Yamamoto had a problem.
It wasn't the kind of problem most people had—things like bills, or relationships, or existential dread about the meaninglessness of existence. No, Yamamoto's problem was far more specific and far more annoying.
His Susanoo was too big.
Don't misunderstand. He loved his Susanoo. It was powerful, intimidating, and had proven useful for not dying during the massacre. But it was also fifty feet tall, required constant chakra expenditure, and had a tendency to accidentally destroy buildings whenever he moved too quickly.
This was suboptimal for everyday combat.
What he needed was something smaller. Something portable. Something he could use without leveling a city block every time he swung it.
What he needed was a sword.
The idea came to him three weeks after the massacre, during one of his increasingly rare breaks from training.
He had been staring at his Susanoo's blade—the massive, Amaterasu-wreathed weapon that could cut through almost anything—when a thought occurred to him.
Why did the fire have to be attached to the Susanoo?
The Susanoo was just a chakra construct. The blade was just a manifestation of his will. The Amaterasu was just... fire. Really, really persistent fire that never went out and burned everything it touched, but fire nonetheless.
And Yamamoto was very, very good with fire.
What if he could take that fire and put it somewhere else?
What if he could create a physical weapon that carried the same properties as his Susanoo's blade?
It was a stupid idea. The kind of idea that any reasonable person would dismiss immediately as impossible, impractical, and potentially suicidal.
Yamamoto had never been accused of being reasonable.
The first step was acquiring a sword.
This proved surprisingly difficult. Not because swords were rare—Konoha had plenty of weapon shops, and the Uchiha compound's armory was still technically accessible—but because finding a sword that could actually handle what Yamamoto intended to do with it was another matter entirely.
Regular steel melted when exposed to Amaterasu.
Chakra-conductive metal fared slightly better, but still degraded rapidly.
Even the specialty alloys used by ANBU couldn't withstand the heat for more than a few minutes.
Yamamoto went through seventeen swords in the first week alone.
"Why do you keep buying weapons?" the shopkeeper asked, eyeing him with a mixture of concern and commercial interest. "Are you... eating them?"
"I'm testing them."
"For what?"
"Durability."
"They're swords. They're already durable."
"Not durable enough."
The shopkeeper decided not to pursue this line of questioning. The Uchiha kid was weird, but his money was good, and the recent massacre had left him with a surprisingly large inheritance. If he wanted to destroy perfectly good weapons for mysterious reasons, that was his business.
The breakthrough came on week three, when Yamamoto remembered something from his previous life.
Damascus steel.
Layered metal, folded hundreds of times, creating a blade that was both flexible and incredibly strong. In his old world, it had been a legendary material, prized for its durability and distinctive pattern.
This world had something similar: chakra-folded steel.
The process was expensive, time-consuming, and required a master smith willing to spend months on a single blade. Most shinobi didn't bother with it—standard weapons were disposable anyway, replaced as often as they were used.
But Yamamoto wasn't most shinobi.
He found a smith. An old man named Takahashi who had retired from active weapon-making decades ago but still kept his forge running "for the craft."
"I need a blade," Yamamoto said, presenting his specifications. "Folded at least five hundred times. Chakra-conductive throughout. Heat-resistant to approximately four thousand degrees Celsius."
Takahashi looked at the notes, then looked at the fourteen-year-old in front of him, then looked back at the notes.
"That's impossible," he said flatly.
"I'll pay triple your usual rate."
"Still impossible."
"Quintuple."
Takahashi hesitated.
"The heat resistance alone would require materials that don't exist," he said, though his voice had lost some of its certainty.
"What if I provided the materials?"
"What materials could possibly—"
Yamamoto held up his hand.
Black flames burst to life across his palm, dancing and writhing without burning his skin. His healing factor and fire immunity made him essentially Amaterasu-proof—a fact he had discovered after accidentally setting himself on fire during an early training session.
Takahashi stared.
"What," he said slowly, "is that?"
"Amaterasu. The flames that never go out."
"I can see that. Why aren't you burning?"
"I'm very durable."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting. Now, here's my theory: if you fold metal in these flames instead of regular fire, the blade will absorb some of their properties. Heat resistance. Persistence. Maybe even the ability to burn through chakra itself."
Takahashi continued staring.
