Chapter 1: A Jonin made
Chapter Text
Chapter One
A Jōnin made
Kakashi's POV
“The rules are clear. The path is thin.
There’s no room left for what has been.”
The sun hadn't yet broken over Konoha when I opened my eyes. Sleep had been fitful at best, rugged at worst. Like any other day since this war started, I wasn't feeling safe. Yet today wasn't just any day, it was my first as a jōnin.
I should feel celebratory. I would, if the Hokage's face didn't come to mind—his tired eyes and small, sad smile when he handed me the vest. Promoting me to jōnin rank because of the heavy losses in the weeks before. He didn't say it, but I knew..
We are losing the war. The war Iwa started. Our losses are heavier, our forces dwindle. They've promoted a 12-year-old boy to a Jōnin rank, and my first mission...
I stared at the ceiling, body numb—caught in that state of tired, but restless. I checked my chakra carefully—strong and steady, pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat. Good. I had slept well enough to be in optimal condition. My limbs weren't heavy or sluggish. Acceptable.
My thoughts shifted methodically to mission parameters. My team wasn't aware yet, but Hokage-sama had briefed Minato-sensei and me privately. The Kannabi Bridge was a key supply route for Iwagakure forces. Destroying it would disrupt their logistics, potentially turning the tide of war.
Meanwhile, sensei would reinforce the front lines directly. The Hokage's words were clear: failure was not an option. The weight of the war rested on our shoulders.
I rose mechanically, the small apartment silent save for the occasional creak of the floorboards. I never acclimated to living with a ghost—I could still visualize the blood that took days to clean, the lifeless body of my father lying where I found him.
Father's tanto leaned against the wall, newly repaired and polished to a shine, as I maintained it daily following proper protocol. I'd carry it today—not for him, I reminded myself logically, but because it was a practical tool and I was a Hatake. It was my sword now, not his.
Still, I hesitated before picking it up, the metal cool against my fingertips as unwanted memories threatened to surface. Irrelevant. The mission takes priority.
The village needed soldiers, not children. With the war against Iwagakure intensifying, my promotion wasn't a reward but a desperate measure. I analyzed this fact dispassionately. My age was irrelevant—only my capabilities mattered. The failure rate among jōnin had increased by more than 20% in the last month alone. I would not contribute to that statistic. My first mission must be a success, it must be.
As I dressed, I caught my reflection in the mirror—the silver hair, the mask, the eyes that had seen too much already. I looked like him. Unacceptable. Why could I see the resemblance even with my mask up? I didn't pause as the question popped into my mind, only squashed it harshly.
I forced my gaze away and focused on equipment inventory. The jōnin vest felt heavier than anticipated, 2 kilograms of responsibility, my life, my teammates' lives, the village life... Team captain. I mentally reviewed the mission briefing while securing my weapons pouch.
Every kunai, every paper bomb had its designated position. No room for error or inefficiency. The Kannabi Bridge operation was classified as S-rank. Intelligence indicated it was the primary supply route for Iwa forces, maybe the only route. If we succeeded, the other routes of supply would have to either be interrupted by our already established forces, leaking toward other great nations' territory and bringing them into the conflict, or deploying many Stone Village shinobi to build a new route. In every possible scenario, the bridge was our best shot to change the outcome of the war. Success probability: not likely, but necessary.
I cataloged the strengths and weaknesses of my team with clinical precision. Obito Uchiha: chronically tardy, average chakra control and supply, emotional instability, no manifested Sharingan despite his lineage. Taijutsu adequate. His sentimentality compromised mission efficiency significantly.
And Rin Nohara...
My thoughts paused, an unacceptable lapse in focus. Rin...
I recalled how she insisted we spend our limited free time as a unit, claiming it would improve team coordination metrics. She always approached with a precise smile, her eyes brightening when addressing me specifically. The knowledge that her life depended on my tactical decisions should be a straightforward calculation of responsibility, yet it registered as... excessive.
I recalibrated my assessment. Rin: medical ninjutsu specialist, above-average chakra control, reliable, punctual. Her presence increased team survival probability substantially. She would arrive early, medical supplies organized by priority of use, a smile forming after visual confirmation of my presence. She would likely congratulate me on my promotion, potentially stepping closer...
I severed the thought pattern. Irrelevant. Emotional attachments reduced combat effectiveness. The mission was the only priority. The rules were absolute.
Outside, the village was beginning to function. Civilians engaged in daily routines, yet their behavior displayed increased tension compared to months prior. Their expressions revealed awareness of the war's proximity. Perhaps some knew how many shinobi had failed to return the previous weeks. How many more would not return today. How their safety degraded with each passing day.
I calculated the shortest route to the rendezvous point, accounting for potential enemy surveillance, it won’t hurt to be extra careful, especially at wartime.
Today, lives depended on my leadership, my decisions. If following protocol meant sacrificing sentiment, so be it.
I ate a good portioned meal despite increasing nausea distress. Nutrition was non-negotiable for optimal performance.
I departed early before the designated meeting time. Accounting for direct route utilization and minimal civilian interaction, I would arrive before Minato-sensei and Rin. Sufficient.
The additional preparation time would ensure optimal mission readiness. The fact that I would be alone with Rin for several minutes was... logically inevitable. And not a factor in my timing calculations. Not at all.
The weight of the tanto at my back. The responsibility of command. The faces of my teammates flashed in my mind.
I would not repeat my father's mistakes. The White Fang of Konoha died a disgrace because he chose comrades over the mission.
The rules were clear, and I would follow them, because in this war, there was no room for anything else.
Even if something illogical and unwelcome deep inside me sometimes questioned if there was more to being a shinobi than rules.
Chapter 2: Not All Gifts Are Given
Summary:
As the team prepares for their mission under Kakashi’s new leadership, tensions rise. Rin tries to hold them together with small acts of care—but not everyone is ready to give, or to receive.
Chapter Text
Chapter 2 - Not All Gifts Are Given
Beneath the leaves where silence pressed,
Three shadows walked, and none confessed—
Of bitter hearts and glance of ice,
Of gifts withheld, where reasons die.The blade was bright, the pouch was neat,
But kindness never felt complete.
For all that passed from hand to hand,
A deeper truth stabbed her in the end.One spoke with pride, the other stilled,
One watched a space that wouldn’t fill.
And she—who saw and stitched and soothed—
Bore what the others never moved.Her healing hand, her hopeful thread,
Could not repair what pride had held.
And so they walked, into war's embrace,
With secrets behind their clever heads.The meadow sang with wind and light—
But love, unspoken, took to flight.
Some will leave, and others dies...
All bearing truths they dared not write.
Rin’ pov
Dawn painted the kitchen in shades of amber as I balanced a knife on my fingertips. The blade caught the light—a flash of silver as quick as a thought—before I brought it down through the pickled plum with surgical precision. The sharp thwack against the cutting board echoed in the quiet house.
Steam billowed from the rice cooker in ghostly plumes, carrying the comforting scent of breakfast through our too-empty home. My movements were economical, precise—a medical-nin's hands never wasted motion, not even here. The kettle's rising whistle cut through the morning stillness like a distant warning bell.
My father's footsteps creaked down the hallway—heavy, uneven, dragging slightly on the left where an old kunai wound had never quite healed right. Not the silent approach of the elite chūnin I knew him to be. These days, he saved his shinobi discipline for beyond our walls.
When he appeared in the doorway, shadows clung beneath his eyes like persistent genjutsu. His shoulders—once squared and proud—slumped beneath an invisible weight I couldn't lift for him. His gaze swept the kitchen without truly seeing it, until it finally settled on me.
"You're up early," he murmured, voice rough as sand.
The kettle's whistle crescendoed. I lifted it before it could wake the neighbors, pouring steaming water over tea leaves that unfurled like tiny green scrolls.
"Mission day," I replied, setting his cup before him. The ceramic clinked against the wooden table—too loud in the silence stretching between us.
He lowered himself into his chair, joints popping in quiet protest. The sound made him seem ancient, though he'd only just passed thirty-five. War aged shinobi in dog years, my mother used to joke. The memory of her voice tightened something in my chest.
"Did you sleep at all?" he asked, noticing the dark circles I'd tried to hide beneath my clan markings.
I shrugged, setting the last dish on the table with practiced grace. "Enough."
It wasn't true. I'd spent half the night studying medical scrolls, memorizing pressure points and chakra pathways until my eyes burned. The other half I'd spent staring at the ceiling, calculating all the ways today's mission could go wrong. How many ways I might fail my team if my hands trembled at the wrong moment.
The silence between us swelled, filled with all the things we couldn't say. The ghost of my mother sat in the empty chair between us, her absence louder than any conversation.
My father broke his chopsticks apart with a sharp crack. The sound made me flinch—too much like bone.
"Your bentō," he said, nodding toward my pack by the door. Four stacked boxes wrapped in indigo cloth. "That's more than usual."
I poured miso soup into his bowl, watching the steam curl between us like secrets. "One for each of us. Kakashi-kun, Obito, and sensei." I hesitated. "We might be gone several days."
His chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth. A droplet of broth spattered against the table.
"The mission," he said carefully. "It's beyond the border?"
The question hung in the air between us. We both knew what he was really asking. Beyond the border meant enemy territory. Meant ambushes and traps and the kind of missions shinobi sometimes didn't return from. The kind that had taken my mother.
"I don't know yet," I admitted, cradling my teacup between my palms, letting its heat seep into my cold fingers. "Kakashi-kun and Minato-sensei will brief us at the rendezvous point. It's his first day as jōnin captain."
My father's jaw tightened. A muscle jumped beneath his skin.
"Hatake's boy." It wasn't a question.
"He's ready," I said, more sharply than I intended. "He's earned it."
The White Fang's son. The prodigy. The genius. The boy who'd graduated the Academy at five while the rest of us still struggled with basic chakra control. The boy whose talent was matched only by his strict rules following.
The weight in my pack seemed to grow heavier. The medic kit I'd prepared with trembling hands at midnight. The carefully wrapped gift for Kakashi's promotion. The smaller one for Obito, with the Uchiha fan inked carefully on the wrapping paper.
My father's brown eyes—so like mine, but dulled by grief—studied my face. "And you? Are you ready?"
The question cut deeper than he knew. Me, still genin while my teammates advanced. Me, who couldn't save my own mother with all my medical ninjutsu. Me, who woke gasping from nightmares of failing them all.
"Always," I lied, my voice steady as a surgeon's hand.
The lie tasted bitter, but I swallowed it down with lukewarm tea.
My father's chopsticks clinked against his bowl. Rice stuck to his unshaven chin. Two years ago, my mother would have reached across, brushed it away with her thumb and a teasing smile. Now, I pretended not to notice.
"The hospital says you've been staying late. The hospital-cheif mentioned your namewhen i dropped of one of my teammates"
Heat rushed to my face. "She was just being kind."
"No." Something in his voice made me look up. For the first time in months, his eyes were clear, present. "She doesn't offer empty praise. Your mother would be—"
His voice cracked like porcelain dropped on stone.
I looked away, giving him privacy with his grief. Outside, a crow called three times—bad luck, my grandmother would have said. My fingers tightened around my teacup.
The clock on the wall ticked forward.
"I should go," I said, rising. The chair legs scraped against the floor—an ugly sound. "I need to get going."
My father stood too, movements stiff like his joints ached. Before I could reach for my pack, his arms encircled me in a clumsy embrace that smelled of sleep and sorrow and the faintest trace of steel polish.
"Rin," he murmured against my hair. His voice rumbled through his chest against my ear. "You carry too much for someone so young."
I stiffened, then slowly relaxed against him, allowing myself this moment of weakness. My throat burned with unshed tears and I forced a smile for both of us.
"We all do," I whispered against his faded flak jacket. "That's what it means to be shinobi."
When he released me, something in his face had shifted. A shadow lifted, just slightly.
"You take after her," he said quietly. "Your precision. Your compassion." His calloused hand rested briefly on my head. "But your strength—that's all yours. It’s all you, Rin"
I swallowed hard, adjusting my medical pouch with suddenly clumsy fingers. "I'll be back before you know it."
The lie hung between us, fragile as spun glass.
He nodded once, the motion sharp—a shinobi's nod, not a father's. "And if you're not, I'll know it's because someone else needed saving more."
I shouldered my pack, felt the weight of the bentō boxes shift. The weight of responsibility. The weight of being thirteen in a world that needed medics more than it needed children.
At the door, I paused, looked back at him standing alone in our too-quiet kitchen. The morning light caught his profile, highlighting the silver strands at his temples that hadn't been there six months ago.
"I'll come back," I said, and this time I meant it as a promise.
His smile was small but real—the first I'd seen in weeks.
"I know," he said, and in that moment, I almost believed him. "Your teammates need you."
Outside, the village was coming awake. Somewhere, Obito would be rushing late, goggles askew. Somewhere, Kakashi would be standing at the memorial stone, perfectly punctual and perfectly alone. Somewhere, my sensei would be waiting with his kind eyes and impossible expectations.
I adjusted my headband, fingers lingering on the Konoha symbol etched in metal. Then I turned east, toward the village, the rising sun warm against my face.
It took me longer than expected to get to the meeting point.
Not because I was late— never late—but because the air at home had grown thick with memory and war, pressing against my lungs until each breath felt like drawing in smoke. My father's grief, the silence in our hallway, the way my mother's sandals still sat by the door like she might return any day—it all clung to me like a persistent genjutsu I couldn't dispel.
So I wandered first.
The streets of Konoha were beginning to stir, brushed in gold by the rising sun. Shopkeepers rolled up metal shutters with rhythmic clangs that echoed through the still-drowsy streets. The scent of fresh bread and grilling fish wafted from open windows, mingling with the earthy perfume of morning dew. I walked slowly, feeling the cobblestones solid beneath my feet, letting the breeze press gently against my cheeks, savoring each moment before duty would claim me again.
I nodded at every vendor, shinobi, and civilian who greeted me, returning their smiles with practiced ease. Tanaka-san from the weapons shop waved, his weathered hands already blackened with forge soot. "Big mission today, Rin-chan?" he called.
"Just the usual," I answered, the lie smooth on my tongue.
It felt good to be seen —not just as a medic, or as someone's daughter, or the girl whose mother was killed on the eastern front, but as Rin . Just Rin. A girl with purple markings on her cheeks and healing in her fingertips.
Near the corner of the dumpling shop, where steam billowed from vents like morning fog, I saw Kurenai and Asuma walking side by side, their shoulders almost touching but not quite. Her crimson eyes caught the sunlight as she laughed softly at something he said, brushing a dark lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers flexed at his side, as if fighting the urge to reach for her hand. They didn't notice me, wrapped in their private world of half-spoken words and lingering glances.
A quiet ache bloomed beneath my ribs, spreading like ink in water.
I wished Kakashi and I could be like that someday.
Not just teammates thrown together by war and circumstance. Not just shinobi passing each other between missions with formal nods and mission reports. But close , really close—where silence didn't mean distance, and time together didn't have to be about strategy or scrolls or who was bleeding and who could stop it.
He always kept a gap between himself and the rest of us, like he was living on the edge of some invisible line only he could see. Three precise steps back from any offered connection. But lately... he'd been different .
A little more willing to linger after missions, when the firelight softened the hard edges of his profile. A little less sharp in his words, the barbs filed down to something almost gentle. He'd even made a joke— a joke! —about the cat Obito had chased that morning, the one that had left my Uchiha teammate breathless and late, with claw marks scoring his sleeves and a hole so big his goggles had nearly fallen through.
I had laughed then, the sound surprising me with its brightness. And I think Obito had smiled too, even as he pretended to scowl, muttering about "demon cats" and "disrespectful rivals." A rare moment of lightness before the Hokage had summoned them—first Obito, then Kakashi and Minato-sensei—for their promotion ceremonies.
I shook my head, fingers absently tracing the outline of the small gift box in my medical pouch. Their promotions were something to celebrate, of course. Kakashi to jōnin, Obito finally making chūnin after three attempts. But deep down, I knew these hasty advancements came from necessity rather than recognition—the desperate reshuffling of too-thin ranks as more experienced shinobi returned home in body bags rather than on their feet.
I wished they hadn't received their promotions during wartime, when every achievement was shadowed by pragmatism. I wanted to know they'd advanced because of their talent, their dedication—not because war demanded bodies to fill vacant flak jackets.
When I finally reached the meeting point, the sun had climbed higher, and light slanted through the trees in golden shafts that dappled the meadow floor. Wildflowers nodded in the gentle breeze, their sweet scent mixing with the sharp tang of pine. Birds called to each other from hidden perches, undisturbed by human presence.
I saw him before he saw me—though I knew better than to believe he wasn't aware of my approach. He'd probably sensed my chakra signature minutes ago, tracked my footsteps through the underbrush, cataloged my breathing pattern and deemed it non-threatening.
Kakashi.
He stood at the edge of the clearing, perfectly still yet somehow not rigid—like a predator at rest rather than a soldier at attention. The jōnin vest fit him like it had always been his, and if she knew kakashi he probably notice its weight and what it really meant. His mask and hitai-ate were both in place, as usual, but his posture was more relaxed than I expected, one hand resting lightly on his weapon pouch rather than gripping it in readiness.
He had his back to me, face tilted slightly toward the eastern horizon, where the forest grew denser and the shadows deeper. His silver hair caught the morning light, transformed from its usual pale ash to something almost luminous, like freshly polished kunai.
I stopped for a moment, just watching him. Not just his appearance—though even at thirteen, his lean build and effortless grace drew more eyes than he realized—but the stillness that surrounded him. Not the cold, forbidding darkness that so many sensed around him, but something more like the quiet of a flower unfolding, patient and complete within itself. I always felt at peace with him, even in his silences. Especially in his silences.
The wind caught the edge of his sleeve, rippling the fabric like water.
Jōnin now. The youngest in Konoha's history. And yet, still somehow the same Kakashi-kun I've always known.
I stepped into the clearing, my footfalls quiet but not deliberately masked. Dry grass crackled softly beneath my sandals, announcing my presence.
"You're early," I said, meaning earlier than usual—Kakashi was always precisely on time, appearing exactly when required, not a second before or after. Like punctuality was another jutsu he'd mastered.
He turned his head slightly, enough for one dark eye to meet mine briefly before returning to its vigilant watch over the tree line. The fabric of his mask shifted, crinkling at the corner, and I knew he was smiling beneath it—a small, private thing, but there nonetheless.
"So are you," he replied, his voice deeper than it had been even months ago, but still with that familiar cadence that made something warm unfurl in my chest. Leave it to Kakashi to return an observation without offering any information of his own.
"I'm always early," I said with an air of mock pride, lifting my chin. The breeze caught my hair, sending chocolate strands dancing across my field of vision. I tucked them back with practiced fingers. "It's called respect for other people's time."
"I know," he answered simply, and heat rushed to my cheeks. Had he noticed my habits so closely? Did he time his arrivals perfectly, calibrating to the second? Or worse—did he come early sometimes and watch me wait alone, witness my private moments of humming to myself or pressing flowers between the pages of my medical texts?
The thought made my stomach flutter like I'd swallowed a jar of butterflies.
His gaze shifted from the trees to me, assessing without judgment. "New medical pouch?" he asked, nodding toward the tan leather case at my hip, replacing my old canvas one that had finally given way after too many blood stains and emergency repairs.
"Yes," I answered, surprised he'd noticed such a small detail. "More compartments. Better for organizing field supplies."
He nodded once, as if this information was as crucial as mission parameters. "Practical."
In anyone else's mouth, it would have sounded dismissive. From Kakashi, it was high praise.
The silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable but full of words. My fingers itched to reach for the gift in my pouch, but it wasn't time yet. Not until the whole team was here. Not until I could hide my reaction behind Obito's louder one.
"Do you think—" I began, then stopped as Kakashi's posture changed, subtly alert.
His head turned slightly, not toward the western path as I'd expected, but to the space directly beside me—where now stood Minato-sensei, materialized from nothing but air and chakra. His blond hair stood in all directions like golden wheat touched by summer wind, his face gentle with that familiar smile that somehow made everything seem manageable, even war.
My heart stuttered in my chest like a startled bird. A year on his team, countless demonstrations of his legendary Flying Thunder God technique, and still—the sudden absence of emptiness where emptiness should be made my medical-trained senses reel.
"Good morning, Rin-chan, Kakashi," Minato-sensei said, his voice carrying the warmth of early sunlight. His blue eyes scanned the clearing before settling back on us. "I take it Obito isn't here yet?"
The question hung in the air like an old joke we all knew the punchline to, but pretended we didn't just to be polite.
"I believe we have at least forty minutes more to wait," Kakashi replied dryly, his tone sharpened to a fine edge that hadn't been there seconds before when he spoke to me. The mask hid most of his expression, but I could read the slight narrowing of his visible eye, the subtle tension coiling through his shoulders.
I watched the transformation with a twinge of regret. The almost-gentle Kakashi of moments ago had vanished, replaced by the rigid, rule-bound shinobi who seemed to carry the weight of the village's expectations on his narrow shoulders.
"Maybe he'll get here on time this time?" I ventured, my voice lifting with a hopefulness I didn't truly feel. The breeze carried the scent of wild sage and pine as it rustled through my hair. "We still have a few minutes before our scheduled meeting time."
Kakashi threw me a disbelieving look, the kind that made me feel like I'd suggested water might start flowing uphill. He turned away to watch the trees, his posture rigid with quiet frustration. I could almost see it radiating from him in waves, his irritation at Obito's chronic tardiness vibrating in the air between us.
Minato-sensei laughed lightly, the sound like clear water over stones. He rested one hand on Kakashi's shoulder, fingers settling gently on the new jōnin vest. "Obito has many strengths, but punctuality isn't among them." His smile turned rueful. "Though after yesterday's promotion, perhaps he'll surprise us."
But Kakashi remained tense beneath Sensei's touch, his jaw visibly tight even through the mask. The gap between them seemed to widen despite their physical proximity—Minato-sensei's easy understanding of human foibles versus Kakashi's uncompromising adherence to the rules.
I cleared my throat, fingers nervously tracing the stitching on my medical pouch. "How is Kushina-san doing, Sensei?" I asked, deliberately steering the conversation toward safer ground. "Is she still helping at the Academy?"
It was like watching a cloud drift away from the sun. Minato-sensei's expression brightened instantly, blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he dropped his hand from Kakashi's shoulder.
"She's wonderful as always," he said with such transparent affection that heat crept into my cheeks. "Though she mixed up the hour of our meeting this morning and woke me an hour early." He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "The whole neighborhood probably heard her when she realized her mistake."
I laughed, imagining Kushina's vibrant expressions and louder-than-necessary voice echoing through the sleepy streets of Konoha at dawn. "I can picture it perfectly," I said, shooting a sidelong glance at Kakashi.
Like a tightly wound spring slowly releasing, I watched the tension ease from Kakashi's shoulders. The rigid line of his back softened almost imperceptibly. He didn't turn around, but I could tell he was listening now instead of simply hearing.
Minato-sensei caught my eye and smiled gratefully, a silent acknowledgment of my attempt to ease the mood. I wanted to tell him it wasn't for his sake, but for Kakashi-kun, because he was upset and didn't know how to handle it any better than the rest of us. But I didn't. Instead, I just watched from the corner of my eye as Kakashi gradually closed the distance, his sandals making no sound on the grass as he drifted back toward our small circle.
"You should give Kushina-san the correct time next time," Kakashi said unexpectedly, his voice quiet but clear. "It's not her fault if you provided inaccurate information."
I pressed my lips together to hide my smile. Of course Kakashi would defend Kushina-san, who could do no wrong in his eyes. She was one of the few people whose occasional chaos he not only tolerated but seemed to secretly enjoy—perhaps because beneath her fiery exterior was the same fierce loyalty to the village and to those she loved that Kakashi himself prized above all else.
Minato-sensei's eyebrows rose in mock offense. "Are you suggesting I deliberately misinformed my wife, Kakashi? That would be against regulations, surely."
The gentle teasing—so unlike the serious, mission-focused Minato-sensei we usually saw—made something warm bloom in my chest.
Kakashi crossed his arms, but the movement lacked its usual defensiveness. "Regulation twenty-three clearly states that all information passed between shinobi should be accurate and verified," he replied, but there was the faintest hint of something almost playful beneath the serious words. "I'm certain that applies to jōnin spouses as well."
A startled laugh escaped me before I could contain it. Kakashi glanced at me briefly, that almost-smile crinkling around his visible eye again, and something fluttered in my stomach like cherry blossoms caught in an updraft.
