The wooden deck stretched over the lake, smooth planks warmed by morning sun. Mist still curled off the water's surface, soft and silver, brushing against the toes of the Uchiha twins as they stood at attention. Sasuke kept his arms stiff at his sides. Tamamo shifted her weight once, then stopped herself.
Fugaku stood in front of them, hands behind his back, eyes as steady as the lake's reflection.
"You're four years old now," he said, voice low and even. "Next year, you'll enter the academy."
Neither twin spoke. They knew it wasn't a statement that needed acknowledgment. It was a marker — a weight.
Fugaku continued, gaze moving from one child to the other. "You carry the Uchiha name. That means expectations. Standards. You will be compared — to your brother, to me, to the entire clan history. That is the burden. And the honor."
Tamamo swallowed. Sasuke stood straighter.
Fugaku turned slightly, letting his gaze fall on the lake.
"For generations, every Uchiha who sought to walk with pride has learned a single technique first. One that defines our fire — our will. The Great Fireball Technique."
Tamamo blinked. Sasuke's eyes lit up — just a little.
"Itachi mastered it at five," Fugaku said plainly.
Tamamo's stomach knotted.
"You will train for it here. You have one week."
Tamamo opened her mouth. "A week?"
Fugaku gave her a single glance. Not cold. Not cruel. Just firm.
"To master it is to earn your place. To fail — is to try again. But I will not hand you pride. You must claim it."
He knelt then, fluid and graceful, and raised his hands.
"Watch carefully. These are the signs: Snake. Ram. Monkey. Boar. Horse. Tiger."
He performed them slowly, then stood and took a deep breath.
Tamamo and Sasuke did the same.
Fugaku formed the final seal and exhaled — a massive plume of flame burst from his lips, blazing outward in a perfect, controlled sphere before vanishing in a wisp of heat.
Neither child could hide their awe.
Fugaku straightened, letting the silence sit.
"The flames are easy to conjure," he said, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. "Control is harder. Precision is everything."
He turned, began to walk away.
"You have seven days."
And with that, he was gone.
Silence hung between the twins for a long moment.
Then Sasuke glanced at Tamamo.
She looked back.
They both grinned.
"So," Tamamo said, her voice low with mock-gravity, "if we master it before five…"
"Technically," Sasuke said, chin lifting, "we're better than Itachi."
"Superior shinobi by at least one year," Tamamo declared. "History will remember!"
"From now on, he calls us senpai."
"And bows when we enter the room."
They bumped fists.
The challenge had begun — and bragging rights were on the line. Failure was never an option.
—
Day One.
The spot was theirs now. Their training ground. A place gifted with peace, soon to be disturbed by fire.
Tamamo dropped into a crouch, chin resting on one knee as she stared at the lake. "It's perfect," she murmured.
Sasuke didn't look away from the water. "Too perfect. Like it knows we're about to ruin its day."
Tamamo grinned. "That's the spirit."
She stood, dusted off her hands, and stretched her arms toward the sky. "Alright! One week to master a clan-defining jutsu and surpass our prodigy older brother. No pressure."
Sasuke exhaled through his nose. "None at all."
They both turned away from the lake, facing the open clearing at the end of the deck.
Their training would begin now.
The countdown to fire had started.
—
Day Two.
They arrived early, still yawning, but with renewed determination. Tamamo had packed lunch: rice balls, grilled sweet potato, and two carefully wrapped tomatoes for Sasuke.
"Bribery for future us," she said solemnly.
They compared notes between sets.
"I think the trick is in the inhale," Sasuke said. "You need to build chakra pressure before the final seal."
"And then whoosh" Tamamo added, flailing her hands. "Except not chaotic whoosh. Like, elegant whoosh."
They tried again.
Still just smoke.
—
Day Three.
Sasuke managed a flicker of flame.
Tamamo cheered. "Progress! We celebrate every step!"
Sasuke stared.
"You set my eyebrow on fire with your attempt."
"Symbolic!"
They spent the afternoon alternating attempts and coaching each other. Tamamo criticized Sasuke's posture. Sasuke corrected her hand seals. They argued. Then laughed. Then fell over exhausted.
"We're getting closer," Sasuke said between breaths.
Tamamo nodded. "Tomorrow, we get actual fire."
—
Day Four.
They did.
A real fireball.
Small. Crooked. Wobbly.
But it existed.
They stared at it together.
Tamamo grinned. "I think we made a baby dragon."
"More like a fire-breathing pigeon," Sasuke said. But he was smiling.
They ate lunch side by side, legs dangling over the water.
"We should keep training into the evening," Tamamo said. "Less people to witness our flops."
"Also gives us longer to recover from them."
"Sasuke," she said suddenly, eyes narrowed. "Do you think Itachi ever made a wobbly pigeon?"
Sasuke didn't answer. But they both knew the truth.
And it made them want it more.
—
Day Five.
Tamamo prepped lunch again. This time she added pickled vegetables and a tiny paper note that read: Fireball or bust.
