Sakumo Hatake knew the feel of war.
It wasn't just the battlefield—the scent of burnt leather, the screams, the stillness after blood spilled. No, real war crept into your bones long before the blade touched flesh. It was in the eyes of your comrades, the silence between meetings, and the way messages started arriving with fewer seals and more urgency.
He stood in his courtyard, watching the early morning clouds drift past the treetops. Arashi stood across from him, shirtless, arms wrapped in tape, the scars across his torso faint but unmistakable.
"You've been going out on your own," Sakumo said quietly.
Arashi didn't lie. "Yes."
"And dealing with Root operatives?"
"I never confirmed they were Root."
Sakumo's lips twitched. Not quite a smile. "You didn't deny it, either."
He walked over to the practice mat, picked up two wooden bokken, and tossed one to his son.
"No chakra. No feints. Just form."
Arashi caught the weapon and raised it into a neutral stance.
They moved.
No fanfare. No fancy footwork. Just two Hatake men exchanging strikes, the sound of wood cracking against wood echoing across the courtyard. Neither spoke. They didn't need to.
It wasn't a test of skill. Arashi had surpassed basic sparring a long time ago.
This was a conversation through movement.
"Danzo's watching you," Sakumo said between swings.
"I know."
"You're not ready."
"I'm already in it."
Their swords locked. Arashi stepped in, pivoted, dropped low, and swept Sakumo's legs—but his father danced back just in time.
"He'll use you. He's done it to others. Stronger men."
"He's trying."
Sakumo stepped in and delivered a powerful downward slash. Arashi caught it, barely, arms shaking.
"You're not him, Arashi. You don't have to become like them to survive."
"I'm not trying to survive."
Sakumo froze.
"I'm trying to win," Arashi said, stepping back. "And to win, I need to know the enemy better than they know me."
The wind rustled the trees. For a moment, Sakumo said nothing.
"Your chakra…" he said finally. "It's changed. Denser. Focused."
Arashi didn't answer.
He had been modifying his chakra circulation in his mental realm. Practicing fine control under pressure. Simulating extended taijutsu combat against projection clones of Lee, Tsunade, and others. The results were becoming visible.
"You're training beyond what's healthy," Sakumo said.
"There's no time to be cautious."
"There's always time for caution. Especially for shinobi."
Arashi exhaled. "You once said that hesitation kills."
"That was before I buried half my unit for moving too fast."
They stared at each other across the courtyard.
Sakumo lowered his sword.
"I don't want you walking the same road I did."
"You mean the road you're on now?"
Sakumo's jaw tightened.
Arashi stepped forward, softer now. "I'm not doing this for power. Or ambition. I'm doing this so that Kakashi doesn't grow up in a broken village. So you're not sacrificed for choosing mercy. So we're not just another discarded name on a stone monument."
Sakumo looked away.
They both knew what was coming.
The whispers were growing. The mission logs were being twisted. The Suna affair had ignited fear that Sakumo had gone rogue. That his ethics were a liability.
In the canon timeline, Sakumo would take his own life soon.
But this wasn't the same world. Not anymore.
"I'll handle Danzo," Arashi said.
Sakumo turned back to him, eyes cold.
"No. I will."
That night, Arashi didn't sleep.
He sat cross-legged in his room, candle flickering low, eyes focused on the small piece of cloth in his hand—an ANBU tag he'd pulled from one of the crates at the warehouse. Not marked for Root. Marked for a division he didn't recognize.
Hidden projects.
Unofficial.
He rolled it between his fingers, then closed his eyes and entered the mental realm.
This time, he summoned a different sparring partner—Sakumo Hatake.
Not the real one. A simulated one. Crafted from memory, training logs, movement patterns. Built by a thousand tiny observations.
The clone stood with his tanto drawn.
"I don't care if you're my father," Arashi muttered. "I need to learn how to beat you."
The clone smiled faintly. "Then stop thinking like a son."
They clashed.
Sakumo's blade was light, but impossibly fast. His footwork was minimal—just enough to evade, counter, and reset. His style was meant to end fights in the first five moves.
Arashi fell within ten seconds.
Again.
Twenty seconds.
Again.
Forty-five.
Every time, he adapted. He mirrored his father's range, learned the tempo, then deliberately broke it. He used fake openings, staggered counters, forced terrain to be his ally.
Finally, he landed a hit.
The clone's guard slipped, and Arashi's blade struck him across the side.
The clone dissolved.
Arashi stood, drenched in simulated sweat, panting, and alone.
He sat in silence for a moment. In that space, time didn't matter.
When he exited back into the real world, only minutes had passed.
The night was still young.
He left the compound silently.
The meeting spot was a low rooftop near the edge of the Uchiha district. A risky place to be, given their internal paranoia, but also one of the few areas Danzo's operatives rarely used for direct meetings.
She was already there.
The Root agent from before—the same woman who had spoken during the sealed meeting under Konoha. This time, she wore a half-mask and a dark robe.
"You found the warehouse," she said.
"Yes."
"And the man?"
"He's gone."
"Dead?"
Arashi looked her in the eye. "No."
Her expression didn't change. "That was a mistake."
"No," Arashi said. "It was a choice. If you wanted him dead, you could've done it yourselves. You wanted to see what I'd do."
She didn't deny it.
"Danzo is impressed," she said.
"I don't care."
"You should. Power without direction is a threat."
"Then you're all terrified."
The woman paused. Then, surprisingly, she chuckled. "You have your father's blade, but not his patience."
"I'm done being patient."
She pulled a small case from her sleeve and tossed it onto the rooftop between them.
Inside were five scrolls. Sealed. Labeled.
One had the Uchiha crest. Another bore the Hidden Rain's sigil.
"These are pieces," she said. "Start learning the board."
He didn't pick them up.
"I'll look when I'm ready," he said.
Her smile faded. "Don't wait too long. You may find the board is already flipped before you move."
She vanished.
He stared at the scrolls, then at the village below.
Konoha's lights flickered in the distance, dancing like embers over the rooftops.
The wind carried voices. Laughter. Warmth.
But beneath it all… he heard the whispers.
And he knew the fire was coming.
He just had to decide which side he wanted to be holding the torch.
To be continued.