The dust from the halted clan entourage hung in the air like a held breath.
In the center of the cleared ground, Uchiha Kiyoshi studied the young man opposite him, the casual dismissal in his eyes hardening into something serious.
This wasn’t posturing.
Ren had actually called him out.
[Rewards Settled — Jonin Chakra Capacity Acquired]
[Rewards Settled — Jonin Combat Proficiency Acquired]
[Rewards Settled — Fire Release Mastery Acquired — Power Doubled, No Hand Seals Required]
[Achievement: Quite Wealthy — A-Rank Ninjutsu: Sandstorm Funeral (Mastered)]
The influx was a silent thunderclap.
Knowledge etched itself into muscle memory, power simmered in his veins, and the points balance solidified in his mind like a foundation.
Ren let out a slow breath, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.
His original plan—to win through clever tricks—dissolved.
Why cheat when you could simply overwhelm?
Kiyoshi settled into a defensive stance, kunai held low.
“You’re the junior.
Make your first move.”
Ren formed the hand seals for the Great Fireball Jutsu—familiar, standard.
Kiyoshi’s mouth twitched, already forming a counter-seal to answer fire with superior fire.
Then Ren’s hands stopped.
After only two seals.
A sphere of condensed orange hell erupted from Ren’s mouth, roaring across the space between them.
Kiyoshi’s body substituted with a log a heartbeat before the inferno consumed his position.
The log blackened, cracked, and smoldered.
He reappeared ten feet away, a faint scorch mark on his sleeve.
His eyes were wide.
Two seals?
The thought was a cold spike.
Improved technique, or… no.
It couldn’t be the other thing.
Ren’s smile didn’t waver.
The Great Fireball truly was a technique that never killed anyone.
He didn’t give Kiyoshi time to theorize.
He leaped, twisted in the air, and exhaled.
Not one, but three mammoth Phoenix Fire projectiles screamed downward, their heat warping the light.
Kiyoshi flickered away in a blur, but the hem of his flak jacket caught fire.
He slapped it out, the smell of burnt cloth and ozone sharp in his nose.
He understood now.
A direct ninjutsu exchange was suicide.
A shuriken flew from his hand, a distraction.
Ren’s longsword cleared its sheath in a silver arc, deflecting the spinning metal with four precise clangs.
Empty.
Instinct—new, deep, jonin instinct—took over.
Ren pivoted, sword rising.
CLANG!
Kiyoshi’s kunai slammed against the blade, their faces inches apart.
Kiyoshi’s expression was pure disbelief.
This wasn’t luck.
The parry was perfect, the footing solid.
The boy’s combat awareness matched his own.
Ren didn’t form a seal.
He just breathed.
Fire Style: Great Fireball Jutsu.
The point-blank detonation forced Kiyoshi into a desperate, rolling retreat.
Heat seared the skin of his forearms.
He’d seen it clearly this time.
No seals at all.
The realization was a stone in his gut.
A genius.
A monster.
The Uchiha clan was more than fire and steel.
Kiyoshi’s eyes bled crimson.
Three tomoe spun lazily in the red field.
A murmur rippled through the watching Uchiha.
Three tomoe.
Kiyoshi-sensei was serious.
“Ren, stop.” Kiyoshi’s voice was low, earnest.
“I acknowledge your strength.
If we continue, the consequences will escalate beyond control.”
Ren channeled his chakra, the familiar cool surge of Yin Release flooding his optic nerves.
His own eyes transformed, twin tomoe rotating.
“Kiyoshi.
Bring it on.”
The crowd’s murmurs died.
Jonin-level prowess.
Seal-less fire.
And only two tomoe?
The math was terrifying.
A two-tomoe user fighting as a jonin meant his potential, with three tomoe… it whispered of Kage-level heights.
A flicker of pride cut through Kiyoshi’s wariness.
Hate the clan or not, this was an Uchiha.
Genjutsu: Sharingan.
His three-tomoe pattern latched onto Ren’s two-tomoe gaze, the genjutsu connection snapping into place.
Got him.
Ren moved.
He wasn’t trapped in an illusion; he was sidestepping the mental intrusion and launching a kick that connected with Kiyoshi’s ribs.
The air left Kiyoshi’s lungs in a whoosh.
He hit the ground hard, his Sharingan flickering out from the shock.
His wide eyes stared up.
“How…?
You shouldn’t be…”
Ren didn’t let him finish.
Another kick sent him sprawling again.
“Oh?
Shouldn’t I be under your spell?” Ren asked, his tone dry as sun-bleached bone.
“Genjutsu hinges on state of mind.
I have my clansmen to thank for that.
Their… ‘care’ over the years has given me a remarkably peaceful mental landscape.”
Kiyoshi lay there, the truth of the words a heavier weight than any kick.
Then a hand entered his field of vision.
Ren’s hand.
Kiyoshi looked up.
He opened his mouth, an apology or a question forming.
Ren shook his head.
“Form the reconciliation seal.”
Silence.
Kiyoshi nodded.
Their hands came together in the familiar seal of conflict’s end.
Ren pulled him to his feet.
“Thank you,” Kiyoshi muttered, brushing dirt from his clothes.
He walked back to the clan group, his earlier arrogance gone, replaced by a dazed, sharp scrutiny.
He kept staring at Ren’s face, his brow furrowed.
Where had he seen those features before?
That particular set of the jaw, the angle of the eyes…
His vision swam for a second, the present overlaying with a ghost from scrolls and stories.
Not a young man in a standard flak jacket, but a figure clad in armor, a giant fan on his back, a scythe in his hand.
Unruly hair.
Eyes of contemptuous power.
A full-body chill seized Kiyoshi, freezing the breath in his throat.
This boy.
His resemblance… it was to Madara.