'Well, a woman would be a stretch,' Renjiro thought, taking in the attacker. She wasn't quite grown—more like him, hovering on the cusp between childhood and something stronger, something fiercer. She was perhaps fourteen, maybe fifteen, with long dark hair cascading in wild, luxurious locks down her back. A few strands were tied loosely behind her head in a half-knot, the rest spilling over her shoulders. Her features were sharp and elegant—a straight nose, high cheekbones, and lips that were set in a determined line. She wore the standard Uchiha training garb: a dark blue, long-sleeved shirt with the clan fan emblazoned proudly on the back, and shinobi pants tucked into black sandals. Her gloves were worn, the knuckles frayed from years of sparring, and her Sharingan spun slowly, deliberately, watching him.
Renjiro tilted his head, a spark of curiosity flickering in his sharp crimson eyes. "Another Uchiha," he muttered under his breath. 'But who?'
She stood still, her stance defensive now, calculating, yet he could see the adrenaline humming just beneath the surface. She was beautiful—he almost admitted it aloud—until he scowled inwardly and shook the thought away.
'Pretty or not, she ambushed me,' he reminded himself, his fingers tightening subtly around his bō.
With no warning, the girl lunged again, low to the ground like a panther, her movements fluid yet explosive. Her elbow arced toward his ribs with precise timing, and Renjiro twisted his bō staff into place just in time, the wood singing with the force of her strike.
His feet slid slightly in the dirt, absorbing the blow, and he immediately ducked beneath a sweeping kick that followed—her body twisting like a coiled whip released. He retaliated with a palm strike aimed at her sternum, but she caught it with the flat of her arm, redirecting the force and shifting her balance without losing momentum.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to. Their bodies did all the talking.
It was a dance honed by instinct and repetition—two shinobis, their movements a symphony of strikes and counters, each testing the other's rhythm, each probing for an opening that never came. Sparks flew as her next kunai flashed from her thigh pouch mid-spin, slicing through the dim air toward his shoulder.
"Clang!"
Steel met staff. Renjiro felt the vibration travel up his arm as he twisted his bō and caught the kunai's edge just before it could draw blood. He spun behind her, pivoting on the balls of his feet, letting momentum guide his escape.
But even as he moved, the scent hit him again—lavender, faint but distinct, laced with iron and smoke. Not the scent of perfume, but of someone who had trained under harsh discipline, who bled and burned and rose stronger for it. It struck him off guard.
Oddly… familiar.
Intoxicating, even.
He frowned, a brief crack in his otherwise stoic expression. 'A genjutsu?' That would explain the strange haze teasing at the edge of his thoughts.
He leapt back, a good fifteen paces between them now, landing lightly, staff raised. "Lacing your scent with genjutsu," he said coldly, eyes narrowing, "won't work on me."
The girl blinked, Sharingan narrowing in genuine confusion. Her lips parted slightly. "What are you talking about?" she asked flatly, slipping the kunai back into her holster with a smooth flick. "I already know genjutsu doesn't work on you. Why would I waste my time doing that?"
That stopped him. His heartbeat skipped—not from exertion, but from revelation.
'She knows genjutsu doesn't work on me?' The thought screamed in his mind. 'That detail is... buried. Guarded. Known only to a handful of people in the clan—people who he accidentally revealed the secret to. People like Daichi.'
His grip tightened subtly on the bō, the chakra in his arms instinctively reinforcing the wood. 'Did Daichi leak it? Out of spite? Or... was this planned? Is she a message?'
Of all the times for something like this to unravel—now, on the eve of war? When alliances were fragile and secrets could fracture trust like brittle glass?
"Tch!"
The next exchange began in an instant, no words spoken, no signals given. It was raw instinct now—pure, honed combat. Their Sharingan flared in synchrony, spinning in calculated precision as they read each other's movements before they happened.
Punch. Block. Sweep. Step. Parry. Counter.
Her style was exquisite—clearly trained in the Uchiha clan's elite forms, refined over years of tutelage. But Renjiro wasn't just trained—he was adaptive. He didn't just copy her. He refined her. When she pivoted left, he mirrored it and turned it into a trap. When she ducked low, he anticipated the rising elbow and spun his bō to intercept it from the opposite direction.
