Two years could pass like smoke — visible one moment, dispersed the next, leaving only the faint scent of what had been. For Keisuke Uchiha, those years had transformed him from Academy student to Genin, from child to something resembling a shinobi, though the weight of that word still felt too large for his nine-year-old shoulders.
The morning air tasted of dew and anticipation as Keisuke stood in Training Ground Seven, one hand resting on the kunai pouch at his hip. His hitai-ate — still new enough that the metal gleamed — sat proudly across his forehead, the Leaf symbol catching the early light. Beside him stood his new teammates: Hana, a civilian-born girl with nervous hands and careful eyes, and Ren, a boy whose father ran a weapon shop and whose resentment toward clan shinobi radiated like heat from forged steel.
Their Jonin instructor arrived ten minutes late, appearing in a swirl of leaves that should have been dramatic but felt merely perfunctory. Takeshi Yamada was tall and scarred, with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite by a sculptor who'd lost interest halfway through. His left eye was clouded white — a war wound, Keisuke had heard — and the way he looked at Keisuke's Uchiha crest felt less like assessment and more like judgment already rendered.
"Team Seven," Yamada-sensei said, his voice carrying the rasp of someone who'd breathed too much smoke. "I don't care about your Academy scores. I don't care about your bloodlines. Out here, you survive or you don't. Understood?"
"Yes, sensei," they chorused, though Ren's voice carried an edge of satisfaction. As if the sensei's words validated something he'd already believed.
Keisuke kept his expression neutral, but his Sharingan — now bearing two tomoe in each eye, awakened six months ago when his mother had fallen ill — saw the micro-expressions that betrayed Yamada-sensei's true feelings. The slight tightening around his good eye when his gaze passed over Keisuke. The way his jaw set, just barely. The distance he maintained, as if clan blood might be contagious.
The Third War, Keisuke thought, remembering his mother's quiet words. He fought in it. Lost people to it. And the Uchiha...
The Uchiha had fought too. Had bled too. But survivors rarely remembered shared sacrifice; they remembered who stood on the other side when the dust settled.
"Training begins now," Yamada-sensei said. "Keep up."
He vanished in a Body Flicker, and after a moment of stunned hesitation, Team Seven gave chase.
The days bled together like watercolors in rain. D-rank missions — weeding gardens, finding lost cats, repairing fences. Keisuke performed them without complaint, though he saw the way Hana fumbled with basic tasks, how Ren's frustration grew with each mundane assignment. They wanted glory. Keisuke just wanted competence.
During training, the gap between them widened like a fault line. Keisuke's Sharingan allowed him to copy techniques after seeing them once, to predict movements before they fully formed. What Hana and Ren struggled to learn over weeks, he grasped in hours. Not through arrogance, but through the curse written in his eyes.
"Must be nice," Ren said one afternoon, after Keisuke had successfully replicated a complex taijutsu sequence that Yamada-sensei had demonstrated once. "Having special eyes that do all the work for you."
Keisuke paused mid-stance, lowering his hands slowly. Hana looked uncomfortable, studying her feet with sudden intensity.
"The Sharingan doesn't do the work," Keisuke said quietly. "It shows me what needs to be done. I still have to do it."
"Right." Ren's smile was sharp as broken glass. "That's why the Uchiha get all the good missions. All the recognition. Why you're already wearing two tomoe while the rest of us are still—"
"Enough." Yamada-sensei's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Ren, fifty laps. Keisuke, with me."
As Ren jogged away, radiating resentment with every step, Yamada-sensei studied Keisuke with his one good eye. The silence stretched, uncomfortable.
"Your clan," the Jonin said eventually, "has a reputation. Genius. Power. Pride." He paused. "And isolation. People fear what they don't understand. And the Sharingan..." He gestured vaguely. "It makes people feel exposed. Vulnerable. Like you're reading their souls."
"I'm not—" Keisuke began.
"I know." Yamada-sensei's expression didn't soften, but something in his posture shifted. Less hostile. More weary. "But knowing and feeling are different things. Remember that. You'll need to."
The words settled in Keisuke's chest like stones.
The C-rank mission came three weeks later. A simple escort — a merchant named Takeo needed protection traveling to a town near the border. Bandits had been reported in the area, but nothing a team of Genin and a Jonin couldn't handle.