"That's the most insane thing I've ever heard," he said.
"Will you try it?"
A long pause.
"Triple rate, you said?"
"Quintuple."
"...I'll see what I can do."
The forging process took four months.
Four months of Takahashi working with flames he didn't understand, folding metal that behaved in ways that defied physics, creating something that shouldn't exist.
Yamamoto supervised when he could, but mostly he left the smith to his work. He had his own training to continue. The sword was important, but it wasn't everything.
He was, at this point, running out of things to improve.
His taijutsu was as refined as it could get without actual combat experience. His ninjutsu repertoire included every fire technique in existence and several that he had invented himself. His Sharingan could copy almost anything, and his Mangekyou abilities were as controlled as he could make them.
So he started experimenting.
What happened if he channeled Amaterasu through his chakra pathways instead of releasing it externally?
(Answer: his veins turned black and he became even faster, which was terrifying for everyone who witnessed it.)
What happened if he used Kagami—his copying ability—on himself, duplicating his own enhanced physical stats?
(Answer: he broke the sound barrier while running and accidentally created a sonic boom that shattered windows across three city blocks. The Hokage sent a formal complaint.)
What happened if he layered his Internal Combustion Engine technique with Amaterasu enhancement and Susanoo armor simultaneously?
(Answer: nothing good. Or rather, nothing safe. He became essentially invincible for about thirty seconds before the chakra drain knocked him unconscious. He woke up in a crater, surrounded by very confused ANBU operatives.)
The point was, Yamamoto was still training.
Still grinding.
Still pushing limits that had stopped being reasonable years ago.
By the time Takahashi finished the sword, Yamamoto was fairly certain he could destroy a small village without trying particularly hard.
Not that he would.
He wasn't a monster.
He was just... prepared.
Very, very prepared.
The sword was beautiful.
It was three feet long, single-edged, with a slight curve that felt natural in his grip. The blade was pure black—absorbing light rather than reflecting it—and the edge gleamed with a faint reddish tint that suggested barely-contained fire.
"I don't know what this is," Takahashi said, holding it out with trembling hands. "I don't know what I've created. But it's not a normal sword. It's not even a chakra blade. It's something else. Something more."
Yamamoto took the weapon, feeling its weight, its balance, its... hunger.
That was the only word for it. The sword was hungry. It wanted to burn. It wanted to consume. It was straining against its own existence, desperate to unleash the flames trapped within its core.
"Perfect," Yamamoto said.
He channeled chakra into the blade.
Black flames erupted along its length, coating the metal in the inextinguishable fire of Amaterasu. The steel didn't melt. Didn't warp. Didn't even get warm.
It just... accepted the flames.
Like they belonged there.
"What did you call this material again?" Yamamoto asked, examining the weapon with his Sharingan.
"I didn't," Takahashi said faintly. "Because I don't know what it is. The Amaterasu changed it during the folding process. It's not steel anymore. Not really."
"Hmm."
Yamamoto experimented. He could activate and deactivate the flames at will. He could channel different types of fire through the blade—regular fire, his Internal Combustion Engine flames, and of course Amaterasu. Each one behaved differently, creating different effects.
Regular fire made the blade hot and added burn damage to cuts.
Internal Combustion flames made the blade faster, accelerating his strikes beyond normal human perception.
Amaterasu made the blade absolutely devastating, cutting through everything and leaving trails of black fire in its wake.
He could also combine them.
All three types of fire at once created something that his Sharingan couldn't fully process. The blade became a blur of heat and destruction, an apocalypse condensed into three feet of impossible metal.
"I'm calling it Kagutsuchi," Yamamoto decided, naming it after the god of fire from Japanese mythology. "Because it sets things on fire and probably shouldn't exist."
"Please leave my forge," Takahashi said weakly. "I need to lie down for several hours."
Yamamoto left.
He had training to do.
News of the sword spread quickly.
This was inevitable. Yamamoto wasn't exactly subtle about testing his new weapon. The first time he used Kagutsuchi at full power—in a remote training ground, far from any populated areas—he accidentally created a canyon.
Not a small canyon.
A big canyon.
A "visible from the Hokage monument" canyon.
The ANBU team that arrived to investigate found Yamamoto sitting at the edge of the new geological formation, staring at his sword with a mixture of satisfaction and mild concern.
