Itachi Uchiha's son Shinra Uchiha

The trail narrowed into a shadowed overpass of stone, sharp rocks forming natural arches like half-finished gates. The wind howled through them, soft but sharp, like a blade pulled from its sheath. Shinra walked ahead, untouched by the cold, his cloak brushing across scattered debris and forgotten bone fragments sunk into moss.

Boruto followed at a distance, his eyes never leaving the back of Shinra's hooded head.

Since they left the ruin, Shinra hadn't spoken. But his silence wasn't empty. It weighed more than words, charged with an unspoken challenge. Every step forward pressed Boruto deeper into questions he couldn't ignore.

When Shinra finally stopped at a small ledge overlooking a misted ravine, he didn't turn around.

"One question," he said. His voice was flat but clear.

Boruto blinked. "Huh?" 

"You've earned one question," Shinra repeated. "Choose it carefully. Ask anything." 

The tone wasn't casual. It was a test. Not of curiosity, but of clarity. 

Boruto took a step closer, boots grinding against the stone. His breath fogged the air as he hesitated. So many questions flooded his mind: *Who are you really? What are you hiding? What was that technique you used? What does Sasuke have to do with you?* 

But he swallowed them all and asked: 

"What are you fighting for?"

The question hung in the air.

Shinra didn't move for a long time. Then, finally, he sat on the edge of the stone, back straight, hands folded. He spoke not like someone recalling a memory, but like someone reciting a scar.

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

Boruto frowned. "That's not an answer."

Shinra looked over his shoulder, just enough to let his voice carry. "Then maybe you asked the wrong question."

Boruto stepped up beside him, expression hardening. "You said anything. That means I get the truth."

"I didn't say I'd speak it in a language you like."

Boruto clenched his jaw, frustration brimming. "Look, I'm not asking you to write a book about your past, but—dammit, Shinra—you move like a ghost, you fight like you've been at war since birth, and you act like you've buried everyone who ever looked at you twice."

Silence.

Boruto's voice dropped to a near whisper. "Who taught you to fight like that?"

For a moment, just a moment, Shinra's expression shifted. His chin dipped slightly. His breath changed.

Then came the answer, almost too soft to hear.

"A man with red eyes… and a quiet voice. The kind of quiet that felt like a command."

Boruto stilled.

He didn't press. Something in Shinra's voice warned him not to.

Shinra stood and walked a few paces toward a nearby outcropping. From here, the view was endless—a carpet of forest cloaked in white mist, hills rising like waves beneath a cloudy sky.

He stood at the edge and spoke without turning around.

"When I was small, I didn't cry. Not because I wasn't in pain… but because I didn't know if I was allowed to feel it."

Boruto said nothing.

Shinra continued, "There was a voice in the dark, always speaking softly. Never angry. Never loud. Just… calm. Too calm. I'd wake up in silence, eat in silence, bleed in silence. The only time I heard something real was when he spoke."

Boruto swallowed. "The man with red eyes?"

Shinra's back was still to him.

"He told me silence was survival. That noise gives your enemies something to aim at. But later… I learned silence was a form of punishment, too."

He turned then, slowly, and looked Boruto dead in the eyes. "I fight for the memory of someone who saw me, not as a weapon, not as a failure. As a reason."

Boruto exhaled shakily. "You… you still miss him, don't you?"

Shinra's expression didn't change. "I remember him."

Then his voice dropped an octave, becoming colder.

"But that doesn't mean I forgive him."

Boruto blinked. "What?"

Shinra stepped past him, walking toward a cluster of broken statues at the ridge's edge. He placed one hand on the headless figure of a warrior carved in stone, then whispered:

"The man I remember… saved me. But he also kept me caged. Like a glass blade. Beautiful. Sharp. Fragile."

Boruto followed, slower now, unsure if he should speak.

Shinra turned back again. His cloak fluttered as the wind rose. "Your father… Naruto… he fights with light. He inspires people. Even your enemies feel it. But light doesn't reach everyone."

He stepped closer to Boruto. "Some of us were forged in the dark. And not all of us want to be pulled out of it."

Boruto looked up. "But you're not like that. You could have left me in the mist. You could've stayed hidden. But you didn't."

Shinra didn't answer.

Instead, he looked out across the horizon.

"In every age," Shinra said, voice now distant, "there's one soul who holds the fire. Not because they asked for it. But because no one else could carry it."

Boruto frowned. "Sasuke said something like that once…"

Shinra's eyes flicked toward him. "He would."

Boruto opened his mouth—paused. Something clicked.

"You knew him, didn't you?"

A flicker. A breath.

"I did."

Boruto pressed, "He mentioned… before he turned… he said 'I leave him to you now.' Was he talking about you?"

Shinra didn't answer. His silence was all the answer Boruto needed.

Boruto looked down at his hands. "You fight like him, you speak like him. But you're not him. You're—"

He stopped himself.

Shinra looked away. "That's enough for now."

They stood in silence for several minutes, the mist rolling beneath them like a second sky. Boruto finally sat on a stone and pulled his coat tighter.

"Why me?" he asked quietly. "Why train me?"

Shinra turned back, the faintest trace of something human in his eyes. "Because unlike most, you haven't decided what kind of man you are yet."

Boruto gave a bitter smile. "You sound like Sasuke again."

Shinra's lips didn't move, but there was something in his stillness that felt like a smile.

"Rest. You'll need it."

He walked off, leaving Boruto with only wind, questions, and the burning silence of blood not yet explained.