Minato-sensei's laugh joined mine, bright and genuine. "I'll be sure to cite your interpretation of the regulations the next time Kushina asks me how her cooking tastes."
The three of us stood there talking for a few minutes, suspended in a rare moment of levity while the sun climbed higher and the shadows shortened around us. I wished I could capture it somehow—preserve it like the pressed flowers between my medical texts—knowing how few such moments we were granted in these war-shadowed days.
A distant crash and a faint cry of "Wait!" drifted through the trees.
Kakashi sighed, his breath a soft whisper of resignation behind his mask. "Right on cue."
The peaceful moment shattered as Obito came crashing through the underbrush—not walking, not running, but tumbling in a chaotic whirlwind of limbs and leaves. He rolled across the clearing, scattering wildflowers and dirt, before skidding to a stop at our feet. A cloud of dust billowed around him, catching golden in the morning light.
Obito lifted his head, dirt smudged across one cheek, goggles knocked askew. His dark eyes were wide with frantic hope. "Did I make it?" he gasped, chest heaving, twigs and leaves tangled in his unruly hair.
Kakashi was already at his side, looming over him like a silver-haired sentinel. The sunlight caught the gleaming metal of his hitai-ate, casting a shadow across his masked face. I couldn't help but think Kakashi got a secret thrill from these moments—standing over Obito, rules firmly on his side.
"No, you're late, Obito," Kakashi answered coolly, yet he crouched to his knees and extended a hand toward our fallen teammate—a gesture that contradicted his frosty tone.
Obito stared at the offered hand for a heartbeat, surprise flickering across his expressive face, before stubbornly ignoring it.
"When did you think we were supposed to meet up?" Kakashi continued, withdrawing his rejected hand with practiced indifference. The early sunlight caught in his silver hair, giving him an ethereal glow that only enhanced his air of untouchable perfection. "When becoming a full-fledged ninja, following the rules is common sense, right?"
I winced as Obito scrambled to his feet on his own, brushing dirt from his new chūnin vest with jerky, agitated movements. Here they go again —this dance of friction and fire, their edges forever catching on each other.
"No, you see, while coming here, I ended up having to help an old lady who had too much luggage to cross the street," Obito protested, his voice rising with each word. His hands animated his story, painting pictures in the air. "And something was in my eye..."
Minato-sensei sighed, a gentle sound of practiced patience. The lines around his eyes deepened slightly—not with anger, but with the weary affection of someone who's watched the same scene play out a hundred times before.
"Right, right," Kakashi cut in, crossing his arms over his chest. "That's a lie, isn't it?"
The accusation struck like a physical blow. I bit my lower lip, tasting the faint metallic tang of blood. It wasn't a lie.
I'd seen it with my own eyes, countless times—the way elderly villagers would actually seek out Obito specifically, their weathered faces crinkling with relief when they spotted those bright orange goggles bobbing through the market. The way his shoulders would straighten with purpose when someone needed him. The genuine care in his hands as he'd carry parcels twice his size, never complaining, never rushing.
This was the truth Kakashi refused to see: Obito would drop everything—mission timing, team meetings, even his own precious dream of becoming Hokage—the moment someone else's need outweighed his own ambition. It wasn't carelessness that made him late.
"Don't say that, Kakashi," Minato-sensei interjected, his voice gentle but firm. "You helped the old lady, didn't you, Obito?"
Relief softened Obito's indignant expression. "I even carried her luggage," he confirmed, fumbling in his pocket for his eyedrops. With practiced movements, he tilted his head back, the liquid catching the sunlight like tears before disappearing beneath his lids. The ritual was so familiar I could almost feel the cool medicine against my own eyes.
I watched the scene unfold—so similar to countless others yet different in subtle ways. Kakashi's shoulders held a new tension beneath his jōnin vest. Obito's defense came quicker, sharper. The air between them crackled with something beyond their usual rivalry, something that made my medical instincts prickle with warning.
"Sensei, you're too easy on him," Kakashi said, his voice tight as a coiled wire. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his leg—once, twice, three times—a nervous tell so small I doubted even he noticed it. "If he keeps acting up like this around people, they'll just be in trouble, right? Those who break the rules and regulations are called trash, right?"
The word "trash" hung in the air like a kunai embedded in wood. I swallowed harshly, my throat suddenly dry. I hated when they argued like this, when the fragile balance of our team tilted toward fracture. It always positioned me as the reluctant peacemaker—the bridge spanning the gulf between their opposing philosophies.
Minato-sensei laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. A faint flush colored his cheeks, as if Kakashi had caught him in some secret indiscretion. The Yellow Flash of Konoha, reduced to an awkward mediator by two headstrong boys.
"Can't you ever be nice sometimes?" Obito exploded, his voice echoing through the clearing, startling a flock of birds from a nearby tree. They scattered upward in a flurry of wings and indignant calls. "You're always bitching about those 'rules' and 'laws' and it's getting damn annoying! What matters is discipline!"
I wanted to shake him. If he'd been on time just once—just once —Kakashi might still be in the good mood I'd glimpsed earlier, that rare softness around his eyes when he'd almost smiled at me. But I understood Obito too well. For him, the rules came as an afterthought, far behind the questions that really mattered: "What is the right thing to do?" and "What is the honorable thing to do?"
Kakashi's visible eye narrowed dangerously, his chakra flickering with barely contained frustration. Minato-sensei shifted his weight, clearly searching for words that would defuse the situation without taking sides, but finding none.
"Now, now. Cut it out, you two," I said, stepping between them, my voice firmer than I felt. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I held my ground, palms raised in a placating gesture. "You're on the same team, you know?"
Kakashi's gaze shifted to me, and something in his expression made my chest tighten. Disappointment. As if I'd betrayed him somehow.
"Rin, you're too soft on him," he said, the words clipped and precise. "Today is a very special day for me."
Guilt washed over me in a cold wave. Of course I remembered. The gifts in my pouch seemed suddenly heavier, pressing against my side like a reminder of my divided loyalties. Maybe I was trying too hard to keep everyone happy, to be the glue that held our fractured team together. Maybe Kakashi was right—I was too soft, too willing to make excuses for Obito's tardiness, too afraid of conflict to hold anyone accountable. But I couldn't help it. Every time I saw that hurt flash in Obito's eyes, every time Kakashi withdrew further behind his mask—it felt like failing at the one thing I was supposed to be good at: healing. Not just bodies, but the wounds no one could see.
"Y-yeah, that's right," I whispered, unable to meet his gaze. The morning breeze suddenly felt colder against my skin.
"Why is that again?" Obito asked, genuine confusion replacing his anger. His eyebrows furrowed beneath his goggles, dark eyes darting between Kakashi and me.
No one answered him. The question hung in the air, another weight added to the already strained atmosphere. Minato-sensei sighed deeply, his exhalation carrying the weight of all our unspoken tensions. With a brisk movement that brooked no argument, he signaled everyone to start moving.
"We've wasted enough time," he said, his voice taking on the commanding tone that reminded us all why he was called the Yellow Flash—not just for his speed, but for how quickly he could transform from gentle teacher to formidable leader. "We'll talk on the way."
As we fell into formation—Kakashi at point, me in the middle, Obito bringing up the rear with Sensei—I caught Obito's eye. His expression was a mixture of confusion and hurt, the earlier anger already fading like morning mist under the sun. I offered him a small, reassuring smile.
Later, I promised myself. Later I would explain about Kakashi's promotion, about the significance of today's mission. Later I would give them both their gifts, and maybe—just maybe—help them see that beneath their differences, they were more alike than either would ever admit.
For now, though, we moved through the forest in tense silence, our footfalls synchronizing despite everything. Whatever awaited us beyond Konoha's borders, we would face it together—not because we always got along, but because when it truly mattered, we were a team. Or I hoped we would be.
The trees blurred past in shades of emerald and gold, branches filtering the midday sun into dappled patterns that danced across our skin as we moved. Our formation cut through the forest with practiced precision—Kakashi at point, his new jōnin vest still stiff against his shoulders; Minato-sensei at the rear, his presence a quiet reassurance; and Obito trailing a little too far behind, his footfalls heavier than they should be for a shinobi, until a sharp glance from Sensei brought him closer.
We hadn't spoken since leaving the clearing. The weight of unspoken words hung in the air between us, thick as morning mist. My medical pouch felt heavy against my hip, the gifts nestled inside like tiny truths I wasn't sure how to give. The wrapping paper crinkled softly with each step, a whispered reminder of intentions yet unrevealed.
I had planned this moment carefully. And I knew that if I didn't speak now, while the world was still quiet around us, I might not get the chance later. War didn't wait for perfect timing.
Minato-sensei signaled for us to halt as we reached a sun-drenched meadow, tall grass swaying in gentle waves around our knees. Wildflowers nodded their colorful heads in the breeze, their sweet scent mingling with the earthy tang of forest soil.
"Starting today, Kakashi is a jōnin, just like me," Minato-sensei announced, his voice carrying across the open space with quiet authority. Sunlight caught in his blond hair, creating a halo effect that made him look almost otherworldly. "So to make the mission more efficient, we're going to split into two teams. Since Konoha's military power has reached an all-time low..."
As he spoke, memories flickered through my mind like shadows—my mother's empty funeral pyre, the smoke curling skyward; Obito's face, hollow-cheeked and pale at his parents' memorial service a year before; Kakashi standing alone at the Academy entrance, five years ago, after his father's name became a whispered curse. I knew the whole story. I'd heard it murmured in enough hospital rooms, caught fragments between the shifts of nurses and the hushed conferences of jōnin who thought no one was listening. The great White Fang, brought low by honor. The son who now carried that weight like armor.
"Split up?" Obito echoed, his voice softer than intended. I glanced at Obito, whose face crumpled like origami folded wrong. His shoulders hunched forward, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his vest in a nervous rhythm.
"Yeah, that's right," Minato-sensei continued, missing the devastation that flashed across Obito's features. "With Kakashi as the captain, you'll form a three-man cell, and I'll be alone."
Obito's breath hitched audibly, a tiny sound of betrayal. The muscle in his jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth.
"Didn't we talk about this before already, Obito?" I asked gently, trying to soften the blow. My hand reached toward him before I caught myself and let it fall back to my side. "Did you get a present for Kakashi?"
I knew we'd discussed this yesterday after Obito's own promotion ceremony, but his eyes had been distant then, focused on some private disappointment. Now I could see the truth written in the tightness around his mouth—he hadn't just forgotten; he'd deliberately minimized Kakashi's achievement, shrinking it to make room for his own pride.
"Sorry, I wasn't listening..." Obito muttered, his voice scraped raw with an emotion he couldn't name. His gaze fixed on a point somewhere past Kakashi's left shoulder, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.
Kakashi's posture shifted almost imperceptibly—spine straightening, shoulders squaring. I'd learned to read the minute changes in his body language, the tiny tells that betrayed emotions his masked face concealed. This was hurt disguised as indifference.
Minato-sensei cleared his throat, dispelling the tension with practiced ease. He withdrew one of his special kunai from his pouch, the metal catching the sunlight in a bright flash. The three-pronged design was unmistakable, marked with the fuinjutsu formula that had earned him his legendary name throughout the shinobi world.
"This is from me," he said with a wink that transformed his face from commander to the warm teacher we knew. He tossed the kunai through the air in a perfect arc. "It's a custom-made kunai. It's a little heavy and the shape is irregular, but when you get used to it, it's really easy to use."
Kakashi caught it with fluid grace, his fingers closing around the handle as if it had been crafted specifically for his grip. He tested its weight with a subtle motion of his wrist, eyes evaluating its balance. "Thank you, Sensei," he said, his voice carrying the rare note of genuine appreciation.
My heart began hammering against my ribs like a caged bird seeking freedom. It was my turn next.
I swallowed hard, suddenly feeling foolish for the nervousness trickling through my veins. It was just a first aid kit, specially made for him, with a self-crafted charm for luck and success tucked into the innermost pocket. Nothing extraordinary, just a practical gift appropriate for this type of promotion. It wasn't as if I was giving him a hand-knitted scarf and declaring my undying love.
"This is from me," I said, my voice emerging higher than usual. I thrust the package forward, the carefully wrapped parcel trembling slightly in my outstretched hands. "Here! It's a special medical pack for personal use. It's been improved so it's very easy to use."
I didn't add that I'd spent weeks researching the most efficient arrangement of supplies, or that I'd stayed up three nights in a row perfecting the seals that would keep the contents sterile even in battlefield conditions. I didn't mention how I'd pricked my fingers a dozen times stitching the reinforced pouch by hand, or how I'd infused each stitch with a prayer that he would never need to use it.
Kakashi took it from my hands, our fingers brushing for the briefest moment—a touch so light it might have been imagination. The fabric of his mask shifted slightly, the only indication of his expression. "Thank you, Rin," he said, his eyes never meeting mine as he secured the pouch to his belt.
It was nothing special , I reminded myself, ignoring the hollow ache beneath my sternum.
Kakashi turned to Obito then, his hand extended expectantly. I watched as his other hand moved almost unconsciously to his pocket, fingers closing around something small before releasing it as Obito spoke.
"W-what do you want exactly?" Obito stammered, his face flushing crimson from neck to hairline. "I didn't get anything for you."
The hand in Kakashi's pocket withdrew empty. He turned away with a swift, graceful motion that couldn't quite hide the stiffening of his shoulders. "Well, whatever. It's not like you'd give me anything decent anyway. Anything you would have brought would just become useless luggage."
The words landed like shuriken, precise and cutting.
"How the hell did you become a jōnin? I'll never know!" Obito fired back, his voice cracking with fury. His hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides, trembling with the effort of restraint.
"You're one to talk," Kakashi replied, his tone glacial but his eyes flickering with a disappointment that belied his calm exterior. It was the third time today I'd seen that look cross his face—a shadow of something deeper than mere frustration with a tardy teammate.
Obito's chest expanded as he drew in a breath like a battle cry. "I am Uchiha Obito of the Uchiha clan, and one day I'm going to surpass you once I awaken my Sharingan!"
I bit my lip, tasting copper. I wanted to intervene, to remind Obito that not every Uchiha awakened their bloodline limit, that his worth wasn't measured by crimson eyes that might never come. But before I could find the words, Kakashi delivered another blow, this one aimed beneath the armor.
"The Uchiha clan's supposed to be a group of elites, right? I guess they expected too much of you when entrusting you with a title like that."
The air between them crackled with tension, hot as lightning chakra. It wasn’t just a surface-level insult. Kakashi had been hurt—really hurt—that Obito hadn’t acknowledged his promotion. Especially when he’d remembered Obito’s.
I lunged forward, placing myself physically between them as Obito's chakra flared dangerously. My hands pressed against both their chests, feeling the thundering heartbeats beneath my palms. "Stop it, you two," I pleaded, my voice steady despite the fear curling in my stomach.
Minato-sensei appeared beside us in a flash of yellow light, his hand settling firmly on Kakashi's shoulder. "Okay, can I explain the mission now?" he asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp with warning.
The moment stretched, taut as a wire trap, before both boys backed down simultaneously—Kakashi with a curt nod, Obito with a frustrated exhalation that stirred the leaves at our feet.
The gifts and Obito's promotion faded into the backdrop of more pressing concerns, remembered by everyone and acknowledged by no one. The mission awaited, and with it, dangers that would make these moments of tension seem trivial by comparison.
As Minato-sensei began outlining our objectives, I caught Kakashi watching Obito from the corner of his eye, his hand absently touching the pocket where something still waited, ungiving and ungiven.
Some gifts, I realized, were heavier for remaining unsaid.
as I listened to Sensei's voice outlining the risks ahead—enemy movement traced in the dirt with the tip of his kunai, coded fallback routes memorized in heartbeats, the strategic importance of Kannabi Bridge rendered in stark military terms—I kept my eyes on both of them.
Two boys who didn't understand each other, and maybe never could.
The realization settled in my chest, quiet and unshakable - if either of them fell, I wouldn’t survive it. Not without Obito, my best friend since Academy days, the boy whose smile could outshine even the darkest moments of war. Not without Kakashi—whom I still couldn’t define with any word that felt right. Not teammate. Not friend. Just… something unnamed, something that made my heart stutter whenever his gaze found mine.
And it wasn't because I was their medic, sworn to preserve their lives with my healing jutsu.
It was because they were mine. My personal medics who heal my shattered soul. They are the reason I push my chakra control beyond its limits as a medical ninja, memorizing every pressure point and healing technique until my eyes burned from reading medical scrolls by candlelight.
I would protect them both, not just with my medical jutsu but with everything I had. Whatever it took.
Chapter 3: The Weight of Command
Summary:
Those who don't care about their friends are even worse than trash.
Notes:
Thank you for reading!
For now, I’m staying as close to canon as possible—many scenes and lines will be recognizable from the original source, though reimagined through the chosen point of view and internal character depth. However, starting next chapter, the plot will begin to diverge from canon. If you're here for an emotional journey that honors the original while exploring “what ifs” through character-driven storytelling, you’re in the right place!
Chapter Text
Chapter 3 -The Weight of Command
Steel cut through the air—
rules too sharp to carry care,
blood spoke for the heart.
Kakashi's POV
The map was spread before us, its creases and markings telling the story of a war we were losing. I studied it with practiced detachment, my eyes automatically calculating distances, identifying optimal routes, noting potential ambush locations. This was my first mission as jōnin captain. Failure was not an option.
"Got it? It's this line," Minato-sensei said, his finger tapping the marked location. The Kannabi Bridge. "Right now, the Earth Country is invading the Hidden Grass Village. Of course, the enemy are the Hidden Rock shinobi."
I traced the path mentally: approximately 70 kilometers through hostile territory. My mind categorized the variables: terrain difficulties, enemy patrol patterns, and our team's physical limitations. Obito would likely slow us down.
"We have information that they have over a thousand ninja at the front line already," Minato-sensei continued, his finger moving across the map with precise movements.
"They're advancing a lot faster than before," Obito murmured, a slight tremor in his voice betraying the fear he was trying to hide.
I ignored him, focusing instead on the tactical realities. "The Fire Country also borders with the Hidden Grass Village, so if we wait, it's going to be too late." The Hidden Rock's invasion timeline indicated a high probability of total occupation within a few days. Our window of opportunity was closing.
"Based on the way they're advancing, their backup must be pretty smooth as well, right?" Rin observed.
I felt something flicker in my chest at her analysis. Her tactical awareness was consistently above average. An asset to the team. I noted Obito watching her with obvious admiration. Inefficient. Emotional attachments compromised mission parameters.
Minato-sensei's silence confirmed what we already knew. we would have no reinforcements. We were the mission. The entire war effort pivoted on our success.
"Well, our mission this time is here: Kannabi Bridge," Sensei continued. "In order to strike back at the enemy, we need a lot of manpower. To be able to do this, we, the few select ninja, are going to sabotage them."
"The bridge..." I said quietly, reviewing the intelligence briefing I'd memorized. "So, this is a sneaking mission?"
Sensei nodded at my assessment, and I couldn't help calculating our team's suitability. Myself: optimal for stealth operations. Rin: adequate stealth capabilities, moves quietly, follows orders precisely. Obito: liability. Too loud, too emotional, too unpredictable. I'd need to account for this weakness in my strategy.
"Team Kakashi," Sensei's blue eyes met each of ours in turn, his gaze lingering a fraction longer on mine. "Your mission is to infiltrate the enemy's back line, then blow up the bridge they're using for supplies before withdrawing."
I acknowledged with a curt nod, already mapping contingency plans, escape routes, and kill zones. The mission parameters were clear. The rules would guide us. My father's face flashed unbidden in my mind—I pushed it away. This was my command, my responsibility.
I found myself agreeing along with Obito and Rin. "Yes, we'll do it."
The words were simple, but behind them lay the complex calculations of a shinobi trained from birth to put the mission above all else. Even as I spoke, I was already preparing myself for the decisions that might come—the choices that separated a successful jōnin from a failed one.
I would not fail. Not like him.
We hadn't split up yet, and a part of me was relieved—though I would never admit it. Obito was proving to be exactly as disobedient as I had anticipated, and the pressure to prove myself hadn't faded since we'd left Konoha. With each step deeper into enemy territory, it intensified, coiling tighter around my chest like wire.
We moved in formation, silent as shadows across the forest floor. Even Obito managed to maintain acceptable stealth parameters, surprisingly. I inhaled sharply as a foreign scent reached me—distinct chakra signatures multiplied across the area. I raised my hand in the signal to halt, directing the team behind a fallen tree trunk with quick, precise gestures.
I drew in another breath, analyzing the particulates in the air. "Twenty," I calculated. "At minimum."
Minato-sensei's eyes met mine with approval, and Rin's impressed glance sent an unwelcome warmth through my chest. Obito's face tightened, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. Irrelevant. Focus on the threat.
"Everyone be careful," Sensei whispered, his palm flat against the ground as he extended his sensory capabilities. "There's about twenty enemies. It's probably just a bunch of shadow clones."
"Looks like it," I agreed, my mind already mapping attack vectors and calculating chakra expenditure rates. This was the moment I'd been waiting for—my first opportunity to demonstrate my worthiness of the jōnin rank. "Sensei, I'll go first. Please cover me."
The newly-polished metal of my hitai-ate caught the filtered sunlight as I shifted my weight, preparing to move. My father's tanto rested against my back—a weight I refused to acknowledge as anything more than a practical tool.
"Don't be hasty, Kakashi. You should just be the backup," Minato-sensei cautioned, his voice carrying that mixture of authority and concern I'd come to recognize.
I didn't listen. I understood Sensei's tactics—he wanted to ease me into command, to protect us all while allowing me the illusion of leadership. But today, I wasn't his student. I was Team Kakashi's captain, and the responsibility was mine to bear.
"I'm the captain of this team now," I stated, my voice level and controlled as I began forming the hand seals I'd practiced thousands of times in solitude. "Besides, now's an excellent time to try out the jutsu I've been developing."
Chakra surged through my pathways, concentrated and refined with precision into my right hand. The sound came first—a high, piercing chirp that cut through the forest silence like a blade. Then the light, blinding white-blue energy crackling around my fingers, casting harsh shadows across my teammates' faces.
Rin's eyes widened with something between awe and concern. Obito's expression darkened with what might have been envy. Sensei's arm rose across my path—a final warning.
"It doesn't matter how many enemies there are. This will end in a flash," I said, deliberately echoing his nickname. "Besides... it's like you said, Sensei. The leader of this mission is me. It's a rule that a team must follow its leader's orders. Right, Sensei?"
I watched his resistance crumble against the weight of his own principles. His arm lowered, but his eyes remained troubled.
The Chidori pulled at me like a living thing, demanding motion, demanding blood. I exploded forward, wood splintering around me as I burst through our cover. The first enemy—a clone—materialized before me. I registered the kunai flying toward me without concern. Sensei would handle those. My focus remained singular. identify the original among the copies.
One by one, the shadow clones burst into smoke against my jutsu. My sensory awareness expanded, cataloging each enemy's chakra signature, movement pattern, and reaction time. There—the one hanging back, kunai gripped too tightly, heart rate elevated beyond combat necessity. Fear. The original.
I changed course, pushing more chakra into my legs for a final burst of speed. The Chidori screamed in my hand as I closed the distance, prepared to end this encounter with ruthless efficiency.
Two sensations registered simultaneously: cold metal tearing through the flesh of my chest, and Sensei's hand gripping my shoulder, yanking me backward with irresistible force.
I thought I heard Rin calling my name, the sound distorted as if traveling through water.
Then we were back with the team, the familiar sensation of Sensei's Flying Thunder God technique leaving my stomach several meters behind. Pain pulsed from my wound in spreading waves, hot blood soaking through my new jōnin vest. Failure, my mind registered. Miscalculation.
Rin was at my side instantly, her voice steady but urgent as she called my name. Sensei's weight disappeared before his equipment pack even touched the ground.
Two seconds later, he returned—no enemy in pursuit.
I stared at the crimson stain spreading across my chest. I was wrong. I was hasty. I have failed.
Rin's hands pressed against my wounded chest, her chakra flowing into my torn flesh like cool water against a burn. The medical ninjutsu gradually dulled the sharp pain to a throbbing ache. I kept my face expressionless behind my mask, refusing to show weakness. The injury itself was manageable—the implications of it were not.
"Kakashi's injury is pretty bad," Sensei announced, taking command. "For now, we should retreat and set camp."
"I'm fine," I stated, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the pain radiating through my chest. The physical discomfort was nothing compared to the knowledge that we were retreating because of my failure. My first decision as team captain had jeopardized the mission.
