Itachi Uchiha's son Shinra Uchiha

The sharp cliffs slowly turned into a narrow path between high rock walls. Boruto walked carefully, still thinking about the last thing Shinra said. The Sword of Sasuke felt heavier than usual, like it knew what kind of person had just left.

The sky was a dull gray, and the air was still, but full of tension, like a storm could break out at any second. Chakra filled the space around him. It didn't feel peaceful. It felt like something was waiting.

Boruto followed signs that weren't really there—no real footprints, no broken branches. Just the feeling that someone had passed through. Shinra had left a kind of pressure in the air, and Boruto could feel it.

Eventually, he stepped into an old clearing. Broken stone pillars circled the area. The ground was scarred from old battles—black marks, deep cracks, like someone had fought for their life here a long time ago.

Shinra was already there, standing in the middle. His cloak moved slightly with the breeze. He didn't look at Boruto.

Boruto stopped at the edge of the clearing.

For a while, neither of them said anything.

Then Shinra finally spoke.

"Done running?"

"I wasn't running," Boruto said firmly.

Shinra tilted his head. "Everyone runs. Some just do it while moving forward."

Boruto stepped closer.

"Why did you bring me here?"

Shinra didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached into his cloak and dropped a wooden staff at Boruto's feet.

"A sword hides your weak points. This won't."

Boruto gave him a confused look. "You want me to fight you with this?"

"If you can land one hit," Shinra said, narrowing his eyes, "I'll teach you something. Something important. Something no one else can."

The wind passed between them without a sound.

Boruto picked up the staff.

"I'm not playing your game."

"You already are," Shinra said, stepping into a fighting stance. "Start."

Boruto's hands tightened around the staff. He stared into Shinra's eyes, searching for an opening—but there was nothing. No flicker. No hint. Just stillness.

Shinra didn't breathe like a normal shinobi. His body didn't flinch. His weight wasn't on his heels or his toes. It was like he didn't need gravity.

Boruto thought back to everything he'd learned—from Konohamaru, from Sasuke, even from Kawaki. But none of that helped here. Shinra felt like something that didn't belong in this world.

He stepped forward, ready to strike—

—and Shinra was already behind him.

Boruto spun, swinging the staff, but Shinra ducked without effort. Every movement was precise. Not flashy. Not fast. Just perfect.

In another world, in another timeline, Shinra might've been a ghost story whispered by ANBU.

"He doesn't walk on the ground," some would say. "He walks on purpose."

"They say his blood is ink, and every move he makes writes a warning."

"Not even shadows follow him. They're scared."

Boruto swung again, heart pounding, breath sharp.

Shinra sidestepped like wind through leaves.

And still, he didn't attack.

He was waiting.

Watching.

Testing.

This wasn't a spar.

This was judgment.

Boruto backed off for a second, panting. He glanced down at the staff—his grip slick with sweat. He hated how Shinra just stood there, calm, unreadable.

"You think this proves something?" Boruto asked, voice tight.

Shinra said nothing.

Boruto lunged again, shouting, spinning the staff with chakra-infused strength. The wood hummed through the air—but again, it struck nothing. Shinra weaved past each strike with minimal movement, as if he knew Boruto's next step before it happened.

Boruto stumbled, frustration flaring.

"You're not even trying!"

"No," Shinra replied softly, "you are."

That stung more than it should have.

Boruto charged again, trying to silence the voice in his head—the doubt, the grief, the weight of Sasuke's sword. But nothing landed. Not one strike. Shinra moved like smoke given shape. Even the air seemed afraid to resist him.

Minutes passed. Or maybe it was seconds. Time lost its shape in that clearing.

Finally, Shinra stepped forward—not attacking, but approaching. Boruto raised the staff instinctively.

But Shinra didn't swing.

He leaned closer, voice so low it nearly vanished.

"You've got fire. But fire without focus is just destruction."

Boruto froze.

That voice. That tone. It sounded so much like Sasuke when he used to scold him, but colder. More haunted.

"You were trained by a man who understood the cost of strength," Shinra continued. "But you still think it's about power."

Boruto lowered the staff slightly.

"I just want to know what happened to him," he whispered.

Shinra turned away, slowly walking to the center of the clearing again. His back was straight, but something about it looked tired.

"When you're ready to listen," he said without turning, "maybe you'll start hearing the answers."

Boruto didn't reply. He just stared at the staff in his hands.

And for the first time, it didn't feel like a weapon.

It felt like a mirror.