Simple. Routine.
Until it wasn't.
They were two days into the journey when Keisuke's Sharingan caught it — the barely perceptible disturbance in the tree line, the way birds had fallen silent, the wrongness of shadows that moved against the wind.
"Sensei," Keisuke said quietly. "We're being watched."
Yamada-sensei's hand moved to his kunai pouch. "How many?"
"At least six. Maybe more." Keisuke's eyes tracked movements invisible to normal vision. "Surrounding us. Coordinated."
"Bandits don't coordinate like that," Ren muttered, but his voice carried fear now instead of resentment.
They attacked from all sides simultaneously — not bandits, but missing-nin, their hitai-ate slashed through with deliberate scars. Rogue shinobi, desperate or mercenary, and far more dangerous than common thieves.
The fight erupted in controlled chaos. Yamada-sensei engaged two immediately, his taijutsu brutal and efficient. Hana protected the merchant, kunai trembling in her hands but her stance solid. Ren held off another attacker, barely.
Keisuke faced three.
His Sharingan spun, crimson and analytical, breaking down their movements into readable patterns. The first missing-nin came in with a wild swing — telegraphed, sloppy, compensating for poor form with raw aggression. Keisuke ducked, drove an elbow into exposed ribs, followed through with a sweep that sent the man sprawling.
The second was better. A water technique user, hands blurring through seals. Keisuke's Sharingan caught every gesture, every nuance, and his own hands moved in mirror response. The jutsu collided mid-formation, canceling out in a spray of disrupted chakra.
The missing-nin's eyes widened. "You copied—"
Keisuke didn't let him finish. Three kunai, thrown with precision his Sharingan calculated down to the millimeter. One deflected. Two found flesh — non-lethal, but debilitating.
The third missing-nin hesitated. Looked at Keisuke's spinning Sharingan. At his fallen companions.
And ran.
The entire engagement had lasted less than two minutes.
Silence descended like ash. Yamada-sensei finished securing the unconscious missing-nin with practiced efficiency. The merchant was unharmed, if shaken. Hana looked pale but functional. Ren...
Ren was staring at Keisuke like he'd just witnessed something both miraculous and monstrous.
"You copied his jutsu," Ren said, voice hollow. "Just... looked at it and copied it. Just like that."
"The Sharingan can—" Keisuke began.
"I know what it can do." Ren took a step back. Not retreating, exactly. But not approaching either. "I just didn't think..." He trailed off, swallowed. "We would've died. If you hadn't seen them coming. If you hadn't—"
"We're a team," Keisuke said quietly. "We protect each other."
But Ren's expression didn't reflect gratitude. It reflected something else entirely: the dawning realization that the gap between them wasn't just wide — it was unbridgeable. That Keisuke existed on a different plane of capability, one where normal rules bent and broke.
It reflected fear.
Yamada-sensei saw it too. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. What could he say? That fear was unjustified? They'd all just witnessed exactly why people feared the Sharingan.
The rest of the journey passed in uncomfortable quiet. When they finally returned to Konoha, Hana offered a shy smile and quiet thanks. Ren nodded once, stiffly, and disappeared before Keisuke could respond.
Yamada-sensei placed a hand on Keisuke's shoulder — the first time he'd voluntarily touched him. "You did well," he said, and it sounded almost like an apology. For what, Keisuke wasn't certain.
Later, alone in his room, Keisuke stared at his reflection in the small mirror by his bed. His Sharingan activated, tomoe spinning, and he watched himself watching. Powerful. Talented.
Alone.
The training ground was empty when Keisuke arrived that evening, seeking solitude and finding Itachi instead.
His friend — because that's what Itachi had become, somewhere in the space between sparring matches and quiet conversations — sat beneath the same sakura tree where they'd first truly spoken. Moonlight painted everything in shades of silver and shadow.
"You're restless," Itachi observed without preamble, without turning. "Bad mission?"
Keisuke settled beside him, shoulders touching in comfortable proximity. "Successful mission. That's the problem."
"Ah." Understanding colored that single syllable. "Your team fears you now."
"How did you—"
"Because I've seen that look too." Itachi's expression remained neutral, but something haunted moved behind his eyes. "The look people get when they realize you're different. That the Sharingan makes you different. Not better. Not worse. Just... separate."
