"Dad… what happened to your face?"
Naruto world — Night.
After Kakashi finished a day of training and returned home, he showed up in front of Hatake Sakumo with two full-on panda eyes.
Even though he'd iced the swelling and pulled a mask up over his nose, there was no hiding the fact he'd been beaten into a bruised mess.
Sakumo shot him a surprised glance…
Kakashi, his white hair inherited straight from his father, acted like it was nothing and forced himself to sound tough.
"It's fine."
He brushed past Sakumo's shoulder, pushed the door open, and went inside.
"Dinner's warming in the pot. Eat while it's hot."
"Yeah."
Creaaak— The door opened and shut.
Sakumo didn't press. A few injuries during training were normal; if anything, it was a good thing.
Wasn't the whole idea that sweating more in training meant bleeding less on the battlefield?
He cleared the stray thoughts and pulled a single page from his chest pocket, reading it carefully. At the top, in clear writing:
"Thunder Breathing."
It was the "gift" Roy had given him earlier that day—condensed into a stream of information and pushed into his mind with a single finger.
Maybe it was mutual respect, maybe it was simply that they were both swordsmen… but Sakumo had never expected, at this age, to find someone who felt like a true kindred spirit—an "old friend" across generations.
And what made him even more reflective was that he'd gone with the intention of taking the kid as a student—only to end up receiving a lesson himself.
"Thunder Breathing, First Form: Thunderclap and Flash… Second Form: Rice Spirit… Third Form: Thunder Swarm… Fourth Form: Distant Thunder…"
Clang—
White Fang slid free. Sakumo gripped it firmly, folded the paper away, inhaled once, and began to move—drawing and cutting in one smooth flow.
Lightning sparked and danced, scattering arcs of electric brilliance that lit up a slice of the night sky.
Inside, Kakashi heard the noise. He carried a plate of curry rice in his arms, eating as he walked. He quietly drifted to the window and looked out into the yard under the moonlight.
His eyes—three parts like Sakumo's, but with that extra air of "I can't be bothered"—blinked rapidly.
This wasn't a sword style he'd ever seen his father use.
My dad's sword isn't like this…
Or… has he been hiding his real trump card from me?
Kakashi's future title "Copy Ninja" would lean on the Sharingan, sure—but even without it, his talent was monstrous. He'd later mimic Minato's Rasengan, evolve it, then develop Lightning Cutter and Chidori with Lightning Release—proof his genius wasn't just borrowed eyesight.
"Thunder Breathing, Fifth Form: Heat Lightning… Sixth Form: Rumble and Boom…"
Sakumo's blade moved loosely, lightning flowing like spilled mercury. He got faster and faster—until Kakashi's eyes widened, spoon clenched between his teeth.
He forgot to eat.
Too fast.
And he was still speeding up.
It looked slow… so why did it suddenly get this fast?
Kakashi froze.
As far as "swordsmanship" went, he was nowhere near the White Fang—so far it wasn't even funny.
This isn't "swordsmanship." This is Lightning Release—
A secret art that forcibly spikes combat power by controlling your breathing.
It's basically a bloodline-level technique!
"Thunder Breathing, Seventh Form: God of Fire Thunder!"
A finishing technique born from Zenitsu Agatsuma's own creation flashed into the night—silver lightning turning gold, erupting into a golden thunderstorm that poured into the ground.
Sakumo finished the sequence, sheathed White Fang, and felt a deep, clean comfort spread through him—like every pore and every cell had been revived. Lightning irrigated the body, boosting vitality, making him feel reborn.
He exhaled.
Then, with White Fang back in its scabbard, he stood with his back to Kakashi, expression complicated.
This favor… is huge.
Before Kakashi could ask, Sakumo spoke first:
"Don't overthink it. This isn't mine. Without the owner's permission, I can't pass it to you."
Kakashi looked down at his curry.
Sometime during all that, it had gone cold.
"Oh," he said.
He mechanically scooped up a spoonful and ate. This time he didn't even notice he'd splashed oil onto his mask.
Sakumo sighed.
Kakashi's mother had died early. Sakumo was always busy with missions. Maybe that was why—
Maybe that was why Fugaku could be a good father… and he couldn't.
"While you're eating, take the mask off," Sakumo said.
"A ninja's 'mystique' isn't about your outfit."
"Oh."
Kakashi scooped another spoonful. He tugged his mask up a bit higher, exposing more of his face.
Sakumo shook his head, pushed the door open, and came in. He hung White Fang on the wall, ruffled Kakashi's hair, and said:
"When you're done, leave the plate in the sink. I'll wash it after I shower."
He shrugged off his jōnin vest and walked toward the bathroom.
The room was already lit; the lamp's glow swayed, and Sakumo's shadow slid across the living room floor—
About to disappear into the bathroom.
Kakashi suddenly spoke.
"Who was it?"
"Dad… whose 'swordsmanship' is that?"
He didn't fully understand it, but he could recognize something terrifyingly good—especially with the eyes he was born with.
Sakumo stopped.
In his mind, a face surfaced—three parts like Fugaku, seven parts like Mikoto, and those eyes… too mature for that age.
"Uchiha Ren. Fugaku's kid."
Him? Kakashi blanked.
Sakumo noticed and turned his head. "You know him?"
Kakashi slowly shook his head. "No. I've just heard about him… from Obito."
"Your teammate, Uchiha Obito?"
"Yeah." Kakashi shrugged. "He seems to really worship Ren."
"And today… he did this to my face."
Then Kakashi added quickly, as if saving face mattered more than air:
"Obviously, I beat him up worse."
"Did you?" Sakumo looked genuinely surprised.