"What do you mean 'fine'?" Obito exploded, his voice tight with barely contained anger. "You selfishly went against Sensei's orders and did something crazy!"
My anger flared instantly, a defensive reaction I couldn't suppress. Of course he would say that. The Uchiha had never accepted me as his superior, had never acknowledged my rank or abilities. In his eyes, there was only one leader—Minato-sensei.
"I don't have anything to say to an elite Uchiha crybaby who pissed in his pants," I retorted, the words deliberately crafted to wound. A distant part of my mind recognized the statement as unprofessional. I silenced that voice.
"Well, I got something in my eyes, so tears started coming out," Obito insisted, his goggles still firmly in place over his eyes.
"Do you know the 25th shinobi rule?" I asked coldly. "It states, 'A shinobi must never show his tears.'" The rules were absolute, the framework upon which everything else was built.
Rin's hands stilled momentarily over my wound, her chakra flow faltering. I didn't look at her, knowing I would see disappointment in her eyes. She never approved when Obito and I fought, always positioned as the mediator between opposing forces.
"Hey, you two should stop this," she said, her voice carrying a slight tremor.
"Take it easy, you two." Sensei's voice cut through our argument with unexpected sharpness.
We all froze. Minato-sensei, who embodied patience and gentle guidance, was using a tone we'd never heard before. His blue eyes had hardened to chips of ice, his usual easy demeanor replaced by something stern and unyielding.
"Kakashi, it's true that rules and regulations are there to be followed, but that's not all there is to it. I've told you before. There are also times where you have to cope with the situation."
His words struck with precision. I felt something inside me beginning to yield, a slight crack in my certainty. Perhaps I had been wrong this time—perhaps the rules didn't account for every variable.
"You see?!" Obito crowed, vindication coloring his voice.
Before I could respond, Sensei rounded on him. "Obito, you too! You're wearing goggles, so there's no way something may've gotten into your eyes. If you don't control your mouth, then your mind will become just as weak."
I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction at Obito's chastened expression, but it evaporated as Sensei turned back to me.
"And one more thing... Kakashi, you shouldn't use that jutsu again." The words landed like physical blows. "It's true that you have the destructive force and speed needed for it, but when you're moving too fast, it's near impossible for you to see the enemy counter your attack. It's an incomplete jutsu."
Shock reverberated through me. The Chidori—my creation, the technique I'd developed through months of solitary training, my answer to Sensei's own Rasengan—was being deemed insufficient. Incomplete.
I wanted to argue, to defend my work, to point out that with practice I could overcome its weaknesses. But the evidence was undeniable: the enemy had read my movement and countered with a precision that had nearly been fatal.
"Before we leave, I'll say this once again," Sensei concluded, his gaze sweeping over all three of us. "The most important thing for shinobi is teamwork."
We absorbed the reprimand in silence. Obito, for once, stayed quiet. Even he seemed to understand the weight of Sensei’s disappointment. Rin, who had done nothing wrong, accepted her portion of the scolding with quiet dignity, never pausing in her treatment of my wound.
I stared at the ground, the shame a physical weight pressing down on my shoulders. I had been given command, had insisted on exercising it, and had immediately proven myself unworthy of the responsibility. Everything in me wanted to blame Obito's disrespect, Rin's distraction, Sensei's overprotectiveness—anything but admit that perhaps I wasn't ready.
We ate the bentō boxes Rin had brought, each of us sitting in contemplative silence after Sensei's reprimand. The food was deliberately bland with minimal aroma—perfectly calibrated for a stealth mission in enemy territory. Not the first time she had demonstrated such tactical foresight. My chest tightened at her thoughtfulness and intelligence; these weren't qualities that received recognition in mission reports, yet they were critical to our survival.
The wound across my chest had already begun healing, far faster than standard recovery. She had expended more chakra than necessary, accelerating my recovery while maintaining her own reserves at acceptable levels. All this with a gentle smile and soft encouragement that logic dictated I should ignore but couldn't.
"It's truly an amazing jutsu," Rin said quietly as she finished securing the bandage, her eyes meeting mine with that particular warmth she reserved for moments like these. The admiration in her chocolate-brown gaze was undeserved but... not unwelcome.
"Thanks," I replied, the word barely audible. I couldn't bring myself to use my usual clipped tone with her, not when she was showing such unwarranted faith in my abilities after such a clear failure.
"You developed it yourself?" she continued, carefully repacking her medical supplies with practiced efficiency. "You're a true genius! Like everyone always said." Her hands moved with precise, economical motions, mirroring my own methodical approach to equipment maintenance. "It's nothing new, but wow! And if you could work out the flaw, it will be unstoppable like Sensei's Rasengan!"
I understood what she was doing—rebuilding my confidence after Sensei's criticism, offering support without challenging my authority or pride. The calculated kindness might have been irritating from anyone else. From her, it felt... good.
"It needs more work," I admitted, my voice softening to a tone I used exclusively with her—one that emerged without conscious decision. The vulnerability in those four words was more than I'd shown anyone since my father's death.
Rin nodded, understanding the concession for what it was. She didn't press further or offer empty reassurances. Instead, she simply closed her medical kit with a soft click and remained beside me, her presence a quiet counterbalance to the feeling of failure.
Across the small camp, Obito was pointedly not looking in our direction, his chopsticks moving mechanically between his bentō and his mouth. Sensei watched all three of us with that impossible-to-read expression he wore sometimes .
The sun filtered through the trees in dappled patterns, catching in Rin's hair and illuminating strands of amber among the brown. An irrelevant observation. Yet I found myself cataloging the detail alongside mission-critical information, storing it away for reasons that defied logical explanation.
I shifted slightly, testing the limitations of my healing wound. The pain had receded to a dull throb—manageable. By morning, it would present no tactical disadvantage. Nevertheless, I knew Rin would check it again before we departed, her gentle fingers probing the injury with professional detachment that somehow never felt impersonal.
"Thank you," I added after several moments of silence, the words emerging awkwardly, as if my vocal cords weren't accustomed to forming them. "For the healing."
The specification was unnecessary—we both knew what I was thanking her for. Yet I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge the other things: the carefully prepared bentō, the unwavering support, the way she somehow maintained faith in me despite everything that happened.
Her smile in response held no triumph or satisfaction—just a quiet understanding that made something in my chest constrict in a way unrelated to my injury.
I returned my attention to the food before me. My mind, however, remained divided—part analyzing our next tactical approach, part replaying the fight and identifying my errors, and a small, inexplicable part still lingering on the way sunlight had touched Rin's hair.
"I'll take the first watch," Sensei announced as we finished our meal, his tone making it clear this wasn't open for discussion. "The rest of you should get some sleep. We move at dawn."
Under normal circumstances, I would have insisted on taking the first watch myself. But exhaustion weighed on my limbs, the combined result of chakra depletion from the Chidori and the body's natural response to healing. For once, I didn't argue with his decision.
As I settled against the base of a tree, positioning myself for optimal awareness even in sleep, I sensed Rin preparing her bedroll nearby—closer to me than protocol strictly dictated, yet not close enough to be considered inappropriate. The precise calculation of that distance seemed characteristic of her—always toeing the line between propriety and care.
My consciousness began to fade, the day's events replaying in disjointed fragments behind my eyelids. The last thing I registered before sleep claimed me was the soft, steady rhythm of Rin's breathing beside me—a sound that should have been irrelevant but somehow served as its own kind of security.
I woke to the gentle sounds of the forest and the realization that Sensei had maintained watch throughout the entire night. My body felt unexpectedly refreshed—the kind of rest that typically eluded me in my empty apartment. Perhaps there was a tactical advantage to sleeping in proximity to trusted allies. Sensei implicitly, Rin without question. Obito... remained a more complex. I trusted he wouldn't abandon a fight, but whether he would remain loyal when his ideals conflicted with mission parameters was less certain.
Rin still slept nearby, her breathing soft and rhythmic. Obito had migrated during the night, now curled closer to the rock where Sensei maintained his vigilance. I sat up quickly, deliberately ignoring the gentle exhales from Rin's parted lips.
Sensei had detected my wakefulness before I'd even opened my eyes—his sensory capabilities remained unmatched. He didn't move, allowing me to approach him instead, clearly mindful of our still-sleeping teammates.
"Morning," I muttered, still clearing the unusual fog of deep sleep from my mind.
"You didn't wake any of us to switch watch with you," I said, the accusation evident despite my lowered voice. "As captain, I should have taken the first watch."
"As your veteran fellow jōnin, I believe you needed more rest to recover," Sensei replied, his smile gentle but firm. The sunlight filtering through the leaves cast dappled patterns across his face, highlighting the faint shadows beneath his eyes—evidence of his night-long vigil.
"Well... still. It will affect your stamina, and that will affect your efficiency in battle, and..." I continued, the words spilling out with uncharacteristic lack of discipline until Sensei's hand came to rest atop my head, ruffling my already disheveled hair.
The gesture silenced me instantly—a throwback to earlier days, when I was his only still his student. I should have been irritated by the familiarity, but something in me responded to it, like a plant turning toward sunlight.
"Thank you for worrying about me, but I'll be fine," he said, his voice carrying that particular warmth he reserved for the three of us. "Still, I'm worried about you three. Today we'll arrive at the point where we'll have to split up. You've never been alone before, and it's hard for me to let you all go without me keeping watch over you. So letting you sleep is something I can do that will make me worry less."
The sincerity in his voice was uncomfortable—too early for such emotional transparency. I shifted my weight, scanning the perimeter as if expecting an enemy to materialize and save me from this conversation.
"I'm going to fill our water," I muttered, grabbing the canteens and retreating to the nearby stream, where the sound of rushing water could drown out the echo of Sensei's concern.
When I returned, Rin and Obito were both awake. Rin was running her fingers through sleep-tangled hair, while Obito released a yawn so expansive it seemed anatomically improbable. The camp had already transformed with Sensei's efficiency—equipment packed, all evidence of our presence methodically erased.
Rin's eyes brightened visibly as I approached, her hand immediately gesturing for me to sit before her. I complied without protest, an automatic response.
"I can't believe Sensei didn't wake any of us up," she said, her fingers already unwrapping my bandages with practiced precision. "I slept too deeply, but it was such good rest. Oh—look at this! Your injury is closing well. After another session or two, it will be completely healed."
Her professional assessment was interspersed with personal commentary in a way that should have been inefficient but somehow wasn't. Her hands moved with sure, gentle purpose over my wound, chakra flowing from her fingertips in a cool, soothing stream.
Across the camp, Obito sat cross-legged, mechanically consuming the fish Sensei had prepared. His eyes remained half-lidded, consciousness gradually returning with each bite. He hadn't acknowledged my presence—unusual for someone typically so quick to challenge me. Perhaps yesterday's events had affected him more deeply than I thought.
I cataloged these observations automatically: Rin's heightened energy, Obito's subdued demeanor, Sensei's concealed fatigue. All variables that could impact mission success, all factors requiring adjustment in tactical planning.
Yet beneath this analysis, an uncomfortable awareness persisted—that soon we would separate from Sensei, and for the first time, three lives would depend entirely on my decisions. On my ability to apply the rules correctly, to make the right choices where my father had made the wrong ones.
The responsibility settled across my shoulders like a physical weight, heavier than my jōnin vest, more substantial than the White Fang's tanto secured against my back.
Rin's hands paused in their work, her eyes meeting mine with a question she didn't voice. I looked away, focusing on the tree line, on potential approach vectors, on anything but the concern in her gaze.
"Almost done," she said softly, resuming her treatment. "It's healing perfectly."
I nodded once, sharply. At least that was progressing well.
We finally reached that critical junction—the point where our paths would diverge and the full weight of command would settle on my shoulders. Despite my outward composure, I felt only dread and anxiety coiling in my stomach. I maintained my expression carefully neutral, shoulders squared beneath my jōnin vest.
"From here on out, we'll split into two groups," Sensei said, his voice carrying the gravity of the moment. His blue eyes scanned each of our faces in turn, committing them to memory as if afraid it might be the last time. "Everyone do your best."
The morning light filtered through the canopy, casting dappled shadows across the forest floor. Birds called in the distance, oblivious to the tension that hung in the air between us.
"It was only by chance that the enemy from yesterday was scouting by himself," Sensei continued, his tone shifting from teacher to commander. "From now on, they'll be team battles."
The words fell between us like shuriken, embedding themselves in the soft earth of our confidence. Not a warning but a prophecy, delivered with the certainty of someone who had seen too many missions end in blood and loss.
"Be careful," he finished, the simple phrase carrying the weight of everything left unsaid.
A moment of silence stretched between us, filled with unspoken fears and silent promises. Then, unexpectedly, Obito broke it.
"So let's get going, Captain," he said, addressing me directly without a trace of his usual antagonism.
I couldn't hide my surprise, a brief widening of my eyes betraying my carefully maintained composure. Beside me, Rin's soft gasp indicated her own astonishment. Only Sensei seemed unsurprised, a knowing smile touching his lips. I found myself wondering if Obito's migration toward Sensei during the night had been more than his usual restless sleeping habits—if perhaps words had been exchanged while Rin and I slept.
Something had shifted in Obito's demeanor. Not complete acceptance, perhaps, but an acknowledgment of the hierarchy that I hadn't expected from him. The realization settled uncomfortably—somehow his resistance had been easier to navigate than this unexpected compliance.
"Okay, let's go," Minato-sensei said, a note of genuine happiness in his voice that had been absent since we'd left the village. Something in his expression suggested pride—not just in me, but in all three of us. As if we had already accomplished something significant simply by standing here, preparing to move forward without him.
"Yes, sir," we responded in unison, the synchronized acknowledgment a testament to the hours we'd spent training together.
"Scatter," he ordered.
And just like that, we separated—four shadows diverging in different directions. Sensei became a yellow flash before disappearing entirely, moving at a speed none of us could match. And then it was just the three of us: Obito to my left, Rin between us, both looking to me for direction.
I felt the absence of Sensei's presence like a physical thing—a vacuum where his unwavering confidence had been. Now there was only my judgment standing between my team and failure.
"We move in triangular formation," I stated, falling back on protocol to mask the momentary uncertainty. "I'll take point. Rin in the center, Obito covering our rear. Maintain visual contact at all times. Communication by standard hand signals only unless absolutely necessary."
They nodded, assuming their positions without argument. Even Obito complied without his usual commentary or complaint.
As we moved deeper into enemy territory, I found myself hyper-aware of their presences behind me—the soft sound of Rin's controlled breathing, the slightly heavier footfalls of Obito as he navigated the branches. Their lives were in my hands now. No Sensei to correct my mistakes, to compensate for my errors in judgment.
I thought of my father, of the choice he had made that ended his career and eventually his life. The mission or his comrades. The rules or his heart.
I would not make the same mistake. The mission came first. That was the foundation upon which everything else was built.
As we moved silently through the trees, I pushed down the whisper of doubt that threatened to undermine my resolve. This was what I had trained for.
My fingers brushed against the hilt of the White Fang's tanto at my back—not for reassurance, I told myself, but to confirm its secure positioning. A practical check, nothing more.
The first half-day proceeded smoothly—we navigated the terrain efficiently, avoided traps with minimal disruption, paused only to verify our position against the map, and accommodated Obito's periodic need for eye drops. I maintained our formation with rigid precision, allowing for no unnecessary conversation, no distractions from our objective.
Then everything changed.
We were crossing a small water body, chakra concentrated beneath our feet to maintain surface level, when the attack came. I sensed their chakra signatures microseconds before they struck—just enough time to tense, not enough to evade. A barrage of sharpened branches hurtled toward us like kunai, their trajectory calculated to limit our escape options.
Obito reacted with surprising speed, his hands forming seals with newfound precision. The grand fireball jutsu erupted from his lips, a technique that honored his Uchiha heritage. The flames consumed the projectiles instantly, transforming them to ash that fell upon the water's surface.
Steam billowed upward, creating a tactical obscurity that both hindered and protected us. I calculated visibility reduction at approximately 70%, sufficient to conceal our position but inadequate for a strategic retreat.
A crack echoed behind us—weight shifting on a tree branch, the sound pattern consistent with an adult shinobi preparing to attack. A Rock ninja materialized through the vapor, his chakra signature indicating jōnin-level reserves.
I drew my kunai with practiced efficiency, preparing to engage. We exchanged blows in mid-air, each strike testing the other's capabilities. His speed matched mine, confirming my assessment—at minimum a chūnin, more likely a jōnin. I adjusted my combat approach accordingly, shifting to more defensive techniques to conserve chakra while seeking an opening.
Then Rin's voice cut through the fog—a sharp cry that contained multitudes… surprise, fear, determination. My attention diverted instantly, eyes scanning for her location, my body already moving in her direction before conscious thought could form.
Too late. I was too late.
By the time my feet touched solid ground, she was already unconscious, limp in the arms of a second enemy. This one was massive—nearly twice Minato-sensei's size, his physical presence dominating the clearing. The Rock Village insignia gleamed on his forehead protector, mocking our mission's secrecy.
"I'll hold on to this one," the giant announced, his grip on Rin appearing almost casual, as if her capture had been trivially simple.
Peripheral vision registered Obito's movements—the tension in his legs, the righteous fury building in his chakra, preparing to launch himself toward the enemy holding Rin. Simultaneously, my tactical assessment completed with cold clarity: Rin captured. Two jōnin-level opponents. Our combat capability insufficient. Probability of successful rescue without mission compromise: negative .
Rin was already lost to us.
"Wait," I called, uncertain whether I was addressing Obito or the enemy. The hesitation cost us—the Rock ninja detonated a smoke bomb, and when the air cleared, they had vanished with Rin.
"Damn it!" Obito was already in motion, prepared to pursue without tactical consideration.
"Obito, don't go after them," I commanded, my voice carrying the authority of rank I wasn't certain I deserved.
He skidded to a halt, turning to face me with incomprehension distorting his features. "What?!"
I explained the logical calculation—how pursuit would compromise our primary objective, how the mission parameters required us to proceed regardless of individual losses. The words emerged with mechanical precision, as if recited from the shinobi handbook rather than formed by my own thoughts.
"Do you even realize what you're saying?" he demanded, his voice breaking with disbelief.
"Yeah..." My affirmation emerged quieter than intended. "The two of us will continue the mission."
Even as I spoke, I felt something fracturing within my chest—the sense that I was betraying not just Rin, but some fundamental truth I couldn't yet name. Yet the mission's priority remained absolute in my mind. The rules were clear. Deviating from them had destroyed my father. Would destroy us all if we followed his example.
"But Rin... what about Rin?" Obito's question contained all the emotion I was suppressing, all the humanity I was trying to excise from my decision-making.
"Rin comes later." The words felt hollow. I made a silent promise to myself—if possible, we would rescue her after completing our mission. A compromise that honored both duty and loyalty.
I continued explaining, each word carefully selected to build an irrefutable logical case. "The enemy wants to know our aim. They won't kill her right away. Luckily, on top of that, Rin is a medical ninja. Even as a prisoner, she will be treated well as long as she provides medical treatment to the enemy. And more importantly, the problem is the enemy discovering our aim. If that information leaks, they'll immediately make preparations to guard the bridge. If that happens, the mission will become too difficult."
The argument was sound, tactically impeccable. Each premise led inevitably to the conclusion that abandoning Rin was the correct choice. Yet something in Obito's eyes—the raw, unfiltered horror—made me wonder if I was missing something fundamental.
"What you're saying doesn't take Rin's safety into account!" he erupted, gesturing wildly toward the direction they'd taken her. "What would happen if those guys just now were simply some stupid underlings? Right now, rather than the mission, rescuing Rin takes priority!"
I fell back on the certainty of regulation, the foundation that had guided me since my father's disgrace. "As a shinobi, even if you have to sacrifice your comrades, accomplishing the mission is essential. That's the rule. If this mission fails, the war will be prolonged, and many more sacrifices may occur."
Each word felt like a kunai driven into my own flesh, yet I continued. The mission was more important than my discomfort. More important than Rin. More important than all of us.
"That's only speculation!" Obito cried, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, magnified by his goggles.
Something in me wanted to yield, to acknowledge the truth in his accusation. But I couldn't. To admit uncertainty now would be to question everything I'd built my identity upon.
"Could you really throw away a comrade who went through life and death with you so easily?" he continued, his voice rising with each word. "Whenever you and I were injured, Rin would always save us with her medical ninjutsu! If it weren't for her, we'd have been dead long ago!"
Silence fell between us, heavy with all I couldn't say. that I remembered every time her hands had healed me, every smile she'd offered when I didn't deserve it, the way sunlight caught in her hair that morning. That abandoning her felt like carving out something vital from my chest.
Instead, I said, "That was Rin's duty."
The lie tasted like ash. We both knew Rin had never acted out of duty alone.
Something broke in Obito then—I saw it happen, the last thread of restraint snapping behind his eyes. His fist connected with my jaw, the impact sending me sprawling to the forest floor. I didn't evade. Some part of me felt I deserved it, wanted the physical pain to match the unacknowledged ache inside.
"I hate you, after all!" he shouted, his voice raw with emotion I couldn't permit myself to feel.
I picked myself up slowly, tasting blood where my teeth had cut the inside of my cheek. "I don't care if you hate me. I'm the captain. You must obey my instructions. No matter what the situation, if the squad is scattered, the decisions are made by one person. That's why the rule that squad members must follow the instructions of their captain exists."
I wiped dirt from my face, deliberately not meeting his gaze. "Obito, you don't have any power. And that's why I'm the squad captai—"
He cut me off, seizing the front of my vest with unexpected strength, yanking me upward until we were face to face. "So then, why do you refuse to save Rin?! Only you have the power to save our comrade, right?!"
The desperation in his eyes unsettled me. This wasn't just about Rin—it was about something more fundamental, a difference in our understanding of what it meant to be shinobi.
"If you let your emotions run free and fail an important mission, you're going to end up regretting it," I said, struggling to maintain my composure. "That's why the rule was made that shinobi should suppress their emotions. You should understand."
His grip tightened, knuckles white against the fabric of my vest. "Rin... Rin gave you a medical pack because she was concerned about you. She sewed a charm into it!"
The revelation struck like a physical blow. I hadn't known about the charm—hadn't examined the gift closely enough to discover that extra layer of care she'd invested. Something within me wavered, but I clung to the principles that had guided me since my father's death.
"Medical packs and medical ninjutsu are Konoha's brilliant system to increase the success rate of missions," I retorted, the words mechanical and empty. "But like I said yesterday, if you accept unnecessary things, it'll just become useless luggage."
"Unnecessary things?" Wonder and horror mingled in his voice.
I nodded, hoping desperately that he would understand what I couldn't articulate—that these rules weren't arbitrary, that they protected us from the consequences my father had faced, that abandoning them meant inviting destruction.
"It's necessary for a shinobi to act as a tool to complete the mission," I said, the distance between us growing with each word despite his physical grip. "Things like emotions are unnecessary."
His hands pulled harder at my vest, his face a mirror of the conflict I refused to acknowledge within myself. "Are you really serious? Is that how you really feel?"
For a moment, I couldn't maintain the façade. All the small kindnesses Rin had shown me flashed through my mind—her pride when telling me she always arrived early, her gentle hands healing my wound, the respect in her eyes when she praised my jutsu. Against these memories stood the image of my father's body, cold on the floor of our home, destroyed by the village's judgment after choosing comrades over mission.
I looked away, unable to meet Obito's gaze as I recommitted to the path I'd chosen years ago. "Yeah, that's right," I said quietly, each word a betrayal of something I couldn't name.
"That's it," Obito said, releasing me with such abruptness that I nearly stumbled. "You and I were like water and oil from the beginning. I'm going to rescue Rin!"
He turned away, already moving in the direction the enemy had taken her.
"You don't understand anything!" I called after him, desperation bleeding into my voice. "What will happen to those who break the rules?"
He stopped but didn't turn, his back rigid with resolve. "I believe that the White Fang was a true hero."
The words struck me like lightning, paralyzing me where I stood. My father—whom the village had condemned, whom I had spent years disavowing—a hero? The concept was so foreign it seemed almost blasphemous.
A breeze stirred the clearing, lifting strands of my silver hair as Obito continued. “It's true that in the ninja world, those who break the rules and regulations are called trash. But..."
Finally, he looked back at me, and I saw something in his eyes I'd never recognized before—not just determination or stubbornness, but a kind of clarity that made me question everything I thought I knew.
