I, Uchiha, will not be whitewashed!

When the second semester started, everyone noticed the changes.

The corridors were much quieter. Half of the classrooms for the older students were empty; those seats had been taken early and reassigned to support the logistics. The supply lines to the border were strained, and everyone who could be sent had been dispatched, even the school children.

"I heard that Sato, a fifth-grader, was also selected."

"He's only eleven years old..."

"There's no other way, we don't have enough manpower."

In the first-grade classroom, these were the only topics of conversation during recess. No one could laugh.

The number of people doing morning exercises on the playground has visibly shrunk.

The training area for the older students was empty; the remaining students no longer laughed and joked while running, and every movement carried an indescribable heaviness.

Their eyes changed, becoming like those of adults—like those who had lost comrades on missions.

Pedestrians on the street hurried along, no longer having the leisure to stop and chat.

A long line formed outside the grocery store, with housewives holding baskets filled with canned goods, dry food, and bandages, waiting silently.

The pharmacy owner put up a "limited purchase" sign at the entrance, limiting each person to three doses of hemostatic agent per visit.

Military ration coupons began circulating on the black market, with prices changing daily.

The smiles on the adults' faces disappeared. In their place came worries—the kind of worries that came from being silent in front of the news, sighing at the dinner table, and suffering from insomnia at night.

Some people started wrapping black armbands around their arms—a sign of losing a loved one.

One, two, and more and more.

Various rumors began to circulate in the village. Some said that Iwagakure had gathered three thousand people in the Land of Grass, some said that the A and B teams from Kumogakure had arrived at the border, and some said that Sunagakure was mobilizing internally.

No one knows what's true and what's false.

But everyone knew one thing—war was coming.

It's not possible, it's not maybe, it's certain.

The children at the ninja academy don't understand war, but they do understand fear.

The noise in the classroom gradually subsided. The scenes of chasing and playing during breaks were less frequent; instead, students gathered in small groups, whispering to each other.

As they talked, some people's eyes reddened, while others turned their heads away.

"My dad received a notice yesterday that he has to go to the border."

"My mom too. She said it might take a long time."

"My brother passed away last week, and we haven't received a single letter since."

These conversations are everywhere—in the hallways, on the playground, in the restrooms.

Rin was drawing something on the edge of her textbook with her pencil, then erasing it, then drawing again. Her father was a Chunin from Konoha, and last month he was dispatched to the border of the Land of Rain. Her mother would stand at the door for a long time every day, gazing in the direction of the village entrance.

Obito hasn't been arguing with anyone much lately. He's no longer late for class, no longer slacking off in training, and he rarely even mentions Kakashi's name. He just occasionally stares out the window, lost in thought, with something in his eyes that doesn't belong to someone his age. His parents are long gone; his grandmother raised him. And lately, his grandmother's health has been deteriorating, coughing so much that she can't sleep at night.

Kai still runs every day. Five hundred laps, a thousand push-ups, a thousand leg kicks. But fewer and fewer people are on the track, making his figure appear particularly lonely. Sometimes, while running, he'll suddenly speed up, as if chasing something. He'll catch up, then slow down again. And then continue running.

Shuoge's shadow clone remained seated in the classroom, eyes closed. He witnessed the changes outside—the sorrow on the students' faces, the figures disappearing down the corridor, the growing atmosphere of separation in the air. War was approaching, like a tide, slowly but irresistibly surging in.

No one knows when the tide will swallow everything. All they can do is wait. Wait for the order. Wait for the letter. Wait for the person who will never return.

Outside the window, the sky was overcast, as if it were about to rain. Autumn hadn't even arrived yet, but the leaves had already begun to fall.

……

……

……

The moonlight spilled onto the river, shattering into silvery spots.

Uchiha Kagami stood on the bank, looking at the figure in the middle of the river—Sakugo's feet were on the water, his body rising and falling slightly with the ripples, and his long sword cleaved through the night wind time and time again.

The water splashed up, was then cleaved by the blade, flashed for a moment in the moonlight, and fell back onto the river surface.

Treading water. Swinging a knife. Simultaneously.

Jing didn't speak, he just stood there watching. He had been away from the village for almost two months; the mission at the border had taken longer than expected. When he left, the leaves were still green; when he returned, they were all fallen. And this child before him—when he left, he was wielding a knife on the shore; now he could stand on the water.

Shuoge sheathed his sword, took a deep breath, and jumped back to the bank from the river.

Water splashed at his feet, like a transparent flower.

He walked to the mirror and looked up at his uncle, whom he hadn't seen in a long time.

Kagami had lost weight; his cheekbones were more prominent than two months ago, and his eye sockets had sunken somewhat. But his eyes were still gentle, a stark contrast to the Kagami who fought on the battlefield.

"Uncle."

Jing lowered her head and looked at Shuoge.

