The second sword, priced at forty-six thousand ryo, felt ordinary the moment it settled into his hand. It was heavier than the first, not by a huge margin, but enough that the balance no longer matched his current build. Uchiha Gen gave it a few experimental swings, then put it back without much hesitation.
The third, the fourth, then the fifth followed in turn. Over the next few minutes, all five ninja swords passed through his hands one by one. In the end, the differences between them were not especially dramatic. One was a little heavier, one slightly stiffer, one had better balance in the hilt, but none of them were so exceptional that they justified endless indecision.
Uchiha Gen was practical about this. Whatever blade he bought now would eventually be replaced anyway. He was still growing, and his fighting style was still taking shape. So rather than chasing perfection, he simply chose the one that felt the smoothest in his grip and the easiest to command with instinct rather than thought.
The moment he paid, his wallet lost forty-seven thousand ryo. It hurt a little, but only a little.
With the new sword secured at his waist, he stopped at another shop and spent another three thousand ryo on some high-grade tobacco and two inexpensive but tasteful bracelets. Altogether, the round trip cost him a clean fifty thousand.
These were not random purchases. The tobacco was for the Grand Elder. The bracelets were for Mikoto and Aunt Mika. They had both said there was no need to bring anything, that he had only just become a ninja and did not have money to waste, and that their household lacked nothing so small—but there was a difference between them saying that and him actually showing up empty-handed.
A superior might not truly care about a small present. But whether you offered one or not still sent a signal. It said whether that person occupied a place in your thoughts. It said whether you remembered their kindness. It said whether you understood how the world worked.
And in any world, from office politics in a previous life to clan politics in this one, the same principle held true: they may say they do not need it, but you still cannot arrive with nothing.
At the entrance to the estate, Uchiha Gen handed the gift box to Mika with both hands. "Sister Mikoto, Aunt Mika—just a little token of respect. It isn't worth much."
Mika greeted him at the door with a warm smile. "Oh my, child, you even brought gifts." Then, before he could protest, she accepted the box and waved him in. "Next time, you really don't have to. Come in, come in."
The Grand Elder himself appeared at the doorway a moment later, hands clasped behind his back as always. He did not comment on the gifts. He did not need to. The fact that he let Uchiha Gen enter without ceremony already said enough.
Inside, Mikoto placed several cups of hot tea on the table. The room smelled faintly of wood, clean paper, and tea leaves. It was quiet in the way only old houses and disciplined households ever seemed to be.
But the Grand Elder had no intention of wasting time on pleasantries. After taking one measured sip of tea, he looked directly at Uchiha Gen and said, "Speak. What brings you here this time?"
Uchiha Gen set down his cup and answered just as directly. "Grand Elder, I've awakened the Sharingan."
The old man paused for half a breath, then slowly nodded. Satisfaction flickered across his aged features. "Awakening it at this age is not late. Awakening it only a month after formally becoming a shinobi proves that I did not misjudge you. Your talent is indeed excellent. Show me your eyes."
Uchiha Gen blinked once and let the chakra gather. Crimson spread through his irises, and a single tomoe spun into place.
"Mikoto," the elder said calmly.
Mikoto immediately understood. She set down the teapot, turned toward Uchiha Gen, and called softly, "Xiao Yuan, look at me."
The instant he turned his head, her own Sharingan opened. Unlike his, hers held two tomoe, and the difference in the pressure they carried was obvious from the first moment.
"Genjutsu: Sharingan."
A powerful wave of ocular force crashed into Uchiha Gen's mind. It was not hostile, but it was overwhelming all the same. His shoulders tightened involuntarily, and a muffled sound escaped his throat before he got himself under control.
Then his own tomoe began spinning faster.
Mikoto had no intention of harming him. On the contrary, she was using the genjutsu as a whetstone, forcing him to mobilize his eye power and grow familiar with the sensation of resisting through his Sharingan rather than simply enduring it. Because he understood that, Uchiha Gen did not try to break the illusion by brute force. He let himself stay inside the pressure and used everything he had to feel how his own eye power moved.
The result was a slightly eerie scene. A boy and a girl sat facing each other over a low table, crimson eyes locked, neither speaking. One pushed. The other resisted. The old man beside them calmly drank tea and waited, as though such a sight belonged to ordinary family life.
A full minute passed before Mikoto finally released the technique.