"Those who don't care about their friends are even worse than trash. If I'm that kind of trash, then I'll break the rules! If that's not what a true shinobi is, then I'll crush that idea of shinobi."
He turned and walked away, each step widening the gulf between us—not just physically, but philosophically. For the first time since my father's death, I found myself questioning the foundation upon which I'd built my identity.
I wanted to call him back, to tell him that maybe, just maybe, I understood. That some part of me recognized the truth in his words. That perhaps the rules I'd clung to weren't as absolute as I'd needed them to be.
Instead, I turned east, leaving the argument behind. My path was the bridge. Walking away from Rin and Obito. Away from the possibility that everything I believed might be wrong.
But even as my feet carried me forward, Obito's words played endlessly in my mind.
Those who don't care about their friends are even worse than trash.
With each step, the certainty I'd cultivated for years seemed to fracture a little more.
I'd traveled for nearly an hour before I stopped, my feet halting mid-step as if encountering an invisible barrier. The forest around me was silent save for the distant call of birds and the whisper of leaves stirred by the wind. I stood perfectly still, my breathing controlled, as some unidentified emotion fought its way past my carefully constructed defenses.
My hand moved without conscious decision, reaching for the medical pack Rin had given me the day before. I hadn't examined it closely—had deliberately avoided doing so, recognizing it as something that might compromise my focus. Something unnecessary.
Now my fingers searched through its meticulously organized contents, past the sterile bandages and precisely measured medicines, until they found what I hadn't known I was looking for—a small charm, sewn with delicate precision into the innermost pocket.
I extracted it carefully, holding it up to catch the filtered sunlight. The characters for "luck" and "success" had been stitched with fine, even thread—the kind of work that required patience and care. The kind of work that couldn't be done quickly or thoughtlessly. Rin must have spent hours on it, working by lamplight after mission or between hospital shifts.
What you need to be a great shinobi, it whispered
Something tightened in my chest, a pressure that made it difficult to breathe. With sudden, violent motion, I tore the charm from where it had been so carefully attached. The sound of thread snapping seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet forest.
I didn't deserve it. Didn't deserve the time she'd invested, the faith she'd placed in me, the friendship she'd offered without condition.
I held the charm between my fingers, prepared to discard it—to reject this evidence of connection as I'd rejected everything else that threatened my rigid adherence to the rules. But as I moved to throw it away, Rin's face appeared in my mind with perfect clarity—her gentle smile, the warmth in her eyes when she told me she believed in me.
Then other voices echoed in my consciousness, fragments of wisdom I'd ignored in my determination to be the perfect shinobi tool…
There are also times where you have to cope with the situation.
Minato-sensei's words from the day before, delivered with the weight of experience I lacked.
The most important thing for shinobi is teamwork.
His consistent message, repeated countless times during training, now carrying new significance.
And finally, like a blade cutting through the last of my resistance, Obito's accusation
Those who don't care about their friends are even worse than trash.
The conviction in his voice when he'd said it—not reckless emotion but absolute certainty. The kind of certainty I'd thought I possessed about the rules, about what it meant to be a shinobi.
A memory surfaced then, one I'd suppressed for years—my father, not as the disgraced shinobi who'd chosen death over dishonor, but as the man who'd once lifted me onto his shoulders, whose laugh had filled our home before shadows claimed it.
I had asked him, with a child's blunt curiosity, why he had chosen his comrades over the mission. Why he had broken the most fundamental rule of shinobi conduct.
His answer came back to me now, not with shame but with startling clarity
"Letting your friends die is the worst thing a shinobi can do. We protect people, especially the ones we love."
I clutched the charm to my chest, pressing it against the spot where Rin had healed my wound just that morning. The same spot where, beneath layers of fabric and bandage, her chakra still lingered—warm and steady, like her presence had always been.
In that moment, something fundamental shifted within me—not a dramatic transformation, but the quiet realignment of priorities I'd spent years arranging in the wrong order. The rules that had guided me since my father's death suddenly seemed hollow, insufficient to navigate the complexity of what it truly meant to be not just a shinobi, but a human being.
I was done doing what the rules dictated without question. From now on, I would follow my own code of honor—one that recognized abandoning my friends, those who mattered most to me, wasn't something I would ever do again.
I tucked the charm securely into my kunai pouch, close enough to feel its presence with each movement. Then I turned, reorienting myself toward the direction Obito had taken, toward where Rin was being held. My fingers formed the familiar seals of a tracking jutsu, enhancing my already acute sense of smell to pick up traces of their passage.
As I moved through the trees with renewed purpose, I felt something unexpected—a lightness, as if I'd set down a burden I'd carried for too long. The mission was still important, the bridge still needed to be destroyed, but not at the cost of sacrificing what truly mattered.
My father's tanto felt different against my back now—not a reminder of failure, but of a choice made with courage rather than fear. Perhaps I was more like him than I'd ever allowed myself to acknowledge.
Perhaps that wasn't such a terrible thing after all.
I arrived just as the blade was descending toward Obito's unprotected back. He was crouched on a branch, completely unaware of the enemy poised to end his life. My body moved with instinctive precision, the White Fang's tanto cutting through the air, then through flesh. The enemy shinobi fell back with a strangled cry, blood spraying from the wound I'd opened across his torso.
"Ka-kakashi?" Obito's voice wavered with disbelief as he spun to face me. The shock in his eyes was almost comical—mouth slightly open, goggles slightly askew. "Why did you...?"
"Well, I couldn't leave this to a lonely crybaby ninja, right?" I replied, attempting nonchalance despite the rapid beat of my heart. Standing before him felt simultaneously right and terrifying—like stepping off a cliff but knowing you'd made the only possible choice.
"Kakashi..." His eyes welled with emotion, threatening tears I'd have mocked only hours before. Now I recognized them for what they were—not weakness, but an honesty I'd denied myself for too long.
Before he could continue, our opponent commanded our attention. The wounded shinobi hadn't retreated, merely regrouped. He studied me with new intensity, his gaze fixing on the tanto I gripped.
"That silver hair, and that blade with white chakra light... could you be the White Fang of Konoha?" he asked, his voice carrying equal measures of awe and fear.
For years, I had distanced myself from my father's legacy, had defined myself by being everything he wasn't. Now, standing beside the teammate I'd nearly abandoned, I felt no shame in the connection.
"This is a memento of my father," I said, raising the blade I'd always carried but never truly used—had never wanted to acknowledge as part of my inheritance.
Relief visibly washed over the enemy. "I see, you're the White Fang's brat." His stance relaxed, confidence returning to his posture. "Then I have nothing to fear."
He disappeared, his movement too fast for normal vision to track. I inhaled deeply, scanning for his scent, his chakra signature, any trace of his presence—but found nothing. It was as if he had completely vanished, a technique beyond even my father's reputation.
Then I felt it—the subtle shift in air pressure, the almost imperceptible disturbance in chakra flow that indicated movement behind us. I turned, already calculating the trajectory needed to intercept the attack aimed at Obito's blind spot.
"Obito, behind you!" I shouted, launching myself toward him with every ounce of speed I possessed.
I reached him just as the enemy materialized, kunai already in motion toward Obito's unprotected back. There was no time for strategy, no opportunity for anything but the most basic of choices… him or me.
The decision made itself.
The kunai meant for Obito cut across my face instead, slicing through my left eye with devastating precision. Pain exploded through my skull, white-hot and all-consuming—a supernova of agony that burned away all other sensation. I felt myself falling, unable to maintain balance as blood poured down my face and darkness claimed half my vision.
"My eye," I managed to say through gritted teeth, the words inadequate to express the magnitude of pain radiating from the wound.
Obito knelt before me, his face a mask of horror and guilt. "Hey, Kakashi, are you alright?" His voice cracked, hands hovering uselessly, afraid to touch, afraid to make it worse.
I forced myself to focus through the pain, assessing our tactical situation even as blood soaked through my mask. "Our opponent is skilled," I said, striving for the calm detachment that had always been my shield. "He rid himself of the kunai with the scent of my blood on it flawlessly."
I looked up at Obito with my remaining eye, and what I saw surprised me—tears streaming freely down his face, making tracks through the dust and grime of battle.
"Don't tell me you've gotten something in your eyes again," I said, attempting humor despite the circumstances. "Shinobi don't cry. I'm not dead just yet, so don't lower your guard."
He lifted his goggles to wipe away the tears, and in that moment, something changed. His posture straightened, his breathing steadied, and a new resolve hardened his features. When he turned to face the enemy who had approached invisibly, his eyes were different—no longer the dark, expressive eyes I'd known, but crimson with distinct tomoe patterns swirling within them.
The Sharingan. Activated not through training or discipline, but through the raw emotion he'd never bothered to suppress.
I watched, vision blurred with my own blood, as Obito moved with newfound precision and awareness. His strikes were no longer the clumsy, predictable movements of before—now they flowed with deadly purpose, anticipating the enemy's actions before they occurred. The kunai in his hand found its mark with surgical accuracy, and the Rock ninja fell. Dying on the spot.
When Obito turned back to me, his newly awakened Sharingan seemed to glow in the filtered forest light. There was something different in the way he stood, a confidence that hadn't been there before. Yet beneath that change, I could still see the familiar Obito—the one who cared too much, who felt everything without apology.
I pressed my hand against my ruined eye, blood seeping between my fingers. The pain remained intense, but something else was emerging beneath it—an unexpected sense of peace. For the first time since my father's death, I had acted not according to rules or expectations, but according to what I knew to be right.
The price had been high—half my vision gone forever. Yet I couldn't bring myself to regret the choice. Whatever happened next, whatever consequences awaited us, I had reclaimed something more valuable than an eye.
I had reclaimed myself.
Chapter 4: What Cannot Be Healed
Summary:
A captured Rin endures enemy techniques while waiting for a rescue that will forever change her team
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter four
What Cannot Be Healed
Counting seven my heart beats. A time measured by my restraint. For those who will be spared I'll wait. My soul, my life, the cost I'll take. "Kai" my savior had said, but not long after a rock would weigh. Not him but another friend, my longest one to date. Sacrifice by sacrifice almost had, my heart was reaped from my chest.
Rin’s pov
Time slipped through my fingers like river water, impossible to grasp. How long had we been here? Days? The small, exitless cave offered no glimpse of sun or moon. The only constant was the dripping water in the corner—one drop every seven seconds. I'd been counting.
Drip. Seven. Drip. Seven. Drip.
"Tell us about your mission," the Rock shinobi demanded again, his weathered face inches from mine. His breath smelled of charcoal and something metallic. "What was your target?"
I kept my eyes downcast, focusing on the rough texture of the rope binding my wrists. My chakra tingled in my fingertips, instinctively wanting to heal the raw skin beneath the bindings, but I suppressed it. Revealing any chakra use would only make things worse.
"I've told you," I whispered, my voice hoarse from dehydration. "We were simply delivering supplies to the border outpost. Nothing more."
The shinobi's hand cracked across my face, the impact sending white stars dancing across my vision. Pain bloomed hot across my cheek. A metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.
"Lying only prolongs this for all of you," he said, gesturing toward the far corner of the chamber.
I refused to look. I knew what I'd see—the same nightmare vision that had greeted me since they'd dragged us all in here. Kakashi and Obito, bloodied and bound, forced to kneel on sharp stones. Kakashi's mask had been torn away, his face exposed. His right eye was swollen shut, crusted with dried blood, cuts decorated his upper arms and chest.
Obito looked worse, if possible. His orange goggles were shattered, the fragments embedded in his cheek. His left arm hung at an unnatural angle. He hadn't stopped trembling since they'd broken it yesterday... or was it the day before?
"Rin," Kakashi's voice came softly from across the room. "Just tell them what they want to know."
I jerked my head up, unable to stop myself from staring at him. Something in his voice was... wrong.
"What did you say?" I whispered.
"The mission isn't worth this," Kakashi continued, his exposed face drawn with pain. "We should just tell them about the mission."
I blinked rapidly, trying to process what I was hearing. Kakashi—who had lectured us endlessly about putting the mission above all else, was suggesting we surrender information?
The interrogator smiled thinly, watching my reaction. "Your teammate has the right idea. The boy finally understands when to surrender."
Yet I listened to his breathing and the pained inhales. I know Kakashi in pain. I knew his breathing through pain, in the middle of a battle, in his sleep and yet something wasn't right.
My medical training had taught me to notice details others might miss—slight changes in breathing, minor muscle movements, the subtle signs of internal bleeding. Now, that same observational ability tugged at my awareness.
And there was something else... Obito hadn't spoken since they'd brought us in. Not a single word of defiance, not one declaration about becoming Hokage, not even a complaint about the pain. That wasn't the Obito I knew.
A cool clarity began to spread through my mind, like antiseptic on an open wound. I forced my face to remain neutral, eyes downcast again, trying to control my breathing. If my suspicions were correct, I couldn't let them know I'd noticed.
"Rin," Obito finally spoke, his voice breaking. "Please just tell them. I can't watch Kakashi suffer anymore."
Kakashi? Obito would start with me, not Kakashi. If he ever gave up in a situation like that, he would say that he can't see me suffer, then correct himself to include Kakashi. But never Kakashi first.
My heart raced, but I fought to keep my expression neutral. This wasn't real. None of it was real.
"I need water," I mumbled, buying time as my mind raced. "Please, I can't think clearly."
The interrogator nodded and approached with a canteen. As I drank, I assessed my situation through new eyes. The genjutsu was elaborate, pulling details from my own memories and fears, but it wasn't perfect. The inconsistencies were mounting.
The interrogator’s sleeve pulled back as he retrieved the canteen, revealing a watch. 3:47. I filed the information away, pretending not to notice.
"Are you ready to cooperate now?" the interrogator asked.
I nodded weakly. "The tunnel," I said, my voice barely audible. "We were sent to gather intelligence on the situation in the grass village. Just intelligence, in and out."
A flash of satisfaction crossed the interrogator's face. "And the rest of your team? Where are they now?"
"There was no one else," I lied. "Just the three of us."
"I'll continue this discussion later," he said, moving toward the exit . "Perhaps after you've had time to consider your teammates' suffering."
"This isn't real," I whispered, testing my theory.
Neither Kakashi nor Obito responded. They simply stared, expressions fixed in pain and defeat. Static. Unchanging.
The watch I'd glimpsed had read 3:47. When the interrogator returned thirty minutes later, it still read 3:47.
Drip. Seven. Drip.
I closed my eyes, focusing inward. Genjutsu worked by disrupting the flow of chakra in the brain. As a medical ninja, I had better chakra control than most. I could feel it now—the foreign chakra intertwined with my own, manipulating my perceptions.
I began to regulate my breathing, using a technique I'd learned for surgical procedures. Seven counts in, seven counts hold, seven counts out. With each cycle, I gathered my chakra, concentrating it at the base of my skull where the disruption seemed strongest.
Release, I thought, but didn't form the hand sign. Better to let them think I was still trapped.
The illusion flickered but held. The fake Kakashi and Obito remained, but now I could see through them, like looking at a reflection in troubled water. Behind them was only empty wall.
When the rock shinobi entered the cave again, I slumped forward, feigning unconsciousness. Rough hands shook me.
"Wake up, girl." The interrogator's voice seemed less substantial now.
I moaned softly, opening my eyes to mere slits. "Please," I whispered. "No more. I'll tell you everything."
The interrogator leaned closer. "The Yellow Flash. Where is he now?"
"I don't know, I never met him," I said, improvising wildly. "I don't think Hokage-sama sent him at all."
It was deliberate misinformation.
"When were you to rendezvous?"
"I'm telling you I never met him."
He studied my face for signs of deception. I forced my eyes to water, letting tears streak down my dirt-smudged cheeks. "Please don't hurt them anymore," I begged, glancing toward the corner where the illusions of my teammates still knelt.
The interrogator followed my gaze, then looked back at me with a calculating expression. "My teammate was killed and the seal of your Yellow Flash was on him. You were only a day apart."
"Do you know how fast the Yellow Flash moved? He could have been a few feet ahead of us and get to his destination days before!" I cried.
He struck me again, this time a punch to the stomach.
Alone again, I closed my eyes and focused. The genjutsu was complex—designed to disorient and break my spirit rather than simply extract information. It had probably been running for hours, though it felt like days.
I needed to conserve my strength. Obito would come for me—the real one, not this pale imitation crafted from my fears. Kakashi... he would come too, but after finishing the mission. I just needed to hold on until help arrived. Maybe offer my medical abilities. Everyone knew that the best medical ninja were from Konoha.
I settled back against the cold stone wall, keeping my breathing even, maintaining the appearance of defeat while inwardly gathering my strength. The fake Kakashi and Obito continued their silent vigil in the corner, but they no longer frightened me.
Drip. Seven. Drip. Seven.
I counted each drop, each second, focusing my mind and preparing my chakra. When my teammates arrived, I would be ready to fight alongside them. Until then, I would be what they needed me to be—the medical ninja who could heal herself first, so she could heal others later.
The genjutsu continued to waver around me, reality occasionally bleeding through the cracks in the illusion. In those brief moments, I caught glimpses of my actual surroundings—an empty cave.
They needed me alive and functional. That was my advantage.
I closed my eyes and continued counting.
Drip. Seven. Drip. Seven.
Waiting. And when they would understand that the information I gave was false, maybe by then my teammates would finish the target and would come for me. I hope they will hurry.
"Kai!"
The word sliced through the stagnant air like lightning through darkness. Reality shattered around me, the genjutsu peeling away like layers of old paint. The fake Kakashi and Obito dissolved into wisps of chakra-infused smoke.
My eyes burned as they adjusted to true vision again. The cave remained, but different—smaller, danker, the smell of earth and sweat more pungent than in the illusion. Before me knelt Kakashi, his left eye hidden beneath a blood-soaked bandage, his righr fixed on me with an intensity I'd never seen before. His fingers were still locked in the release seal, trembling slightly from chakra expenditure.
Behind him stood Obito—but not the Obito I knew. This one carried himself with newfound purpose, his shoulders squared beneath dirt-smudged clothes. Most startling were his eyes—crimson where they should be black, with two tomoe spinning in each iris. The Sharingan. Somehow, impossibly, he'd awakened it.
My throat constricted. The rope around my wrists had rubbed my skin raw, blood crusted in the creases of my palms. My muscles screamed in protest as I shifted position.
"Kakashi! Obito!" Their names escaped my parched lips like a prayer. Words crowded my mind—that they shouldn't risk the mission for me, that the bridge was more important than my life—but they died in my throat as relief flooded through me like a healing jutsu.
"We've come to save you, Rin! You're safe now!" Obito's voice cracked with emotion, the Sharingan gleaming in the dim light. Obito hovered just behind Kakashi, shifting his weight anxiously from foot to foot, his hands clenching and unclenching as if he couldn't quite believe I was really there.
Kakashi—my rule-following, mission-first Kakashi—didn't waste breath on reassurances. "I'll untie you," he murmured, already pulling a kunai from his pouch. The blade sliced through my bindings with surgical precision, his fingers brushing against my wrist with unexpected gentleness.
Blood rushed painfully back into my hands as circulation returned. I flexed my fingers, sending diagnostic chakra through my system. Despite the phantom pain from hours in the genjutsu, my body was largely unharmed—just chakra-depleted and dehydrated.
A groan from across the cave snapped my attention away from my self-assessment. The interrogator was stirring, pushing himself upright against the cave wall. His face twisted with malice as consciousness returned.
"I see. That was a nice combination," he sneered, his voice scraping like stone against stone, "but you were just some typical brats after all. I have you just where I want you now."
His hands flashed through seals faster than my exhausted eyes could track. Kakashi tensed beside me, recognizing the sequence before I could.
"Earth Release: Stone Lodging Collapse!"
The jutsu hit the cave like a physical blow. The ground beneath us lurched violently, nearly sending me sprawling. Stalactites shivered overhead, cracks spiderwebbing across the ceiling in jagged patterns. Dust and small rocks rained down, stinging my exposed skin and filling my lungs with grit.
"Crap! Run toward the exit!" Kakashi shouted, his voice cutting through the rumble of destabilizing earth.
My legs felt like water as I forced myself upright, muscles protesting after hours of immobility. I lurched forward, following the blur of Kakashi's silver hair through the thickening cloud of dust. Each breath scraped my throat raw, the taste of earth heavy on my tongue.
A deafening crack split the air. Above us, a massive section of ceiling gave way. Time seemed to slow as my medical training took over, calculating trajectory, anticipating impact—
The boulder was heading directly for Kakashi's blind side.
"Kakashi!" I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the rumbling cave.
He turned too late, awareness dawning on his face as the shadow fell over him. I lunged forward, arms outstretched, knowing I wouldn't reach him in time.
But Obito was already there, moving with speed I'd never seen from him before. His body slammed into Kakashi's, hands pushing our silver-haired teammate forward with desperate strength.
The dust billowed upward, obscuring everything. I heard rather than saw the impact—the sickening crunch of stone against flesh, a choked cry cut brutally short. The force of the collapse sent a shock wave through the cave, lifting me off my feet and hurling me backward.
Consciousness returned in fragments. The rumbling had stopped. The cave was eerily silent except for the shallow, ragged breathing of someone nearby. Dust particles danced in a shaft of light that now pierced through the collapsed ceiling—a cruel reminder that the outside world continued undisturbed while ours had shattered.
I pulled myself up, wincing as every muscle protested. Beside me, Kakashi was doing the same, his movements stiff and mechanical, his lone visible eye wide with shock.
"Are you okay, Rin? Kakashi?"
The voice was quiet, relaxed, and horrifyingly familiar. I stumbled toward it, my heart already breaking before my mind could process what my eyes were seeing.
Kakashi stilled beside me, his breath catching in his throat.
Half of Obito's body lay crushed beneath a boulder larger than any of us, the jagged edge of it pressing deep into his torso. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and thick against the stone floor. His right side had disappeared entirely beneath the immovable mass, but his left remained intact—including his face, which bore an expression of surreal calm despite what must have been unimaginable pain.
My medical mind cataloged his injuries with ruthless precision: multiple crushed organs, severed spine, massive internal bleeding, collapsed lung. But my heart—my heart refused to accept what my training told me with certainty.
He was beyond my help. Beyond anyone's help.
"Obito," Kakashi whispered, the name escaping like a prayer. Then he was moving, flinging himself at the boulder, fingers scrabbling against its surface, muscles straining as he tried to shift its immense weight. Veins stood out on his neck, his face contorted with desperate effort, but the stone didn't budge a millimeter.
"Stop... it's alright, Kakashi," Obito said, his voice unnaturally steady. "It doesn't look like I'm going to make it. My right side has been completely crushed. I... can't even feel it."
Still, Kakashi tried again, chakra flaring around him in visible waves as he channeled everything he had into one more attempt. His hands bled from where the rough stone had torn his skin, but he didn't seem to notice. When the boulder remained unmoved, something in him broke. A sob tore from his throat—the first time I'd ever heard Kakashi cry.
"Damn it!" He slammed his fist against the stone, once, twice, the sound echoing through the half-collapsed cave.
My legs gave way beneath me as reality finally crashed through my shock. I sank to my knees beside Obito, tears flowing unchecked down my face, cutting clean trails through the dust on my cheeks.
"There's... no way," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Why?"
Obito coughed, blood spattering his lips, bright crimson against his increasingly pale skin. The sound sent me lurching forward instinctively, my hands already glowing with healing chakra before my mind could catch up to the futility of the gesture.
"Obito!" His name tasted like ashes in my mouth.
"Damn it! Damn it!" Kakashi pounded the ground beside us, his knuckles splitting open. "If... if I had listened to you from the start, and we left to save Rin, this would never have happened to you!" His voice rose to a shout, echoing off the stone walls. "What kind of captain and jōnin am I?!"
For a moment, I saw the boy beneath the shinobi—the one who'd carried his father's disgrace on his shoulders for years, who'd built walls of rules and regulations to keep from ever making the same mistakes. Now those walls were crumbling, and the pain behind them was raw and terrible to witness.
"That's right," Obito murmured, his remaining hand twitching as he tried to move it. "I almost forgot. I was the only one who didn't give you a present for becoming a jōnin, Kakashi."
Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth as he forced a smile. The Sharingan in his visible eye still swirled, capturing every detail of his final moments with perfect clarity.
"I couldn't figure out what to get you, and I just thought of something," he continued, his words beginning to slur. "Don't worry, it's not going to be some useless luggage. I'll give you... this Sharingan of mine."
My breath caught. The Uchiha clan's most precious kekkei genkai—the bloodline limit Obito had awakened only moments ago.