They sat in companionable silence, watching leaves drift in the night breeze. Somewhere in the distance, Konoha hummed with life — laughter from izakayas, the rhythmic thunk of training dummies being struck, the eternal sound of a village at peace preparing for war.
"I've been working on something," Itachi said eventually. "A technique. Reading micro-muscular movements through the Sharingan. Want to see?"
He demonstrated, activating his three-tomoe Sharingan and gesturing for Keisuke to attack. Keisuke moved — a feint into a strike — and Itachi countered before the blow could land, his interception so perfectly timed it seemed prescient.
"You're not predicting the technique," Keisuke realized, his own Sharingan analyzing. "You're reading the muscles. Seeing which ones tense, which direction they're firing. Knowing the attack before it begins."
"Exactly." Itachi smiled, small and genuine. "Try it."
They spent the next hour training, Itachi's patient instruction guiding Keisuke through the subtle art of reading bodies like text. It wasn't about raw power or flashy jutsu. It was about understanding. About seeing.
"The Sharingan," Itachi said during a water break, voice thoughtful, "is feared because people think it makes us predators. That we look at others and see only weaknesses to exploit." He took a drink, then continued. "But that's not what it should be. Strength exists to protect, not to dominate. The Sharingan should be a tool for understanding people, not controlling them."
Keisuke absorbed the words, turning them over like river stones. "Do you really believe that? That the village will accept us if we prove we're not threats?"
"I have to believe it." Itachi's gaze drifted toward Konoha's lights, toward the Hokage Monument visible even from here. "Because the alternative is..." He paused, choosing words carefully. "Unacceptable. A village where Uchiha and non-Uchiha stand as equals — where clan and village are one — that's worth striving for. That's worth everything."
The conviction in Itachi's voice was absolute. Unshakeable. For a moment, Keisuke believed too. Believed that maybe, somehow, the gap could be bridged. That fear could become understanding, and understanding could become acceptance.
"I dream about it sometimes," Itachi admitted, voice softer now. Almost vulnerable. "A Konoha where Sasuke grows up not as an Uchiha first and a citizen second, but as both. Where the compound walls are just walls, not barriers." He smiled, sad and hopeful at once. "Naive, probably."
"Maybe," Keisuke said. "But maybe naive is better than cynical."
They trained until the moon reached its zenith, until exhaustion replaced restlessness, until the world narrowed to just movement and response and the comfortable rhythm of shared purpose.
When they finally stopped, Itachi clapped Keisuke's shoulder. "Your team will come around. Or they won't. But that doesn't change who you are. Only you get to decide that."
Keisuke nodded, not trusting his voice.
Walking home through empty streets, he thought about Itachi's dreams. About villages without walls, about strength used to protect rather than dominate, about a future where the Sharingan's crimson gaze meant safety instead of fear.
He wanted to believe.
He really did.
The Fire Festival arrived with the turning of the season, Konoha's streets transformed into rivers of light and color. Lanterns hung from every eave, casting warm glows that pushed back the darkness. Food stalls lined the main thoroughfare, selling yakitori and takoyaki and sweet dango. Children ran between adults' legs, sparklers trailing gold. Even the shinobi seemed to relax, trading combat-ready tension for celebration.
Keisuke wandered alone at first, his mother having stayed home — her illness had returned, nothing serious but enough to keep her resting. He watched families move together in clusters, laughing and sharing food, and felt the familiar ache of absence. His father had loved festivals. Had lifted young Keisuke onto his shoulders to watch the fireworks, pointing out each burst of color like they were constellations being born.
This is worth protecting, his father had said once. This peace. This joy. Remember that, Keisuke. When everything else gets complicated, remember this.
"Keisuke!"
He turned to find Sasuke Uchiha barreling toward him, small legs pumping with determination. The two-year-old collided with Keisuke's legs, grabbing them for support while grinning up with gap-toothed delight.
"'Suke!" Sasuke declared proudly, having recently learned that names could be shortened.
Behind him, walking with the careful grace of someone hyper-aware of their surroundings, came Itachi. And beside Itachi — Fugaku Uchiha, clan head and Itachi's father, with Sasuke's previous position on his shoulders evidenced by displaced hair. Mikoto Uchiha completed the picture, her gentle smile warming the space around her like sunlight.
