It was him—Konoha's White Fang!
"White Fang uncle!"
The tree split cleanly in two, the cut surface smooth as a mirror. When the dust settled, it revealed the man in his green jōnin vest, with the short blade that had taken countless lives strapped to his back.
Shisui and Itachi stopped mid-swing and turned.
Light flared in their childish eyes.
Shisui was blazing with excitement and worship—like he'd just met an idol.
Itachi, on the other hand, looked thoughtful. He stole a glance at his big brother, silently crouched to gather the pebbles that had spilled out, re-hung the basket on the sword tip, and kept swinging.
A gentle wind rose, ruffling their bangs…
Behind the fallen tree, Konoha's White Fang—Hatake Sakumo—famous across the shinobi world for his chakra blade "White Fang," a man who had completed as many as twenty-seven S-rank solo missions and whose achievements and current strength surpassed even the Sannin—an undeniable Kage-tier figure—showed no sign of being bothered at all that he'd been discovered.
He smiled, waved at them, and said, "Sorry—did I interrupt your training?"
He'd come uninvited. His gaze flicked to the ground, where Roy's crescent slash had carved a trench nearly a hundred meters long. His eyes turned, finally settling on Roy, and he stepped over the fallen tree and walked over.
"The training ground is for everyone. You don't need to apologize, White Fang uncle—feel free—"
Roy sheathed his blade, faced him, then glanced at Shisui. "I don't remember telling you to stop."
Crap—he'd gotten too excited.
Shisui's small body jolted. He hurriedly copied Itachi, scooped up the pebbles on the ground, refilled the basket, hung it back on the sword tip, and resumed swinging. But the white flashes of his blade lacked focus now—he kept zoning out and spilling stones again. White Fang's presence was too much for him to stay calm.
"Shunshin Shisui" and "Konoha's White Fang" were both speed-specialists—one powered by Sharingan prowess, the other driven by Lightning-nature chakra. It wasn't hard to imagine Shisui's future fame being influenced by Hatake Sakumo's example.
"Shisui."
"Nii-san, I'm here."
"If I see you drop even one more stone," Roy said evenly, "then Itachi gets an extra thousand swings."
"Why, Nii-san? I'm the one messing up—why is Itachi getting punished?"
Shisui protested, and because he was distracted again, his form slipped—two pebbles fell.
"Because you're brothers. You're teammates. Two thousand."
Brothers… teammates…
Footsteps sounded.
Hatake Sakumo stopped beside Roy. Watching Shisui slump, reset his stance, and finally swing without daring to glance away, Sakumo said slowly, "I used to think your swordsmanship was impressive—that you were a natural. I didn't expect…"
"Your resolve runs just as deep."
"The Will of Fire never dies. It's all from school," Roy said, spreading his right hand to catch a drifting leaf. Under the sunlight, its veins were crisp, its green vivid. His face—three parts like Fugaku, seven like Mikoto—carried an effortless calm that made Sakumo pause. A moment later, Sakumo smiled.
"School didn't teach you to blow up the school."
"Believe me—every student has dreamed about blowing up the school," Roy shot back. "White Fang uncle, don't tell me you never did?"
"Me?" Sakumo blinked.
He actually rubbed his chin and thought for a few seconds. "Blow up the school? No. But…"
He gave Roy a mischievous wink. "I did lock someone in a restroom and beat him up once."
…Roy stared at him. So you were a bully?!
His mental image of the man cracked.
Sakumo seemed to notice Roy's suspicion and copied his expression—eyes wide. "What? He stole my blade. You think I'm not allowed to hit him?"
"Well, then he deserved it," Roy said seriously. "A sword is a swordsman's life."
"Yeah. A sword is a swordsman's life." Sakumo watched the leaf spiral away on the wind. A shadow of grief passed through his eyes as he looked up at the sky. The clouds drifted like a distant silhouette. "Too bad… I can't hit him anymore."
"Dead?"
"Dead."
Sakumo's gaze stayed on the sky, deep and far away. "You probably won't believe it, but… he died protecting me."
"I believe you," Roy said, lifting his head to look with him. In the bright midday sun, with two kids still grinding out swings beside them, he added in a low voice, "My father told me: hitting means you're close, yelling means you care. If he died to protect you, he must've accepted you as a comrade."
Sakumo froze.
Roy was right. That man had died smiling.
Sakumo still remembered his face—round, scruffy beard, always chewing on a blade of foxtail grass, always mocking him… Kazuya.
"Fugaku?" Sakumo asked, then shook it off. "That doesn't sound like something he'd say."
He looked back at Roy, admiration clear in his eyes. "Honestly… I'm starting to like you more and more."
Roy flashed a bright, white-toothed grin. "A lot of people say that, White Fang uncle. You're not the first."
"Heh… is that so?" Sakumo went quiet for a beat, then nodded as if he truly believed it. "I do."
Then his gaze dropped to the sword in Roy's hand.
The asauchi was straight—no curve at all—like his own White Fang. Like the boy himself: not someone who seemed built for lies.
After a moment, Sakumo asked, "Roy… can you let me see your blade?"
"Eclipse?"
The asauchi trembled and let out a sharp, warning ring—like it was answering Roy.
A Bankai demands its true name.
Sakumo repeated it under his breath. "Eclipse…"
Then he chuckled, shaking his head. "Seems like it doesn't want to."
He bowed politely to the blade. "Sorry. That was rude of me."
Roy lowered his eyes. With surprising tenderness, he traced one finger along the sword—from the hilt, to the guard, to the edge, all the way to the tip—like calming a restless animal.
"Sorry for the spectacle, White Fang uncle," he said softly. "It's been with me since I was little. It only recognizes me, so… it's wary of strangers."
Since you were little?
Sakumo's eyes shifted. He'd assumed Fugaku had gifted the sword to his son.
Apparently… it went much deeper than that.
"—ng!"
Another clear ring.
This time it wasn't sharp. It was pleased—almost spoiled. The tip even lifted slightly, as if leaning into Roy's touch.
Roy sensed its mood and patted the blade to quiet it down.
Then he looked back up at Sakumo, his expression settling into something more serious.
"White Fang uncle… you didn't come all the way here just to chat, did you?"
"Of course not," Sakumo said—then added, "Though chatting is part of it… about swords."
With a clean shing, Konoha's White Fang drew his short blade from his back.
He faced the boy squarely, voice steady and formal.
"Ren—if I can't see the blade, then let me ask for the next best thing."
He raised the knife in salute.
"Teach me. Let's trade swordsmanship."
~~~
Patreon(.)com/Bleam
— Currently You can Read 50 Chapters Ahead of Others!