"Regardless of what the village may think of you, you are really a great jōnin. That's what I truly believe." A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his eye, indistinguishable from tears. "Please accept this and please save me from this slow death... kill me before you go."
The request hung in the air between us, heavy as the boulder crushing him. Kakashi's eye widened in horror, his body going rigid.
I swallowed hard, forcing my medical training to overcome my grief. There was one last thing I could do for my friend, one final act of healing—even if it wasn't the kind I'd trained for.
"Rin," Obito said, his voice growing fainter, "use your medical ninjutsu to take out my Sharingan and transplant it into Kakashi's left eye."
I steadied my breathing, calling upon every scrap of composure I possessed. "Come over, Kakashi. I'll begin immediately."
As Kakashi knelt beside us, I reached into my pouch and withdrew the charm I'd sewn for Obito's promotion—the one I never had a chance to give him. I pressed it into his palm, curling his fingers around it. A final goodbye that words couldn't express.
"You kill me, Kakashi," Obito whispered, so softly I almost didn't hear him. "Don't let Rin do it... and my last request, protect her."
Kakashi nodded slowly, tears still streaming from his eye, as I prepared to perform the most heartbreaking surgery of my life.
My hands moved with surgical precision, though each movement felt like wading through deep water. I'd trained for years in medical ninjutsu, practiced countless transplant procedures under the watchful eyes of Konoha's medical ninja. But nothing—nothing—had prepared me for this.
The chakra around my fingertips glowed with soft green light as I worked, illuminating Obito's face in ghostly hues. His breathing grew shallower with each passing second. I extracted his left Sharingan with infinite care, preserving every nerve connection, every chakra pathway. The eye—so precious to his clan, so recently awakened—pulsed with a life of its own in my palm, the tomoe spinning lazily as if trying to memorize these final moments.
Kakashi remained perfectly still as I removed his damaged eye and completed the transplant. Not a sound escaped him, though I knew the procedure without anesthesia must have been excruciating. Blood streaked down his cheek like crimson tears as I sealed the last connection.
When it was done, when the eye of my best friend rested in the socket of the boy I loved, the full horror of what we'd done washed over me like a wave. It was Obito's final gift—his vision, his legacy, his way of seeing the world—passing from one teammate to another as his life ebbed away.
"We are done," I whispered, my voice hollow, an empty vessel drained of everything but grief.
Kakashi opened his eyes slowly—one black, still silently weeping, and one brilliant red, the Sharingan adjusting to its new host.
"Obito?" he asked, his gaze moving to our friend.
Obito had fallen unconscious during the procedure, but the slight rise and fall of his chest betrayed that life still clung to him, however tenuously.
"Alive, barely," I answered.
In a moment of weakness I never would have allowed myself before, I rested my head against Kakashi's shoulder. A violent trembling overtook me, my body finally rebelling against the calm I'd forced upon it for the procedure. Kakashi didn't push me away.
"I should...?" he asked, the question trailing off unfinished.
But I understood what he couldn't bring himself to say. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting back a fresh wave of tears, and gave a slight nod against his shoulder. He felt it—the smallest of movements, the heaviest of permissions.
"How...?" he whispered, his voice breaking.
Again, I knew what he was asking. How to fulfill Obito's final request with the least suffering possible. My medical knowledge turned from healing to mercy-killing in that terrible moment.
"Cut his wrist," I whispered, the words like glass in my throat. "He's lost so much blood... he'll be gone in seconds, if not faster."
"Okay."
But he didn't move immediately. Instead, he gave us a few more precious moments to grieve together, to share the weight of what was to come. Finally, he tapped my shoulder gently. I looked up, meeting his mismatched gaze through my tears.
"Thank you," I mouthed silently, thanking him for his presence, for his willingness to grant Obito mercy, for coming to rescue me despite everything his previous beliefs had dictated.
He nodded once, a gesture containing volumes, then stood. The kunai in his hand caught the dim light as he knelt beside Obito, the blade hovering for one heartbeat over our friend's wrist before descending in a swift, clean cut.
The seconds ticked by, marked only by our ragged breathing in the quiet cave. Then Obito's chest stilled, his final exhale barely disturbing the dust around him.
When Kakashi turned back to me, I gasped softly. His Sharingan had changed. The tomoe were gone, replaced by a pattern like a shuriken, stark against the crimson background. Something had transformed in that final moment of mercy—in the eye, in Kakashi, in all of us.
“"That eye," Kakashi said when he returned to the cave where I sat guard over Obito's body. His voice was taut, controlled despite everything. "The Sharingan. It's... draining my chakra at an accelerated rate. I can't deactivate it."
I looked up quickly, my medical senses sharpening through the fog of grief. Every Uchiha I'd treated at the hospital could control their dōjutsu, activating it only when needed to conserve chakra. Something wasn't right.
"There's more," he continued, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond me. "When the Rock shinobi attacked, something happened. Black flames appeared. They consumed everything they touched."
I should have asked more questions—should have performed a proper examination, checked his chakra pathways, monitored for rejection symptoms. But my heart was too heavy with more immediate concerns.
"Can you break the boulder?" I asked softly, my hands still resting over Obito's form. "Please, Kakashi-kun. We need to take him home."
He nodded once, no hesitation. The now familiar sound of his Chidori filled the cave as lightning chakra gathered around his hand, casting eerie blue shadows across the stone walls. I tried not to flinch as he struck the boulder.
While Kakashi had fought the remaining shinobi outside, I'd whispered to Obito all the things I'd never said when he could hear them. How his kindness had brightened our darkest missions. How his determination had inspired me when my own faltered. How sorry I was that I couldn't return his feelings, not in the way he'd deserved. He could have been Hokage someday. I believe that with my whole heart.
Once the boulder was reduced to rubble, I worked quickly to seal Obito's body into a specialized scroll—a technique the hospital had taught all field medics, though using it for someone I loved felt like another small betrayal. As I finished, my attention returned to Kakashi's eye, where the Sharingan continued its restless spinning. The chakra flow was irregular, unstable. Not right.
"Let's cover it when you're not using it," I suggested, gentle but practical, the way I'd always been with my teammates' injuries. "When we reach Konoha, I can consult with the medical corps about stabilizing the connection."
"Fine," Kakashi replied, adjusting his hitai-ate to shield the eye. "We should move quickly. Enemy reinforcements are approaching."
I nodded, securing the scroll with Obito in my medical pouch, trying not to think about how strange and wrong it felt to carry him this way. We climbed from the collapsed cave into the forest, both moving with the careful precision of the badly wounded.
They found us almost immediately—at least twenty jōnin-level shinobi surrounding us in the small clearing, their intent to kill radiating like physical heat. Us—a just-promoted jōnin with dangerously depleted chakra and a genin medic with empty reserves.
Kakashi's hands formed the seals for Chidori again, though I could see the toll it took on his already compromised system. The lightning gathered in his palm, less brilliant now but no less determined.
“ given the situation, you're still going to fight?״ one of the Rock shinobi called, mockery edging his voice. ״It’s no wonder that you were able to get so far into enemies lands undetected with such determination.”
Kakashi positioned himself in front of me, his back straight despite the exhaustion I could read in every line of his body. In one hand he held Minato-sensei's special kunai. in the other, the Chidori flickered like a faltering heartbeat.
“Rin, I’ll hold them off, so hurry up and escape!” he ordered, his voice carrying the same quiet authority it always had during missions.
My heart clenched painfully. Not again. I couldn't bear it—not twice in one day, not the price of my freedom paid in the blood of those I cherished most.
“But..” I began, my throat tight
“I swore to obito I’ll protect you. I will protect you if it costs me my life” he cut in, the words precise, each one carrying weight.
“Kakashi..” His name emerged as barely a whisper.
He didn't look back at me, focus entirely on the enemies closing in. “Rin, obito cared for you. He loved you, and you meant the world to him. That why he laid down his life to save you”
I wanted to protest—to tell him that I'd never wanted their sacrifices, that I would have given myself up willingly if it meant they could both live. They were the gifted ones, the ones Konoha needed. Not me. Never me.
If these were to be our final moments together, he deserved to know the truth I'd carried so carefully for so long.
“Then, Kakashi, I think you should know how I feel about-“
“I.. I was once the trash that just abandoned you. I don’t deserve your feelings for me..” he interrupted, voice tight with self-reproach.
I fell silent, not because I accepted his dismissal, but because I recognized the guilt driving him. I'd always understood Kakashi, even when his rigid adherence to rules had frustrated me most. Perhaps if they had completed the mission instead of coming for me, everything would be different now.
Before I could find a response, the enemy charged. Kakashi called for me to run, but my feet remained planted firmly beside him. If this was the end, we would face it together. No more separations. No more sacrifices.
Then came the flash of yellow—so bright it seemed to bend the light around it. Minato-sensei materialized between the attackers, moving almost too quickly to follow, each movement precise and devastatingly effective. One by one, the enemy fell, confusion the last expression on their faces as death found them.
Beside me, Kakashi swayed, then collapsed, his reserves finally emptied. I caught him as he fell, easing him to the brunch with the practiced care. My hands glowed green despite my own exhaustion, instinctively working to stabilize his critically depleted chakra system. Tears blurred my vision but didn't stop my work—they never had, not in the hospital, not on missions, not now.
When the final enemy fell, Sensei appeared beside us, his presence steady and reassuring in a world suddenly made strange by loss. His gaze moved from Kakashi's unconscious form to my tear-streaked face, then to the empty space beside us where Obito should have been.
"Rin," he asked, his voice gentle, "where's Obito?"
I drew a shaky breath, tried to form the words, but they lodged in my throat like stones. It didn't matter. Understanding dawned in Sensei's eyes, his expression softening with a grief that matched my own.
"I see," he said quietly.
Something inside me crumbled then—the professional composure I'd maintained through surgeries and battlefield injuries, through my own capture and torture, through Obito's death and Kakashi's transformation.
"I was the weak one," I said, my voice breaking as my hands continued working to stabilize Kakashi's condition. "They captured me. Obito died because of me. Kakashi almost died too. I was helpless—just like always. I can't let that happen again. Not ever."
The tears came freely now, blurring my vision until Sensei was just a yellow and blue smudge before me. He knelt, gathering both Kakashi and me close, his arms steady when everything else in the world had proven how fragile it could be.
"Then we'll finish this mission," he said after my tears had subsided, his voice carrying that quiet certainty that had guided us through countless missions before, "and return to Konoha so you can become the kunoichi you're meant to be."
He didn't offer platitudes or false comfort. Instead, he acknowledged my pain and my resolution with equal seriousness. In that moment, I felt a whisper of the strength I would need to forge ahead—to honor Obito's sacrifice by becoming someone worthy of it.
We would complete the mission. We would return home. And I would transform my grief into determination, my helplessness into skill, my loss into purpose. This I promised to Obito's memory and to Kakashi's near sacrifice—an oath as binding as any I'd ever made.
Notes:
And now we reach the turning point where our story truly begins to diverge from canon. With Obito's fate sealed differently, the ripple effects spread outward. What becomes of Madara's grand scheme without his chosen pawn? How will Kakashi navigate the unexpected power of the Mangekyo Sharingan that activated in his borrowed eye? Will the mist ninjas still target Rin for their plans, or does her path now lead elsewhere?
The foundation is laid, but the structure we'll build upon it promises many surprises.
Prepare yourself for what comes next. The true journey is just beginning.
Chapter 5: The Price of Vision
Summary:
After returning to the village, Kakashi undergoes a medical examination that reveals why his transplanted Sharingan is draining his chakra. He later faces the Uchiha clan, who reluctantly acknowledge Obito's gift.
Notes:
Thank you all for sticking with this story! This chapter explores the aftermath of the Kannabi Bridge mission and the consequences of Obito's sacrifice. I wanted to show that beyond the action and battles, there's an emotional cost to these events that affects everyone differently.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 5
The Price of Vision
This eye, that was not my own—
Reflecting a world I cannot claim,
The gift of one who saw beyond,
The price of which was his name.Hawk shadows watch from temple eaves—
A clan's pride and suspicion twined.
What cost a borrowed bloodline when
The debt can never be repaid in kind?Heavy sits the mantle passed,
From father to reluctant son.
While in the hospital's sterile halls,
Healers fight what can't be undone.
Kakashi's POV
The Hokage's office felt smaller than I remembered—the air thick with the mingled scents of paper, ink, and pipe tobacco. Maybe the stacks of paper had grown, or more likely, my damaged vision was taking its toll.
Sunlight filtered through the windows in dusty beams, illuminating dancing motes that swirled with each exhalation. My body stood at attention, but my mind felt strangely displaced, as if I were observing the proceedings from somewhere just beyond my body.
"Team Kakashi's mission to destroy Kannabi Bridge is a success."
Minato-sensei's voice carried the weight of both triumph and tragedy, each word measured carefully as he delivered our report. Over the last hour when we were waiting for Hokage-sama to receive us, we each wrote a detailed report and sent it away for review. I added the small details I knew about Obito's part.
The Third Hokage's weathered face remained impassive, though his eyes—sharp despite his years—noted every detail. The empty space where Obito should have stood. The hitai-ate that covered my left eye. The way Rin's hands trembled slightly as she held the scroll with Obito's body sealed within it.
"Chūnin Uchiha Obito fell in combat," Sensei continued, the words like stones dropping into still water. "His actions directly enabled mission completion and saved his teammates' lives."
The Third's pipe remained unlit in his hand as he studied each of us in turn. When his gaze settled on me, I felt exposed—as if the Sharingan hidden beneath my bandage could be seen even through the layers of cloth.
"I see," he said finally, the simple acknowledgment containing volumes. He set the pipe down and picked up our written report, scanning it with practiced efficiency. "The bridge's destruction has already disrupted Iwa's supply lines. Their advance has stalled. This mission may well have turned the tide of the war."
He looked up at Minato-sensei. "Minato, you alone defeated most of their force, and now the reports are filled with Rock shinobi's caution at advancing. We've heard about orders to escape on sight if someone encounters you. These two developments have already altered the course of the war." A hint of satisfaction crossed his weathered features. "I also believe that you left a few of your special kunai behind?"
Minato-sensei nodded. "Yes, Hokage-sama. I also left several within my teleportation range for quick access. If anything happens, I can arrive within minutes."
"Excellent," the Hokage said, setting down the report.
The words should have filled me with pride—us altering the war effort. Only days ago, they would have been all that mattered: mission completed, target achieved, war momentum shifted in our favor. Now they felt hollow, bouncing off the shell I'd constructed around myself since watching Obito die.
"Hatake Kakashi," the Hokage addressed me directly, his tone shifting subtly. "Your report indicates you now possess the Sharingan, transplanted from Uchiha Obito before his death."
I inclined my head slightly. "I do, Hokage-sama." I lifted the headband that covered it. The chakra drain was immediate, and I felt myself sway almost imperceptibly.
"A field transplant of a kekkei genkai," he mused, his fingers steepled before him. "Unprecedented, to my knowledge. How is your adaptation progressing?"
Before I could answer, Rin stepped forward. "The transplant was successful, Hokage-sama, but there are complications. Kakashi cannot deactivate the Sharingan, and it continuously drains his chakra. He requires immediate specialized medical attention." She hesitated for only a moment before continuing. "I would also like permission to research cases of transplanted kekkei genkai, if there are any other documented instances, to see if this complication has occurred before."
The Hokage's eyebrows raised slightly at her interruption, but he nodded, acknowledging both her expertise and her concern. "Of course. Report to the hospital immediately following this debriefing." He paused, contemplative. "To my knowledge, there aren't many cases of kekkei genkai transplantation, as the clans are very protective of their bloodline abilities. However, I did hear rumors about a Cloud shinobi with a transplanted Byakugan from the Hyūga clan."
Rin nodded, recognizing the weight behind the Hokage's words "to my knowledge." If the Professor himself didn't know of more cases, that left only two possibilities. Either such information didn't exist, or it was known only to those whose research methods violated the village's ethics. A chill ran through me. Orochimaru and Danzo were the only two in Konoha rumored to possess knowledge the Hokage didn't have access to, and neither was someone I wanted Rin anywhere near. The whispers about their "experiments" were disturbing enough to make even seasoned jōnin uncomfortable.
"Hokage-sama," Rin said, withdrawing a scroll from her medical pouch with hands that betrayed only the slightest tremor. She held it forward with both palms. "I've preserved Obito's remains in this sealing scroll. I respectfully request that you present it to the Uchiha clan, so they may honor him with the rites befitting their traditions."
The Hokage accepted the scroll with appropriate gravity, his weathered hands cradling it momentarily as if gauging the weight of what it contained—not just a body, but the child that had dreams and bright future ahead of him. He placed it carefully on his desk, atop a ceremonial cloth that seemed to appear from nowhere.
"This will be handled with the utmost respect," he said, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had overseen too many such ceremonies. "The Uchiha hold grand funerals for those who fall in service to the village. It is their way of honoring sacrifice and courage—a tradition older than Konoha itself. The entire clan will gather to pay tribute to one of their own. I will asked for you to get notified when they’ll schedule it." He turned back to me, his gaze penetrating. "The Uchiha clan will need to be informed of these developments."
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. The Uchiha were notoriously protective of their bloodline. What would they make of an outsider possessing their precious dōjutsu?
"I understand, Hokage-sama," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt.
"The Uchiha clan may have... concerns," the Hokage continued diplomatically. "But Obito's final wishes cannot be dismissed. The gift of his Sharingan was his to give." He regarded me closely. "You were his teammate. His comrade. Remember that when you face the questions that will inevitably come."
"Yes, Hokage-sama," I answered, the weight of responsibility settling heavily across my shoulders.
"Minato," the Hokage addressed our sensei again, "I'll need a more detailed report on the enemy's capabilities near the border. We'll discuss this further after your team has received medical attention."
Minato-sensei nodded. "Of course, Hokage-sama."
"Rin," the Hokage's voice softened slightly, "your medical report was thorough and precise, especially given the circumstances. The hospital's research division will be made available to you for your investigation into kekkei genkai transplantation."
Rin bowed, the gesture hiding the relief that briefly crossed her face. "Thank you, Hokage-sama."
The Hokage's eyes swept over us once more—a three-person team where once there had been four. The absence beside us felt more substantial than any physical presence.
"Team Kakashi," he said formally, "Konoha honors your sacrifice and acknowledges your success. This mission will be recorded as S-rank, completed with distinction despite severe casualties." He stood, signaling the end of our debriefing. "You are dismissed to seek medical attention. Report back in three days for your next assignment."
As we turned to leave, the Hokage spoke once more. "Kakashi."
The Hokage called me back with a gesture. Sensei hesitated at the door, his blue eyes meeting mine in silent question. I nodded slightly, indicating I would be fine, and he left with Rin, closing the door softly behind them.
Alone with the Third, I waited, standing stiffly despite the exhaustion that weighed on every muscle.
"Kakashi," he said, dropping formality as he moved from behind his desk to stand before me. He seemed older suddenly, the lines in his face deeper, shoulders slightly bowed beneath the ceremonial robes. "I want to speak not as Hokage, but as someone who has also lost comrades to war."
I remained silent, uncertain how to respond to this unexpected shift.
"Your father was an extraordinary shinobi," he continued, the mention of my father sending a jolt through me. "Sakumo understood something that took me years to learn—that there are things more valuable than mission success."
My throat tightened. For years, I had rejected everything my father stood for, had built my identity on being his opposite.
"I sent three children to perform a task that should have required a full squad of ANBU," the Hokage said, his voice heavy with regret. "War forces terrible choices on us all. But remember this, Kakashi—Obito's gift to you was not just his eye. It was his way of seeing the world. Honor him by remembering that his greatest aspiration was not glory or rank, but the preservation of bonds between comrades, saving them. Mourn him, certainly, but do not let grief become a prison that blinds the very sight he sacrificed to give you."
I didn't trust myself to speak, so I merely bowed my head in acknowledgment.
"Go now," he said, returning to his desk and taking up his unlit pipe once more. "See to that eye. And Kakashi—" he paused, weighing his next words carefully, "—the Uchiha clan will have questions about Obito's Sharingan and the circumstances of his death. You're free to tell them the details of the mission. Answer honestly, but remember you are under no obligation to surrender what was freely given."
I nodded once, unable to trust my voice, and left the office to rejoin Rin and Minato-sensei.
Outside the Hokage's office, Minato-sensei and Rin waited like sentries—one golden-haired and resolute, the other small and pale as bone china. They fell into step beside me without a word, flanking me as we descended the spiral staircase of the tower. Our footsteps echoed against stone—a hollow, rhythmic sound that matched the emptiness inside me where Obito's voice should have been. The silence between us wasn't comfortable or uncomfortable—simply necessary, a shared space to contain grief too raw to clothe in language.
Sunlight assaulted us as we emerged onto the street, harsh and incongruously bright. I squinted my right eye against it, the Sharingan beneath my Hitai-ate pulsing with a dull, foreign ache.
"Hospital," Rin said as we reached the crowded thoroughfare, the single word sharp as a medical lancet. Her chin lifted slightly, shoulders squared—the posture she adopted when treating a particularly stubborn patient. "Now."
The breeze carried the scent of street food and dust, mingling with the metallic tang of blood still crusted beneath my fingernails. Each step felt like wading through mud, my chakra reserves sputtering like a dying flame. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision.
Minato-sensei's hand caught my elbow when I stumbled, his grip firm but gentle. The calluses on his palm rasped against my skin—a warrior's hands playing at tenderness.
"I'll accompany you," he said, then added with forced lightness that never reached his eyes, "Kushina would have my head if I didn't make sure you both got proper care. She's probably already preparing enough food to feed half the village for you two."
The mention of Kushina-san's notorious cooking—enough to feed an army and spicy enough to fell one—tugged a ghost of a smile to my lips. When I glanced at Rin, I caught her lips curving upward too—the first real smile I'd seen since the cave. It vanished quickly, like a candle snuffed by wind, but its brief appearance kindled something within me. A spark of hope, perhaps.
A memory flashed unbidden—her trembling form pressed against mine in that half-collapsed cave, her fingers digging into my flak jacket as we shared the terrible weight of Obito's soon passing. In that moment, as I'd let her rest against me, I realized I needed her steadiness as much as she needed my strength. Neither of us could bear this alone.
The hospital loomed before us, a stark white monolith against the blue sky. My pace slowed involuntarily, feet dragging against the packed earth. The medicinal smell hit me first—antiseptic and astringent, undercut with the copper tang of blood and the sour notes of sickness. The scent catapulted me backward through time, to a smaller version of myself sitting rigid on a waiting room chair, legs not quite reaching the floor, while they examined my father's body in a room down the hall.
I'd known before they told me. Known from the way the medics wouldn't meet my eyes, from the hushed consultations in corners, from the blood that had soaked through my socks as I stood in the doorway of my father's study that morning.
My hand drifted unconsciously to my mask, pulling it higher as if it could filter out more than just the hospital smells.
"It'll be quick," Rin promised, her hand lifting toward my arm before stopping mid-motion, hovering in the air between us. Her fingers curled inward, retreating to her side as she read the tension in my posture. "Just an initial assessment and chakra stabilization. Thirty minutes at most."
Her voice, practical and focused on immediate needs, anchored me to the present moment. This was Rin as I knew her best—capable, precise, her breathing measured and even as she slipped into her medical persona. Only the shadows beneath her eyes, like bruised petals, and the slight pallor of her skin betrayed the toll of recent events.
The hospital received us with the efficient, impersonal care I'd come to expect. Staff parted before us like water around stones—a benefit of Sensei's presence, no doubt. The Yellow Flash commanded respect without ever demanding it, his reputation flowing before him like an invisible current.
We were escorted to a private examination room, bypassing the usual triage chaos. The room was spare and clinical—white walls, metal instruments gleaming on trays, the examination table covered in crinkly paper that protested loudly when I sat on it.
A senior medical-nin joined us moments later, entering with the brisk efficiency of someone who had no time to waste. Gray-streaked hair pulled back in a severe bun accentuated sharp cheekbones and eyes the color of rain. Her hands were already glowing with diagnostic chakra—a pale green luminescence that pulsed with her heartbeat.
"Nohara-san," she said, addressing Rin directly with a curt nod that somehow conveyed both approval and skepticism, "I understand you performed the transplant?"
Rin straightened, her chin lifting slightly as she slipped seamlessly into her role. The transformation was subtle but remarkable—from traumatized teammate to medical professional in the space between heartbeats.