He'd heard a fair amount about Kakashi's teammates—Uchiha Obito and Nohara Rin—through Minato. Obito was supposedly the dead last, always getting crushed by Kakashi.
So this was… abnormal.
Sakumo's eyes flickered, and a possibility clicked.
"Then he's awakened the Sharingan."
Kakashi didn't bother trying to hide it. "Yeah. He awakened it."
A faint gloom passed over his usually cold face.
He remembered the afternoon spar: Obito's Sharingan made even basic moves—like substitution—impossible to conceal.
It was suffocating.
Kakashi had to admit it: the Sharingan was terrifying.
"No wonder," Sakumo murmured, then softened his voice.
"Kakashi… now that Obito has awakened, you can't treat him like dead weight anymore. Learn to rely on him more."
"He and Rin are your comrades."
"I know," Kakashi said quietly.
Then he couldn't help letting it out:
"Honestly, I didn't think he'd awaken it. Sensei said even among the Uchiha, only a few awaken the Sharingan…"
A few? Sakumo's expression stalled.
He thought of the two Sharingan he'd seen that morning—one in Shisui, one in Roy—both absurdly young.
And Ren… with his own sword-domain "sword eye."
Sakumo went strangely silent.
A gust of wind outside pushed away the last trace of warmth from Kakashi's curry.
Kakashi watched his father, puzzled, wondering if he'd said something wrong.
Sakumo's mind spun, and an absurd thought surfaced:
Is it possible… every Uchiha can awaken?
He crushed it instantly—almost startling himself.
"No," he said aloud, as if convincing his own brain.
"Minato's right. The Sharingan isn't that easy to awaken."
"Even among the Uchiha, Obito's still in the genius tier now. Take him seriously."
He left it at that and stepped into the bathroom.
This time, he took a cold shower—partly to cool his head, partly to wash away that ridiculous thought.
Water hissed.
Kakashi ate another spoonful of cold curry, then stood, planning to go heat more—
And suddenly remembered something.
He shouted through the bathroom door:
"Oh—almost forgot, Dad."
"That Uchiha Ren… I think he's joining my team too."
SCRRKK—!
A big hand twisted the faucet so hard it nearly tore off.
The bathroom door cracked open, and Sakumo's wet head poked out.
"What did you say?"
Kakashi's face stayed flat.
"At dinner, Sensei said a new member's joining us tomorrow. Told us to look after him."
"Obito asked who it was."
"Sensei said: Uchiha Ren."
"And Obito just… froze on the spot."
Sakumo: "..."
He went silent for a long time, like something inside him had been stolen cleanly.
Then he slowly shut the bathroom door again.
"I understand."
His voice drifted out—quiet, strangely bleak.
Kakashi felt completely lost.
By routine, new teammates got tested anyway. If Uchiha Ren really was as good as Obito claimed—if he could invent sword techniques so strong that even Sakumo practiced them in the yard—
Then tomorrow, they'd find out exactly what he could do.
Kakashi shoveled another spoonful into his mouth—this time biting into a chunk of salt that hadn't dissolved.
The sudden brutal saltiness made his mouth twitch into a full pain-face.
"One bag of rice up how many floors…"
"Dad. The salt didn't dissolve…"
From inside the bathroom, Sakumo replied flatly:
"Eat it or don't."
Kakashi: "..."
It was his first ever direct hit of cold, unfiltered fatherly brutality.
He froze in place.
...
"Achoo!"
"Why did you sneeze?"
Hunter World — Republic of Padokea, Kukuroo Mountain.
Zoldyck family estate.
Near dusk, with the sun sinking low, Roy finished a round of "poison resistance training," then—under the sun—did a long-overdue session of grateful ten-thousand swings.
As usual, he left the training room and headed for the basement to "pay respects" to Grandpa Zigg before continuing deeper into the Dark Continent.
Halfway there, he happened to run into Illumi, who'd just come out of the basement.
The idiot little brother saw him sneeze, stopped, and stared with those empty, lifeless eyes.
A few days gone and he'd turned even paler—ghastly pale—like an actual ghost.
Creepy.
"Who knows?" Roy sniffed.
Maybe leftover toxins. Maybe just random.
Illumi gave him a third answer:
"Maybe someone's thinking about you."
"Don't tell me it's you," Roy said flatly, glancing at him.
"You know my punches hurt."
"I'm learning Nen from Great-Grandpa," Illumi said, utterly unfazed by the raised fist.
"Once I master Ken, my punches will hurt too."
"Congratulations in advance," Roy replied.
He stepped into Perfect Silent Gait, flickered once… twice… three times—slipping past Illumi's shoulder.
This time he was deliberately trying to imitate Yamamoto Genryūsai's Shunpo—that strange rhythm, light and floating.
In the blink of an eye, he'd thrown Illumi far behind.
Illumi froze, his long straight black hair swaying as the breeze Roy left behind brushed past him.
When he came back to himself, the old corridor was empty.
No sign of Niisan.
Only him.
And that lingering, unfamiliar rhythm echoing in his bones.
Is that… Silent Gait?
Why is mine different from his?
He decided he'd ask Great-Grandpa tomorrow.
Thinking that, he walked the opposite way—toward his room, toward his "hole."
Two sets of footsteps went in opposite directions, back to back.
Roy's "Shunpo" imitation still hadn't moved beyond imitation. He couldn't help regretting that he hadn't opened his Sharingan when he met Yamamoto—he'd been focused on sword talk.
Now it felt like a missed chance.
Next time… there'll be a next time.
And if I copy it right in front of him… he won't mind, will he?
A faint red flickered in Roy's eyes.
He curved his mouth into a small smile and arrived at the basement.
~~~
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