The twin clangs were still ringing when Genji struck his victory pose—tiny hands on tiny hips, chin tilted at precisely the angle that said "I woke up like this." Two shuriken quivered dead-center in their posts, silver petals in a wooden bulls-eye flowerbed. The other three stars? One was probably halfway to Suna by now, and the retrieval squad was Googling "toddler-proof requisition forms."
Genji gave the posts a pitying glance. "Tsk. Two misses. Guess my fingers slipped."
The collective eye-twitch that rippled through the audience could've powered a small lightning jutsu. Even the cicadas stopped chirping, as if to say, Dude, read the room.
From the sidelines, Uchiha Shin massaged the bridge of his nose. "Kid, I've seen shinobi lie through their teeth, but you just flossed with the truth and called it dental hygiene."
Genji shrugged, the picture of toddler innocence—if innocence came with a side order of smug. "I strive for perfection. Falling short keeps me humble." Somewhere, a distant thunderclap sounded suspiciously like karma clearing its throat.
Shin exhaled. "Fine. Let's go again—"
"No need." Genji flicked imaginary dust off his shoulder. "I'm good. Also, I'm starving. Do we get snack breaks? I packed emergency rice crackers."
The older Uchiha shot him the you've-got-to-be-kidding glare. "You're three. Your emergency should be naptime."
"Three and a half," Genji corrected, counting invisible fractions on his fingers. "Big difference."
A ripple of whispers skittered through the remaining kids. Some were still gaping at the twin perfect hits; others were busy updating their mental "People I Must Surpass" lists. Itachi stood at the back, arms folded, face carved from glacier ice. His Sharingan had deactivated—apparently even his ocular cheat-code needed a moment to buffer.
Shin tried the diplomatic route. "Look, Genji, raw talent is great, but talent without direction is like a shuriken without a target. You've got the spark. Feed it, and you could be legendary—even without the Sharingan. Look at Jiraiya. Look at the Fourth. Look at—"
"—my dad's quarterly revenue report?" Genji finished brightly. "Already downloaded that bedtime story. Spoiler: it's mostly zeroes."
Shin choked. "That's… not the point."
Genji tilted his head. "Isn't it? Dad's richer than a daimyo's bathwater. Why risk my adorable neck on missions when I can inherit a literal gold mine? I'm here to pick up survival skills, not a W-2 form."
The instructor's eye twitched so hard it almost spun into a three-tomoe. "You're telling me you don't want to be a shinobi?"
"Correct-a-mundo." Genji tapped his temple. "Priority list: 1) Keep family breathing. 2) Keep myself breathing. 3) Master the art of never needing a bodyguard. Everything else is DLC."
Across the yard, Itachi's lips barely curved—an expression that on anyone else would've been a sneer. So the prodigy has feet of clay, he thought. All flash, no fire. The boy's crimson eyes flicked to Genji like a scalpel looking for an incision. If the clan ever needs a scapegoat, I know which chicken to pluck.
Shin rubbed his temples hard enough to start a friction fire. "Money's not everything, kid. Missions give you purpose. Protecting the village—"
"—is currently subcontracted to my dad's security team," Genji interrupted. "Two jonin, three ANBU, rotating shifts. They get dental."
Shin opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again like a goldfish remembering it couldn't speak goldfish. Around them, the other Uchiha kiddos were now side-eyeing Genji with the special disdain reserved for people who skip the grind and pay for premium currency. The whispers turned audible.
"Lazy rich brat.""Thinks he's above the rest of us.""Probably gets carried in missions like loot box filler."
Genji heard every word. He just didn't care. Let them stew, he thought. Anger makes for great training dummies later. Out loud he added, "Besides, why chase titles when I can chase gains?"
"Gains?" Shin echoed, confused.
Genji patted his tiny biceps. "Muscle. Core strength. The ability to suplex destiny if it tries to sneak up behind me. I'm here to master taijutsu, not tax forms."
Shin blinked. "You want a taijutsu tutor?"
"Yup. Preferably someone who can teach me to roundhouse kick through a wall without messing up my hair. Know anybody?"
The instructor stared long enough for a small cloud to drift overhead and feel awkward. "You're serious."
"As a root canal."
Shin threw his hands up. "Fine. Your funeral. Or your dad's credit card's funeral."
The rest of the afternoon crawled by like a slug on sedatives. The sun slid westward, painting the compound roofs in molten orange. One by one the mini-ninjas trudged home, sweaty, bruised, and clutching participation ribbons for their egos. Itachi and Sasuke stayed behind, trading kunai volleys under the critical gaze of two jonin sensei who kept shouting "Again!" until their voices cracked. Discipline, thy name is Uchiha.
Genji? Genji had relocated to a patch of warm flagstone behind the equipment shed, using his backpack as a pillow. He snored softly, drool pooling in a way that would horrify polite society. A single firefly danced above his head like a night-light with abandonment issues.
That's when the voice drifted across the yard—warm, melodic, and laced with enough maternal concern to bend steel.
"Genji, baby, you out here?"
Boing! The toddler jack-in-the-boxed upright, hair sticking out at improbable angles. "Mom?!"
Shin's head snapped toward the gate. So did half the compound. Striding through the twilight came a woman who could've stepped out of a watercolor painting—if the artist had a PhD in gorgeous. Tall, willowy, with dark chestnut hair cascading over one shoulder and a smile that could restart a stopped heart. She wore a simple lavender yukata, but the fabric hugged curves that had curves. Somewhere, teenage hormones spontaneously combusted.
Uchiha matrons whispered behind fans. Senju blood, the gossip hissed. First Hokage's line. No wonder the kid's built like a pocket-sized tank.
Genji sprinted, backpack bouncing like a hyperactive turtle shell. "Mom! You came! Did you bring snacks?"
Senju Toyohime knelt, catching him in a hug that threatened to smother him in affection and also possibly in the world's comfiest cleavage. "Of course I brought snacks. But first—" She scanned the yard with eyes sharper than any kunai. "Why do the other children look at you like you owe them lunch money?"
Genji waved it off. "Eh, jealousy. I'm adorable and rich; they're sweaty and broke. Laws of thermodynamics."
Toyohime's lips twitched. "That's… not how thermodynamics work, sweetheart."
"Details." He tugged her sleeve. "Also, I need a favor."
"Name it."
"I want a taijutsu tutor. Someone scary good. Preferably with scars and a tragic backstory, because aesthetic matters."
Toyohime blinked. "You're three and a half."
"Exactly. Prime learning window. Synaptic plasticity and all that jazz." He batted his lashes, weaponizing cuteness like a tactical nuke.
Toyohime's expression softened into that special mom-smile that said my child is weird and I love it. "I'll find you the scariest, scarred-est, backstory-est teacher in Konoha." She ruffled his hair. "But first, ramen. Extra chashu. Your growth spurt's going to need fuel."
Behind them, Shin watched the pair walk away—one tall, elegant, and radiating quiet power; the other small enough to use her obi as a swing. He shook his head. "That kid's either going to bankrupt the village or save it. Possibly both at the same time."
Far above, the first stars pricked the indigo sky. Somewhere in the distance, an ANBU operative updated his bingo book:
Uchiha Genji – Threat Level: Unknown.Notes: Can copy S-rank techniques by breathing near them. Motivation: Undefined.Recommendation: Feed regularly, avoid sudden movements.
And beneath the camphor tree, the squirrel finally yanked the embedded shuriken loose, looked at its distorted reflection in the steel, and decided to switch careers. The age of chaos had begun, and it wore size-two sandals.