The Uchiha clan hall was a vast and solemn place, heavy with the presence of legacy and pride. Polished floors reflected the faint glow of the overhead lanterns, casting warm golden hues across the dark walls adorned with intricate symbols of the Uchiha fan. Tatami mats were arranged in neat sections, some already occupied by shinobi and kunoichi engaged in quiet conversation. The rustling of cloaks, the clink of forehead protectors, and the occasional chuckle or murmur filled the air. The room hummed with the subtle tension of warriors awaiting instruction or revelation—an atmosphere not unfamiliar to the older clan members, but heavy for those new to its gravity.
In a less crowded corner of the room, near one of the pillars that supported the high ceiling, stood two boys—barely ten, their dark hair neatly combed in a way only mothers ensured, and their faces still too smooth, too youthful for the scars of war.
"Yo, Toru, look at this!" the smaller of the two boys whispered, adjusting his forehead protector that was too tightly tied around his head, causing his spiky black hair to fan out even more awkwardly.
His companion, slightly taller, with a more solemn expression and hair that hung in curtain-like strands around his face, sighed and folded his arms. "Daigo, for the last time, stop fidgeting. You look like a kid trying to sneak into a jōnin meeting."
Daigo, ever the excitable one, grinned wide. "Come on, Toru, this is our first official clan meeting as genins! Genins, bro! This is it! We're shinobi now! This is what we've trained for!"
Toru shot him a sideways glance, unimpressed. "We only got promoted because the Academy rushed graduation. You know that. The war's coming, so they needed to fill the ranks."
The words sobered Daigo's grin for a heartbeat, but he quickly shook his head. "Doesn't matter. I was going to graduate early anyway. You forget—I awakened my Sharingan last week."
He tapped the side of his face dramatically, and with a tiny puff of chakra, his eyes shifted. The single tomoe spun slowly in a sea of crimson, shining with pride.
Toru's jaw tightened as he glanced at the glowing red eye. "Tch. Show-off."
Daigo grinned, toothy and mischievous. "What, jealous?"
"No," Toru said a little too quickly, then looked away, his fingers tightening into fists at his sides. His eyes dropped to the floor, lips pressed into a thin line.
'Damn it…'
He was a genin now, but still no Sharingan. Everyone said stress or danger would awaken it. Maybe the war would give him that moment. Maybe.
'Maybe I just need the right spark…'
As if answering his thoughts, a commotion from across the hall caught Toru's attention. From the corner of his eye, he saw a small group of older kids snickering and nudging one another. At the centre of their ridicule stood a boy wearing a pair of absurdly bright orange and blue goggles. His cheeks were flushed, his fists clenched tightly.
"Look at that loser—he's still got those goggles! No wonder he's the clan embarrassment."
"Hasn't even awakened his Sharingan yet. What's he even doing here?"
The boy with the goggles tried to brush them off with a shaky laugh, scratching the back of his head. "Hehe… I-I just like these, okay?"
It was Obito.
Toru's frown deepened, but a strange sense of reassurance crept into him. 'At least I'm not like him. He's been a genin for a while and still hasn't awakened it. I'll definitely beat him to it.'
He straightened his back with resolve. 'I'll awaken my Sharingan before Obito Uchiha. Even the famed Mangekyo. That's a promise.'
Just as Toru was preparing a snappy comeback to Daigo's earlier brag, the heavy double doors of the hall creaked open with a loud groan.
"Creak!"
All conversation ceased.
The murmurs evaporated like mist in the sun. Even some of the elders who had arrived and were seated near the centre glanced up.
A figure stepped through the doorway, the shadows of the hallway behind him retreating as he moved forward.
Tall and poised, for his age, the young man's presence was palpable. His posture exuded calm, but beneath it was a storm that even the most battle-hardened shinobi in the room could sense.
His hair—a striking crimson, long and flowing—caught the warm lamplight and shimmered like fresh blood. It swayed slightly as he walked, each step precise, measured, and silent.
He wore the darker standard-issue flak jacket of Konoha, but the way he wore it made it feel like ceremonial armour. His black cloak hung loosely from one shoulder, edged with red stitching that seemed to pulse like chakra threads.
Renjiro Uzumaki.
Both Toru and Daigo stared, wide-eyed, their mouths slightly ajar.
"Whoa…" Daigo whispered his voice barely a breath. "That's him."
Toru's eyes tracked Renjiro as he walked past, their heads turning slowly as if magnetized. "That's really him. Renjiro Uzumaki…"
"I heard he killed a Jinchūriki barehanded," Daigo muttered.
Toru shot him a look. "No way. That's a lie. He just fought one and escaped. I think it was the Six-Tails."
"I heard he talked back to the Mizukage in front of a whole Kage summit."
"No way. I heard he's Madara's illegitimate grandson that is why he was even brought to the village."
"Madara? Pfft. I heard he's the reincarnation of Hashirama and Madara fused together."
"That doesn't even make sense you idiot."
"It makes more sense than him being Daichi's illegitimate child with an Uzushiogakure woman!!"
They both paused at that one and then looked at each other before breaking into a muffled argument, trying to poke holes in each other's theories.
"Look at his hair—he's definitely not full Uchiha!"
"But he's got the Sharingan, right?"
"And he uses a staff, not a sword!"
"That's probably some Uzumaki thing! He's got their sealing jutsu."
Their bickering faded into the background as Renjiro made his way to the far end of the hall, pausing near one of the walls.
He turned slightly, just enough to glance around the room, and immediately he could feel the stares. Dozens of eyes locked onto him—some curious, some cautious, others filled with admiration or envy. Even the older shinobi glanced his way more than once, whispers barely audible as they passed between lips.
'Should've waited longer to come in,' Renjiro thought, exhaling slowly through his nose.
He leaned against the cool wooden wall, crossing his arms. The metal of his bracers clinked softly—clink—as they touched. He closed his eyes for a moment, tuning out the voices. He could feel them even now—eyes boring into his back, analyzing, speculating, judging.
It was exhausting.
He hadn't wanted to come early. He hated these clan meetings. Especially Uchiha ones. They were always political, always personal, always layered with a thousand silent expectations. But he was here now. And war was coming. There was no escaping the role he had to play.
A role that neither the Uzumaki nor Uchiha sides of him fully accepted.
From across the room, the murmurs continued—like moths fluttering against a flame. The boys still whispered exaggerated tales, now arguing whether Renjiro had single-handedly captured a Bijuu or if he was just a puppet used by the village.
He let the noise wash over him, distant and meaningless. His crimson eyes opened slowly, gaze unfocused, lost in a thousand thoughts.
'Let them talk.'
He was used to the whispers.
And in time, they'd learn that he was more than a rumor.
He was a force.
And when the war came, they would understand why the name Renjiro Uzumaki would be etched into history—not as a ghost of old legends, not as someone's son, or grandson, or invention.
But as himself.
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