Kakashi had no way to refuse Uchiha Fugaku's request—and no reason to.
From Fugaku's standpoint, the masked man who'd orchestrated the Nine-Tails attack was still out there. Even the slimmest thread leading to the mastermind's true face was worth chasing. Fugaku would never let it slip through his fingers.
So Kakashi went straight to the Hokage Tower and laid the whole thing before Hiruzen Sarutobi.
Granting an Uchiha access to the sealed archives of the Senju and Sarutobi clans was no small matter. One careless glance and Fugaku could walk away with secrets that had been buried for generations.
"That's the situation, Lord Hokage."
Hiruzen sat behind the wide desk, pipe clenched between his teeth. Thin ribbons of pale-blue smoke curled from his nostrils with every slow breath. His brows drew together as he listened to the report Kakashi had carried from the Uchiha compound.
He never asked the boy's opinion. Kakashi was fourteen—brilliant, yes, but still a child when measured against the hidden histories of the ninja world. Even Hiruzen, pushing sixty, knew next to nothing about the legend of Uchiha Mumei, the Nameless Uchiha. That name belonged to a story three centuries old.
"I understand," the Third said at last. His voice scraped like dry leaves. "I'll have someone look into it."
Kakashi bowed and withdrew without a word.
The Uchiha's blame for the Nine-Tails had eased a fraction, but old suspicions die hard. Even a dove like Hiruzen—who still dreamed of peace between the village and the clan—would never hand Fugaku a key without keeping one hand on the lock. It wasn't personal hatred; it was simply the caution of a man who had buried too many friends.
Kakashi paused on the tower steps, sunlight glinting off the forehead protector slanted across his left eye.
If Fugaku couldn't be trusted with a scroll…
Where did that leave him?
He almost laughed. Trust was a luxury for people with softer fists.
Power is the fist. If your fist isn't hard enough, all the talent in the world is just moonlight on water—pretty, fleeting, gone.
He tightened his grip on the white-tanged blade at his hip and started toward the training grounds. The reforged White Fang rested easy in its sheath, humming with fresh edge. Kamui was gone, but the blade his father had carried would answer in its place.
Whatever Kamui once did, White Fang would do. Whatever Kamui couldn't, White Fang would find a way.
Three days had slipped by since the forge fires cooled.
In those three days Kakashi had dragged every half-remembered kata out of the dark. Muscle memory and stubborn pride rebuilt the style his cheap old man had drilled into him years ago—stroke by stroke, breath by breath.
Konoha Third Training Ground.
The clearing—usually a pocket of quiet between the village roofs—rang with the frantic song of steel on steel. Two blurs streaked across the dirt: one silver-white, one leaf-green, trading blows too fast for the eye to follow.
"Oh ho!"
"Youth Medley!"
Might Guy's roar cracked the air like a starting pistol. Twin nunchaku—his prized Twin Attacking Fangs—whipped forward in a storm of chains and hardwood.
Nunchaku were rare on any battlefield. Master them, though, and they became wrecking balls on strings: your own strength plus the inertia of a flail. One clean hit could end a fight without spilling a drop of blood.
Guy had mastered them years ago.
Kakashi's White Fang flashed in desperate arcs, meeting every strike head-on. Shock waves raced up his arms; his teeth ached from clenching. He probed for any gap in the spinning wall of wood and steel, but Guy's guard was airtight—offense and defense woven into the same breathless rhythm.
Guy, meanwhile, was grinning like a madman. Kakashi's sword light carved the air so close he could feel the kiss of the edge. Heat surged in his chest.
Kakashi! My eternal rival! You're making me burn!
I've saved the perfect move just for you—watch this!
"Eight Gates Released Formation—Sixth Gate, Gate of Joy: OPEN!"
A cyclone erupted around Guy. Green chakra flared bright enough to paint the trees emerald. His skin flushed crimson; veins stood out like cords of fire.
Kakashi's stomach dropped.
Not again.
"Wait—"
"Morning Peacock!"
Guy launched skyward. Fists blurred. A meteor shower of fireballs screamed down, each one trailing rooster-tail flames and supersonic fist winds.
Kakashi's scalp prickled. He back-pedaled, fingers flying through seals.
Earth Release: Earth-Style Wall!
A thick slab of stone ripped out of the ground, dog-headed relief snarling at the sky. The first fireball smashed it to gravel in the space of a heartbeat.
Kakashi was already moving, boots skimming the earth, using the crumbling wall as a heartbeat of cover. He vaulted clear just as the rest of the barrage turned the training ground into a cratered moonscape. Shockwaves rolled over him like artillery.
Dust swallowed the sun. When it settled, Kakashi stood on the rim of the devastation, one hand over his masked face.
He'd known this was coming. Didn't make the heart attack any softer.
Guy had only opened the Sixth Gate—any deeper and Kakashi would still be eating dirt. Small mercies.
"You absolute meathead," he muttered, picking his way across the pockmarked field.
Guy sat cross-legged in the epicenter, shoulders heaving, steam curling off his skin. The crimson was already fading; the backlash crept in like a hangover.
But the second he spotted Kakashi, the exhaustion vanished behind a dazzling grin and a thumbs-up that gleamed in the dust.
"As expected of my rival! Dodging Morning Peacock on the first try!"
"When I open the Seventh you won't escape, Kakashi!"
Kakashi reached him, shoved the thumbs-up down, and sighed.
"You get carried away faster than Naruto spots free ramen, you idiot."