"Field conditions, minimal supplies," she reported, her voice steady despite the slight tremor in her hands. "The donor was..." here her professional veneer cracked slightly, a hairline fracture in porcelain, "...still alive during extraction. The recipient experienced immediate chakra drainage upon activation and has been unable to deactivate the dōjutsu since implantation."
The senior medic's face remained impassive, carved from stone. Only her eyes betrayed interest as they flicked between Rin and me, assessing.
"Remove the Hitai-ate, please," she instructed, gesturing toward my face with fingers that looked too delicate for their strength.
I complied, removing the Hitai-ate with a single movement. Cool air washed over the newly exposed flesh, raising goosebumps along my arms.
The medic leaned closer, her breath smelling faintly of mint and green tea. She didn't touch me—didn't need to. Her chakra extended like invisible fingers, probing the area around the eye socket with professional detachment.
"Remarkable work for field conditions," she murmured, the praise directed at Rin. "The nerve connections are pristine—textbook perfect. But the chakra pathways..." She frowned, brow furrowing like folded paper. "I can detect the primary channels, but they're insufficient. They appear incomplete, yet..."
She trailed off, head tilting slightly as she concentrated. "Nohara-san, what do you feel when you examine the chakra flow in the eye specifically?"
Rin stepped forward, close enough that I could detect the faint scent of antiseptic and cherry blossoms that always clung to her. Her hands glowed as she repeated the examination, her chakra gentler than the senior medic's—familiar, almost comforting in its intrusion.
"I can sense the total chakra required for the eye's operation," she said, her brow furrowed in concentration, "but the distribution is... wrong somehow." She chewed her lower lip, a habit from when puzzling through a difficult problem. "It's as if the eye is searching for pathways that don't exist in Kakashi's chakra network."
"Yes, exactly!" The senior medic's exclamation cut through the room's stillness, her professional reserve cracking to reveal genuine excitement. "The pathways are significantly narrower than what the Sharingan requires. When active, it's forcing chakra through channels too small to accommodate the flow, like trying to funnel a river through a garden hose."
Her eyes gleamed as she turned to Rin. "What would that mean for the patient, Nohara-san? Consider this a teaching moment."
Rin's eyes widened slightly at being put on the spot, but she recovered quickly. "It would mean..." she began, then gained confidence as the pieces fell into place, "it would mean that there must be additional pathways we can't detect—specialized channels that develop in the Uchiha clan but aren't present in Kakashi's system." Her voice quickened with realization. "That would explain both the constant chakra drain and the inability to deactivate the Sharingan! Without the proper pathways to regulate chakra flow, the eye remains permanently active, constantly drawing more chakra than necessary to compensate for the inefficient distribution."
The senior medic nodded, satisfaction evident in the slight upward tilt of her lips. "Precisely. The Uchiha clan's ocular chakra network is unique—an intricate web of specialized pathways that develop alongside their dōjutsu. Your teammate's body is attempting to adapt, but it's like trying to retrofit a civilian building with ANBU headquarters. The foundation simply wasn't designed for it."
Minato-sensei, who had been observing silently from the corner, stepped forward. "Can it be corrected?" he asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp with intelligence.
Rin moved closer to the examination table, her own hands still glowing with diagnostic chakra. "Could we modify the existing pathways?" she asked, hope threading through her voice. "Create artificial channels to supplement what's already there?"
The medic's expression sobered. "It's not merely modification we're talking about. It's creating entirely new pathways and seamlessly integrating them with both the existing network and the transplanted eye." She shook her head, silver-streaked hair catching the light. "It's not something a typical medical ninja could accomplish, regardless of talent or training. The precision required..." She trailed off, her meaning clear.
My heart stuttered, then quickened, blood rushing in my ears like distant ocean waves. "Tsunade-sama," I said, the name emerging as barely more than a whisper. "You're saying only someone with her level of chakra control could perform such a procedure."
The medic's mouth tightened, eyes dropping to the floor before meeting mine again. "Yes. But Tsunade-sama left Konoha years ago, during the Second War. She swore never to return to the village... or to practice medical ninjutsu again."
The room fell silent, the only sound the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the distant bustle of the hospital beyond our door. The implications settled over us like a shroud—without specialized treatment, I would remain temporarily handicapped, my chakra reserves depleted, maybe until I could enlarge my chakra reserves... but it would take months and my efficiency wouldn't be the same as before.
"What about expanding my chakra reserves through training?" I asked, the question emerging more tentatively than I intended. "If I could increase my capacity significantly, wouldn't that counterbalance the drain?"
The medical-nin's fingers drummed once against her clipboard—a habit betraying years of delivering unwelcome news to hopeful patients. "A logical approach, Hatake-san, but ultimately insufficient," she said, her gaze clinical yet not unkind. "You could double your reserves, even triple them with rigorous training, and yes, that would extend your operational time. But the fundamental flaw remains: the Sharingan is draining chakra at an accelerated rate through pathways too narrow to sustain it. Like a river eroding its banks during a flood, eventually the damage would become catastrophic. We're not just discussing inconvenient fatigue—we're talking about the potential for complete chakra depletion during combat."
She let that sink in before adding, "In blunt terms, you would always be at risk of death by chakra exhaustion, particularly in extended engagements. The more you used the Sharingan, the greater the risk."
"We have to ask her," Rin said quietly, urgency vibrating beneath her controlled tone. "At the very least, to consider examining you. Even if she refuses to return to the village, perhaps she would consult on the case." Her fingers twisted the hem of her shirt, the only outward sign of her agitation. "Obito wouldn't want his gift to become a burden."
Minato-sensei, who had been unnaturally quiet throughout the examination, smiled suddenly—a flash of warmth in the sterile room. "As it happens," he said, his voice carrying that particular tone that always preceded some unexpected solution, "I know someone who might have a very good idea of Tsunade-sama's current whereabouts."
The way his lips quirked at the corners spoke volumes to those who knew him well. Whoever this mysterious contact was, they were unlikely to be found in any official capacity. But for the first time since waking with Obito's eye, I felt something like hope stirring within the hollow spaces of my chest.
A sharp knock at the door cut through the momentary hopeful moment. The sound echoed in the small examination room, making Rin flinch beside me. Minato-sensei straightened, his shoulders squaring as the unreadable mask slipped back into place.
The door cracked open, revealing a young hospital attendant whose white uniform seemed too crisp for the late hour.
"Pardon the interruption," he said, bowing so deeply I caught the tremor in his hands. "Uchiha Fugaku-sama is requesting immediate access to this examination."
The fluorescent lights seemed to dim, the air growing heavy as chakra rippled almost imperceptibly around Minato-sensei.
"Denied," Sensei said, his voice carrying the quiet authority. "This is a confidential medical procedure."
The attendant's throat bobbed as he swallowed. A damp patch spread under his arm as he straightened. "Uchiha-sama insists it concerns clan matters of the highest priority. He has... authorization from the Council."
Sensei's fingers twitched at his side, where I knew he kept his three-pronged kunai hidden in his sleeve. The gesture was so subtle only someone who had fought alongside him would notice it.
"Let him in," I said, each word scraping my throat like gravel.
Rin's head snapped toward me, chocolate eyes widening. Sensei's gaze was more measured, but no less surprised.
"Kakashi," Rin began, her voice pitched low, for my ears only. "You're not obligated to—"
"He has a right to know about Obito," I said simply, the words like ash in my mouth. “He’s his clan head, or was his clan head”
The truth twisted in my gut like a rusted blade. This confrontation was inevitable—the Uchiha clan guarded their bloodline with fanatical devotion. Better to face it now, with Sensei's and Rin's beside me, than alone in some darkened corner of the village.
The attendant bowed again and scurried out, the door clicking shut behind him. In the silence that followed, I could hear Rin's measured breathing beside me. My own pulse hammered against my ribs, loud enough that I wondered if they could hear it too.
When the door opened again, it was with deliberate slowness, the hinges protesting with a whine that raised the hair on my arms. Uchiha Fugaku entered, his austere features carved from stone, dark eyes taking in the room in a single sweeping glance. He acknowledged Minato-sensei with a curt nod that contained years of rivalry and respect, before his gaze settled on me.
No—not on me. On Obito's eye.
"Hatake Kakashi," he said. The traditional high collar of his shirt accentuated the rigid line of his jaw. "I understand you possess something that belongs to my clan."
I met his gaze without flinching, though every nerve in my body screamed to cover the exposed eye. "Obito gave his eye to me as he was dying," I replied, the words emerging with more steadiness than I felt. "It was his choice."
My fingers curled in my pants pocket. Rin shifted beside me, her shoulder brushing mine—a whisper of contact that anchored me to the present.
Fugaku's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his stance. The muscles in his forearms tensed beneath his sleeves. "A child cannot give away what belongs to the clan," he said, each word measured and cold. "The Sharingan is the Uchiha's most precious inheritance, not a trinket to be handed to outsiders."
The last word dripped with disdain, like poison from a senbon's tip.
"With all due respect, Uchiha-sama," Minato-sensei interjected, stepping forward with fluid grace. Sunlight from the window caught in his hair, turning it to spun gold against the sterile white of the hospital room. "Obito made his choice as a shinobi of Konoha. His sacrifice—"
"His eye should have been sealed upon his death, as is our custom," Fugaku cut in, the temperature of his voice dropping several degrees. "Instead, it was stolen."
The accusation hung in the air like smoke. Rin flinched as if she'd been struck. “
“That's not—" she began, her voice uncharacteristically small.
"Obito ordered the transplant, and I accepted it as my order” I interrupted, drawing Fugaku's attention back to me like redirecting a blade. "Rin was , therefore, following my orders as team captain. If there's blame to be assigned, it belongs solely to me."
The lie tasted bitter but necessary. after everything we'd been through, After my newly awakened understanding of protecting my teammates, i needed to protect her. I couldn't bear the thought of the Uchiha clan's wrath falling on Rin's shoulders, not when she was already carrying so much.
Fugaku studied me, his gaze calculating in a way that reminded me uncomfortably of my own tactical assessments. "You were team captain?" A hint of something almost like respect flickered in his expression before disappearing behind the impassive mask. "Nevertheless, the eye must be returned to the clan."
The senior medic, who had been observing the exchange with the stillness of someone accustomed to political minefields, stepped forward. Her voice cut through the tension like a precisely wielded scalpel. "I cannot allow that," she stated, her clinical tone brooking no argument.
All eyes turned to her in surprise. She met Fugaku's stern gaze without wavering, her spine straight as a senbon. "Removal now would likely kill the patient. The chakra pathways have already begun integration."
It was a lie—a skilled medic could remove the eye without killing me—but I felt a rush of gratitude for her intervention. The subtle widening of Rin's eyes told me she recognized the falsehood as well, but her face remained carefully neutral.
Fugaku's mouth tightened, lines deepening at the corners. "Then the patient will be transferred to Uchiha medical facilities where proper care can be provided."
Minato-sensei stepped forward, placing himself partially between me and the Uchiha clan head. His stance was relaxed, almost casual.
"Impossible," Sensei said flatly, no trace of his usual warmth present. "Kakashi is a jōnin of Konoha under my direct command. His medical care remains within standard protocols."
The standoff stretched for several long heartbeats, silent save for the distant sounds of the hospital beyond our door—footsteps hurrying down corridors, the clatter of instruments, the muffled conversations of medics making their rounds. Sweat trickled down my spine, cold against already clammy skin.
Finally, Fugaku's shoulders relaxed a fraction of a centimeter.
"Very well," he said, though his tone suggested this was merely a tactical retreat rather than surrender. His dark eyes never left mine as he continued. "However, the boy must be instructed in the proper use and care of the Sharingan. This will occur at the Uchiha compound, under clan supervision."
He fixed me with a penetrating stare "Tomorrow. Noon. The temple."
Fugaku's words fell like stones into still water, their ripples impossible to call back. Without waiting for agreement, he turned to leave, the Uchiha fan emblazoned on his back a silent reminder of the power he wielded.
"Well," Minato-sensei said after a moment, a hint of his usual humor returning to his voice, "that went better than expected. No one's on fire."
Rin made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob, quickly stifled behind her palm.
"The timing," I said, the observation emerging with calculated precision. "Fugaku arrived too quickly. We've been back in the village less than two hours."
The implication hung in the air, sharp as a thrown kunai. Sensei's eyes narrowed fractionally, a subtle tell I'd learned to recognize during countless missions.
"The Uchiha maintain several positions in ANBU, including among the Hokage's personal guard," Sensei stated, his voice carrying the same neutral tone he used when discussing sensitive intelligence during mission briefings. "Information flows through channels we don't always see."
He paused, weighing his next words with caution. "Someone reported to their clan head before their Hokage,"
Rin said with unexpected sharpness, her fingers clenching white-knuckled in her lap. The uncharacteristic edge in her voice drew both our attention. "What does that tell us about their priorities?"
The words crystallized what I'd already calculated—a clear breach of protocol with implications that extended far beyond our immediate situation. The Uchiha clan, already isolated at the village's edge, harboring divided loyalties. Obito had been the exception, his dream of becoming Hokage a rejection of his clan's separatism. The irony wasn't lost on me—that his eye now resided with an outsider while his clan grasped at reclaiming what they had never valued.
The senior medic cleared her throat, a pointed reminder of her presence. "I must caution that such political discourse would be better conducted elsewhere," she stated, her tone clinically neutral though her eyes conveyed a sharper message as she glanced toward the door. "Also no missions, no training, minimal chakra usage for seventy-two hours. Your system requires calibration to the new input."
I accepted the hitai-ate with a short nod of acknowledgement. "Understood. Thank you for your assistance."
As I secured the hitai-ate over the sharingan eye, Rin was already halfway to the door, her footsteps quick and purposeful, shoulders set with newfound determination.
"I'll meet you outside," she called over her shoulder, her voice carrying a steel edge I rarely heard. "I need to ask the Ashura-San about accessing some research materials."
Before I could respond, she slipped into the hallway after the senior medic, leaving me with the lingering scent of cherry blossoms.
As the door clicked shut, I caught Minato-sensei watching her departure, his expression uncharacteristically troubled. In the harsh hospital light, the shadows beneath his eyes seemed more pronounced—evidence of the war's toll on even the Yellow Flash.
"She's determined," he murmured, almost to himself.
"Rin?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"Rin will pursue every avenue to locate Tsunade-sama," Sensei said, his voice carrying that quiet certainty I'd come to associate with his tactical assessments. His eyes remained fixed on the doorway where she had disappeared. "And if that path proves unviable... she'll master the procedure herself, regardless of difficulty." He smiled slightly, a shadow of warmth amidst our grim circumstances. "I recognized that look in her eyes. It's the same determination I witnessed after we lost Obito. When she vowed never to be helpless again." His voice softened with understanding. "When Rin commits herself to a purpose that deeply, there's not a force in this world that could turn her from her path."
"It's a good thing, isn't it?" I eased myself off the examination table, fighting a wave of exhaustion that threatened to drag me back down. "Having someone besides Tsunade who could perform such procedures would benefit the village."
Minato-sensei turned to me then, concern evident in the tightening around his eyes. "Yes, but to learn how to fix you properly, she'll need information the Uchiha clan guards jealously. Information about the Sharingan's chakra pathways that isn't recorded in any medical text available to her."
The implication hung in the air between us, unspoken but clear as crystal.
"You're worried she'll seek out Orochimaru," I said quietly, naming the fear that had shadowed Sensei's expression.
He didn't confirm or deny it, but his silence was answer enough. Orochimaru of the Sannin—Tsunade's former teammate and Konoha's brilliant, enigmatic scientist whose research methods were the subject of increasingly disturbing rumors. If anyone in the village had unauthorized information about kekkei genkai and forbidden techniques, it would be him.
"She wouldn't," I said with certainty. "Rin is too careful, too committed to ethical healing."
"You were unconscious when she healed you," Sensei said, his voice dropping to ensure we wouldn't be overheard. "After what happened with Obito and your near sacrifice for her sake, she made a vow. Not just to herself, but to me as well."
I stilled "What vow?"
"That she would never again be helpless," he replied, his eyes studying my reaction with that careful assessment I'd come to recognize. "She called herself the weak one. Said that her capture led to Obito's death, to your injury. That she wouldn't allow such a thing to happen again."
The information slotted into place in my mind, recalibrating my understanding of Rin's determined exit moments ago. Not just professional interest, then. Something deeper, more personal.
"That doesn't mean she'd go to Orochimaru," I countered, though the certainty in my voice had diminished.
"Grief changes people, Kakashi," Sensei replied, his voice gentle but firm. "So does love."
The word hung between us, laden with implications I wasn't prepared to examine.
"Then we'd better find Tsunade quickly," I said, moving toward the door with as much steadiness as I could muster. “And convinced her to help us.”
Outside the hospital, Rin was already waiting, her medical bag clutched to her chest like a shield. The afternoon sun caught in her hair, highlighting the auburn undertones usually hidden in shadow. Despite the exhaustion etched into the lines of her face, her posture conveyed readiness and nervous energy.
Minato-sensei rested a hand briefly on my shoulder, his touch light yet grounding. "I'll report to the Hokage about our... visitor and what we need to do," he said, his voice pitched low enough that passing citizens couldn't overhear. "With luck, he'll approve the mission despite our wartime constraints." His blue eyes sharpened as he added, "Kakashi, tread carefully tomorrow. The Uchiha temple is not a place outsiders are welcome, especially those carrying their bloodright."
"I understand, Sensei," I replied, feeling the weight of his warning settle alongside the constant drain of the Sharingan.
He nodded, then turned to Rin. "Get him home safely. Make sure he actually rests." A flicker of something—concern, perhaps, or understanding—passed between them before he vanished in a flash of yellow, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone.
As we left the hospital, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the village. Konoha continued its daily rhythm around us—merchants closing shops, children being called home for dinner, shinobi returning from missions or heading out on new ones. Life continuing, oblivious to the fact that Obito would never walk these streets again.
Rin and I moved through this familiar landscape like ghosts, neither of us speaking. The silence between us was heavy with all the things we couldn't yet say—about Obito, about my new eye, about what had happened in that cave.
When we reached my house, the one I shared with my father all those years ago, I hesitated at the door, suddenly reluctant to face the emptiness waiting inside. Rin seemed to understand without words.
"I could stay," she offered softly. "Just until you fall asleep."
Part of me wanted desperately to accept—to not be alone with my thoughts, with the eye that wasn't mine, with the memory of Obito's last moments replaying endlessly in my mind. But another part, the part that had spent years building walls between myself and others, resisted.
"I'll be fine," I said, the words automatic, unconvincing even to my own ears.
Rin studied me for a long moment, her brown eyes too perceptive. "Alright," she conceded finally. "But I'll check on you tomorrow ."
I nodded, knowing there was no point in arguing. As she turned to leave, I called after her on impulse. "Rin."
She paused, looking back at me with a question in her eyes.
"Thank you," I said, the words inadequate for everything I meant by them—for her medical skill that saved my life, for her steadiness when everything was falling apart, for being the one constant in a world suddenly made strange and uncertain.
She smiled then, a small, sad curve of her lips that didn't reach her eyes. "Get some rest, Kakashi-kun," she said softly, then walked away, her silhouette gradually blending with the gathering shadows of evening.
Inside my apartment, I stood motionless for several minutes, adjusting to the stillness. Everything was exactly as I'd left it before the mission—bed neatly made, surfaces clear of dust, weapons arranged with military precision. A space defined by order and purpose, devoid of personal touches. It had been enough before. Now it felt hollow in a way walls couldn't fix
I moved to the small table beside my bed and carefully removed my father's broken tanto, placing it on the simple stand I'd crafted years ago, promising myself that I’ll see it fixed.
"I think I understand now, Father," I said to the quiet room, the words emerging unbidden. "What you chose. Who you chose. Why you choose to save them.”
There was no answer, of course. Only the soft tick of the clock and the distant sounds of the village settling into night.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, suddenly too exhausted to remain standing. The events of the past days crashed over me like a wave, threatening to pull me under. My hand rose to touch the Hitai-ate covering my left eye—Obito's eye. His final gift to me.
Those who don't care about their friends are even worse than trash.
I layed back on the bed, not bothering to remove my uniform, and stared at the ceiling until darkness claimed both my vision and my consciousness.
The Uchiha temple stood at the heart of the clan compound, its ancient stone worn smooth by thousands of feet. Morning sunlight burnished the curved roof tiles to a deep amber, and carved hawks watched from the eaves with obsidian eyes that seemed to follow my approach. The air hung heavy with incense and anticipation.
I had arrived precisely at noon, neither early nor late—a calculated neutrality. my hitai-ate had been positioned to conceal my new eye from casual observation. Every step I took deeper into Uchiha territory felt like trespassing, despite my official invitation.
Clan members watched my progress from doorways and gardens, their expressions ranging from curiosity to open hostility. Children were hurried inside as I passed, as if my presence might somehow contaminate them. I kept my posture relaxed but alert, careful not to appear either intimidated or challenging.
At the temple steps, a figure emerged from the shadows of the entrance—not Fugaku as I had expected, but a much older man. His face was deeply lined, white hair pulled back in a severe style. The Uchiha fan emblazoned on his traditional robes identified him as an elder of significant standing.
"Hatake Kakashi," he acknowledged, his voice carrying the dry rustle of seldom-used parchment. "I am Uchiha Tenma, keeper of the temple records."
I bowed with careful respect—deep enough to honor his position, but not so deep as to suggest subservience. "Elder."
He studied me without speaking for several uncomfortable moments, his dark eyes revealing nothing of his thoughts. Finally, he turned and gestured for me to follow.
"Remove your sandals," he instructed as we reached the entrance.
I complied, setting them precisely beside the door before following him into the temple's cool interior. The contrast between the bright sunlight outside and the dimness within momentarily disoriented me, my single visible eye adjusting slowly.
When my vision cleared, I found myself in a vast chamber, its walls adorned with ancient banners bearing the Uchiha crest. Stone lanterns cast pools of golden light at regular intervals, illuminating a path that led to a raised platform at the far end. There, flanked by two stern-faced Uchiha I didn’t recognize, sat Fugaku.
The clan head watched our approach impassively, his hands resting on his knees in formal precision. Unlike yesterday, he wore ceremonial robes, the high collar embroidered with the Uchiha fan in meticulous detail.
Elder Tenma gestured for me to stop at the base of the platform, then moved to take his place beside Fugaku. The message was clear—I stood before judgment, not as a peer.
"Hatake Kakashi," Fugaku began, his voice reverberating in the chamber, "you have been summoned to receive instruction in the proper use and care of the Sharingan. Before we proceed, you will answer truthfully: how did you come to possess the eye of Uchiha Obito?"
Though I had anticipated this question, the formal setting lent it unexpected weight. I chose my words with care, aware that anything I said would become part of clan record.
"During a mission to destroy Kannabi Bridge, our team was ambushed by Rock shinobi. While rescuing our captured teammate, Uchiha Obito was fatally injured—half his body crushed beneath a boulder. With his final strength, he requested that his left Sharingan be transplanted to replace my damaged eye, so that he might continue to see the future through me."
I paused, then added with quiet certainty, "It was his choice, made freely and with full understanding of his actions."
A murmur rippled through the shadows behind Fugaku, revealing the presence of other clan members I hadn't detected. Their whispers carried the edge of skepticism.
Fugaku raised a hand, silencing them instantly. "And the medical ninja who performed this transplant?"
"Nohara Rin, our team's medical specialist."
"A genin," one of the shadowed figures scoffed. "Impossible."
I kept my gaze steady on Fugaku. "Rin is the most skilled medical ninja of our generation. Her technique was flawless."
Fugaku's expression revealed nothing, but he nodded slightly, acknowledging the point. "And when did Uchiha Obito first awaken his Sharingan?"
"During the same mission," I answered truthfully. "When we were attacked by a rock shinobi that specialized at a camouflage ninjutsu, Obito obtain his sharingan and kill the shinobi. at the first awakening of his sharingan Obito activated it with two tomoe already formed in each eye."
This caused a more significant stir among the hidden observers. Two tomoe upon first awakening was unusual, suggesting significant potential.
Elder Tenma leaned forward slightly. "And the eye you now possess—how many tomoe did it display when transplanted?"
I hesitated for a fraction of a second, recalling the medic's warning. "Two," I said finally, choosing honesty despite my misgivings. "However, after Obito's death, the tomoes developed to full sharingan and the pattern... changed."
The temple fell into absolute silence, heavy as a physical weight.
"Remove the Hitai-ate," Fugaku commanded, his voice sharp with new intensity.
I reached up slowly, removing the shield that suppressed the Sharingan's chakra drain. As I did, I felt the familiar pull on my reserves resume, though less intensely than before—my system was already adapting, however painfully.
