The morning sun hung low over the Uchiha compound, casting a golden glow across the training courtyard. I stood there, five years old but burdened with a mind far older, my hands trembling slightly from the weight of what I knew. Itachi, my adoptive brother, faced me, his nine-year-old frame poised with the quiet confidence of a prodigy. His dark eyes, sharp even without the Sharingan activated, watched me intently as I prepared to try again.
"Focus, Menma," he said, his voice steady and calm. "Fire Style requires control, not just power. Let's refine your Great Fireball Technique."
I nodded, wiping sweat from my brow. The tragic fate of Itachi—of this entire clan—pressed against my thoughts like a storm cloud. He was nine now, nearly a Chunin already, his talent undeniable. In two years, at eleven, he'd join ANBU, the youngest ever to do so. Two years after that, the Uchiha massacre would unfold, his hands stained with the blood of our family. I didn't have exact dates, just this rough timeline etched into my mind from a life I couldn't fully explain. It drove me, pushed me harder than any child my age should be pushed. I had to be ready—to stop it, to change it, to save them.
"Serpent, Ram, Monkey, Boar, Horse, Tiger," I muttered, my fingers flying through the seals. I took a deep breath and exhaled, a roaring fireball bursting from my mouth. It tore across the courtyard, larger than my last attempt, scorching the earth before dissipating into a plume of smoke.
Itachi tilted his head, assessing. "Better. The shape is holding, but you're still wasting chakra. Make it smaller, hotter. Efficiency matters more than size."
I bit back a frustrated sigh. He was right, of course—he always was. "Okay, let me try again."
He stepped forward, demonstrating once more. His seals were a blur, and the fireball he produced was compact, a searing orb of flame that left a charred trail in its wake. It was beautiful, precise, effortless. I envied that control, that calm. I needed it too.
"Visualize the chakra compressing," he said. "Don't let it spill out. Guide it."
We went again, and again, and again. The sun climbed higher, sweat soaked my shirt, and my breaths grew ragged, but I kept going. Itachi corrected me patiently—adjust your stance, tighten your focus, don't rush the seals. Each attempt got me closer, the fireballs growing smaller but more intense, their heat singing the air.
"You're improving quickly," Itachi said after an hour, a faint note of approval in his tone. "But don't overdo it. Rest when you need to."
"I can keep going," I insisted, my voice firm despite the ache in my limbs. Time was slipping away. I couldn't afford to slack off.
He studied me for a moment, his gaze piercing, but he didn't push back. "Alright. Let's switch to something new, then. Phoenix Sage Fire Technique."
My eyes widened slightly. That was a step up—multiple small fireballs, each guided by chakra control. "Show me."
He formed the seals—Rat, Tiger, Dog, Ox, Rabbit, Tiger—and exhaled. A dozen tiny flames shot from his mouth, darting through the air like living embers, weaving around imaginary targets before striking a training dummy with pinpoint accuracy. The wood smoldered where they hit.
"It's about intent," he explained. "Your chakra directs them. Picture their paths in your mind."
I mimicked the seals, focusing hard. My first try was a disaster—half the flames fizzled out midair, the rest veered off course, one nearly singeing my own sleeve. Itachi didn't laugh or scold; he just adjusted my hand positioning and nodded for me to go again.
By midday, I could manage three small fireballs, guiding them shakily toward the dummy. It wasn't perfect, but it was progress. My chest swelled with a mix of pride and impatience. I needed more.
"That's enough for now," Itachi said finally, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "I have duties to attend to. Keep practicing, but don't exhaust yourself."
"Thanks, Itachi," I said, bowing slightly. He gave a small nod and walked off, his steps silent against the stone path.
Alone now, I sank onto the grass, catching my breath. The courtyard was quiet, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. My mind drifted, as it often did, to what lay ahead. Fire Style was a start, but I needed something bigger, something that could shift the tide. Jutsu without hand signs—techniques like the Rasengan and Chidori—kept circling my thoughts.
The Chidori, Kakashi's lightning blade, fascinated me. With my lightning affinity and natural talent, learning it might be as simple as concentrating chakra in my palm, much like the Rasengan. But the problems were obvious. The Chidori demanded high speed, which caused tunnel vision—a deadly flaw without the Sharingan to track counterattacks. I didn't have those eyes, and I never would. Could I even make it work?
Then it hit me: the Chidori wasn't so different from the Rasengan. Kakashi had created it after failing to infuse lightning chakra into the Rasengan's spinning core. The Rasengan was about rotation, power, and containment; the Chidori was about concentration and piercing force. If I could master the Rasengan with my chakra control, I could reverse-engineer the Chidori—or even create something entirely new.
I stood up, resolve hardening. First, the Rasengan. If I could learn that, the rest would follow.
---
The afternoon stretched on, the sun dipping lower as I worked alone. I didn't have Naruto's water balloons or rubber balls, but I didn't need them. My chakra control was sharp, honed by years of instinct from a life I barely remembered. The Rasengan's steps were clear in my mind: rotation, power, containment.
I started with rotation. Holding out my palm, I focused my chakra, willing it to spin. At first, it was sluggish, a faint swirl that barely moved. I narrowed my eyes, pushing harder, and the chakra began to turn faster, a small vortex forming above my hand. Good. Step one.
