I was four years old when I decided I couldn't wait any longer.
The world wasn't going to pause for me. It wouldn't slow down to let me catch up, wouldn't bend to spare Naruto the pain I knew was coming. I could feel it—the weight of time pressing against my chest, the ticking of a clock I couldn't see but knew was there. Every day I stayed weak, every day I did nothing, was a day closer to the tragedies I'd seen in my past life's memories. I wouldn't let them happen. Not to Naruto. Not to anyone I could save.
But I was small. My arms trembled when I tried to lift a training dummy, my legs wobbled after running too long. I was a child in a body that didn't match the soul inside me—a soul that remembered battles, chakra, and the sting of loss. I needed strength, real strength, and I couldn't find it alone. I needed a teacher.
That's why I went to Itachi.
Itachi Uchiha was a name that carried weight even at seven years old. A prodigy, they called him, his talent blooming like a flower in a clan of thorns. I'd watched him from a distance since I'd come to live with the Uchiha—his quiet steps, his precise strikes, the way his Sharingan spun red in the dim light of dusk. He was everything I wasn't yet: skilled, composed, powerful. But there was more to him than that. I'd seen it in the way he looked at Sasuke, the softness in his eyes when no one else was around. He was kind, beneath the mask he wore for the clan. If anyone could help me, it was him.
---
The training grounds were quiet that evening, the air thick with the scent of pine and cooling earth. The sun hung low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and gold, and I found Itachi there, alone. He moved like a shadow, his body flowing through a series of katas—punches, kicks, spins—all silent, all deadly. I stood at the edge of the field, my sandals sinking into the soft grass, and watched. My heart thudded in my chest, loud enough that I wondered if he could hear it.
I swallowed, took a step forward. *Now or never.*
"Itachi," I said, my voice cutting through the stillness. It sounded small, too small, but I forced it to hold steady.
He paused, mid-strike, and turned to me. His dark eyes met mine, calm and unreadable, like a lake with no ripples. "Menma," he said, his tone even. "What is it?"
I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. "I want to train. I want to become a ninja. Will you teach me?"
For a moment, he didn't move. His gaze lingered, searching my face, and I wondered what he saw. A scrawny four-year-old with too-big clothes and messy red hair? Or something else—something deeper, something I couldn't hide? Then he tilted his head, just slightly, a faint crease forming between his brows.
"You're young," he said. "Most don't begin formal training until they're six or seven."
"I know." My voice trembled, but I pushed through it. "But I can't wait that long. I need to get stronger. I *have* to. Please, Itachi."
He didn't answer right away. The silence stretched, heavy, and I felt the weight of my own words pressing down on me. Maybe I'd been too bold, too desperate. Maybe he'd turn me away, tell me to come back when I was older. But then he nodded, a single, deliberate motion.
"Alright," he said. "But it won't be easy. Training requires discipline, patience. Are you ready for that?"
"Yes," I said, the word bursting out of me. "I am."
He studied me a moment longer, then turned back to the training ground. "We'll start tomorrow. Be here at dawn."
I nodded, my chest swelling with something I hadn't felt in a long time—hope.
---
The next morning came too fast. I barely slept, my mind racing with thoughts of what was ahead. When I stumbled out of bed, the sky was still gray, the compound silent except for the chirping of early crickets. I pulled on my clothes—a faded shirt and shorts Mikoto had given me—and slipped out, my bare feet cold against the wooden floor.
Itachi was waiting for me, standing beneath a cherry tree, its branches bare in the late autumn chill. He didn't say much, just gestured for me to sit across from him on the grass. I did, folding my legs beneath me, my breath fogging in the crisp air.
"We'll begin with chakra control," he said, his voice low but clear. "Chakra is the foundation of all ninjutsu. Without control, you can't wield it effectively."
I nodded. I knew this—vaguely—from the memories of my past life. Chakra was energy, life force, a blend of physical and spiritual power. I'd read about it, seen it in panels of ink and paper, but feeling it was different. It was alive inside me, a restless current I could sense but not yet grasp.
"Close your eyes," Itachi instructed. "Reach inward. Find your chakra."
I obeyed, letting my eyelids fall shut. Darkness enveloped me, and I turned my focus inward, searching. At first, there was nothing—just the sound of my own breathing, the faint rustle of leaves overhead. But then I felt it: a warmth, deep in my core, pulsing like a second heartbeat. I reached for it, and it surged, wild and vast, an ocean crashing against the walls of my small body. My eyes snapped open, a gasp escaping my lips.
Itachi watched me, his expression unchanged. "You felt it?"
"Yeah," I said, breathless. "It's… big."
He nodded. "That's your Uzumaki heritage. Your chakra reserves are naturally large. But size means nothing without control. Try again. This time, guide it. Imagine it flowing like a stream, steady and calm."
I closed my eyes again, reaching for that warmth. It flared, eager, but I pictured a stream—clear water winding through rocks, smooth and deliberate. Slowly, the chaos eased, the energy bending to my will. It gathered in my hands, a soft heat that tingled against my skin.
"Good," Itachi said, and I opened my eyes to find him holding a leaf between his fingers. "Now, focus your chakra here. Make the leaf stick to your forehead."
I took the leaf, its edges dry and brittle, and pressed it to my brow. I concentrated, willing my chakra to hold it there. For a moment, it slipped, but then it stuck, a faint pressure against my skin. I grinned, triumphant.
Itachi's lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile. "Well done. You're a fast learner."
---
The days that followed were a blur of focus and effort. Chakra control was like taming a wild animal—tricky at first, but once I understood it, it came easily. My Uzumaki blood helped, giving me stamina beyond my years, and my past life's knowledge filled in the gaps. I moved from the leaf exercise to balancing pebbles, then to walking up trees, my sandals gripping bark as I climbed higher and higher. Itachi watched, his praise sparse but meaningful—a nod, a quiet "good"—and it drove me to push harder.
