If Gen Uchiha still had the strength to fight, then in all likelihood, he could still operate at jonin level or above, much like Maruboshi Kosuke would in the future.
But for him to step in would mean forcing his already battered, aging body to endure the pain of old wounds all over again.
If suffering can be avoided, then there is no reason to seek it out.
After his recent crash course in medical ninjutsu, Uchiha Gen had gained a clear sense of what medicine in the ninja world was like now, let alone twenty or thirty years ago.
Not to mention that Tsunade had not yet created the kind of regenerative methods that could restore damaged organs and muscles. There was simply no way for injuries like the Grand Elder's to truly heal.
"Forget it. There's no point dragging up old stories now. The future belongs to you young people."
Uchiha Gen let out a soft sigh and waved a hand as though brushing away the weight of decades.
"You two continue. I'll watch from here. Don't worry about hurting each other. Even old as I am, I still have a few tricks left."
"Yes, Elder."
"Yes, Grandfather."
The boy and girl answered in unison. Then they stepped onto the training ground and formed the seal of opposition.
"Little Gen, I'm coming."
Mikoto Uchiha stood across from him with a smile on her face, but the instant she settled into stance, the smile seemed to turn sharp. Her two-tomoe Sharingan spun slowly in her eyes.
With her right hand, she drew the short sword at her waist in one smooth motion. Her left hand hovered near her ninja pouch, ready to move at any time.
"Please."
Uchiha Gen lowered his center of gravity and slowly drew the ninja sword he had just bought.
This was a perfect chance to get used to all the abilities brought by Young Madara's card.
It felt a lot like controlling the same character in a game. The stats, the skills, the mechanics were all there, but how much of that power he could really display still depended on his own awareness, timing, and familiarity.
Off to the side, the Grand Elder had also activated his own three-tomoe Sharingan. His gaze locked onto the field with quiet intensity.
The moment Gen assumed the opening stance of Uchiha-style swordsmanship, a strange sense of familiarity rose in the old man's heart.
"Clang!"
Several shuriken flashed through the air.
Mikoto's opening strike came first from range, crisp and efficient. Uchiha Gen reacted almost immediately, flicking his sword to knock the projectiles aside before they could close in.
In the next heartbeat, Mikoto moved.
She darted in like a drifting blossom caught by the wind, her short blade stabbing straight toward him with terrifying speed.
"So fast."
Even though he had been prepared, Uchiha Gen still felt a jolt run through him.
He braced both hands on his sword, lowered his weight, and answered with an upward slash.
Steel rang again as the two blades crashed together.
"The eyes can keep up. The body can too."
The thought steadied him at once.
Mikoto was strong. There was no question about it.
In the original timeline, she would become an Uchiha jonin who awakened the three-tomoe Sharingan. That alone proved her talent. And now, though she was not yet sixteen, she was already a tokubetsu jonin with very real combat power.
If this had been the old him, he would have retreated immediately after the first clash, trying to create distance and play to his strengths with shuriken and ninjutsu.
That would have been the safer option. The more familiar option.
But now, with Young Madara's card equipped, Uchiha Gen was sure of one thing.
He had the right to meet Mikoto's two-tomoe Sharingan head-on.
With a twist of his waist, he turned the rebound from the clash into a horizontal slash.
Mikoto seemed to have predicted it. She flipped backward with graceful precision, and at the same time, three senbon shot from her sleeve toward his brow, throat, and heart.
Her timing was viciously clean.
Mikoto had expected him to dodge or fall back. Anyone with enough sense and enough eye power would have done so. The moment he retreated, she would gain the distance she needed to form hand seals and pull the battle into her rhythm.
But Gen did not retreat.
He saw the senbon.
And instead of backing away, he stepped in.
His body surged forward in a burst of speed, sword flashing down in a rising arc.
"Uchiha Style: Leaping Slash!"
At the edge of the field, the Grand Elder's eyes widened.
The three tomoe in his Sharingan spun faster.
For an instant, the years seemed to fold in on themselves.
Different era. Different child. Different battlefield.
And yet the meaning within that movement, the edge in that advance, the boldness of the timing - it was all painfully familiar.
"Madara..."
The old man murmured the name without realizing he had spoken.
That was the name of a man who had once made all enemies despair, and all Uchiha hold their heads high.
The Grand Elder was of the same generation as Tobirama Senju and Izuna Uchiha, only slightly younger than Madara himself.
He had not stood at the absolute peak the way the Madara brothers had, but in his youth he had still been one of the clan's foremost geniuses. He had sparred with them, fought beside them, bled beside them.
