However, Akira's response to her words was not at all what Pakura had expected.
She had hurled her accusation with cold precision, expecting to see a crack in his composure, a flicker of grief or rage in his eyes. Anything. Instead, Akira's lips curled into a calm, faint sneer as he regarded her with unwavering eyes that were too composed, too self-possessed for someone so young.
"If you think that a childish attempt to shake my resolve will disrupt my judgment," Akira said smoothly, his voice sharp but composed, "I'm afraid you'll only end up disappointed."
Pakura's expression twisted with irritation. She wasn't accustomed to being dismissed so easily—especially not by a boy who could have barely been out of childhood. Gritting her teeth, she snarled, "You detestable little ghost. So cold, so ruthless. Your mother's death means nothing to you? Even now, when you stand before her killer, you feel no rage, no sorrow?"
Akira tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. For a moment, silence hung between them like a taut string about to snap.
"You exaggerate," he said at last, his tone so even it was disarming. "My mother was a medical ninja. More importantly, she was a Konoha shinobi. Dying in service to the village is a noble end. It's tragic, yes, but not shameful. Sacrifice is the currency of war. If she hadn't fallen to your hands, then perhaps another's. That's the reality we live in."
He paused briefly, his gaze drifting skyward as if remembering something distant but untouchable.
"I was deeply saddened when I first heard of her passing," he continued, "but I do not resent you for it. On the contrary… as a ninja who served her village with honor, I respect you, Senior Pakura."
The battlefield around them seemed to quiet, as if even the wind had halted to listen. Pakura blinked, stunned into silence. The fury she had summoned to bait the boy now dissolved into something far more complex—confusion, surprise… and a twinge of admiration.
Akira's words had struck her not with venom, but clarity. In the brutal world of shinobi, hatred and vengeance were often as natural as breathing. Few could detach from such emotions, especially one so young. And yet, here was Akira—not only dispassionate, but philosophical.
She searched his face for deceit, some sign of forced calm or hidden malice, but there was none. His words were not empty rhetoric. They came from a place of sincere understanding—a maturity rare even among seasoned warriors.
Pakura, a veteran of many battles, suddenly found herself caught off guard not by Akira's techniques, but by his ideology. He was no ordinary child. No wonder tales of the Konoha Lightning Flash had begun to spread with awe.
In truth, Akira held no hatred for Pakura. Unlike those born and raised in the ninja world, Akira's soul hailed from a different time—a different world. In his past life, he had received a modern education, lived in a society where violence was a relic of history, not a daily certainty. War, in his world, had been history—analyzed, debated, mourned.
He had grown up learning that truth in war was often obscured by the victors and that most conflicts were fueled by ambition, ideology, or misunderstanding. When his consciousness awakened within the body of the orphaned Uchiha boy, he carried that worldview with him. Akira could not cling to grudges forged by a soul that was not his own.
If he had remained Uchiha Nan in full spirit, perhaps hatred would have consumed him. But Akira had transcended that.
Still, his performance now was not entirely selfless. Akira had felt the subtle gaze of the Third Hokage throughout his exchange with Pakura. The elder ninja had been observing closely, concern flickering in his aged eyes.
And so Akira's words, while genuine, served a dual purpose.
He needed to demonstrate his emotional maturity. He needed to be seen not merely as a prodigy, but as someone trustworthy—a ninja whose judgment could rise above blood feuds and personal vengeance. A model shinobi. An asset.
And when he glanced discreetly toward the Third Hokage, he caught the glint of approval in the old man's eye.
Success.
But Akira didn't stop there. Turning back to Pakura, he added, "I've heard of you, Pakura. A powerful kunoichi. A master of Burning Style. And a teacher who fiercely protects her disciples. That kind of loyalty, that sense of duty—I respect it deeply. If not for this war between our nations, perhaps we could've been allies. Friends, even."
He paused, shifting into a ready stance. "But the battlefield doesn't allow for such luxuries. So let's stop wasting words. Let's see who is the stronger shinobi."
Pakura was quiet for a moment, visibly caught off guard. Then a faint smile tugged at her lips. There was no mockery in it—only admiration.
"You're a fascinating child, Akira," she said softly. "Very well. Since you've shown such respect, I'll return the gesture. You're younger, so I'll allow you the first move."
Akira nodded. "In that case… I won't hold back."
"Shadow Clone Jutsu!" he shouted.
A puff of smoke erupted around him, and in an instant, ten identical copies of Akira appeared, flanking him in every direction. The clones spread out like lightning bolts, dashing toward Pakura with unrelenting speed.
Two of them, imbued with Akira's unique Speed Force Lightning Chakra, began to flicker, their movements blurring as they surged ahead, distortions rippling behind them.
Pakura's eyes narrowed. "Interesting… Let's see how you handle this."
"Burning Style: Over-Steam Kill!"
Behind her, the floating fireballs surged together and rapidly expanded into a massive orb of superheated steam and fire. The temperature in the area skyrocketed. Even the ground beneath them hissed as moisture in the soil vaporized.
The two lightning-enhanced clones reached her first—but the moment they breached the radius of the heatwave, they combusted into smoke, unable to withstand the pressure.
The heat radiating from the fireball surged outward in waves, and one by one, the remaining shadow clones vanished, destroyed not by direct contact but by the oppressive atmosphere alone.
Akira, watching carefully from a safe distance, remained calm. He had anticipated this.
He moved before the fireball could redirect toward him. His speed, enhanced by the Speed Force chakra he had cultivated, allowed him to retreat beyond the technique's reach in the blink of an eye.
The massive fireball split apart, dissipating into smaller embers as it lost its target, flickering weakly before vanishing into the dry breeze.
The first round had ended—a draw. Both combatants had tested the waters. And now, they stood facing each other once more.
From a nearby outcrop, the Third Hokage remained silent but visibly pleased. What he had witnessed was not just raw power, but discipline, insight, and a rare emotional clarity.
His initial hopes for Akira had been that the boy would grow into a stabilizing figure within the Uchiha clan—a bridge between their proud bloodline and the village's needs. But now… he saw something more.
Greatness.
With a mind so vast and a heart untouched by revenge, Akira might someday surpass even the legends. The Hokage's expression hardened with resolve. He would nurture this child. Protect him from the village's darkness. Guide him to a future far beyond what others could imagine.
Elsewhere, Orochimaru narrowed his yellow eyes, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
Akira was growing fast. Too fast. His intellect, his moral compass, his potential—they fascinated Orochimaru in a way few ever had.
This boy isn't meant to chase titles, he thought. Hokage? That's too small a goal for one like him. He should be aiming for something grander.
Immortality. Evolution. Truth.
In his mind, Orochimaru saw a future where Akira would abandon the village's narrow-minded idealism and join him in pursuit of ultimate knowledge.
He smiled faintly. In time, Akira would understand.
Even the Fourth Kazekage, Rasa, noticed the ripple Akira's presence had caused. As his golden sand supported him, he glanced toward the child, noting the unusual way the Konoha leaders watched him. This Akira… perhaps he was not just another prodigy.
"A shame," he muttered to himself. "That such a soul belongs to our enemies."
Back on the battlefield, Pakura looked at Akira with softened eyes.
"You're different," she admitted. "Not just strong. But wise. Unshakable."
Akira said nothing. He simply raised his hand, and chakra crackled again around his fingertips.
The second round was about to begin.
And both sides knew—it would not end like the first.