Itachi Uchiha's son Shinra Uchiha

Boruto stood silently, his shoulders still rising and falling with effort. The staff hung at his side, his knuckles white around the grip. The clearing was quiet again, save for the faint rustle of wind and the soft creak of stone.

Shinra turned back toward him, eyes unreadable beneath his hood.

"You want answers," Shinra said. "Then earn them."

Boruto raised the staff.

"I thought that's what I was doing."

"You were playing," Shinra replied, stepping into the circle again. "Now it begins."

He slid his cloak back slightly, exposing his hands. No weapons. No seals. Just posture—flawless, rooted like an ancient tree. His stance was unfamiliar. Not Leaf, not Sand, not even like anything Boruto had seen from rogue ninja.

Shinra spoke again, flat and clear. "You land a single hit, I'll give you a truth."

Boruto's lips tightened. "And if I don't?"

"Then you're not ready for it."

A flicker—just for a moment—in Shinra's left eye. Red. Three tomoe. The Sharingan.

Boruto's body tensed.

He launched forward with a burst of chakra-enhanced speed, twirling the staff overhead before slamming it down—

—but Shinra stepped aside, and Boruto's staff smashed into the dirt.

Another strike, diagonal—Shinra bent like smoke.

A low sweeping kick from Boruto—Shinra leapt, flipped, landed behind him.

Boruto turned, ready for a counter—but instead, something strange happened.

The air pulsed.

Just once. A low vibration, almost inaudible. Like a heartbeat.

And Boruto's entire momentum flipped.

He stumbled back, as if his own motion had turned against him. His feet slid in the dust, and the staff nearly flew from his grip.

He caught himself, eyes wide.

"What the hell—"

No chakra signature. No hand seals. No visible movement. Just… something had changed.

Shinra stood where he had been. Not even breathing hard.

"That wasn't Sharingan," Boruto muttered. "That wasn't even jutsu..."

He charged again.

This time he feinted left and struck from the right—but as soon as the staff neared Shinra, the space between them seemed to bend. Boruto's swing lost its path, diverted like a magnetic field shifting.

Boruto staggered, then rolled back to create space.

Shinra watched him without comment.

Boruto's chest heaved. "What are you?"

Shinra didn't answer.

Another charge. Another clash. The field pulsed again—subtle, just enough to throw timing off. Boruto's knee buckled mid-strike.

Again.

Again.

Each time, Boruto fell short—never more than a hand's width. The ground bore the marks of desperation. Cracked stone. Kicked dust. Sweat dripped from Boruto's chin. 

He snarled.

"I won't break," Boruto said. "No matter what you throw at me—"

"I haven't thrown anything," Shinra replied. "You're breaking yourself."

Boruto's scream tore from his throat. "Sasuke believed in me! You think you're some ghost from the past—fine! But I'm not letting another one vanish!"

His eyes stung. Not from pain. From shame.

He leapt again. This time, he poured everything into it.

His foot struck stone.

He launched off it—

— And in that moment, Shinra hesitated.

Because in Boruto's face, twisted by anger and sorrow and grit, he saw a boy.

Not Boruto.

A younger boy.

Chained to a cold wall.

Bruised, filthy, eyes wide with fear. Hands trembling as an old voice whispered in the dark: "Don't scream. Survive."

Shinra blinked.

And Boruto struck.

The staff barely grazed his cloak.

Just a whisper of contact.

Enough.

Silence.

Shinra stood still, then slowly raised one hand and looked at the slight tear in his cloak.

"…Tch."

He looked back at Boruto. "Sloppy."

Boruto panted, hunched over.

"But," Shinra said, stepping back, "a promise is a promise."

He sat down on a nearby stone, calm again.

"You get one truth."

Boruto's breath hitched.

Shinra leaned forward slightly, his tone unreadable.

"Ask carefully."