Among the people still alive in Konoha, no one understood the fighting style of Young Madara better than he did.
"They're too alike..."
On the field, Mikoto's pupils narrowed.
She had not expected that charge.
With no time to avoid the strike cleanly, she turned her wrist and intercepted it head-on. The collision forced her back a full step, the soles of her sandals scraping hard against the dirt.
Before she could fully recover, Gen was already pressing forward.
He moved with a rhythm that was both aggressive and controlled, the sword in his hand cutting out a sequence of sharp, simple lines. No wasted flourish. No hesitation.
His bladework was not yet mature. That much Mikoto could tell instantly.
But the intent hidden inside it was astonishingly fierce.
It was not the cautious style she had expected from him. It was not the measured, exam-perfect manner of a boy who always ranked first in theory.
This was something else.
This was a style that demanded space by force.
Mikoto's two-tomoe Sharingan spun faster. She adjusted at once, abandoning any thought of easy suppression.
The two clashed again and again, their blades sending sparks into the air.
Gen's breathing stayed even.
Every exchange fed him more information. Every parry, every shift in Mikoto's shoulders, every subtle change in the line of her feet became clearer under the Sharingan's perception.
This was the true strength of the eye at this stage.
Not raw domination. Not yet.
It was the ability to see.
To see the tiny details others missed. To catch the intent before it fully became action. To choose the better angle a fraction of a second sooner.
Still, that did not make Mikoto an opponent he could defeat just because he could read her more clearly.
Her sword was steadier than his. Her body was more practiced. Her control over the distance was more refined.
After a dozen exchanges, she suddenly broke away and leaped back.
Her hands flashed through seals.
Uchiha Gen's eyes sharpened.
He moved almost on instinct, jumping aside a split second before the flames burst forth.
"Fire Release: Great Fireball Technique!"
The blazing sphere roared across the field, devouring the place where he had just been.
Before the fire had fully expanded, Gen was already weaving his own hand seals.
A second later, his own flames met hers head-on.
Two enormous fireballs collided in midair, grinding against each other in a burst of heat and pressure that sent a hot wind rushing across the training ground.
The Grand Elder watched the clash without blinking, but the dazed look in his eyes slowly returned.
Fortunately, it was only in close-range sword combat that this child resembled Madara so strongly.
In other areas, especially in ninjutsu, the similarities were still there, but there were enough differences to reassure him.
That made sense.
Over the past month, Orochimaru had personally trained Uchiha Gen in all kinds of combat methods. In many areas, the boy had already begun forming his own habits and instincts.
And his temperament was different too.
Madara's presence in battle had always carried an overwhelming sharpness - fierce, domineering, proud to the point of tyranny, yet never careless.
Gen was not like that.
He was calmer. More restrained. He thought more before he moved.
But...
"They still look far too much alike..."
A strange relief passed through the Grand Elder all at once.
Fortunately, that damned white-haired devil Tobirama Senju had been dead for eighteen years.
That man had always been talented, yes, but his methods had been ruthless beyond measure. His wariness of the Uchiha had sunk clear down into his bones. And in his youth, he and Hashirama had crossed blades with Madara and Izuna often enough that he knew them intimately.
People liked to say things like, "He takes after that person by three parts, and it's enough to scare me."
But the resemblance between this child and Young Madara was far more than three parts.
If Tobirama were still alive and had seen this scene with his own eyes, then forget sleep - that old bastard probably would not have waited until the next day.
He would have moved against this child the moment he got the chance, soft tactics if he could, hard tactics if he had to.
Fortunately, he was long dead.
Of the old men who had once witnessed Madara's youthful brilliance, almost none were left. And those who did remain, like the Grand Elder himself, had all stepped back from the front lines because of age.
On the field, the fireballs exploded apart.
Mikoto landed lightly and exhaled a long breath. Her gaze toward Gen had changed.
The teasing warmth from before was gone. In its place was something much closer to true recognition.
"Little Gen," she said softly, "you're really changing fast."
Gen lowered his sword a fraction, the heat still prickling across his face.
"Then I'll have to work even harder, Mikoto-nee. Otherwise I won't be worthy of all the trouble you and the Elder are going through."
For the first time since the spar began, the Grand Elder let out a low laugh.
"Good. Very good."
His old eyes, worn by time and war, fixed themselves on the boy once more.
Perhaps it was just a shadow.
Perhaps it was only memory playing tricks on him.
But for a few brief moments, standing there beneath the afternoon light with a sword in hand, this child had truly made him feel as though he were seeing Madara again.