"Did you do this?" the lead operative demanded.
"Define 'this.'"
"The massive hole in the ground that didn't exist six hours ago!"
"Ah. Yes. That was me."
Silence.
"How?"
Yamamoto held up Kagutsuchi. The blade was dormant now, just black metal without active flames, but even in its resting state, it radiated an aura of barely-contained destruction.
"New sword," he said. "Still calibrating."
The ANBU operative stared at the weapon, then at the canyon, then back at the weapon.
"The Hokage is going to want to hear about this," she said finally.
"I expected as much."
"You're not... concerned?"
Yamamoto shrugged. "Why would I be? I haven't done anything wrong. Just training."
"You created a CANYON."
"In an uninhabited area. No casualties. No property damage, unless you count the trees. Which I don't, because they're trees."
The operative had no response to this.
Hiruzen Sarutobi, the Third Hokage, had seen many things in his long life.
He had fought in wars. He had trained legendary shinobi. He had witnessed the rise and fall of nations, the birth and death of gods, the endless cycle of violence that defined the ninja world.
He thought nothing could surprise him anymore.
He was wrong.
"Let me make sure I understand," he said slowly, staring at the report on his desk. "Young Yamamoto Uchiha—the survivor of the massacre—has created a sword that channels Amaterasu."
"Yes, Lord Hokage."
"A physical sword. Made of metal. That produces the inextinguishable black flames of the Mangekyou Sharingan."
"Yes, Lord Hokage."
"And he used this sword to create a canyon. An actual, literal canyon."
"Yes, Lord Hokage."
Hiruzen was quiet for a long moment.
"How is this possible?" he asked finally.
"We don't know, Lord Hokage."
"Has anyone attempted to analyze the weapon?"
"The one researcher who got close enough to examine it suffered third-degree burns despite the sword being 'inactive' at the time. He's recovering, but recommends keeping a minimum distance of fifty feet."
"I see."
Hiruzen leaned back in his chair, suddenly feeling every one of his many, many years.
He remembered Yamamoto. Vaguely. The boy had been at the compound during the massacre but had somehow survived. At the time, Hiruzen had assumed it was luck—being in the right place at the right time, hiding until the danger passed.
Now he was beginning to suspect that luck had nothing to do with it.
"Bring me his file," he said.
The file was brought. Hiruzen read it. Then he read it again, because surely he had misunderstood something.
"He awakened his Sharingan at age three," he said flatly.
"Yes, Lord Hokage."
"And achieved full mastery by age six."
"Yes, Lord Hokage."
"And awakened the Mangekyou at age twelve through 'unknown means.'"
"Yes, Lord Hokage."
"And manifested a complete Susanoo—something that only Madara Uchiha was known to achieve—by age thirteen."
"Yes, Lord Hokage."
Hiruzen closed the file.
"Why was I not informed of this earlier?"
The ANBU operative shifted uncomfortably.
"The Uchiha clan... preferred to keep their prodigies private, Lord Hokage. There was concern that the village might attempt to... leverage such individuals."
"Leverage."
"Exploit. Weaponize. Take control of."
Hiruzen sighed. "And now the clan is gone, and all that secrecy has left us with a teenager who can create canyons with a sword that shouldn't exist."
"An apt summary, Lord Hokage."
"Wonderful. Just wonderful."
He was too old for this.
Danzo, meanwhile, was not confused.
Danzo was terrified.
This was not a state he was accustomed to. Danzo had spent his entire life accumulating power, building networks, manipulating events to ensure his vision of Konoha's future. He had faced Kage-level threats without flinching. He had made deals with entities that would make normal men go insane.
But the report on his desk...
"A complete Susanoo," he read aloud, his voice carefully controlled. "A physical Amaterasu blade. Combat capabilities estimated at high S-rank, potentially beyond."
He set the report down.
"Itachi warned me," he said quietly. "He warned me, and I didn't listen."
His aide, a blank-faced ROOT operative, stood silently by the door.
"The Uchiha were supposed to be eliminated," Danzo continued. "All of them. Itachi was supposed to be thorough."
"He was, Lord Danzo. The only other survivor is the younger brother, as planned."
"Then explain THIS!"
He slammed his hand on the desk, making the report flutter.