"Keisuke-kun," Mikoto greeted, that smile widening. "How wonderful to run into you. Are you here alone?"
"My mother isn't feeling well," Keisuke explained, suddenly self-conscious. The Uchiha clan head and his family, and here he stood in his simple festival clothes, smelling of training sweat beneath hastily applied clean fabric.
"Then you must join us," Mikoto said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Mustn't he, Fugaku?"
The clan head studied Keisuke with unreadable dark eyes, and for a moment, Keisuke thought he'd refuse. Fugaku's reputation preceded him — stern, traditional, proud. But then something shifted in his expression, some calculation or recognition.
"Takeshi's son," Fugaku said. It wasn't a question. "I served with your father during the Third War. He was a fine shinobi."
Keisuke's throat tightened. "Thank you, sir."
Fugaku nodded once, decisive. "Walk with us."
And just like that, Keisuke found himself folded into the Uchiha family's evening. Sasuke reclaimed his position on Fugaku's shoulders but kept reaching for Keisuke, tiny hands grasping until Keisuke moved close enough to be held. Mikoto bought dango for everyone, pressing the sweet treats into their hands with maternal insistence. Itachi walked beside Keisuke, their shoulders bumping occasionally in the crowded streets, his presence a steady anchor.
They played festival games — kunai throwing at targets, catching goldfish with paper scoops. Sasuke shrieked with laughter when Fugaku let him "help" throw, the kunai going wildly off-target. Mikoto covered her mouth to hide her amusement. Even Itachi's usual solemnity cracked into something lighter, more boyish.
Keisuke won a small fox mask at one stall and immediately presented it to Sasuke, who wore it pushed up on his head like a crown. The toddler beamed, and something in Keisuke's chest unfurled — something warm and painful and precious all at once.
This, he thought. This is what family feels like.
Not the quiet grief of his mother's careful silences. Not the weight of living in a house where every object was a memorial. But this — laughter and teasing and casual affection, the sense of being wanted not for skill or talent but simply for existing.
As night deepened, they found a spot on the hill overlooking the festival grounds. Below, Konoha sprawled in luminous beauty, every lantern a promise of peace. Sasuke sat in Keisuke's lap, drowsy and content, while Mikoto and Fugaku spoke quietly about clan matters. Itachi sat close enough that their arms touched.
"Thank you," Keisuke said softly, for Itachi's ears alone. "For inviting me."
"You're pack," Itachi replied, equally quiet. Then, at Keisuke's confused look: "Wolf terminology. Shisui taught me. He says the Uchiha are like wolves — we're stronger in packs. And you..." He smiled. "You're pack."
Before Keisuke could respond, the first firework launched.
The sky exploded in crimson and gold, light painting everyone's upturned faces in shades of fire. Sasuke gasped, pointing with chubby fingers. "Ani! 'Suke! Look!"
More followed — blues and greens and purples, each burst accompanied by thunderous booms that resonated in Keisuke's chest. The display was magnificent, each explosion a flower blooming and dying in seconds, beautiful for its impermanence.
Keisuke looked around at the faces surrounding him. Sasuke's wonder. Mikoto's serene joy. Fugaku's rare smile. Itachi's peaceful contentment.
This is worth protecting, his father had said.
This, Keisuke thought, tightening his arms around Sasuke as the toddler drowsed against his chest. This peace. This family. This moment where the Uchiha aren't isolated or feared but simply... are.
This was worth everything.
Another firework burst overhead, crimson as Sharingan eyes, and in its light, Keisuke made a silent vow. Whatever came — whatever challenges or conflicts or trials — he would protect this. Them. The warmth that had been offered so freely to a boy who'd forgotten what belonging felt like.
The Uchiha were his family.
Konoha was his village.
And both, somehow, could be protected.
Couldn't they?
The fireworks continued their glorious assault on the darkness, and Keisuke chose to believe. Chose hope over cynicism, connection over isolation, light over shadow.
At least for tonight.
At least while Sasuke's steady breathing matched the rhythm of his heartbeat, and Itachi's shoulder pressed warm against his own, and the village below glowed like a promise that hadn't yet been broken.
This is worth protecting.
The thought echoed like prayer, like plea, like prophecy.
And high above, the crimson fireworks bloomed and died, bloomed and died, painting the sky in shades of beautiful, temporary peace.