The message arrived at dawn. Neatly folded, sealed in wax, and delivered by hand. No name was written on the envelope, but Gensei knew. The hand behind the ink was steady, practiced. Not Shikaku. Not Shikamaru. This belonged to someone who had seen battle—many of them—and still kept his brush sharp.
He cracked the seal and read.
> Training Ground Seventeen. Noon.
That was all.
Gensei's fingers lingered on the parchment a moment longer than necessary. He turned it over, inspected the back. No signature. No emblem. But the challenge was clear. This was not a conversation. It was a confrontation dressed in civility.
He sighed.
On the low table beside him, his rapier lay in its sheath—blunt-tipped, unadorned, clean. He had used it only a handful of times in the last decade, and never to kill. Never to threaten. Only to subdue. To inscribe. To mark without marring.
He picked it up, ran a cloth over the grip, then stood.
He would go.
---
Asuma Sarutobi was waiting by the time Gensei arrived. The man stood beneath a tall pine at the edge of the field, arms crossed, cigarette hanging from his lips, smoke curling upward into the sunlight.
"Didn't think you'd actually come," Asuma said without preamble.
Gensei bowed politely. "I don't ignore invitations written with such care."
Asuma gave a small snort of amusement, flicking ash to the side. "You've been teaching Shikamaru things. Good things. Things I can't ignore."
"He's a bright boy. He asks better questions than most men I've met."
"And you answer them like a man writing a will." Asuma's voice had no anger in it, just quiet weight. "You call yourself a teacher, but did Shikamaru ever choose to follow you? Or did you just find a mind sharp enough to hold your code?"
Gensei didn't flinch. "Choice isn't always conscious. We follow the paths we see. I lit a lantern. He stepped forward."
Asuma walked slowly into the open field. "Legacy's a tricky thing. My old man—the Hokage—he never asked me to follow him. But his shadow swallowed every road I tried to walk. I had to leave the village just to remember I had a spine of my own."
Gensei followed, keeping pace. "And now you teach."
"I try." He stopped and turned. "But I don't teach from scrolls. I teach from scars. Kids out here need more than ideas. They need someone who knows what it feels like to bleed and still get up."
"Ideas are what keep them from bleeding in the first place."
"Not always. Sometimes, ideas get people killed when they hesitate."
A pause.
Asuma looked Gensei over. Not aggressively, but thoroughly. "So tell me, are you strong enough to stand behind what you're teaching?"
"I wouldn't teach it if I wasn't."
"Then prove it."
Asuma stepped back and drew his trench knives. The steel hummed with wind chakra. "In our world, strength gives you the right to be heard. If you're going to shape the next generation, I need to know you can stand when it matters."
Gensei didn't respond immediately. He reached for the sword at his side and unsheathed it with calm, deliberate motion.
The blade was long, thin, and blunted at the tip.
Asuma raised an eyebrow. "A sword with no point?"
"A teacher's rod," Gensei replied. "It doesn't need to draw blood to leave a mark."
He took his stance. Balanced. Measured. Neither flashy nor hesitant.
Asuma exhaled smoke and stepped forward. "Let's see if your philosophy has teeth."
Gensei's voice was steady. "No. But it has a spine."