"Open your eye," Elder Tenma instructed, stepping down from the platform to approach me.
I complied, blinking as the world shifted into the hyper-clarity of Sharingan vision. Every movement, every shadow, every flicker of the lantern flames registered with preternatural sharpness.
The elder's intake of breath as I challenged more chakra, consciously activated the other pattern. Behind him, Fugaku rose to his feet, his composure cracking for the first time since I'd met him.
"Mangekyō," Fugaku whispered, the word carrying a reverence I had never heard from him before.
Elder Tenma circled me slowly, examining the eye from different angles, his expression a mixture of awe and calculation. "Fully formed. Perfect symmetry. And in a non-Uchiha host..." He shook his head, as if unable to reconcile what he was seeing.
"What is Mangekyō?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could reconsider the wisdom of revealing my ignorance.
Fugaku and the elder exchanged a glance loaded with unspoken communication. It was Fugaku who finally answered, returning to his seat with deliberate control.
"The Mangekyō Sharingan is the evolved form of our dōjutsu," he explained, his tone formal, educational. "It awakens only under specific circumstances of profound emotional trauma—typically, witnessing the death of someone precious to the user."
My mind raced, connecting the dots. "When Obito died..."
"Yes," Elder Tenma confirmed, returning to Fugaku's side. "But this is unprecedented. The Mangekyō has never been recorded activating after transplantation, nor in a non-Uchiha host."
"What does it mean?" I asked, a chill settling in my stomach at their obvious astonishment.
Fugaku's expression hardened into something unreadable. "It means, Hatake Kakashi, that you possess power beyond your understanding—power that rightfully belongs to our clan alone."
"The Mangekyō grants abilities far beyond the standard Sharingan," Elder Tenma added, his scholarly tone at odds with the tension filling the temple. "Unique techniques manifest differently in each user, shaped by their nature and chakra affinity."
A third voice spoke from the shadows—female, aged but strong. "It also carries a terrible price."
An elderly woman emerged from behind one of the stone pillars, her white hair arranged in a traditional style, her back straight despite her advanced years. Unlike the others, who watched me with suspicion or calculating interest, her gaze held something like pity.
"The more one uses the Mangekyō Sharingan, the more one's light fades," she continued, approaching with measured steps. "Eventually leading to blindness. This is the bargain of our bloodline—power exchanged for vision."
The revelation sent a jolt through me. Blindness? I had already lost one eye. The prospect of losing the other, Obito’s eye—was more terrifying than I cared to admit.
"How quickly?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
"It varies," she replied. "For a pure Uchiha, perhaps years of regular use. For you..." She shrugged slightly. "Unknown."
Fugaku cleared his throat, drawing attention back to himself. "Which is why you will use it only when absolutely necessary, under conditions approved by the clan council."
The implication was clear—they intended to control when and how I accessed Obito's gift. A surge of quiet defiance rose within me.
"With respect, Uchiha-sama," I said carefully, "it’s impossible to achieve, during missions far from the village there would be opportunity to asked for your approval. Also, this was Obito's final request—that I see the future he could not. I cannot dishonor that request by allowing others to dictate its use. However, I can agree to usage of the Mangekyō only when necessary.”
Fugaku's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You speak of honor while possessing what you have no right to claim."
"No right?" The words escaped me before I could censor them, sharper than intended. "I was there when Obito died in that cave. I felt his pulse fade beneath my fingers. I granted him his final mercy when no one else could." My voice had risen without my awareness, filling the temple with echoes. "If anyone has earned the right to carry his legacy, it is those who were with him at the end."
The elderly woman made a small sound—not quite a laugh, not quite approval. "The boy has spirit, Fugaku. Perhaps Obito chose better than we realized."
Fugaku's expression suggested he strongly disagreed, but he inclined his head slightly to the woman, a gesture of deference that surprised me. "As you say, Mother."
I realized with a start that this must be Fugaku's mother—perhaps even a former clan head herself, given the respect she commanded.
"The Hatake boy will receive proper instruction," she declared, her tone brooking no argument. "Not restriction, but guidance. The eye was given freely—we will honor that gift by ensuring it serves its purpose without destroying its new keeper."
Fugaku looked as if he might protest, but thought better of it. "As you wish, Mother" he conceded, though his tone suggested this was far from settled.
Elder Tenma stepped forward once more. "We will begin with the fundamental techniques. deactivated the Mangekyō, You're draining chakra needlessly."
I did as instructed, feeling immediate relief as the chakra drain subsided. The elder then launched into a detailed explanation of the Sharingan's basic functions—its ability to track movement, memorize techniques, and see through illusions. Much of this I already knew from general shinobi education, but I listened attentively, recognizing the olive branch being extended.
For the next two hours, I absorbed everything they offered—the proper chakra flow techniques to minimize strain, meditative practices to improve control, and warning signs of overuse. Throughout, I sensed the unspoken tensions between faction's simmering beneath the surface. Some, like the Honored Mother by extension her son, Fugaku, seemed to genuinely wish to honor Obito's choice. Others, clearly viewed me as a thief to be tolerated only under strict supervision.
As the instruction concluded, Fugaku dismissed the other clan members, leaving only himself, Elder Tenma, and the Honored Mother with me in the vast chamber.
"There is one more matter," Fugaku said once we were alone. "The true techniques of the Mangekyō remain clan secrets, recorded only in scrolls kept within this temple. You will not have access to this knowledge, regardless of possessing the eye."
I nodded, having expected as much. "I understand."
"Do you?" Fugaku's voice carried a hint of skepticism. "The Mangekyō is not merely an enhanced Sharingan. Each manifests unique abilities that emerge naturally with use—abilities you may discover by accident, without proper guidance."
"Which is precisely why the boy should be instructed, not restricted," the Honored Mother interjected, moving to stand between us like a mediator. Her dark eyes, clouded with age but sharp with intelligence, shifted from Fugaku to me. "Tell me, Hatake Kakashi, has anything unusual occurred when using this eye? Anything unexpected?"
The memory of black flames consuming a Rock shinobi flashed through my mind—flames that had appeared when rage and grief had overwhelmed me after Obito's death. I hesitated, weighing the wisdom of complete honesty against self-preservation.
"There was an incident," I admitted finally. "During combat, black flames appeared. They consumed everything they touched, including stone."
The atmosphere in the temple shifted instantly, tension crackling like static before a lightning strike. Fugaku's face drained of color, while Elder Tenma took an involuntary step backward.
"Amaterasu," the Honored Mother whispered, the name falling from her lips like a sacred invocation. "The black flames of the sun goddess. It has been three generations since an Uchiha manifested this ability."
Fugaku moved toward me with alarming speed, stopping just short of physical contact. "You will demonstrate this technique. Now."
"No." The refusal came not from me, but from the Honored Mother. She placed a withered hand on Fugaku's arm, restraining him with nothing more than her authority. "The boy has no control yet. Amaterasu unleashed within the temple would be catastrophic."
Fugaku subsided reluctantly, but his eyes never left mine, burning with an intensity that bordered on hunger. "Then he will be assigned an Uchiha mentor immediately. Someone who can monitor and control the development of these abilities."
I tensed at the implication—an Uchiha shadow, reporting my every move back to the clan. Before I could formulate a diplomatic refusal, the Honored Mother spoke again.
"No," she said simply. "The Yellow Flash is his mentor. That arrangement will continue."
"But—"
"Enough, Fugaku." Her tone left no room for debate. "The boy came to us in good faith. He has shown respect for our traditions and answered our questions honestly. We will offer guidance when needed, but we will not interfere with his duties or his training."
Fugaku's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin, but he inclined his head in reluctant acceptance. "As you wish, Mother."
She turned to me, her expression softening slightly. "Return in one week. By then, we will have prepared appropriate guidance for managing these specific abilities. Until then, use the eye sparingly. The seal you've been given will help control the chakra drain, but the Mangekyō's powers can be... unpredictable."
I bowed with genuine respect. "Thank you, Honored One."
As I straightened, a thought occurred to me—an offering that might help bridge the gap between myself and the clan. "There is something I would like to request," I said carefully.
Fugaku's expression suggested he found my presumption distasteful, but he gestured for me to continue.
"I would like to offer something in exchange for the knowledge you've shared today. A technique of the Hatake clan."
Elder Tenma's eyebrows rose in surprise. "The Hatake have no kekkei genkai."
"No," I agreed, "but we do have techniques passed down through Father to son. Specifically, the White Light Chakra technique my father was known for."
The mention of my father caused a subtle shift in the room's atmosphere. The White Fang's reputation was complicated—reviled by some for choosing comrades over mission, respected by others for his legendary skill in battle.
"A gesture of goodwill between clans," the Honored Mother observed, a hint of approval warming her voice. "Unusual, but welcome."
Fugaku studied me, suspicion warring with interest. "The White Fang's technique died with him, did it not?"
"No," I said simply. "I recreated it."
None of them could entirely hide their surprise. The White Light Chakra was a complex manipulation that extended a user's chakra beyond a blade, creating a cutting edge that could penetrate almost any defense. It had been my father's signature technique, one I had publicly rejected along with everything else associated with him.
Until now.
"Our eyes allow us to copy every technique we see," Fugaku said, a hint of pride in his voice.
"Yes," I agreed. "Yet this one is freely given."
"Its cost is one of our own's death," he countered, his gaze sharp.
I met his eyes without flinching. "It was meant to be freely given to Obito, and he is your clansman," I said quietly. "Take it not because you allowed me to keep his eye. Take it because it was meant to be his in the first place."
Something shifted in Fugaku's expression—not softening, exactly, but a subtle recalibration of his assessment. "Very well," he said after a moment. "We accept your offering."
For the next hour, I demonstrated the White Light Chakra Sabre technique, breaking down its components so that even without the Sharingan's copying ability, they could understand its principles. It felt strange, sharing something I had kept private for so long—yet also right, as if a circle was being completed. Obito's gift to me, my gift to his clan.
When I finally departed the temple, the afternoon was waning, golden light slanting across the compound at a low angle. My chakra reserves were depleted from the demonstration, but I felt lighter somehow, as if I had shed a burden I hadn't recognized I was carrying.
At the compound gates, the Honored Mother appeared unexpectedly, having followed at a distance I hadn't detected. Age might have dimmed her eyesight, but it had clearly done nothing to diminish her shinobi skills.
"Hatake Kakashi," she said, her voice pitched low for my ears alone, "a final piece of wisdom, if you will permit it."
I paused, turning to face her with respectful attention.
"The Mangekyō Sharingan is born of loss and pain," she said, her aged eyes somehow seeing through me rather than at me. "Its power is proportional to the depth of grief that awakened it."
I remained silent, sensing there was more.
"Obito's eye changed upon his death—a death you facilitated at his request. This creates a bond between you that transcends ordinary transplantation." Her withered hand reached up, hovering near but not touching my covered eye. "His Sharingan responded to your grief as if it were still his own. This suggests a connection far deeper than either the clan or the medical corps understand."
"What does that mean?" I asked, a chill settling in my spine.
Her smile was sad and knowing. "It means, young Hatake, that you and Obito are now entwined in ways even I cannot fully comprehend. His eye is not merely a tool you possess—it is a living link between your chakra and his legacy."
She lowered her hand, her expression growing distant. "Watch for him in your dreams. Listen for echoes of his voice in your thoughts. The Sharingan remembers what the body forgets."
With those cryptic words, she turned and walked back toward the temple, her steps unhurried yet purposeful. I stood watching until she disappeared from sight, her warning—or was it a promise?—echoing in my mind.
The Sharingan remembers what the body forgets.
I adjusted again the Hitai-ate over my eye and headed toward the village center, my thoughts churning with everything I had learned. The Mangekyō Sharingan. Amaterasu. The price of blindness. And most troubling of all, the suggestion that something of Obito might linger in the eye he had given me.
Notes:
Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I just need to rant about something that's always bothered me in the Naruto universe - the casual way they snatch eyeballs and transplant them in SECONDS! Like, are you kidding me? In canon, they're just popping eyes in and out like they're changing light bulbs! "Oh, let me just remove this Sharingan with my bare hands and stick it in your socket, no problem!"
I tried to make it more realistic here - showing that there are serious medical consequences to transplanting a kekkei genkai into someone who wasn't born with the right chakra pathways. No more instant eye-swapping without consequences! Even with Rin's medical skills, Kakashi still needs serious help from someone like Tsunade to make it work properly.
Chapter 6: When The Sunset Fades
Summary:
Rin has insomnia, kakashi somehow solves it.. unknowingly. Stuff happens, well emotional stuff!
Notes:
Hello!
I know I disappeared after those daily updates and you probably thought I'd vanished into the ether! But I'm still here and still kicking, just wrestling with the bane of my existence - editing.
For those waiting on my other story, it's coming! Just battling a 25k word monster right now, hoping to update by this weekend!
This 15k chapter wasn't much kinder to me either - I'm sure I missed something despite multiple passes, but that's the nature of the beast!
Thanks for sticking with me through the irregular posting schedule. Hope you enjoy this chunky update!
Happy reading!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 6 - When the Sunset Fades
Circle of the SunWhen the sunset fades and the world begins,
when arms like chains,
and a whisper remains.At darkness’ abyss and silver to touch,
my heart beat loud—too heavy, too much.
You took my breath, my name, my hush,
and kept it all with a trembling clutch.But sunrise split the sky in gold,
and let the warmth I knew grow cold.
I reached again—too slow to hold—
and woke to find no hand to fold.
Rin’s pov
The medical section at the library was silent save for the rustling of pages and the soft scratch of my pen against paper. I got there early, at dawn. After a sleepless night, like every night had been since Obito's death. It hadn't been many days—only three nights—but each one stretched into eternity. At first I thought my insomnia stemmed from knowing I carried him with me, physically, not just spiritually, in the scroll tucked in my pocket. But yesterday, when I arrived home, I saw my father for the first time since leaving for the mission.
He was already packed for another assignment, his weathered medical pouch bulging with freshly rolled bandages and soldier pills. Yet there he sat in our living room, waiting for me. The moment I opened the door, he jumped to his feet, crossing the room in swift strides. The floorboards creaked beneath him as he pulled me into an embrace that smelled of antiseptic and worry.
"You're home," he whispered into my hair, his voice breaking on the second word. His arms tightened around me, strong yet trembling slightly. "I'm so sorry about Obito."
I stood frozen in his embrace, unable to raise my arms to return it. My fingers remained curled around the strap of my medical bag that had carried the tools I'd used to sever Obito’s eye from his body. The weight of that knowledge pressed against my chest, making it hard to breathe.
My father held me for long minutes before finally releasing me, his hands lingering on my shoulders as he studied my face. Deep lines had formed around his eyes that hadn't been there before my mission, and silver threads now shone among the brown at his temples. His gaze was both searching and afraid of what it might find.
"I have to go," he said, apology etched into every line of his face. "A rank S mission. I'm already late because I wanted to see you the moment I heard you'd returned." His thumb brushed across my cheek, wiping away tears I hadn't realized were falling. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
I nodded mechanically, the words lodging in my throat. What could I tell him? That I'd failed to protect my teammate? That I'd carved out the eye of my best friend with my own hands? That the boy I loved now carried a piece of the boy who'd loved me?
After he left, the silence of our house pressed against my ears like physical weight. I sank to the floor, my back against the door, but before the tears could come, a realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. It was never about them—only me. I would never see Obito again. My future and
Kakashi’s future weren’t set in stone. Even my father's next return wasn't guaranteed.
The cold certainty of mortality washed over me, cleansing in its brutality. I scrambled to my feet, fumbling with the door handle, suddenly desperate to catch one last glimpse of my father. To say the words that mattered before it was too late—like it had been with Obito.
"Wait!" I called, my voice cracking as I burst onto our small porch. My feet hit the dusty street without bothering with sandals, the gravel biting into my soles. "Dad, wait!"
The lone figure of my father stopped at the corner, a silhouette against the setting sun. He turned, his weapon bag swinging at his side, confusion evident even at this distance.
"I love you!" I yelled, the words echoing between the houses, startling a pair of ravens into flight. My voice carried all the fear and desperation I couldn't articulate—all the knowledge of how quickly a heartbeat could stop, how easily a life could end beneath a falling boulder.
No neighbors poked their heads out to complain about the noise. No passersby stared or whispered. In wartime Konoha, these desperate declarations had become as common as the black-bordered memorial notices posted daily near the Hokage tower. Children calling after parents, lovers running breathlessly through streets to catch partners at the village gates, siblings embracing as if trying to memorize the feel of each other's arms. Everyone understood. Everyone had either shouted those same urgent words or regretted not doing so to someone who never returned. These public displays of love were granted a sacred immunity—the village's collective acknowledgment that any goodbye might be the last.
He stood motionless for a moment, his body outlined in gold by the dying light. Then his hand raised in that familiar wave I'd known since childhood, and even from this distance, I could see his lips form the words "Love you too."
I watched until he disappeared around the corner, my arms wrapped tightly around myself. The evening breeze carried the scent of cooking meals from nearby homes, of life continuing its relentless forward movement. I wondered, with a clarity that felt strange, if this would be the last time someone would love me before I died. If I would die young in this war or somehow grow up to see another decade.
I returned inside, the wood floor cool against my bare feet. Rather than shattering, I felt something inside me harden—like bone knitting after a break, stronger at the site of injury. I cleaned my face, prepared a simple dinner I couldn't taste, and laid out my research materials on the kitchen table.
Then it was late when my body finally gave up. I laid in the bed I'd always had good sleep in before missions, the familiar curves of the mattress cradling me like a hollow promise. My limbs were leaden with exhaustion, eyelids scratchy and heavy, yet sleep refused to come. Intrusive thoughts plagued me like a kunai, each one precise and cutting—Obito's smile as he gave his final gift, the wet sound of me plucking his eye from its socket, the way Kakashi's body had trembled as he'd granted our teammate mercy.
I pressed my palms against my closed eyes until colors burst across the darkness. Counted my heartbeats. Regulated my breathing like they taught us in training. Nothing worked.
For hours I laid there, watching shadows shift across my ceiling as clouds passed over the moon. When the first light rose in the sky—a pale grey that gradually warmed to pink along the horizon—I surrendered to wakefulness. I gathered my materials mechanically, splashed cold water on my face, and set out toward the library.
Yet my feet betrayed me, carrying me along a different route. I found myself standing in the narrow alley behind Kakashi's house, my chakra automatically suppressed to avoid detection. The morning dew soaked through my sandals as I stood motionless, staring up at his window.
Three precise jumps brought me to the narrow ledge outside his bedroom. I balanced there, fingertips lightly touching the weathered wood frame for stability. Through a gap in the curtains, I could make out Kakashi's sleeping figure, curled slightly on his side, one hand resting near the hilt of a kunai he kept beneath his pillow. His hitai-ate remained in place, even in sleep, concealing his new eye.
His chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of deep slumber. The silver hair splayed across his pillow caught the dawn light, almost glowing against the dark fabric. Without his mask, he looked younger, more vulnerable.
Seeing him there, alive and whole despite everything, eased something tight in my chest. A knot I hadn't realized I'd been carrying loosened slightly. I watched him for one more breath, two, then silently departed, finally making my way to the library.
I'd been granted full access to the medical archives after the Hokage's order, but so far, the results were disappointing. The library's medical section was quiet this early, my footsteps echoing softly between the tall shelves as I gathered materials and claimed my usual table by the east-facing window.
Countless scrolls on chakra pathways, ocular transplantation techniques, but nothing on kekkei genkai integration— not even how someone would transplant any dōjutsu, not only the Sharingan. It seemed the clans had done a thorough job of keeping their secret kekkei genkai to themselves, guarding their abilities as jealously as the village protected its borders.
The most promising scroll lay open before me, its edges yellowed with age, the paper so delicate I had to use chakra-infused tweezers to turn the pages without damaging them. The ink had faded to a sepia tone that strained my eyes as I read
"Chakra pathway development begins in utero and continues through adolescence. While new pathways cannot be artificially created in adults, existing channels may be expanded or redirected through precise chakra manipulation under controlled conditions..."
I traced the anatomical diagrams with my fingertip, committing each illustration to memory. The theory was sound, but the practical application remained elusive. How could I reconfigure Kakashi's ocular chakra network without damaging the delicate connections already established?
My mind drifted to the last examination I'd performed on him, replaying every detail with precision. I'd mapped his chakra network methodically, comparing it to standard anatomical references and my own knowledge. It was then that something nagged at me—a discrepancy I'd noted but hadn't fully registered in the chaos of recent events.
I pulled out my medical notes, flipping through pages of dense observations and diagrams until I found what I was looking for. There - to my surprise, as I compared it with the standard references, I found something unusual. While most of what I'd observed in Kakashi matched typical chakra pathway configurations, there was a slight difference that no one would notice if they didn't study his pathways closely against the norm. He had a small extra connection at his nose base, like a dog's.
My fingers trembled slightly as I reached for another reference scroll, this one detailing the chakra systems of various Konoha clans. Even the Inuzuka clan, known for their canine-like abilities, didn't have that particular pathway structure. They concentrated their chakra there but didn't possess an additional channel.
I sat back, my heart racing with the thrill of discovery. This anomaly could explain Kakashi's extraordinary sense of smell—a sense he relied on more than most shinobi. But more importantly, it suggested his chakra system might be more adaptable than I'd initially thought.
If his body had naturally developed an uncommon pathway, perhaps it could accommodate others with the right guidance. The Sharingan might not be as incompatible as we feared.
A shadow fell across my notes. I looked up to find Ashura-sensei, the senior medical-nin who had examined Kakashi yesterday, watching me with undisguised curiosity. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back in its customary severe bun, not a strand out of place. The crisp white of her medical coat seemed to glow in the morning light filtering through the windows.
"You've been here since dawn, Rin-Chan ," she observed, her voice pitched low in deference to the library's silence. "That's dedication." A sly look crossed her face, the slight upturn of her lips almost imperceptible to those who didn't know her well.
I didn't tell Kakashi or Sensei, but I knew Ashura-sensei pretty well. She had been in charge of the advanced classes of medical ninjutsu at the Academy. While now everyone had to take the basic class for one year, Ashura-sensei had been the one who taught us medical specialists herself and supervised our hospital shifts. Her sharp eyes missed nothing—not a misplaced suture, not a wasted drop of chakra, not a single yawn during her lectures.
She was harsh, and her cold demeanor and dedication to healing had indeed made her something of a monster legend among new students. First-years whispered about how she once made a first-year-medical ninja cry for misdiagnosing a simple chakra burn, or how she could detect a poorly executed healing jutsu from three rooms away. But those of us who survived her training understood the truth—she had a duty to save lives, and half-trained medics cost lives. I respected her for this uncompromising standard, even when it had meant tears of frustration during my own training.
I offered a tired smile, pushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "I need to understand this. For my teammate."
Her eyes softened with recognition, crow's feet deepening at the corners. "The Hatake boy with the transplanted Sharingan. The one from yesterday." She pulled out the chair across from me and sat down, her movements precise. Her fingers, capable of the most delicate chakra manipulations I'd ever witnessed, tapped thoughtfully on the ancient scroll I'd been studying.
"I think you talked about him once when I asked you why you wanted to be a medical ninja, after what happened to your mother," her voice was warm, and it never ceased to amaze me how she could keep that warmth inside her despite the harshness of our profession. "I remember you telling me, only a year before, that yes, your mother died and she couldn't defend herself well because she trained all her life to heal, and yet you chose the same path because, as you said, 'that's what you do to save your friends.' That the boy with the silver hair had told you that. Is that boy him?"
The question caught me off guard. I looked down at my hands, suddenly seeing not the trained medical instruments they'd become, but the small, shaking fingers of an ten-year-old girl standing before her mother's memorial stone. My throat tightened.
"Yes," I admitted softly. "That was Kakashi. Though he wouldn't remember it now. It was years ago, when we were children in the same classroom together, before he changed. Before his father..." I trailed off, not needing to complete the thought.
Back then, Kakashi had been different—still serious and exceptionally talented, but there had been a warmth to him, an openness that vanished after his father's suicide. Kakashi had already graduated at six, a prodigy who left our Academy class far behind, but he would still visit sometimes, demonstrating techniques or helping with exercises. Everything changed when he was seven. He was the one who found his father's body—walked in on the scene, they said. When I saw him afterward at the training grounds, the transformation had been so complete it was as if the old Kakashi had died alongside the White Fang, replaced by this rigid, rule-following shadow with a mask that hid more than just his face.