She blinked several times, rubbing at the dryness around her eyes. Uchiha Gen did the same. Even with the Sharingan, staring like that for so long made his eyes feel uncomfortably dry and hot.
"A minute," the Grand Elder said with a nod. "Not bad. You adapted quickly. Your talent with the Sharingan is decent, but it still needs practice. We'll go to the training ground first. I'll give you some pointers on how to use your eyes, and after that we'll head to the clan vault so you can select more jutsu. Do you need to rest first?"
For a moment, some of the old severity in his gaze softened. To a man like him, there was probably nothing more precious in his final years than seeing promising Uchiha children step onto the right path with his own eyes.
Uchiha Gen stood immediately. "Let's go now, Grand Elder."
He had no intention of wasting such an opportunity. Orochimaru could guide him in broad shinobi fundamentals better than almost anyone alive—ninjutsu, tactics, survival, training theory—but when it came to the Uchiha clan's own specialties, especially the Sharingan, there was no one in the present clan better suited to guide him than this old man.
The Grand Elder might not have possessed the Mangekyo Sharingan like Madara and Izuna once had, but he was still a veteran of the Warring States era, a three-tomoe Uchiha whose life had been forged in blood, battle, and accumulated experience. That kind of guidance could not be bought.
The group crossed deeper into clan territory until they reached a private training ground. The space was simple but spacious, with worn earth underfoot and enough room for sparring, fire release drills, and shuriken practice.
The Grand Elder stopped near the edge of the field. "My old injuries make it inconvenient for me to fight personally. Mikoto will spar with you instead."
Uchiha Gen looked at him in surprise. "Old injuries?"
The elder gave a low grunt, then slowly lifted the loose fabric of one trouser leg.
A section of flesh was simply gone from his calf. In its place sat an intricate wooden prosthetic mechanism, reinforced with cleverly arranged spring components. It was functional, but even a glance was enough to understand the extent of the damage he had once suffered.
"This was from the First Shinobi World War," the Grand Elder said flatly. "I was wounded by the man who would later become the Third Raikage, before he took office. If that old devil Tobirama Senju hadn't arrived in time, I would have died there to Kumogakure's Hell Stab."
He let the pant leg drop again, then tapped his chest.
"But that wasn't the first wound Tobirama ever left me with. Thirty-five years ago, one year before the village was founded, I escorted supplies alongside Izuna and ran into Tobirama Senju. He struck me with the Thunder God Sword."
When he spoke Tobirama's name, his tone turned strange—part hatred, part resentment, part something much harder to name. "That white-haired old devil's water and lightning chakra invaded my body. To survive, part of my lung had to be removed."
A missing section of lung. Part of a calf gone. Uchiha Gen could instantly imagine the consequences. Endurance, explosive movement, sustained combat ability—injuries like those were not mere inconveniences. For a shinobi, they were wounds that could permanently redefine the rest of one's life.
And yet the old man still stood straight.
His back remained upright. His gaze remained sharp. His presence still carried the pressure of an Uchiha elder who had survived from the Warring States era until now.
No wonder his feelings toward Tobirama Senju were so complicated. He had every reason to hate him. And yet after the Uchiha and Senju clans reconciled and Konoha was founded, Tobirama had also once saved his life without allowing old grudges to decide the matter.
Hatred, debt, humiliation, gratitude—people liked to imagine that feelings came one at a time. Reality was rarely that simple.
The Grand Elder lowered his hand and looked at Uchiha Gen again. "That's enough old talk. Injuries are injuries. The important thing is whether you can still move forward after carrying them. Open your eyes properly and prepare yourself. Mikoto won't go easy on you just because you're newly awakened."
Mikoto stepped onto the field, the easy warmth from earlier replaced by the focused calm of a real shinobi. Her hand settled lightly near her weapon pouch, and the two tomoe in her eyes turned toward him with quiet intensity.
Uchiha Gen drew a slow breath, let the single tomoe in his own eyes spin, and tightened his grip on the sword at his waist.
This was exactly why he had come.
Orochimaru could give him a shinobi's foundation. The system could hand him cards and abilities. But here, in this clan training ground, under the gaze of an elder who had once walked beside Madara's era and across from Tobirama's blade, he would begin learning what it truly meant to fight as an Uchiha.
And whatever came next—whether it was more jutsu, sharper control of the Sharingan, or an even deeper understanding of the clan's bloodline—he intended to seize it all.