. 'Let's see how long you can last,' I muttered to myself, mimicking the Nidaime's stern tone in my head. 'Just you wait. When I get strong, I'll make sure to take a walk past your office every single day. I'll be that annoying fly you can't swat, just to remind you that you couldn't break me.'
My grumbling was cut short by the sound of footsteps. A young man, probably in his early twenties, stopped outside my cell. He had a serious, thoughtful face and was dressed in standard shinobi gear.
"If you're looking for someone, try another cell," I said, waving a dismissive hand. "It's just me in here." I figured he was here for some other poor soul.
He didn't move. He just stood there, looking at me with an intensity that was unnerving.
I walked closer to the bars, squinting. There was something familiar about him. I'd seen him before, maybe in the village? But where? He just kept staring. Was he simple? Deaf? Mute?
The young man's eyebrow twitched. "I am neither deaf nor mute," he said, his voice calm but firm. "I'm here to take you out." With a soft click, he unlocked the cell door and swung it open.
Stunned, I stepped out, the freedom feeling strangely heavy. I followed him down the sterile corridor, my eyes glued to his back. Who was he? The familiarity was itching at my brain.
We stepped out into the late afternoon sun, and the light hit his face just right. The stern profile, the short, spiky hair… and then it clicked. A younger version, without the beard and the wrinkles, but the essence was unmistakable.
A cold dread, entirely separate from my hatred of Tobirama, began to pool in my stomach. This wasn't a rescue. This was an exchange of jailers. The Anbu's visible surveillance was gone, only to be replaced by this… this living legend in the making. Tobirama wasn't letting me go. He was just assigning me a more permanent, and infinitely more dangerous, babysitter.
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