"A fourteen-year-old with power rivaling the First Hokage! A weapon that defies the fundamental laws of chakra mechanics! An individual that even Itachi—our own operative—was afraid to engage!"
The aide said nothing.
Danzo took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.
"What are our options?" he asked.
"Elimination seems... inadvisable, given his capabilities."
"Obviously."
"Recruitment is possible but risky. He has no apparent ties to any faction and has shown no interest in politics or power beyond his own training."
"What IS he interested in?"
"Training, Lord Danzo. Nothing but training. He spends eighteen to twenty hours per day in various forms of exercise and combat practice. He has no friends, no relationships, no hobbies. He barely eats or sleeps."
"That's... unhealthy."
"Yes, Lord Danzo."
"But effective, apparently."
"Very effective, Lord Danzo."
Danzo drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking.
"Leave him alone," he said finally.
"Lord Danzo?"
"For now. Monitor from a distance, but take no action. He's not interested in political power, which means he's not a threat to my plans. And provoking someone of his capabilities would be... unwise."
"Understood, Lord Danzo."
"But if he shows any sign of moving against the village—or against me specifically—I want to know immediately."
"Of course, Lord Danzo."
The aide left.
Danzo stared at the report for a long time, then slowly fed it into the fire burning in his hearth.
Some things were better left undocumented.
Yamamoto, blissfully unaware of the political machinations swirling around him, continued his training.
He had a new sword now. That meant he needed new techniques to go with it.
Kagutsuchi—the blade of impossible fire—required a completely different fighting style than his previous approach. It was heavier than a normal sword, though not by much. It responded to chakra in unique ways, amplifying certain techniques while nullifying others. And it had a disturbing tendency to accidentally set things on fire when he wasn't paying attention.
So he developed forms. Specific movements designed to maximize the sword's potential while minimizing collateral damage.
The First Form: Ignition.
A basic draw-and-slash technique that activated the blade's flames in a single motion. Fast, efficient, and only moderately destructive.
The Second Form: Conflagration.
A wide, sweeping strike that spread fire across a large area. Good for crowd control. Bad for forests.
The Third Form: Solar Flare.
A concentrated thrust that released all the blade's stored heat in a single point. The resulting explosion could vaporize stone.
The Fourth Form: Black Sun.
Full Amaterasu activation, turning the blade into an instrument of absolute destruction. He only used this in emergencies or when he was very, very sure there was nothing important nearby.
There were more forms—seven in total, each more devastating than the last—but Yamamoto was still refining them. Combat techniques couldn't be perfected in isolation. They needed to be tested against real opponents.
Unfortunately, finding opponents willing to spar with someone who wielded an Amaterasu sword was... challenging.
"No," Rin said flatly.
"I'll hold back."
"No."
"I'll use a practice sword."
"No."
"I'll keep Kagutsuchi completely sheathed—"
"Yamamoto, I have known you for eleven years. In that time, you have burned down three training grounds, created two new geological formations, and somehow given Elder Benjiro's grandson nightmares just by looking at him. I am not sparring with you while you're holding something called 'the Blade of Divine Fire.'"
"I didn't name it that."
"What did you name it?"
"Kagutsuchi."
"That's literally the god of fire!"
"It's a good name!"
Rin threw up her hands. "Find someone else. I value my continued existence."
This became a pattern.
Everyone Yamamoto asked refused. Jounin. ANBU. Even the specialized combat trainers who were supposed to help promising young shinobi develop their skills.
"Sorry, kid," one of them said, eyeing Kagutsuchi with poorly concealed fear. "That thing's above my pay grade."
"I'll compensate you for any medical expenses."
"It's not about money. It's about having a medical file simple enough that the doctors can actually read it."
Yamamoto was getting frustrated.
How was he supposed to perfect his sword techniques without anyone to practice on? Training dummies were useless—he cut through them too easily. Shadow clones didn't work—for some reason, his clones couldn't wield Kagutsuchi without immediately dispelling. And practice against himself was limited by the simple fact that he only had two arms.
He needed an opponent.
Someone durable enough to survive his attacks.
Someone fast enough to actually challenge him.
Someone crazy enough to agree to fight him in the first place.
He was contemplating this problem when he literally ran into the solution.
Or rather, the solution ran into him.
At full speed.
While screaming something about ramen.