He was calm and surgical. She was fierce, pressing, pushing, trying to overwhelm him. And failing.
Her frustration leaked into her rhythm. The sharp inhale between blows, the flicker of chakra in her left hand where she favoured lightning release—it was all there for him to read.
Mid-clash, she wove a single one-handed seal, and a stream of flame burst from her lips. It was brief, a flicker of warning meant to mask her retreat or bait a counterattack. Renjiro didn't even blink. He ducked beneath it, rolled, and came up already moulding chakra into his own lungs.
"Katon: Hōsenka no Jutsu."
He exhaled a flurry of fireballs, but only one was real—the rest were illusions, masking the trajectory of the true strike. The genuine fireball streaked past her cheek, close enough to singe a strand of hair. She stumbled, wide-eyed, and slapped the rest away with a burst of chakra from her palm.
"You're... copying me," she hissed, half in awe, half in disbelief.
Renjiro straightened, dust and heat swirling around him. He gave a faint shrug, half amusement, half provocation. "What else is the Sharingan for?"
She growled under her breath and reached behind her back. Renjiro's gaze sharpened as she drew her next weapon—a sabre, slightly curved, elegant in form. The metal gleamed even in the dimming light, and she held it with the comfort of someone well-practiced.
'A sabre?' That was rare for an Uchiha clan member. Most relied on speed and fire, their bodies generally. But this girl… this wasn't a simple clan shinobi.
His expression shifted, interest piqued. "Now this," he murmured, "might get interesting."
He pressed his thumb on his bō, and with a mechanical click, the staff split in two. Thin, sharp blades extended from each end, transforming the weapon into twin short polearms—twin fangs ready to bite.
She didn't wait. She moved.
Her sabre swept toward him in a vicious arc. Renjiro caught it between his blades, the clang echoing in the training field. He twisted, redirecting her blade and spinning to deliver a sweeping kick. She caught his leg, dropped low, and tried to yank him off his feet. He didn't fight the momentum—he twisted mid-fall, pushed off the ground, and flipped behind her, landing light as a feather.
The clash continued—longer, deeper now, no longer a test but a statement. They were showing each other who they were. Not just in style—but in will.
Her sabre became an extension of her will—thrusting, slicing, countering. She was fast, unpredictably so, and deceptively strong. But Renjiro met her at every edge. His blades moved like water, redirecting force, controlling rhythm. He used the weight of her own strikes against her, slamming his elbow into her wrist once to knock her back, then stepping past her defences with brutal efficiency.
She came at him again with a flurry of chakra-augmented slashes, each one designed to break his guard. But he didn't retreat. He advanced.
When her sabre swept left, he intercepted it with both blades. When she leapt back and fired three shurikens wreathed in lightning chakra, he deflected one, caught the second with a flick of his bō, and let the third graze his arm—just to get close enough to strike.
Their breath was harsh now, hearts pounding, but neither showed signs of yielding.
"You're not even taking me, or this, seriously!" she snarled, slashing at his shoulder.
Renjiro parried and twisted her sabre down, forcing her arm into an awkward angle. "I have other matters to attend to," he replied coolly, his eyes flickering—not with malice, but with controlled indifference.
That stung her more than any physical blow.
Her cheeks flushed—not from exertion, but from something deeper. Humiliation? No. Anger. Pure, red-hot indignation.
She backed off, breath hitching, sabre lowered but not sheathed. Her gaze never left him, though now something else lingered in her eyes—something almost like… fascination.
Renjiro tilted his head, blade twirling lazily in his right hand. "Finally giving up?"
She didn't answer right away. Then, slowly, she tilted her head, a smile curving her lips—not mischievous, not mocking. It was curious. Intrigued.
"No," she said, her voice softer than before. "I'm impressed."
Renjiro blinked. That wasn't what he expected. "And why should I care that you're impressed?"
She took a step forward, Sharingan slowing in its spin. "Why wouldn't you?" she asked, her tone laced with something he couldn't quite place. "Father said you show promise. I had to see it for myself."
Time stopped.
'Father?'
Renjiro's body went still.
The weight of the word crashed over him like thunder.
His Sharingan flickered, his mind spinning faster than any kunai. That single word unravelled the veil she had worn the entire fight.
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