Itachi Uchiha's son Shinra Uchiha

Night had fallen in the Valley of Claw. Inky shadows pooled around the training grounds, fractured by moonlight that slivered through broken pillars. The air was cold, thick with mist and lingering chakra from the trials of the day.

Boruto stood by the embers of a dying fire, Sasuke's blade in hand. His eyes burned with questions—too many to ask, and none of them small.

Shinra emerged from the edge of darkness, his cloak shifting soundlessly as he approached. He didn't sit. He leaned against a broken stone pillar, arms crossed.

"A Leaf shinobi fighting for clarity," Shinra said calmly. "Not power. That's... rare."

Boruto turned, face set. "You're an Uchiha. I saw the crest. I've seen the statue of Itachi in Konoha—the one Kakashi-sensei had built. I've heard things. Sasuke never talks much, but when we traveled, sometimes... he'd stop in front of that statue like it hurt to look at it."

Shinra's head tilted, unreadable.

Boruto stepped forward. "You move like Sasuke. But your words—they feel like his brother's. Cold but... exact. And you're not old enough to have fought in the war."

He paused.

"So where were you? Who are your parents? Are they alive? Did you grow up in the Leaf? Because if you did... I would've known. Sarada would've known."

Shinra remained silent, his eyes watching the fire's dying glow.

Boruto's voice grew sharper. "You shouldn't exist."

Silence.

"You're like a glitch. Like something not written in the script."

Shinra's eyes flicked toward him. "Maybe I am."

That wasn't a denial.

"Then what are you doing here?" Boruto pressed. "You don't owe me anything. The whole world thinks I killed Lord Seventh. So why? Why train me?"

Shinra looked up, eyes tracing the stars between the broken tower's ribs.

"Try this," he said. "Stop looking at the world like it owes you a reason. Start asking yourself why you keep walking through it anyway."

Boruto blinked, unsure if it was an answer or a deflection.

Then Shinra added, voice lower now: "Look for the reflection of your father and Sasuke behind me. You won't see them. But their intent lives—if you stop looking with your eyes and start feeling with your resolve."

Boruto's hand dropped to his side. A memory surfaced—dim, but sharp. A quiet morning with Sasuke as they stood before the Itachi statue. Boruto had asked something like, "What did he do?"

And Sasuke had answered in a tone like cold steel:

 "He made a choice no one else could live with."

That line whispered through Boruto's thoughts now.

He looked at Shinra. "You sound like both of them."

A shadow crossed Shinra's face.

"Sound is just breath shaped by conviction," he said quietly. "I've walked with both guilt and purpose. One burns. One freezes. I was raised in between."

Boruto hesitated. "So you do remember who your parents were?"

Shinra didn't reply.

But he stepped forward, and there was something so familiar in the way he moved—like Sasuke's solemn stride, but gentler... more haunted.

"Some people think a father's love is in his teachings," Shinra said. "But I believe... it's in the path he carves. So his son won't have to walk blind."

Boruto looked down at the blade in his hand.

"You talk like you've lost everything."

"I didn't lose everything," Shinra said, staring into the mist. "Just the one thing that made sense of everything else."

His voice held no emotion. That made it worse.

Boruto looked up again. "Why help me, then?"

Shinra's eyes glinted faintly in the dark. "Because I've watched you walk the edge. And you didn't jump."

Boruto clenched his fists. "You think that's strength?"

"No," Shinra said. "That's pain. But it's the kind that shapes blades instead of breaking them."

A long pause.

Then Shinra spoke again, this time more deliberately:

 "We do not become what we want. We become what we must."

Boruto froze.

That wasn't just any lesson. That was something Itachi could've said—something Sasuke had probably carried silently for years.

Shinra turned away, his cloak rising slightly in the night wind.

"Itachi's not here," he said, voice quieter now. "But his truth lives... if you have the eyes to see it."

Boruto's voice cracked. "You... knew him?"

Shinra didn't turn around. "No. But I knew someone who lived as if his spirit never left."

Boruto didn't speak.

Shinra took a few steps toward the shadows, then paused.

"You become a father's son by choice," he said, "not by blood."

Boruto stared at the fire.

"I don't know who my father is anymore," he muttered.

"You will," Shinra answered.

And then he was gone—into the dark again, like he'd never stood there at all.

Boruto didn't move for a long time.

Then he looked at the sword in his hand, at the glowing embers, and the stars blinking above through ruined stone.

The weight of legacy settled on him.

And yet, it didn't crush him.

It carried him.