The sun had not yet fully risen above the roof of the house when Ren arrived in the
backyard. The morning air was cold, filled with the kind of silence that only exists before the
rest of the village wakes up. The ground still held the night's moisture, and the scent of earth
mixed with that of the surrounding trees.
Ren stopped at the center of the training area and waited.
He didn't have to wait long.
Fugaku appeared shortly after, walking with his usual steady steps, his expression as
serious as ever. He stopped a few meters from his son and crossed his arms.
"You're early."
"I woke up before dawn," Ren replied.
Fugaku gave a slight nod.
"That's good. The body learns better when the mind is still quiet."
Ren watched his father for a few seconds, absorbing the words without commenting.
"Before anything else," Fugaku continued, "I want to see something."
He reached into his robe and took out a small piece of white paper, holding it between his
fingers.
"Do you know what this is?"
Ren tilted his head, curious.
"I've seen Itachi use one once," he said. "But he didn't explain it."
Fugaku extended the paper toward him.
"It's chakra test paper."
Ren took it carefully, as if it were something fragile.
"It reacts to the chakra of whoever touches it," Fugaku explained. "Depending on the
change, it reveals affinities."
Ren looked at the paper for a few seconds.
"And if nothing happens?"
"Then you didn't channel enough chakra," Fugaku replied. "Or you lack control."
Ren nodded.
"How do I do it?"
"Channel chakra into it," Fugaku said. "Without forcing it."
Ren held the paper between his fingers, closed his eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath. He didn't try to push chakra. He didn't try to provoke an immediate reaction. He simply let the flow he already felt within his body extend into the paper.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then the paper moved.
A small section of the edge started to burn, crumbling into ash. At nearly the same moment, the center began to wrinkle.
Fugaku narrowed his eyes.
Before he had time to speak, the paper became slightly damp, a pale mark spreading from where Ren's fingers touched it.
Ren opened his eyes, surprised.
"Is that… normal?"
Fugaku didn't answer right away. He simply held out his hand.
"Give it to me."
Ren handed over the paper.
Fugaku analyzed it carefully: the burn marks pointed to fire, the wrinkled flesh suggested lightning, and the dampness… water.
He took a slow breath.
"Did you feel anything different?" he asked.
Ren thought before answering.
"I felt like I had to adjust," he said. "When I tried to keep just one thing, it felt like it was…
slipping away."
Fugaku slowly lifted his gaze.
"Did you try to control the outcome?"
"No," Ren replied. "I tried not to interfere."
The silence that followed was heavy.
"You have three affinities," Fugaku said at last. "Fire, lightning, and water."
Ren blinked.
"Is that bad?"
Fugaku almost frowned, but restrained himself.
"No," he replied. "It's rare."
Ren remained silent, absorbing the information without any exaggerated reaction.
"But it doesn't mean you can use all of them easily," Fugaku continued. "Affinity isn't raw
talent. It's inclination."
Ren nodded.
"So I have to choose?"
"Not now," Fugaku replied. "Right now, you need to learn control."
He put the paper away and gestured for Ren to step back a few paces.
"Show me how you shape chakra."
Ren closed his eyes again and extended his hand. Chakra began to gather in his palm,
visible only as a slight distortion in the air.
Fugaku watched in silence.
"You're dispersing it too much," he commented.
Ren adjusted.
"Now you're restraining it too much," Fugaku continued.
Ren adjusted again.
The flow stabilized.
"Like that," Fugaku said.
Ren opened his eyes.
"I can feel when it's wrong," he said. "But it takes a bit."
"That's not delay," Fugaku replied. "That's precision."
Ren didn't respond.
Fugaku walked around him, analyzing posture, breathing, focus.
"Most children try to show power," he said. "You try to avoid waste."
Ren thought for a moment.
"Waste is tiring," he replied.
Fugaku gave a slight nod.
"You understand more than you say."
They trained in silence for a while. Fugaku asked for small adjustments, almost invisible
ones. Ren obeyed without questioning, testing, failing, correcting.
At one point, Fugaku stopped.
"Did you notice anything?"
Ren frowned slightly.
"When I think too much, the chakra locks up," he said. "When I relax too much, it spreads."
"So?"
"I need to stay in the middle."
Fugaku observed his son for a few seconds.
"That's something it takes years for some to understand," he said. "You realized it in one
morning."
Ren averted his gaze.
"I just paid attention."
Fugaku didn't answer right away.
"That's enough for today," he said at last. "Tomorrow we'll start working on affinities."
Ren nodded.
Before they parted, Fugaku spoke again.
"Don't tell Sasuke about this."
Ren blinked.
"Why?"
"Because he'll try to force it," Fugaku replied.
Ren was silent for a moment.
"I understand."
Fugaku walked away, leaving the yard quiet once more.
Ren remained there.
For a few moments, he simply watched his own hand. Then he slowly closed his fingers,
feeling the flow of chakra still present, subtle, obedient.
He picked up another piece of paper forgotten near the trunk of a tree, probably used in old
training sessions, and held it between his fingers.
He breathed.
He tried to repeat what he had done before.
This time, the paper didn't react immediately.
Ren opened his eyes and frowned.
"Easy," he murmured to himself.
He adjusted his breathing. Loosened his shoulders. Let the chakra flow without clear intent.
The edge of the paper moved slightly.
Nothing more.
Ren let out his breath slowly.
"It's not about doing it again," he concluded silently. "It's about understanding why it
happened."
He folded the paper carefully and put it in his pocket.
When he turned to leave, he didn't notice that Fugaku was still at a distance, watching.
The head of the Uchiha didn't approach. Didn't interfere. He simply took note.
Ren wasn't trying to repeat the result.
He was trying to understand the process.
Fugaku closed his eyes for a brief moment before finally leaving.
That kind of talent didn't shout.
It accumulated.
(Early access chapters: see the bio.)