One afternoon, as we rested by the riverbank, the water glinting like shards of glass in the sunlight, Itachi reached into his pouch and pulled out a small square of paper. It was plain, unremarkable, but he held it with care.
"This is chakra paper," he said, meeting my curious gaze. "It reveals your elemental affinity."
I leaned forward, my pulse quickening. "How?"
"When you channel your chakra into it, it reacts. Wind splits it, fire burns it, lightning crumples it, water dampens it, earth turns it to dust."
I nodded, my mind racing. In the manga, Naruto had wind affinity—sharp and unpredictable, like him. But I wasn't Naruto. I was Menma. What would mine be?
"Try it," Itachi said, handing me the paper.
I took it, my fingers trembling despite myself. It felt fragile, like it might tear before I even started. I closed my eyes, focusing my chakra, letting it flow into the paper. The energy hummed, eager, and then—
A sharp *rip* split the silence. I opened my eyes to see the paper torn in half. Wind. But before I could process it, the edges flared, flames curling upward, consuming the pieces. Fire. And then, as the ashes fell, the remnants crumpled inward, a faint crackle of electricity sparking between them. Lightning.
I stared, my breath caught in my throat. Three affinities. Three.
Itachi's eyes widened, a flicker of surprise breaking his usual calm. "Wind, fire, and lightning," he said, almost to himself. "That's rare. Very rare."
I looked down at the charred, crumpled remains, my mind spinning. Wind made sense—my Uzumaki side, wild and free. Lightning was a surprise, sharp and sudden, like a storm I hadn't known was brewing. But fire… fire felt right. I was an Uchiha now, at least in name. Fire was their legacy, their pride, and it burned in me too.
"Fire," I said, lifting my gaze to Itachi. "Can you teach me fire-style jutsu?"
He hesitated, his brow furrowing. "You're still young, Menma. Fire techniques are advanced, dangerous."
"I can do it," I said, my voice steady, fierce. "I need to learn. Please."
He studied me, his dark eyes searching mine. I didn't flinch, didn't look away. I needed this—needed to prove I could handle it, to myself and to him. Finally, he sighed, a soft sound of resignation.
"Alright," he said. "But we'll start small. Fire requires precision, not just power."
---
The next morning, we stood in the training grounds, the air cool and still. Itachi demonstrated the Fireball Technique first, his hands moving through the seals with effortless grace: Serpent, Ram, Monkey, Boar, Horse, Tiger. He exhaled, and a small fireball burst forth, streaking across the field before fading into a shimmer of heat.
"Your turn," he said, stepping aside.
I nodded, my hands clumsy as I tried to copy the seals. Serpent, Ram, Monkey… My fingers fumbled, but I pressed on, finishing the sequence. I gathered my chakra, felt it heat in my chest, and breathed out. A puff of smoke curled from my mouth, weak and gray, nothing more.
I scowled, frustration simmering in my gut. "It didn't work."
"Patience," Itachi said, his tone even. "The seals are only part of it. You need to mold your chakra into fire. Imagine it igniting as you exhale."
I tried again, seals slower this time, my focus sharper. The chakra burned hotter, and when I breathed out, a tiny flame flickered—barely a spark—before dying. I coughed, the taste of soot coating my tongue.
"Better," Itachi said. "Keep going."
I did. Over and over, I practiced, my hands aching from the seals, my throat raw from the failed attempts. The sun climbed higher, then sank, and still I kept at it. Failure stung, but it didn't stop me. Each miss was a lesson, each spark a promise.
Then, as dusk painted the sky in purples and reds, it happened. I formed the seals, felt my chakra surge, and exhaled. A fireball erupted—small, unsteady, but real—blazing across the field before vanishing into the twilight. I stumbled back, breathless, my heart hammering with victory.
Itachi's eyes softened, a rare smile tugging at his lips. "Good work, Menma. You've earned it."
I grinned, the exhaustion melting away. I'd done it. My first fire jutsu.
---
The weeks that followed were grueling. Itachi pushed me harder, teaching me to refine the fireball—control its size, its speed, its heat. My chakra reserves let me train longer than most kids my age, but even I hit walls. Some days, I'd collapse, my body shaking, sweat soaking my clothes. But I didn't care. The pain meant progress. The burns on my fingertips, the ache in my lungs—they were proof I was moving forward.
Itachi noticed, of course. He always did. "You're relentless," he said one day, as we sat by the river, the water's rush filling the silence. "Why?"
I picked at the grass, avoiding his gaze. How could I tell him? About Naruto, alone somewhere in the village, hated for something he didn't choose? About the future I'd seen, the blood and fire and loss? "I have people I need to protect," I said finally, my voice quiet but firm.
He didn't push, just nodded, and I knew he understood. He had his own burdens, his own reasons to train. We were different, but the same.
---
The clan started watching me too. Whispers followed me through the compound—"He's got talent," "Fire jutsu at four?"—their tones shifting from doubt to interest. Fugaku summoned me once, his stern face unyielding as he assessed me. "You carry our name," he said. "Don't disgrace it." I promised I wouldn't, and I meant it.
But Naruto stayed in my thoughts, a constant ache. I asked Mikoto about him, but her answers were vague—"He's fine, Menma"—and I knew they weren't true. I needed to see him, to make sure he was safe. One day, I would. For now, I trained, building the strength I'd need to bring him back to me.
---
Itachi became my anchor. He taught me more than jutsu—strategy, patience, the quiet power of restraint. "Strength isn't just force," he'd say. "It's knowing when to strike." I listened, absorbed, grew..
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