Itachi Uchiha's son Shinra Uchiha

Boruto stood alone at the mouth of the ravine, the mist curling at his feet like it was alive. The quiet stretched around him—thick, heavy. Behind him, the clearing where he'd struck Shinra felt like a distant memory. Ahead lay something else entirely.

The ground dipped sharply, descending into a narrow canyon with walls blackened by time and chakra scars. Moss clung to every surface, and splintered kunai jutted from trees like forgotten thorns. The smell of old iron and rain-soaked stone lingered in the air.

There were no paths.

No signs.

Only shadows.

Boruto adjusted the sword at his side and stepped forward.

He didn't ask where Shinra was.

Because he already knew—he was watching.

---

Ten minutes in, Boruto triggered the first trap.

A hollow crunch underfoot snapped the silence. Chakra threads surged out from the underbrush like vipers—binding, yanking, pulling. He reacted on instinct, flipping backward into a stone wall, using a burst of wind chakra to cut the wires mid-air.

He landed hard. Dirt scraped his palms.

Too slow.

He stood, shaking off the sting.

From somewhere above, a voice echoed—low, measured, familiar.

> "You step like someone who's afraid the ground will bite."

Boruto narrowed his eyes. "And yet here I am. Not bitten."

The silence returned.

He pressed forward.

The ravine narrowed, its walls pressing in on him like the inside of a throat. Strange glyphs carved into the stone began to glow faintly—a sickly green, like something half-dead and half-dreaming.

Every few paces, a shadow flickered across the edge of his vision.

They weren't enemies.

They were remnants.

Chakra echoes—ghosts of battles long buried, replaying fragments of killing intent without any target.

Boruto kept his head low, heart pounding.

> "This place is built from memory," he thought. "Someone made this to trap more than just bodies."

He slipped between two jagged stone pillars and dropped into a basin-like clearing.

And froze.

Dozens of weapons lay embedded in the dirt—blades, shuriken, even broken staffs. They were rusted, but not fallen. Each one stood upright, unmoving.

As if placed.

He stepped forward cautiously.

Then it moved.

His shadow.

Not his own anymore.

It rose from the ground like ink given form—same height, same clothes, same face.

Boruto stared.

The clone didn't speak. Didn't posture.

It just rushed him.

Boruto blocked instinctively, sword meeting its match in an identical blade. Sparks flew. He slid back, twisting into a counterstrike—only for the shadow to vanish and reappear behind him.

He turned—too late.

The clone struck low, and Boruto hit the dirt again.

He rolled, jumped back, panting.

> "Genjutsu?" he thought. "No. It feels real."

He charged. They clashed again—steel to steel, movement to movement.

The shadow fought without emotion. No words. No hesitation.

Only intent.

> "It fights like me," Boruto realized. "But without doubt."

That was the difference.

The shadow didn't hesitate before striking. Boruto did.

It didn't second-guess. It didn't worry about consequences. It just attacked.

They locked blades again—close. Face to face.

Boruto snarled. "You're not me."

The shadow said nothing.

Boruto dropped to a crouch and slammed his palm into the dirt, releasing a shockwave of chakra through his boots. The terrain cracked—shattering the balance.

The clone stumbled, faltering.

Boruto used the moment—side-stepped, flipped his grip, and brought the hilt of his blade into the shadow's gut.

Contact.

The figure burst into smoke.

He staggered back, breathing hard, sword loose in his grip.

The mist remained still. Watching.

Then came the voice again, from the treetops above.

> "You hesitate when you're strongest. Do you know why?"

Boruto didn't answer.

Shinra dropped from above, silent as ever. He landed near the edge of the clearing, hands in his sleeves.

He walked toward the embedded weapons and stopped before a rusted katana with a broken hilt. Without a word, he pulled it from the dirt and inspected it—like it might still have a heartbeat.

> "Most shinobi fear pain. Others fear loss. But the rare ones…" Shinra tossed the broken blade aside, "...they fear becoming the thing they fight."

Boruto looked away.

Shinra's voice softened, but not kindly.

"You fight like someone trying to avoid becoming something."

Boruto spat to the side. "Maybe I am."

Shinra didn't flinch. "Then this training will break you."

He turned away, walking to the edge of the next ravine fork.

Boruto followed, silent.

They climbed higher, out of the deepest fog. Trees here were twisted, split by lightning long ago, their bark burned black. Birds didn't sing. The wind didn't whistle.

It was dead land.

And then Shinra stopped.

He turned, and for the first time since Boruto had met him—he drew his own blade.

The motion was smooth, unhurried. The sword was unlike anything Boruto had seen: not steel, but something darker—obsidian laced with faint silver veins, as if lightning had been frozen into stone.

"Again," Shinra said.

Boruto blinked. "Now?"

Shinra's eyes were hard. "Draw. No chakra. No tricks. Just you. And a choice."

Boruto took a stance.

This time, when they moved—it was different.

Shinra didn't vanish. He didn't phase out like mist. He stayed visible.

But he was *faster*.

Boruto had to parry hard just to stay standing. Each clash reverberated up his bones. Shinra's strikes weren't wild—they were *calculated*. Testing angles. Precision without pause.

Boruto dodged a low sweep, stepped in, swung high—and Shinra caught his blade mid-air between two fingers.

No genjutsu.

No substitution.

Just complete control.

Shinra didn't disarm him.

He leaned close, voice low.

> "What's holding your blade back isn't your strength. It's your permission."

Boruto's breath caught.

Then Shinra let go and stepped back.

Boruto stood still, sword trembling.

Shinra sheathed his blade and walked to the cliff's edge.

"When you fight next time," he said, "do it like there's no one left to lie to."

Boruto didn't reply.

He just stood there, staring at the blade in his hands.