Itachi Uchiha's son Shinra Uchiha

The canyon's wind howled in distant walls, birthing ghostly echoes that danced across Boruto's bones. He remained rooted at the edge of a half-collapsed pavilion—once grand, now splintered by time and chakra turmoil. Sasuke's sword in his grip felt heavier than usual, its black steel humming with memory. The cloth wrapping his hand smacked against the hilt in the breeze, a tactile reminder of how much had changed.

He closed his eyes, centering himself. The clutter of thoughts—itachi, Sasuke, the swirling drama of Omnipotence and expectations—fell away. Only breath and the weight of steel remained.

A voice broke the hush.

 "Let your blade become your mind."

Boruto felt it more than heard it—Shinra's low edge cutting into his hearing like a blade through parchment.

He opened his eyes. Shinra stood across from him, cloak rustling, obsidian sword resting casually in hand. The air between them pulsed with tension so thick he could taste it.

Boruto clenched his grip. He took a long breath, folding chakra through his bones instead of bursting outward. No jutsu. No tricks. Just intention.

His steps were deliberate, controlled—each one measured like the swing of a pendulum dividing seconds of doubt.

They closed distance quickly, blades raised.

Clash one: steel against steel. Boruto's wrist jolted at the impact, but he held firm.

Clash two: Shinra's blade knocked his aside. Boruto stumbled, eyes narrowing with resolve.

Clash three: Boruto spun, wind chakra spiraling along his blade, orchestrating a blade-dance rhythm. Shinra answered, parrying with calm precision.

Boruto unleashed his first variation:

 He sank chakra into his legs and core.

 The blade sang as it rose in a flawless Yin–Yang arc, channeling his Will of Fire—and his frustration at failing to stop Sasuke.

 Shinra backed off—smoke spiraled from clash heat.

Boruto pressed. He pivoted on one foot—strike, counter, riposte. Shinra's blade twisted in mid-air to meet every blow.

 Boruto could feel the cusp: he was on Shinra's edge.

A thought cut sharp through his mind:

This isn't copying Sasuke. It's breaking its own mold.

With precision, Boruto pulled chakra directly through the blade–steel becoming conduit for intent.

He advanced, layer by layer.

Clash after clash rattled the pavilion's broken beams.

Boruto struck—

 Thud.

A hollow echo.

Shinra staggered. His hand loosened.

Boruto froze—then smiled in shock.

"I did it," he breathed. "I actually hit you."

But he blinked.

Shinra didn't blink.

The blade slipped from Shinra's hand—but no one was holding it.

Shinra looked down at his empty grip, then at Boruto.

 "That wasn't me."

Before Boruto could speak, the pavilion's mist flickered. His chest tightened.

The ground beneath his feet trembled.

He turned—and the 'Shinra' before him fractured, misting away—revealing a darker, sharper silhouette, flickering at the edges like a burnt mirror.

A clone. Or worse, a projection.

Boruto's sword clattered to the stones. His fingertips trembled—for the first time since Sasuke's final words, fear crept in.

He looked around, heart pounding.

The wind's howl stilled.

 "Why…? You let me win?"

The real Shinra stepped out of the shadows, face unreadable beneath the hood.

He extended his hand and caught Boruto's sword for him—a gesture without ceremony.

 "I don't lose," he said softly. "But I give you moments to find your edge."

Boruto swallowed, eyes wide.

"You fought yourself today. That was your trial."

"But—" Boruto began, voice trembling. "I thought…"

Shinra lowered the sword. "You'll think less, and see more." His voice hardened. "Play with no thought, get cut down by your reflection."

Boruto exhaled shakily. "So… I beat your clone. What does that mean?"

"Clones don't lie," Shinra answered. He held Boruto in place with his gaze. "How you fight in the mirror is how you fight when everyone's watching—or when no one is."

Boruto nodded, chest heaving. He thought of Sasuke, of his own failings, and fate they forced on him.

Shinra studied him, cold and calculating. Then he sat on a broken pillar.

 "That strike—strong. Like a roar that cuts the sky."

Boruto frowned. "It felt wrong. I barely thought. I just... did."

A flicker of acknowledgement passed Shinra's eyes.

"That's the moment," he said. "That is the blade's will. Not yours. Not mine."

Boruto's gaze stayed on the sword in Shinra's hand—obsidian veins faintly glowing like distant lightning.

Shinra stood and handed it back.

"It's mine right now," he said quietly. "But soon… it will be yours."

Boruto took it silently, feeling its blade like a promise. The wind roared again. The mist reclaimed the clearing's edges.

Shinra walked toward the pavilion's mouth.

 "Finish your training here," he commanded over his shoulder.

Boruto watched as Shinra faded into mist—just like his clone.

The words rang in his ears:

 "How you fight in the mirror is how you fight when no one is watching."

Boruto turned to face the ruins alone—his breath steadying, his grip firm, and his heart echoing with a new kind of clarity.

He sheathed the sword and stepped out into the fading dusk—knowing his next fight would need more than steel. It would need vision, conviction, and a blade willing to sing its own path.