The six-year-old boy seemed to have grown a little taller. His shoulders were broader than before, and the calluses on his hands were thicker. He reached out and gently patted Shuoge on the head.

"You've grown taller."

Shuoge didn't flinch. He simply lowered his eyes slightly. "You've lost weight."

Jing smiled but didn't respond. He took a paper package from his pocket and handed it to Shuo Ge.

"I bought this on the way; it's berry cake. I don't know if it's still crispy."

Shuoge took it. The paper package was still warm, carrying his body heat.

He opened it and took a look. The golden pastries were crammed into the paper package, and some of them were already broken.

He didn't say anything, but simply picked up a piece and put it in his mouth.

Sweet. Crispy. It melts on the tongue with a hint of sourness.

"It's alright," he said.

Jing watched him eat for a long while. "How's your knife skills coming along?"

"I practice every day."

"Want to tread water?"

"good."

"Hmm." Jing nodded. "Let me see how much you've grown during this time."

Shuoge looked up. "Now?"

"Now."

Jing stepped back a few paces and stood in the moonlight. He didn't form any hand seals, nor did he draw his sword; he simply stood there, like an old tree.

Shuoge was silent for a moment. Then he gripped his long sword and stepped forward.

The blade flashed briefly in the moonlight.

Sakugo's attack was very fast—faster than when he fought Kakashi.

The blade swept upwards, creating a whooshing sound.

Jing didn't dodge, but merely shifted his body slightly, the blade grazing his clothes. Shuoge didn't stop; the blade changed direction in mid-air, slashing horizontally. Jing took a step back, the blade passing right in front of him, just an inch away.

"Again."

Jing's voice was calm.

Shuoge gritted his teeth and sped up.

One slash, two slashes, three slashes—each slash was faster and more cunning than the last. But mirroring a fallen leaf, each time the blade was about to touch him, he floated away lightly.

Not too far, not too close, just an inch apart.

"Your knife is too fast," Jing said as she dodged.

Shuoge did not answer, and slashed down with his sword again.

“There’s nothing wrong with ‘fast’,” Jing said, stepping aside. “But the problem is, you’re only thinking about speed.”

The blade stopped in mid-air. Shuoge's hand paused slightly.

The mirror looked at him.

"Every strike you make is about speed, but have you ever considered—what is the purpose of speed?"

Without waiting for Shuoge's reply, he reached out and flicked Shuoge's wrist lightly.

The knife almost slipped from his hand.

Shuoge took two steps back to steady himself.

"Continue," Jing said.

Shuoge took a deep breath and gripped the hilt of the knife tightly again.

This time, he didn't rush to attack, but stood still and looked in the mirror.

Looked for a long time.

Then he moved—not by rushing forward, but by taking a step.

Just one step.

The knife moved upwards at a more cunning angle than before, but at a slower speed. Yet, within this single strike lay a change.

Jing's eyes lit up slightly. He didn't dodge, but instead reached out and gently brushed the back of the blade. The blade deflected, grazing just above Jing's shoulder. But Shuoge's left hand was already clenched into a fist, striking towards Jing's ribs.

boom.

His fist slammed into Jing's palm. Jing grasped his hand and looked down at him.

"good."

He released his grip and took a step back.

"Again."

Under the moonlight, two figures, one large and one small, intertwined.

Blades flashed, fists and feet clashed.

Jing kept saying, "This is too slow, that is too heavy, the angle should be a little off, and your wrist needs to be steady."

The voice was neither hurried nor slow, as if teaching a student to write.

Shuoge didn't answer, he just kept his head down and kept hacking away. Each strike was more steady than the last, each attack more methodical than the last.

The wounds on his body were multiplying. They weren't knife wounds, but rather marks pointed out by Jing with his finger—shoulders, arms, back, every spot a flaw.

Each time the mirror pointed, it would say, "This is the flaw."

"Here too."

"With this one strike, your left side will be completely empty."

Shuoge gritted his teeth, etching each word into his mind.

I don't know how much time has passed.

The moonlight on the river had shifted to one side.

Shuoge knelt on one knee, panting heavily.

The long sword lay planted in the ground beside him, its blade reflecting the moon's image. His clothes were soaked through, indistinguishable between river water and sweat. His shoulder had been tapped several times and was still numb.

Jing stood before him, her breathing steady, as if she hadn't done anything. He looked down at Shuoge for a long time.

"Get up," he said.

Shuoge raised his head, gritted his teeth, and stood up. His legs and arms were shaking, but he stood up straight.

The mirror looked at him.

"You are stronger than your peers, even stronger than I expected."

Shuoge did not speak.

"But the battlefield is ever-changing, and even a 'shadow' can die in battle."

Both World War I and World War II saw the shadows of the five major powers perish.

The third war will only be more intense!