Naruto Uzumaki hit Yamamoto like a small orange missile, bounced off his chest, and landed on his back in the middle of the street.
"Ow," Naruto groaned. "What the heck are you made of, rocks?"
Yamamoto looked down at the small blonde child—maybe eight or nine years old, covered in dirt and what appeared to be paint—and felt a strange sense of recognition.
This was the protagonist.
The main character of the story.
The future savior of the ninja world, container of the Nine-Tailed Fox, and eventual god-tier combatant who would punch literal celestial beings in the face.
Currently, he looked like a dirty gremlin who had just lost a fight with the ground.
"You should watch where you're going," Yamamoto said automatically.
"You should watch where you're standing!" Naruto shot back, scrambling to his feet. "Who just stands in the middle of the road like a—like a—" He trailed off, finally getting a good look at Yamamoto. "Whoa."
"What?"
"You're, like, super tall. And you have red eyes. And is that a SWORD? That's so cool! Why is it black? Is it made of something special? Can I hold it? How sharp is it? Have you killed anyone with it? I bet you've killed tons of people with it, you look like a killer, not in a bad way but in a cool way, you know—"
"Breathe," Yamamoto interrupted.
Naruto took a breath.
"What's your name?" Yamamoto asked.
"Uzumaki Naruto! Future Hokage, believe it!" He struck a pose that would have been impressive if he weren't still covered in paint stains. "Who're you?"
"Uchiha Yamamoto."
The name hit Naruto like a physical force. His expression shifted from enthusiasm to something more complicated—awe, maybe, mixed with fear.
"Uchiha? Like, the Uchiha? The clan that—the one where—" He stopped, apparently unsure how to finish the sentence.
"Yes," Yamamoto said. "I'm a survivor."
"Oh."
There was an awkward pause.
"I'm sorry about what happened," Naruto said finally, his voice smaller than before. "That must have been really hard."
Yamamoto blinked.
He hadn't expected sympathy. Most people either avoided the topic entirely or treated him like a curiosity—the lone survivor, the tragic remnant, the boy who lived when everyone else died.
No one had ever just... apologized.
"It was," he admitted. "But I'm managing."
Naruto nodded seriously, as if this was the most important conversation he'd ever had.
"So," he said after a moment, "do you wanna get ramen?"
"What?"
"Ramen! There's this place, Ichiraku, it's the best in the whole village, maybe the whole world. My treat! Well, not really my treat because I don't have any money right now, but you look like you have money, so you can pay and I'll eat and it'll be great!"
Yamamoto stared at him.
"Why would I pay for your food?"
"Because we're friends now, obviously!"
"We met thirty seconds ago."
"So? That's plenty of time to become friends. I'm very friendly."
This was the strangest interaction Yamamoto had experienced since reincarnating. Which was saying something, given that his first memory in this world was screaming for forty-five minutes straight.
But there was something about Naruto's relentless enthusiasm that was almost... refreshing. Yamamoto had spent years surrounded by people who feared him, avoided him, or tried to use him. Naruto seemed to be doing none of those things.
"Fine," Yamamoto heard himself say. "Ramen. But you're paying next time."
"Deal!"
Ichiraku Ramen was, as Naruto had promised, excellent.
Yamamoto ordered a single bowl. Naruto ordered seven.
"Where do you put it all?" Yamamoto asked, watching the smaller boy inhale noodles at an alarming rate.
"Mmph mrr mnghry—" Naruto swallowed. "I'm a growing boy! Gotta eat to get strong, you know?"
"I suppose."
"Speaking of strong, are you strong? You look strong. That sword looks really strong. Everything about you looks strong, actually. It's kind of intimidating."
"I train a lot."
"How much?"
"Most of my waking hours."
Naruto's eyes went wide. "That's so many hours! Don't you do anything else? Play games? Hang out with friends? Pull pranks on people who deserve it?"
"No."
"That sounds lonely."
Yamamoto paused, his chopsticks halfway to his mouth.
Lonely.
He hadn't thought about it that way. He had been so focused on survival, on getting stronger, on preparing for threats both real and imagined. Loneliness hadn't been a consideration. It had been a necessary sacrifice.
But now, sitting in a ramen shop with a hyperactive orange child who had decided they were friends after thirty seconds of conversation, he felt something stir in his chest.
