Dinner passed in heavy silence. Kairen's grandfather didn't say a single word to his father the entire time. Kairen thought his old man looked pitiful—but at least Grandpa hadn't gone so far as to forbid them from sleeping in the same room.
The next morning, Kairen was shaken awake before dawn. His grandfather simply gestured for him to follow. They entered the misty forest together, and along the way, the old man casually pried about their life back in Konoha. Kairen could tell—despite his gruffness—Grandpa missed the village. But for some reason, maybe his sword training or his own stubborn pride, he'd never once returned.
They stopped before a grove of bamboo swaying gently in the wind. Kairen thought to himself, "A swordsman and a bamboo forest—he really has a sense of style."
"Cut some of these down," the old man said. "I've got something to make."
Kairen drew his blade without hesitation—but before he could strike, a sharp clang rang out as Grandpa blocked it with the back of his hand.
"Are you an idiot, boy? Who uses a sword to chop bamboo? You'll ruin the edge." He tossed him a small axe. "Use this. Remember—when you do something, don't use what you like. Use what's right for the job."
An hour passed. Sweat poured down Kairen's back. He began to wonder if Grandpa had fallen asleep somewhere. Then the old man spoke up lazily, "I was thinking of having you fell a few trees too… but at that speed, I'd be dead before you're done. Tch. That fool of a father really wasted a good seedling. That's enough—haul those down the mountain."
Kairen stared at the mountain of bamboo, then at the old man already walking away. Not a hint of help. He sighed and heaved the load onto his back, trudging after him step by step.
After breakfast, the training continued—this time with trees. Kairen swung for hours until Grandpa finally took the axe from him with a scoff. His movements were quick, steady, every strike rhythmic, the sound of blade against wood forming a strange kind of music.
When Kairen finally began to grasp the pattern, Grandpa nodded approvingly. "At least you inherited something from me. Not completely brain-dead. Every tree's got its grain, every swing its sweet spot. Find that point—make it your own. Breath in rhythm with the swing. It's all part of control. Watch closely."
Kairen instinctively activated his Sharingan—smack! A light knock landed on his head.
"Do you eat with your Sharingan too? That's what's wrong with your generation—you think that eye solves everything. The Uchiha's biggest mistake is relying on it for every little thing. What is the Sharingan? A tool. Nothing more. You kill with a sword—if you lose the sword, will you forget your ninjutsu too?"
"You activate it when you're happy, angry, fighting, training... pathetic. There are plenty of strong shinobi without it. Fix that habit. Until you learn to use your eyes as a trump card—not a crutch—you'll never be a true warrior.
"Our ancestors could fight blind and still cut through an army. Power comes from instinct, not sight. Now keep chopping—until lunch."
After lunch, Kairen was told to keep at it. When he was done, Grandpa ordered him to take the logs to his father, who was building a cabin at the base of the hill. Then, the old man quietly slipped away on his bamboo raft to fish again.
Kairen worked until dusk, chopping until his arms felt numb. He'd rest, sip from the stream, and keep going. Slowly, something began to click. He still couldn't see the tree's grain—but his body could feel it, an almost wordless intuition guiding each strike.
By the time he made it down the mountain, Grandpa was reclining on a chair, sipping tea while directing Kairen's father, who was busy weaving bamboo into something intricate. Without even looking up, the old man said, "Your dad's got other work today. Chop the rest of that into firewood."
That night, Grandpa handed Kairen a wooden sword. "Go outside. Run through your basic sword forms."
Kairen finished a full set. "Too easy," Grandpa muttered, pulling out a long strip of cloth. "Put this over your eyes. Keep training until bedtime."
Kairen didn't understand what any of this meant, but he knew one thing for sure—Grandpa was teaching him. Not directly, but through each grueling, puzzling task, he was forcing him to learn.
---
Days blurred together. Chopping wood. Splitting logs. Helping build the cabin. By the third morning, Grandpa brought out a strange vest made of bamboo strips, with small bells attached.
"Put it on. We're hunting today."
As they trekked deep into the forest, every step Kairen took set the bells jingling. He groaned inwardly—great, how am I supposed to sneak up on anything like this?
Once they were far enough, Grandpa said, "Alright. Start. Catch something—rabbit, pheasant, deer… hell, if you're feeling bold, bring back a tiger. Remember: hide your presence. Don't move until you must, and when you do, strike like the wind. You've got bells on you, so control your body. Become one with your surroundings."
The entire day passed, and Kairen only caught a single rabbit—and even that, he suspected, was suicidal. It practically ran straight into his arms.
And so, his days settled into a rhythm: mornings chopping wood, afternoons hunting, nights training blindfolded. Time in the mountains seemed to lose all meaning.
Six months slipped by. Kairen could now see the patterns in the bamboo and trees. Every swing of his axe was clean, efficient—each strike like a note in a song, composing his own rhythm of growth.
He traded wood with villagers for small trinkets and supplies. The people were simple, kind-hearted. No schemes, no backstabbing—just honest living. For once, he felt… peaceful.
During that time, his father and grandfather built all kinds of training tools—a wooden cabin, a field of plum blossom poles, traps, and shifting platforms. At first, Kairen got beaten black and blue by the contraptions, but gradually, he learned to flow through them.
Then Grandpa added a new challenge—blindfolded pole runs. Each pole had a wind chime, and Kairen had to jump between them guided only by sound. He fell. A lot. Too many chimes. Too little time.
And yet, day after day, he trained—chopping, hunting, hauling wood, walking the poles, sparring blindfolded.
Time melted away like morning mist.
A year passed. His training evolved: sparring with wooden swords, weighted stances, carrying water buckets for villagers, practicing strikes underwater.
Then one morning, Grandpa finally said, "You're ready. From now on, you'll learn the Uchiha Style kenjutsu. You may channel chakra now—and use your Sharingan to accelerate the process."
Kairen blinked. It felt surreal. For a whole year, he'd almost forgotten he was an Uchiha at all. His grandfather's regimen had been so brutal, so methodical—it felt more like a monk's life than a shinobi's.
But it worked. His foundation was rock-solid. His chakra control—inhumanly precise.
He'd grown taller, stronger, faster. His senses sharper. When he closed his eyes, he could feel the rustle of leaves within twenty meters. Every swing of his sword now flowed with purpose and calm.
His grandfather's training, Kairen realized, wasn't madness at all.
It was the purest form of discipline—the kind that forged warriors out of boys.