Next, power. I increased the chakra flow, feeling the energy build, but the rotation wobbled, threatening to collapse. I gritted my teeth, steadying it with sheer will. The vortex grew denser, a faint hum filling the air.
Finally, containment. I imagined a shell around the spinning chakra, holding it together. My hand trembled as the energy fought to break free, but I forced it into shape. Slowly, a blue sphere took form—small, unstable, but undeniably a Rasengan.
I let it dissipate, exhaling sharply. That was rough, but it worked. I just needed practice.
Hours passed, the sky fading to dusk. Each attempt refined the process. The sphere grew larger, more stable, the hum becoming a steady buzz. By nightfall, I could hold a proper Rasengan in my palm, its glow casting shadows across the courtyard. It wasn't Minato's level, but it was mine, mastered in a day through talent and desperation.
I grinned, exhaustion warring with triumph. But I wasn't done. With the Rasengan down, I could experiment—add my lightning nature, see what happened.
I formed the Rasengan again, steady now, and began channeling lightning chakra into it. Sparks crackled along the sphere's edge, the blue glow shifting to a pale, electric white. I compressed it, shrinking the ball tighter, focusing the energy. It buzzed louder, almost alive.
Then, something clicked. The Rasengan flickered and vanished, disappearing from my hand. I blinked, startled. Did I mess up?
No—instinct told me to wait. A heartbeat later, it reappeared a few feet away, slamming into the ground with a sharp crack, kicking up dirt. A Vanishing Rasengan, like Boruto's. I'd done it.
Exhilaration surged through me. This could be huge—a jutsu that phased out, striking unpredictably. But it was raw, untested. I needed to perfect it.
I tried again, forming the Rasengan, infusing lightning, compressing it. The sphere vanished once more, and I aimed it mentally at a training dummy. It reappeared midair, shredding the wood with a burst of light.
Yes! I clenched my fist, thrilled. But then I heard footsteps—soft, hurried, coming from behind.
"Menma?" Mikoto's voice, laced with worry.
I spun around, concentration slipping. The Rasengan in my hand—another one I'd been forming—flared wildly. I tried to dispel it, but it was too late. The chakra surged, lightning sparking, and it exploded with a deafening boom.
The force threw me back, pain lancing through my arm as I hit the ground. Dirt and smoke filled the air, my ears ringing. I cursed inwardly, berating myself. *Stupid. Too reckless.*
"Menma!" Mikoto's cry cut through the haze. She rushed toward me, her kimono swishing, Sasuke clinging to her skirt. His wide eyes peeked out, shock written across his young face.
I sat up, wincing. My hand was a mess—scratches and burns crisscrossing the skin, blood trickling down my fingers. Mikoto dropped to her knees beside me, her mouth gaping as she grabbed my wrist.
"Are you okay? What happened?" Her voice trembled, maternal instinct overriding her usual calm.
"I'm fine," I rasped, throat dry. "I was… practicing. Lost control."
She examined my hand, her breath catching. The wounds were already healing, the cuts closing, the burns fading to pink. "This… how are you healing so fast?"
I swallowed, glancing away. My Uzumaki blood, a secret I hadn't fully shared however she knew about Kushina. "It's just something I do. Don't worry."
She frowned, unconvinced, but her concern softened into relief. "You scared me, Menma. That explosion—what were you even trying?"
"A new jutsu," I admitted, sheepish. "I got ahead of myself."
She sighed, brushing dirt from my cheek. "You're too young for this kind of risk. Promise me you'll be careful—or at least let Itachi help you."
I nodded, guilt tugging at me. "I will. I'm sorry."
Sasuke, still clutching her skirt, stared at me with a mix of awe and confusion. "That was loud," he said, his voice small. "Was that the spinning thing?"
I managed a weak smile. "Yeah, Sasuke. Just a mistake this time."
Mikoto helped me up, her touch gentle but firm. "Inside, now. You need rest—and no more experiments tonight."
As we walked back to the house, Sasuke trailing behind, I glanced at the courtyard. The scorched earth and shattered dummy stared back, a testament to my ambition—and my limits. I'd mastered the Rasengan, stumbled into something new, but losing control like that… it couldn't happen again.
---
The next few days were quieter. I trained with Itachi in the mornings, sticking to fire style to avoid suspicion. The Phoenix Sage Fire became second nature, my control sharpening with each session. Itachi praised my progress, though his keen eyes lingered on me sometimes, as if sensing my restlessness.
At night, alone, I refined the Vanishing Rasengan, careful to keep the chakra small and contained. No more explosions—not yet. I needed precision, reliability, before I dared push further.
Mikoto watched me closer now, her worry subtle but constant. She'd caught me favoring my healed hand once and asked if I was hurt again. I brushed it off, hating to hide ir, but Sasuke, meanwhile, pestered me to show him "the spinning thing" again. I promised I would—someday.
The timeline loomed ever-present in my mind. Two years until ANBU, four until the massacre. I was stronger now, but not strong enough. The Rasengan was a step, the lightning variant a leap, but I had to keep going—master the Chidori, blend natures, become a force unseen even by Danzo.
For Itachi, for Mikoto, for Sasuke. For Naruto, out there somewhere, alone.
As I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, my hand tingled with phantom sparks. The path ahead was dangerous, uncertain, but I'd walk it. One jutsu, one day, one fight at a time.
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