Something he hadn't felt in years.
Something almost like... connection.
"It's not lonely," he said finally. "It's purposeful."
"Same thing, sometimes."
Yamamoto had no response to that.
They talked for hours.
Or rather, Naruto talked for hours, and Yamamoto occasionally interjected with comments or questions. He learned about Naruto's dream to become Hokage, his love of ramen, his ongoing war with the Academy instructors who didn't believe in him.
He also learned, without it being explicitly stated, that Naruto was deeply, desperately lonely.
The villagers avoided him. The other children mocked him. Even the Academy teachers seemed to hold him at arm's length.
Yamamoto didn't know why—he had vague memories of the Nine-Tails thing from the anime, but the details were fuzzy—but he recognized the look in Naruto's eyes.
It was the same look he saw in the mirror sometimes.
The look of someone who had been alone for a very long time.
"Hey," Naruto said suddenly, interrupting his own monologue about a prank he'd pulled last week. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Are you... okay?"
Yamamoto blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Like, with the massacre and everything. Everyone says you're this super scary powerful guy who trains all day and never talks to anyone. But you don't seem scary to me. You just seem... sad. Kind of like me."
Yamamoto didn't know how to respond.
No one had ever called him sad before.
Terrifying, yes. Abnormal, frequently. A monster, on at least three occasions.
But sad?
"I'm fine," he said automatically.
Naruto studied him for a long moment, his usual hyperactive energy replaced by something surprisingly perceptive.
"If you say so," he said finally. "But if you ever want to not be fine, you can talk to me. That's what friends are for, you know?"
Friends.
There was that word again.
Yamamoto wasn't sure how he felt about it.
But he also wasn't sure he hated it.
After that first meeting, Naruto started showing up at his training grounds.
Not every day—the kid had his own schedule, whatever that entailed—but often enough to become a regular presence. He would sit on a rock or climb a tree and watch Yamamoto train, asking an endless stream of questions about techniques and forms and why exactly the sword was on fire.
"Doesn't it burn your hands?" he asked once.
"I'm immune to fire."
"What? How? That's so cool! Can I become immune to fire?"
"Probably not."
"Aw."
Naruto was, by any reasonable standard, annoying.
He talked too much. He asked too many questions. He had a tendency to try and "help" with training in ways that were genuinely counterproductive.
But he was also persistent.
No matter how many times Yamamoto told him to leave, he came back. No matter how cold or dismissive Yamamoto was, he remained cheerful. No matter how terrifying the training sessions became—and they were terrifying, involving fire and explosions and at least one accidental earthquake—Naruto just sat there, watching with wide eyes and wider smiles.
"Why do you keep coming here?" Yamamoto asked finally, after a particularly intense session that had left a portion of the training ground literally glassed.
"Because you're interesting!" Naruto said, as if this were obvious. "You're, like, the strongest person I've ever seen. And you're nice to me, even when you're being grumpy about it."
"I'm not nice."
"You bought me ramen twice."
"That was—" Yamamoto stopped, realizing he didn't have a good argument. "You're very persistent."
"Yep! It's one of my best qualities!"
Despite himself, Yamamoto felt his lips twitch toward something that might, in very generous lighting, be called a smile.
"You're strange," he said.
"So are you! We're strange together!"
This was, unfortunately, accurate.
The Academy incident happened three weeks later.
Yamamoto hadn't intended to visit the Academy. He had no business there—he had graduated years ago, and his days of sitting in classrooms were long behind him.
But Naruto had mentioned, during one of their ramen sessions, that he was having "trouble" with some of his classmates. And when Yamamoto had pressed for details, Naruto had become uncharacteristically quiet.
So Yamamoto had decided to investigate.
What he found made him angry.
Not regular angry. Not training-frustration angry.
Actually, genuinely, "someone is about to have a very bad day" angry.
The bullies were a group of older students—probably twelve or thirteen—who had cornered Naruto behind the Academy building. They were saying things. Cruel things, about demons and monsters and parents who didn't want him.
Naruto was curled up on the ground, not fighting back, just taking it.
Yamamoto watched this for approximately three seconds before acting.
He didn't use his sword. That would have been excessive.
He didn't use jutsu. That also would have been excessive.