Jing's tone remained unchanged. "Your foundation is solid, and your swordsmanship is quite good. But you lack real combat experience. Every move you make is practiced against wood, not against people."

Shuoge lowered his head.

"I know."

"It's good that you know what you're doing." Jing turned and took a few steps towards the shore. Then he stopped without looking back. "I'll still be here tomorrow. Keep practicing."

Shuoge paused for a moment. He looked at Jing's back, a much thinner figure standing in the moonlight, like an old tree.

He suddenly felt a burning sensation in his eyes.

A sudden flutter in my heart.

It wasn't pain, nor was it feeling wronged; it was something else entirely.

He couldn't explain it.

"Uncle."

"Um?"

"...Berry cake, it's quite delicious."

Jing's figure paused for a moment. Then he smiled, a soft laugh that was carried away by the night breeze.

"If you like it, that's good."

He's gone. The river shimmered in the moonlight. Shuoge stood there, still clutching the paper package. Crumbs of berry cake clung to his fingertips, sweet and sour.

He glanced down at the longsword. The moonlight reflected on its blade was even brighter than before.

……

……

……

Three days.

Uchiha Kagami only stayed at home for three days.

For the past three days, he would go to the riverbank every evening to watch Shuoge wield his sword. He would remain silent, leaning against a tree trunk with his arms crossed, his gaze following the trajectory of the blade. Occasionally, during a pause when Shuoge was sheathing his sword, he would utter a word or two—"Sink your wrist a little more," "You turned too quickly," "That was a good strike."

On the morning of the third day, the secret service arrived.

Shuoge stood at the courtyard gate, watching the masked figure kneel before Jing, offering him a scroll. Jing took the scroll, unrolled it, glanced at it, remained silent for a few seconds, and then nodded. The Anbu disappeared, as silently as they had arrived.

He folded the mirror into a scroll and tucked it into his pocket. He turned around and saw Shuoge standing in the doorway.

"Are you leaving?" Shuoge asked.

"Hmm. It's just a regular mission. I'll be back in three to five days." Mirror's tone was relaxed, as if she were talking about going to a general store.

Shuoge didn't speak. He looked at Jing's face, a face that had regained some color compared to three days ago. An inexplicable unease rose from the bottom of his heart, like a thin needle pricking somewhere indescribable. It didn't hurt, but he just couldn't get rid of it.

"Just a regular mission," Kagami said. With his strength, there really wasn't any mission that could be considered dangerous. S-rank or A-rank, Kagami's name itself was a passport. But the unease didn't dissipate; instead, it grew clearer.

"I'll go with you."

Shuoge spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it was resolute.

Jing paused for a moment, then smiled. He walked over, squatted down in front of Shuo Ge, and looked him in the eye. "What are you doing coming with me? Don't we still have classes at school?"

"Shadow clones are enough."

"This mission isn't about training," Jing shook her head. "I'm in a rush on the road and don't have time to take care of you."

"I don't need to be taken care of."

Jing looked into Shuoge's eyes. There was no willfulness, no sullenness in those eyes, only something he couldn't quite put his finger on. It wasn't worry, it wasn't fear, but something deeper, more profound—as if he already knew everything, but simply wouldn't say it.

Jing was silent for a moment. Then he reached out and gently patted Shuoge on the head.

"Don't worry."

His voice was very gentle.

"There is something I need to ask you."

Shuoge raised his head.

"Shisui," Kagami said, "that child has been practicing shuriken all by himself lately, without any company. Could you go and check on him for me?"

Sakugo remained silent. Uchiha Shisui, Kagami's junior and his cousin. Only four years old, he could already independently complete ten consecutive shuriken strikes. The child didn't talk much, but his eyes were bright, shining like two black pearls.

"He needs someone to look after him while you're not around." Jing stood up. "He's in your care now."

Shuoge stood still, looking in the mirror as he tidied his belongings, hung the short sword at his waist, and checked his ninja tool bag. His movements were skilled and fluid, just like when he taught Shuoge swordsmanship—meticulous in every detail.

Jing walked to the door and glanced back.

"The berry cake is on the table, remember to eat it. Don't let it spoil."

He smiled, then pushed open the door and went out.

Morning light streamed in through the crack in the door, gilding the reflection in the mirror with a golden hue. The figure quickly disappeared at the end of the alley, indistinguishable from any other morning. Like someone just going to the Hokage Building, like someone just going to buy a newspaper, like someone who would be back before dark.

Shuoge stood at the doorway, looking at the empty alley. A cool breeze blew in from outside, carrying the dry scent unique to autumn.

He didn't chase after them. He just stood there, for a long time. Then he turned and went inside. On the table was a paper package, exactly the same as the one from three days ago. He opened it and glanced inside—berry cake, golden yellow, still intact, not broken.

He picked up a piece and put it in his mouth.

Sweet.

It's just as sweet as it was three days ago.