Itachi Uchiha's son Shinra Uchiha

The canyon narrowed as they walked, its jagged walls closing in with every step. Boruto followed silently behind Shinra, his sword strapped across his back, boots crunching on gravel as old as the First Hokage's warpath. The morning sun filtered down in thin ribbons, casting long shadows over the moss-covered stones. There was no sound but their footsteps and the whisper of wind tracing the ridgelines.

Shinra hadn't said a word since the training ended. Not during the meal, not during the descent into this forsaken place. It was like he'd switched off—like his silence was a different kind of armor now.

Boruto was used to the quiet. He'd grown up learning from someone who never wasted words. But this silence was heavier than Sasuke's. It had weight, like it was holding something in—or holding something back.

They stopped.

Shinra stood before a wide, fractured slab of stone, half-buried in moss and vines. The air around it felt colder, somehow older. As if this rock had seen things the world wanted to forget.

On its face, barely visible beneath the lichen, was the scorched mark of the Uchiha crest—half-erased by time and perhaps something else.

Boruto narrowed his eyes. "What… is this place?"

Shinra didn't answer right away. He stepped forward and brushed his fingers across the stone, slow and careful. He didn't clean it off. He didn't try to make the symbol clearer. He just stood there, hand against the surface, lost in it.

"This," he said finally, "is where one of them broke."

Boruto tilted his head. "One of who?"

Another pause. Shinra's hand dropped away.

"A brother. A son. A traitor. Depends who you ask."

Boruto's brow furrowed. "You mean… someone from the Uchiha?"

Shinra turned his head slightly, enough that Boruto could just see the edge of his jaw under the hood.

"There was a time," Shinra said, "when Uchiha were not just a clan, but a conviction. They believed in truth through suffering. Clarity through pain. And when one of them chose a path no one else could understand… this stone shattered."

He didn't explain further. He didn't need to. Boruto could feel it—the ghost of whatever happened here, the echoes embedded in the cracks. It wasn't just chakra residue or history.

It was sorrow.

Boruto stepped closer. The stone was cold. Almost too cold. "You trained here?"

Shinra gave the faintest nod. "Briefly."

Boruto scanned the area—half-buried shrines, shattered targets, craters in the walls that hadn't healed. "Was it… Itachi?"

A sharp tension filled the air. Shinra's voice stayed level, but the chill in it could cut steel.

"No questions like that. Not yet."

Boruto backed off. "Right. Sorry."

For a long time, neither spoke. Shinra finally broke the silence again, not turning to face him.

"Why do you fight?"

Boruto blinked. "What?"

"Don't give me the textbook answer," Shinra said, stepping around the stone slab, his voice softer now. "Don't say peace, or justice, or protecting the weak. Everyone says that. But that's not why they fight."

Boruto frowned. "I fight because I have to. Because if I don't… no one else will. Because people are getting hurt—friends, family."

Shinra looked back at him then, just slightly. His eyes weren't glowing, but they still burned in that way some people's didn't need jutsu to pull off.

"So you fight to stop pain?"

Boruto nodded.

Shinra stepped close—closer than he had since they started training. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"Then learn to carry it."

Boruto swallowed. He didn't know what to say to that.

They walked again. The canyon narrowed further, leading into a grove of stone pillars—half standing, half toppled. Each one was carved with names. Not recent ones. Ancient ones. Many in the Uchiha script.

Boruto looked around. "What is this place?"

"A battlefield," Shinra said. "The kind that doesn't get remembered.

They reached a tall, curved stone shaped like a fang jutting out from the earth. Shinra sat cross-legged before it, motioning for Boruto to do the same. As they settled in the shade, the sun finally rose past the cliffs, casting golden light on the cracked stone.

Shinra produced a black canteen, poured tea into two small iron cups, and slid one to Boruto. It wasn't a gesture of friendship—it was ritual, like paying respects.

Boruto accepted it silently.

Shinra drank, then spoke. "This world isn't built by the strong. It's rebuilt by the ones who survive them."

Boruto tilted his cup. "That's supposed to be comforting?"

"No," Shinra said. "It's supposed to be real."

Boruto stared into the tea. Steam curled slowly into the morning air.

"So," Boruto said finally, "who are you fighting for?"

A long silence.

Shinra didn't look at him. Just answered, soft and even:

"I'm fighting for something no one else remembers."

Boruto looked up.

"What does that mean?"

Another silence.

Then Shinra raised his gaze, not to Boruto, but to the cracked stone behind him, where the Uchiha crest had been scorched deep and carved out.

Boruto saw something flicker in his expression. Not pain. Not nostalgia.

Regret.

Before Boruto could speak again, Shinra stood.

"Come on. We're done here."

"But—"

"Next time you step on sacred ground," Shinra said, already walking, "bring better questions."

Boruto scrambled to his feet and followed, heart heavy with the weight of things not said.

The canyon held its breath behind them.