He just walked up to the lead bully, grabbed him by the collar, and lifted him into the air with one hand.
"Hello," Yamamoto said pleasantly.
The bully's face went from cruel to terrified in the space of a heartbeat.
"Wh-who—"
"Uchiha Yamamoto. You may have heard of me."
The bully had definitely heard of him. Everyone had heard of him. He was the crazy survivor with the fire sword who had created a canyon.
"I'm going to let you go now," Yamamoto continued. "And you're going to leave. You're going to leave Naruto alone. You're going to leave everyone alone, actually, because I've decided that bullying is something I don't approve of. And if you don't leave everyone alone, I'm going to find you. And we're going to have a conversation. A longer conversation. Do you understand?"
The bully nodded frantically.
"Good."
Yamamoto dropped him. He and his friends ran.
Naruto was staring at Yamamoto with an expression that was equal parts awe and confusion.
"You didn't have to do that," he said quietly.
"I know."
"Why did you?"
Yamamoto considered the question.
Why had he intervened? He had spent years avoiding attachments, avoiding connections, avoiding anything that might distract from his training. Naruto was exactly the kind of entanglement he had always avoided.
But...
"Because you're my friend," he said finally. "And friends help each other."
Naruto's eyes went very wide. And then, to Yamamoto's surprise, they started to fill with tears.
"What's wrong?" Yamamoto asked, alarmed. "Did I say something—"
"No one's ever said that before," Naruto interrupted, his voice cracking. "The friend thing. No one's ever called me their friend before."
"Oh."
There was a long pause.
Then, very carefully, Yamamoto reached out and patted Naruto on the head. It was an awkward gesture—he had no practice with physical affection—but it seemed like the right thing to do.
"Well," he said. "You have one now."
The encounter had an unintended side effect.
Word spread—as it always did—about the Uchiha survivor defending the village's most notorious troublemaker. Suddenly, everyone was talking about the strange friendship between the fire sword guy and the orange menace.
Most people were confused.
One person was particularly confused.
Sasuke Uchiha had been having a very normal day.
He had gone to class. He had excelled at class, because he was a genius and the last loyal Uchiha and excellence was expected. He had ignored his classmates' attempts at conversation, because they were annoying and he had important things to focus on.
Things like revenge.
Things like getting stronger.
Things like eventually finding and killing Itachi, the man who had murdered everyone he loved.
Normal things.
And then he had heard the gossip.
"Did you hear about Yamamoto-san?"
"The other survivor? Yeah, I heard he has a sword that's literally on fire!"
"Not just that! He apparently scared off some bullies who were picking on that Naruto kid!"
"Really? I thought he didn't talk to anyone."
"Maybe he's changing! Wouldn't that be nice?"
Sasuke had frozen mid-step.
Other survivor.
He had known, intellectually, that he wasn't the only one. The village had made it clear from the beginning—two Uchiha survived the massacre, Sasuke and some other kid named Yamamoto.
But Sasuke had never actually met him.
Yamamoto didn't come to the Academy. Didn't attend village functions. Didn't seem to exist in any space that Sasuke occupied.
Until now.
He found Yamamoto at Training Ground Seven.
The older boy—how much older? Four years? Five?—was practicing sword forms, his black blade trailing dark flames as it cut through the air. The ground around him was scorched, the trees were singed, and there was a crater nearby that looked distressingly fresh.
Sasuke approached carefully.
"You're Uchiha Yamamoto," he said.
The sword stilled. Red eyes—Sharingan eyes, three-tomoe Sharingan eyes—turned to look at him.
"And you're Uchiha Sasuke," Yamamoto replied. "The other survivor."
"Yes."
There was a long, uncomfortable pause.
Sasuke wasn't sure what he had expected from this encounter. Solidarity, maybe? The shared bond of trauma and loss? Some kind of connection born from their mutual tragedy?
What he hadn't expected was for Yamamoto to look at him with what appeared to be mild disinterest.
"Can I help you with something?" Yamamoto asked.
"I... wanted to meet you."
"You've met me. Is there anything else?"
Sasuke felt a flash of irritation.
"How did you survive?" he demanded. "I've heard the stories. You have a complete Susanoo. You have a sword that channels Amaterasu. You're stronger than most jounin. How?"
"Training."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have."