Their technique had improved. Less coughing. More chakra control. Tamamo started to hum when she exhaled. Said it helped her focus.
"That's dumb," Sasuke said.
He started humming the next try.
—
Day Six.
They reviewed the seals together. Practiced the breathing rhythm. Counted seconds aloud before release.
Their fireballs now burned clean. Round. Almost perfect spheres.
But they still weren't satisfied.
"Itachi's was probably bigger," Tamamo muttered.
"Of course it was," Sasuke said. "He probably fed it ninja vitamins."
Tamamo laughed. Then fell quiet.
"But ours is close."
—
Day Seven.
They stood side by side as morning mist coiled around their ankles.
Fugaku watched silently from the path, arms folded.
The twins moved in perfect sync.
Snake. Ram. Monkey. Boar. Horse. Tiger.
Two breaths. Two releases.
Twin fireballs roared out into the air—controlled, measured, powerful. Not oversized. Not flashy. Just right.
Fugaku didn't speak.
He turned and walked away.
Tamamo frowned. Sasuke shifted, unsure.
Then their father's voice drifted back to them.
"Good work."
He didn't turn around.
But both twins saw the faintest curve of pride in his shoulders.
And that was enough.
Bonus Scene 1: The Smirk You Deny
Behind her, the door slid open with that familiar wooden groan. She didn't turn.
"Back already?" she asked, voice gentle, amused.
Fugaku stepped out beside her. His hands were behind his back again — always the same posture. Always composed.
"They did well."
Mikoto smiled to herself. "So I heard. Controlled fireballs on the seventh day?"
Fugaku gave a single nod.
Mikoto tilted her head, a sly curve tugging at her lips. "You were proud."
"They met expectations."
"Mm-hmm."
He said nothing.
She turned slightly, looking up at him now with that unbothered softness she always reserved for moments like this. "You smiled."
"I did not."
"Your shoulder moved. That counts."
"It was a reflex."
"It was a smirk."
He exhaled lightly. Not quite a sigh — more like surrender in Uchiha form.
Mikoto chuckled. "You keep this up, and they're going to think you're secretly human."
Fugaku finally looked at her, gaze unreadable. "They don't need my approval. They need results."
"They need both," she said quietly, stepping closer. "Even if one is harder for you."
There was a beat of silence between them, filled with wind and firefly glow.
"They'll surpass even Itachi one day," Mikoto said, not as a prediction — but as a certainty.
Fugaku didn't respond at first.
Then, softly — barely audible:
"…I know."
Mikoto smiled again and leaned into him, head against his shoulder.
He didn't move away.
They stood like that for a while. Quiet. Close. The proud, secret smile she claimed never quite reached his lips — but his hand, when it finally came to rest at her lower back, was warm and steady.
And that was more than enough.
Bonus Scene 2: Itachi Reacts
That night, the twins returned home with scorched sleeves and soot on their cheeks, high on the rush of their victory.
They found Itachi on the engawa, seated calmly with a book in his lap and a cup of tea beside him, looking like the picture of older-sibling tranquility.
"We did it," Tamamo announced before he could speak. "Fireballs. Real ones. Round. Powerful. Dignified."
Sasuke nodded. "Controlled bursts. No collateral damage."
"Which makes us," Tamamo continued, placing her hands on her hips, "officially stronger than you were at our age."
"Four," Sasuke said. "You were five."
"Do the math," she added, smug. "We're prodigies now."
Itachi closed his book slowly. "Is that so?"
"We expect tribute," Tamamo said, stepping forward like a miniature warlord. "Or at least verbal acknowledgment of our superiority."
"Preferably both," Sasuke added.
Itachi reached into his sleeve. Slowly, with deliberate grace, he produced something small and neatly wrapped in a cloth napkin.
Tamamo blinked. "Is that—?"
He unwrapped it. Inside: two perfectly cut pieces of grilled sweet potato. Still warm.
Tamamo and Sasuke leaned in warily.
"A peace offering?" Sasuke asked.
"A reward," Itachi said, and handed one piece to each of them.
The twins accepted them with caution. They were suspiciously perfect.
"We made these ourselves yesterday," Tamamo muttered, frowning. "Where'd you get—?"
"I might've borrowed a few," Itachi said smoothly, sipping his tea. "For motivation."
"You stole our victory snacks?"
"Requisitioned," he corrected. "Standard shinobi practice."
They stared at him.
Then Itachi rose, setting his cup down with eerie precision. He took a step past them, cloak fluttering lightly in the breeze.
"Oh," he added, pausing just long enough to twist the knife, "mine was bigger."
And he vanished with a flicker of leaves, leaving only smug silence in his wake.
Sasuke stared at the sweet potato in his hand like it had betrayed him on a molecular level.
"This isn't over."
Tamamo nodded. "Tomorrow, we go bigger."
"Explosively bigger."
They clinked sweet potato slices in grim unity.
The sibling arms race had begun.