Sasuke's hands clenched into fists.
"I train every day," he said, his voice tight. "Every single day, as hard as I can. And I'm nowhere close to your level. How is that possible? What did you do differently?"
Yamamoto was quiet for a moment.
"How many hours a day do you train?" he asked.
"Six. Sometimes eight."
"I train eighteen."
"That's... that's not possible. Your body would—"
"My body adapted. Humans are remarkably resilient when properly motivated."
Sasuke stared at him.
"That's not normal," he said.
"No," Yamamoto agreed. "It's not."
Another pause.
"Why?" Sasuke asked finally. "Why push yourself that hard? What are you training for?"
Yamamoto tilted his head, considering the question.
"Survival," he said simply. "Nothing more. Nothing less."
"Survival from what?"
"Everything."
That didn't make sense. The threat was gone. Itachi was gone. The massacre was over. What was there to survive?
But looking at Yamamoto—at his scarred training ground, his impossible sword, his eyes that seemed to see threats in every shadow—Sasuke began to understand something.
This wasn't about logic.
This wasn't about rational assessment of danger.
This was about fear.
Deep, primal, all-consuming fear that had been transformed into something productive. Something powerful. Something that had turned a survivor into a force of nature.
Sasuke recognized that fear.
He felt it himself, every time he closed his eyes and saw his parents' bodies.
"Will you train me?" he asked.
The words came out before he could stop them.
Yamamoto's expression didn't change.
"No," he said.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know how to teach. I only know how to do. And what I do would probably kill you."
Sasuke bristled. "I'm not weak—"
"You're eight years old. Your chakra reserves are average. Your Sharingan is inactive. You have talent, certainly, but talent won't save you from the kind of training I underwent."
"Then tell me what you did! Give me a starting point!"
Yamamoto was quiet for a long moment.
Then, to Sasuke's surprise, he nodded.
"Fine. Here's your starting point." He held up one finger. "Run until you can't run anymore. Then walk. Then crawl. Then drag yourself forward with your fingernails. Every single day. No exceptions."
"That's it?"
"That's the foundation. Everything else builds from there."
Sasuke frowned. It seemed too simple. Too basic.
But then he looked at Yamamoto—at the results of whatever insane regimen he had followed—and decided that maybe simplicity wasn't the same as ease.
"I'll do it," he said.
"Okay."
"And I'll come back. When I'm stronger. And then you'll train me properly."
Yamamoto's lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
"We'll see," he said.
He went back to his sword forms.
Sasuke watched for a few more minutes, memorizing what he could, then turned and left.
He had running to do.
Back at the training ground, Yamamoto continued his practice.
Swing. Step. Slash. Turn.
The movements were becoming more refined. More natural. The sword was feeling less like a weapon and more like an extension of his body.
Good.
Progress was good.
He had a strange feeling about the future—something he couldn't quite identify. The arrival of Naruto and Sasuke in his life was changing things. Creating connections he hadn't anticipated. Building relationships he had spent years avoiding.
Part of him wanted to push them away.
Part of him—a smaller part, but growing—didn't.
He thought about Naruto's tears when he called him a friend.
He thought about Sasuke's desperate hunger to grow stronger.
He thought about his own endless grinding, his own ceaseless training, his own fear-driven pursuit of power.
Maybe he wasn't as different from them as he'd thought.
Maybe none of them were.
Just survivors, doing what they could, trying to become something more than the circumstances that had shaped them.
It was a strange thought.
Almost... hopeful.
Yamamoto pushed it aside and continued his practice.
Swing. Step. Slash. Turn.
The grind never stopped.
But maybe, just maybe, it didn't have to be so lonely anymore.
Hiruzen Sarutobi received three reports that day.
The first was about the Uchiha survivor's new sword, which had been confirmed to channel actual Amaterasu and was classified as a village-level threat.
The second was about the same survivor's intervention at the Academy, defending the Nine-Tails jinchuuriki from bullies.
The third was about a meeting between the two Uchiha survivors, which had ended peacefully but with unclear implications.
Hiruzen read all three, then set them aside and stared out his window at the village below.
"What are you becoming, Yamamoto?" he murmured.
The village didn't answer.
But somewhere, in a distant training ground, a black blade sang through the air, and flames danced against the coming night.
End of Chapter 2