"I doubt that," Ashura-sensei said, her gaze piercing through my defenses with clinical precision. "The Hatake boy strikes me as someone who remembers everything, whether he wants to or not."
I traced the diagram on the scroll, not really seeing it. "It was two years ago, when I was eleven. a year after my mother died on that eastern front mission." My fingers stilled on the parchment. "I was at the training grounds, trying to practice medical jutsu through my tears. Most kids avoided me—they didn't know what to say to the girl whose mother came back in a scroll."
I remembered that day with painful clarity—the weight of grief still fresh, my chakra control faltering as sobs threatened to break through my concentration.
"Kakashi was already different by then—masked, rigid, rule-focused. He saw me failing at a basic healing technique and came over. I expected a lecture about proper chakra control, but instead, he just stood there and said, 'Crying won't help your concentration. Shinobi rule twenty-five: never show tears.'" A small, sad smile touched my lips at the memory. "It was his version of comfort, I think."
"And what did you say?" Ashura-sensei asked.
"I told him I wasn't going to be a shinobi anyway, that I was going to be a medical ninja like my mother, even though it got her killed." I shook my head slightly. "I was angry, hurt—lashing out at the one person who'd actually stopped to talk to me."
Ashura-sensei's eyebrows rose slightly. "Not exactly comforting words."
"But then he surprised me," I continued. "After lecturing me about the rules, he said something else. Something I didn't expect." I looked up, meeting her eyes. "He told me that being a medical ninja was the most important role on a team. That without someone to heal them, everyone would die eventually. That choosing to heal others wasn't weakness—it showed a different kind of strength."
"Those don't sound like the words of the rule-obsessed boy you described," Ashura-sensei observed.
I nodded. "That's why it meant so much. For just a moment, I glimpsed something beneath all that rigid control—like he was remembering something important that he tried to keep buried." My voice softened. "Later, I learned from Minato-sensei that Kakashi's father had once been saved by a field medic. I think... I think he was passing on his father's wisdom, even though he tried so hard to reject everything associated with his father."
A heavy silence fell between us as the implication settled. Before his father died. Before Kakashi built walls around himself. Before he became obsessed with rules and protocol.
"And now you're trying to save him," Ashura-sensei observed, gesturing to the research scattered across the table.
"I have to," I said, my voice firmer than I expected. "I'm the one who put Obito's eye in him. If it damages him permanently, that's on me. I won't—" My voice caught. "I won't fail another teammate."
Ashura-sensei studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she reached across the table and closed the ancient scroll I'd been reading.
"This won't help you," she said bluntly. "The approach is too conventional. You're dealing with something unprecedented."
My heart sank. "Then what—"
"Show me your notes on the Hatake boy's unique chakra pathway," she interrupted, holding out her hand expectantly.
I blinked in surprise. "You were watching me?"
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "I make it my business to know what my most promising students are researching. Especially when it involves unprecedented medical procedures performed in a collapsing cave during a mission."
Heat rushed to my cheeks, but I handed over my notes without comment. Ashura-sensei studied my diagrams with focused intensity, her fingers occasionally tracing a pathway or tapping on a notation.
"Interesting," she murmured after several minutes. "The nasal connection is indeed unusual. Reminiscent of canine structures, but with human adaptability." She looked up sharply. "Did you know the Hatake clan has always had an affinity for ninken?"
I nodded. "Kakashi can summon eight ninken. His chakra connects with them differently than most summoners."
"Not just differently," Ashura-sensei corrected. "More efficiently. More... symbiotically." She tapped my diagram. "This adaptation explains it. His chakra system has natural flexibility where others have rigidity." She leaned forward, her voice dropping lower. "And flexibility is exactly what you need for a foreign kekkei genkai to integrate successfully."
Hope flickered in my chest for the first time in days. "So you think—"
"I think," she cut in, "that with the right approach, the Hatake boy might not just adapt to the Sharingan—he might master it in ways even the Uchiha themselves haven't explored." She studied my face for a moment, then added more gently, "But it will require research beyond what's available in these scrolls."
The implication hung between us. Beyond these scrolls meant beyond what was officially sanctioned. Beyond what was conventionally ethical. Perhaps even beyond what was legally permitted.
"I understand," I said quietly.
Ashura-sensei nodded once, decision made. She reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a small key, sliding it across the table to me. "Medical Records Archive, Section S. This doesn't leave this table, and you were never given this key." Her eyes held mine, deadly serious. "Return it to my office by sunset. What you find there is your responsibility alone."
My fingers closed around the cool metal, its weight far heavier than its size would suggest. "Thank you, Sensei."
She stood, adjusting her coat with practiced efficiency. "Don't thank me yet, Rin-chan . Some knowledge comes at a price." She paused, looking down at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "Your mother was a fine medical ninja. She understood that healing sometimes requires courage that has nothing to do with battlefields." With that, she turned and walked away, her footsteps silent against the library floor.
I sat motionless, the key clutched in my palm, as her words settled around me like falling leaves. Section S. The restricted section where forbidden medical research was stored—failed experiments, dangerous techniques, and studies that crossed ethical boundaries.
I slipped the key into my pocket and began gathering my notes.
Late afternoon, when sunset was due, I returned the key to Ashura-sensei's office, slipping it onto her desk while she was examining a patient. Her eyes caught mine as I turned to leave, a silent question in them. I merely shrugged, not trusting myself to speak about what I'd found in Section S.
The restricted archives had been illuminating and disturbing in equal measure. Lady Tsunade's early research lay preserved in meticulous detail—experiments that had never been published in approved medical journals. She had successfully created new chakra pathways in patients with severe battlefield injuries, redirecting their energy flow to bypass damaged areas. Revolutionary work, but it had never been attempted in areas as small and chakra-sensitive as the eyes or with anything involving a kekkei genkai.
I had copied the essential techniques into a small scroll hidden in my inner pocket, my handwriting cramped and hurried. Some of the methods skirted the boundaries of what the village would consider ethical medicine—tapping into life force in ways that could heal one system at the cost of another, manipulating chakra nodes in patterns that resembled forbidden techniques.
By the time I left, sunlight slanted through windows, casting long shadows in the hospital corridors that I knew like my own home. The halls were quieter now, the day shift ending, the night medics preparing for their rounds. A few colleagues nodded to me as I passed, their eyes occasionally lingering on the dark circles beneath mine or the slight stoop to my shoulders.
My entire body was screaming at me to rest, to go back home and collapse into my bed. Every muscle ached from tension held too long, every thought moved sluggishly through the fog of exhaustion. But my feet carried me in a different direction, propelled by a promise I'd made and a need deeper than fatigue.
The streets of Konoha were bathed in golden-orange light as merchants closed their shops and families gathered for evening meals. The scent of cooking rice and grilled fish wafted from open windows, reminding me I hadn't eaten since morning. Still, my mind and feet moved me again to Kakashi's house, remembering my promise to check on him.
I hesitated at his door, suddenly uncertain. What would I say? That I'd spent all day researching forbidden medical techniques? That I was willing to risk my career, possibly even my position in the village, to fix what I'd done imperfectly? That seeing him asleep at dawn had been the only peaceful moment in my day?
I knocked a few times, my knuckles rapping against the worn wood with increasing urgency. Nothing. No footsteps, no voice calling out. On the last knock, the door opened slightly, swinging inward with a soft creak--unlocked, or perhaps broken into. My heart quickened. Thinking of his safety and the enmity in Fugaku Uchiha's eyes earlier, I let myself enter, repressing my chakra signature out of habit.
The apartment was dim and empty, the last rays of sunlight filtering through half-drawn curtains. Dust motes floated lazily in golden beams, undisturbed. Everything was meticulously organized—weapons arranged by size and function on a small table, scrolls categorized and stacked on shelves, not a single item out of place. The air smelled faintly of metal polish and the antiseptic I'd applied to his wound yesterday.
I moved carefully through the small space, my senses heightened by the unlocked door and Fugaku's threatening presence still fresh in my memory. The Uchiha clan leader's words echoed in my mind—his insistence that the Sharingan belonged to his clan, his barely concealed hostility toward Kakashi. What if they had decided to take matters into their own hands?
The kitchen was spotless, no signs of struggle or hasty departure. A single clean plate sat beside the sink, along with a tea cup that had been washed and set to dry. Normal. Domestic. I extended my chakra senses carefully, probing for any foreign signatures that might indicate intruders.
Nothing unusual in the main living area—just the steady, familiar pulse of Kakashi's chakra signature coming from deeper in the apartment. I followed the sensation, checking the small bathroom as I passed. A damp towel hung with geometric precision, his toothbrush dry, everything in its proper place. Still no indication of forced entry or unwelcome visitors.
My shoulders began to relax as each room revealed the same story: Kakashi's obsessive organization undisturbed, no evidence of searching or theft, no lingering chakra traces from uninvited guests. The weapons on his table were all accounted for, his scrolls remained in their neat stacks, even the small personal items scattered throughout the apartment sat exactly where they belonged.
Relief flooded through me as I completed my sweep of the common areas. His chakra signature was strong and steady, emanating from the bedroom—alive, unharmed, simply resting.
"Kakashi?" I called softly, moving through the small living area toward the bedroom. No answer.
The bedroom door stood partially open. I pushed it gently, wincing at the slight squeak of the hinges. And there he was—sprawled across his narrow bed, still fully clothed in standard shinobi uniform minus the flak vest, which hung carefully on a hook by the door. One arm was flung over his face, the other dangled off the edge of the mattress, fingers nearly brushing the floor.
My medical training instantly cataloged details, the too-rapid eye movement beneath his closed lid suggesting troubled sleep, the slight furrow between his brows, the shallow rhythm of his breathing. His mask was still in place, but his hitai-ate this time lay on the small bedside table, revealing the bandaged left eye—Obito's eye. No, it’s his eye now.
I should wake him, check the transplant site, ensure proper chakra flow... but something stopped me. In sleep, the rigid control he maintained slipped just enough to reveal the boy beneath the shinobi—the one who'd lost his father, his teammate, and now struggled with a foreign kekkei genkai that drained his strength. His silver hair fell across his forehead in disarray, making him look younger than his thirteen years.
I stepped closer, trying to decide if I should wake him or not. The dusked light painted red and orang streaks across his unmasked face—a rare sight I glimpsed perhaps once a year, if that. I was leaning over him, close enough that his exhales whispered against my cheek, when he drew a long, deliberate breath. His nostrils flared slightly, and the tension in his shoulders melted away as if he'd recognized something in my scent that spoke of safety.
Then—lightning-fast even in sleep—his arms snaked around my waist and yanked. A squeak died in my throat as I tumbled against him. His leg hooked over mine, effectively pinning me beside him with the casual strength of someone who could break bones without truly trying.
My pulse hammered wildly, a trapped bird beneath my ribs. This close, the faint scar running along his jawline seemed stark against his pale skin. How many times had I imagined this during missions? In those cold nights when our sleeping bags lay separated by calculated inches—professional distance that felt like miles—I'd sometimes wondered what it would be like to close that gap.
Now I knew. His body curved around mine like a weapon drawn to its sheath, natural and dangerous all at once.
"Kakashi?" I breathed, barely audible.
No response. Just the steady rise and fall of his chest against mine, his familiar scent enveloping me—ozone and steel, pine and something uniquely him. His silver hair tickled my forehead, fine as spun silk despite its perpetually untamed appearance.
The bandage over his left eye—Obito's eye—had darkened with discharge, the edges fraying where he'd rubbed against the pillow. Infection would set in by morning if I didn't change it.
I stretched my fingers toward my waist to get out ointment, muscles straining against his unconscious hold.
"Don't," he mumbled, the word slurring into my hair. His arms tightened, fractionally but unmistakably. "Don't go."
My hand froze mid-reach. In all the years I'd known him, I'd never heard that note in his voice—raw, unguarded, like something breaking open. His leg shifted higher over my hip, pinning me more securely, as if his sleeping mind feared I might vanish.
"Stay," he whispered, and the single syllable held worlds of meaning—loneliness distilled into sound.
I'd spent years cataloging Kakashi's expressions, the minute shifts that betrayed emotion behind his mask. A tightening around the visible eyes when something hurt him. The slight tilt of his head when he was confused but wouldn't admit it. The almost imperceptible softening of his posture when Minato-sensei praised him. But this—this naked vulnerability—was like seeing a different person entirely.
"I'm not going anywhere," I promised, my voice steadier than I felt. I tentatively placed my palm against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart. "I'm right here, Kakashi."
Beneath my hand, his heartbeat settled into a slower rhythm. The furrow between his brows smoothed out. Had anyone else ever seen him like this? Not the genius prodigy, not the rule-obsessed shinobi, but just a boy who'd lost too much too young.
"Failed," he murmured, so quiet I nearly missed it. "Failed him."
My throat tightened. Obito. Always Obito, I'd been the one to transplant the eye, but Kakashi had been the one to watch the light fade from the other. To grant the mercy kill I couldn't bring myself to perform.
"We didn't fail him," I whispered fiercely, pressing my forehead against his collarbone. "We're carrying him forward. Together."
The words hung in the quiet darkness between us. Together. As if we were something more than teammates thrown together by war and circumstance. As if we could sustain each other through what was to come.
His breathing deepened, falling into the slow rhythm of deepest sleep. Whatever dreams had troubled him seemed to recede, chased away by my presence, my voice, my promise.
I should have pulled away. Should have changed his bandage and left. Should have maintained the boundaries that kept our team functioning amid grief and trauma.
Instead, I nestled closer, fitting myself against him like the missing piece of a broken weapon being reforged. My eyelids grew heavy, my own exhaustion crashing over me in relentless waves. His steady heartbeat beneath my ear became a lullaby, dragging me toward unconsciousness.
"I've found something that might help," I murmured, not sure if I was speaking to him or to myself. "In the restricted archives. Something Tsunade-sama developed for chakra pathway reconstruction. It's risky, but..." My words slurred as sleep began to claim me. "I won't let you lose any more. Not his eye. Not your future."
As darkness swept over me, I felt the ghost of pressure against my hair—his lips, still unmasked, pressing a kiss so light it might have been imagination.
Just before consciousness slipped away entirely, I thought I heard him whisper my name—not as a question or a summons, but as an answer to some private question only his sleeping mind had asked.
The morning after was… different than I thought it would be if I ever fell asleep with Kakashi. Well, I didn't really think about it, but a girl can fantasize. In my fantasies, I always was awakened with kisses over my face and mouth like my father used to wake my mother after a night shift at the hospital. And if I'd imagined the real Kakashi, I thought that I would be kicked out the moment he woke up. In my case, it wasn't any of them. I woke up alone, with his warmth long gone and the smell of egg rolls frying.
For a moment, I lay still, disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling and the firmness of a mattress that wasn't my own. The events of the previous night rushed back—my intrusion into his apartment, his unconscious embrace, the vulnerability he'd shown in sleep that he'd never reveal awake. My cheeks burned at the memory of how perfectly I'd fit against him, how natural it had felt to fall asleep to the rhythm of his heart.
The blanket covering me—I didn't remember having a blanket last night—slid down as I sat up. My medical pouch had been moved to the bedside table, neatly arranged beside fresh bandages and antiseptic. The jar of healing salve I'd brought had been opened, the seal broken. Frowning, I reached up to touch my cheek where I'd sustained a small scratch during my research in the restricted archives—it had been treated while I slept.
He'd taken care of me while I was supposed to be taking care of him.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, noting that my sandals had been placed precisely beside the door and a slippers near them. My hair felt wild against my neck, and I ran fingers through it in a futile attempt to tame it before facing him. The clock on the wall read 6:45 AM—later than I'd slept in months.
The aroma of breakfast grew stronger as I padded down the short hallway toward his kitchen. I paused at the entrance, taking in the sight before me.
Kakashi stood at the small stove, his back to me, silver hair still damp from a recent shower. He'd replaced the bandage over his left eye with a fresh one, and his mask was firmly in place. He wore standard shinobi pants and a sleeveless shirt that revealed the lean muscles of his arms as he deftly flipped egg rolls in a small pan. Steam rose from two cups of tea on the counter beside him.
He knew I was there—of course he did—but he didn't turn immediately, giving me time to collect myself. The normalcy of the scene was almost surreal after the intimacy of the night before.
"G-Good morning," I said finally, my voice catching slightly.
Kakashi's shoulders tensed for a fraction of a second before he turned, his visible eye carefully neutral. "Morning," he replied, the word clipped but not cold. A faint pink tinge colored the skin above his mask. "You were exhausted. I didn't want to wake you."
I stepped into the kitchen, hyperaware of every movement, every inch of space between us. "Thank you for letting me stay the night."
He shrugged, turning back to the stove. "Teammates look out for each other," he said, as if that explained everything—as if finding me in his bed was a regular occurrence, as unremarkable as sharing a campfire during missions.
I watched him plate the egg rolls with precise movements. His hands, capable of slitting throats and forming lightning-fast jutsu, were unexpectedly gentle with the delicate food. He'd made exactly four rolls—two for each of us, had a plain rice bowl and a miso soup that looked home-made. Not too few to be inhospitable, not too many to suggest this was special in any way.
"Your left eye," I said, gesturing to the fresh bandage. "Did you change it yourself?"
He nodded, not meeting my gaze as he set the plates on his small table. "Basic field medicine. Nothing complicated."
"Let me check it after breakfast," I insisted, slipping into my medical persona like a comfortable disguise. "The reddness I saw last night could indicate rejection symptoms."
Something flickered across his face—discomfort? Embarrassment? "You saw that last night?"
Heat rushed to my cheeks. So we were acknowledging last night, if only obliquely. "I came to check on you like i promised, but the door..." I trailed off, unwilling to directly mention how we'd ended up tangled together.
Kakashi cleared his throat, pushing one of the teacups toward me. "You fell asleep before you could notify me, assumed you check the house before and I assumed you were tired from your research." He paused, his finger tapping once against the countertop.
The sudden change of subject caught me off guard. "Yes. I thought maybe..." I didn't finish the sentence. We both knew what I'd thought—that the Uchiha were watching him, perhaps even interfering, perhaps trying to harm him.
"I've swept the apartment also," he said, his tone shifting to the professional cadence he used during mission briefings. "No signs of physical intrusion, but there was chakra residue by the eastern window. Likely ANBU surveillance. Danzo’s or the hokage’s I don’t know"
I nodded, relieved it wasn't the Uchiha but unsettled by the idea of ANBU monitoring him. "Because of the Sharingan?"
"Probably." He gestured to the chair across from him. "The food's getting cold."
We sat, the small table creating an intimacy at odds with the careful distance in his demeanor. I took a bite of egg roll—perfectly cooked, mildly seasoned, exactly how I'd once mentioned I liked them during a mission months ago. He remembered. My throat tightened unexpectedly.
"You were talking in your sleep," he said abruptly, his eye fixed on his plate.
My chopsticks froze halfway to my mouth. "Was I?" My pulse quickened. What had I revealed? What secrets had slipped out while my guard was down?
"Something about the restricted archives," he continued, his voice deliberately casual. "And Tsunade-sama's research."
The egg roll suddenly tasted like ash in my mouth. I swallowed with difficulty. "Medical curiosity," I said, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a mile. "Just exploring options for your chakra pathway integration."
His eye met mine, sharp with intelligence that missed nothing. "Section S isn't accessible to genin medics, Rin. Not even exceptional ones."
My breath caught. He knew—of course he knew. This was Kakashi, who'd memorized every rule and regulation in Konoha's administrative code by age eight.
"Accessing restricted medical research without proper clearance carries a minimum penalty of probation," he continued, his tone maddeningly neutral. "If the research involves kekkei genkai... the penalties are more severe."
I set down my chopsticks, appetite gone. "Are you going to report me?"
Something softened in his gaze. "No."
The single syllable hung between us. He returned to his breakfast, eating with mechanical precision, his face angled away to keep his features hidden behind the mask. I stared at him, trying to reconcile this Kakashi—the rule-bound, perfect shinobi—with the boy who had held me through the night, whispering "don't go" with such raw need.
"Why not?" I asked finally.
He was silent for so long I thought he might not answer. Then, with a practiced casualness, he said, "Your medical expertise is essential to the team's functionality." He took a sip of tea, still not looking at me. "And you're my teammate."
The words startled a laugh from me. "Only a teammate?" I teased.
A faint flush appeared above his mask, betraying him. "Well... and my friend," he muttered, his voice gruff.
Before I could press further, he switched topics with almost comic abruptness. "After I treated your scratch and checked the house, I realized there was nothing here fit for humans to eat. I went out and got some supplies."
He shrugged, feigning indifference.
Translation: he was avoiding the subject because he was embarrassed we slept in the same bed. And maybe... just maybe... because he saw me as more than just a teammate. Not that he liked me. Not like that. Still, the thought warmed something in my chest.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
He nodded once, sharp and efficient. "The team meets at the training ground at 0900. Minato-sensei wants to assess my chakra reserves and the Sharingan’s functionality."
And just like that, we were back on safe ground—teammates discussing mission parameters. The moment of personal connection sealed away behind his carefully maintained walls.
We finished breakfast in silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. I watched him covertly, noticing the way he relaxed incrementally as the minutes passed without me mentioning the way he'd held me, or the words he'd murmured in his sleep. This was Kakashi's version of kindness—pretending nothing had changed, protecting us both from the complications of acknowledging what had transpired.
When I stood to leave, he walked me to the door, maintaining a careful distance that nevertheless felt closer than before.
"Your medical kit," he said, handing me the pouch I'd nearly forgotten. Our fingers brushed during the exchange, and he withdrew his hand a fraction too quickly. "You should... that is... you're welcome to check the eye later. If you want." The words came out stiffly, as if each one cost him effort.
I nodded, sliding the pouch into its familiar place at my hip. "I'll bring more of the salve. The regular antiseptic won't prevent chakra inflammation."
"Ah."
We stood awkwardly for a moment, neither quite ready to separate.
"Kakashi," I began, not sure what I wanted to say, only knowing I needed to say something.
"Don't tell Minato-sensei," he interrupted, his voice low. "About the research. He'd feel obligated to report it."
I blinked, thrown by his concern. "I won't."
He nodded once, then reached past me to open the door, his arm brushing mine in a way that seemed simultaneously accidental and deliberate. "See you at training."
As I stepped into the morning sunlight, I glanced back at him framed in the doorway—silver hair catching the light, posture straight as a kunai, expression as carefully controlled as ever.
"See you at training," I echoed, and as I turned to leave, I caught the briefest softening around his eye—a look I'd treasure like a rare and precious jutsu scroll.
I closed the door to my empty apartment, the hollow click echoing through the stillness. The thought of spending thirty minutes hunched over ancient scrolls in the library's dusty corners tempted me, the knowledge contained within those pages calling to me. But I'd decided against it—training with the team came first, and my perfect attendance record was a point of pride.
The shower called to my tired muscles. I twisted the knob and steam billowed upward, enveloping the small bathroom in a comforting fog. As hot water pounded against my shoulders, I closed my eyes and let the cascade wash away the day's tension, but not the memories of last night. Kakashi's house. The way his arms pulled me in his sleep, his voice whispered for me to stay. The faint scent of pine and ointment that seemed to follow him now.
"Get it together," I muttered, my voice nearly lost beneath the steady drumming of water against tile. My fingers worked shampoo through my hair with unnecessary force.
The clock on my nightstand seemed to mock me when I emerged, skin flushed pink and hair dripping dark patches onto my shirt. Twenty five minutes until training. I yanked a comb through my damp locks, wincing as it caught in tangles even in my short hair.
The streets of Konoha blurred past as I ran, sandals slapping against the packed dirt. My lungs burned, throat raw from gulping down the cool morning air. The familiar training grounds came into view, the three wooden posts standing like silent sentinels in the clearing. And there—a figure leaning against the center post, silver hair catching the early light.
My steps faltered, my heart performing an uncomfortable somersault. Kakashi. Already here. Alone.
"So are you early today too," I managed, keeping my voice deliberately light as I approached. The breeze shifted, bringing with it that unmistakable scent—pine, ointment, and something uniquely him. The same scent that had clung to my clothes after leaving his house, the one I'd found myself inhaling before I realized what I was doing and tossed them into my laundry basket.
Kakashi's visible eye studied me, unreadable as always. "You showered before coming here."
My breath caught. Why would he remark on that?
"Your hair is still wet," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "It's inefficient. You'll catch a cold, which would compromise the team's medical support."
My hand flew to my hair, fingers combing through the damp strands. "I'll be fine," I assured him with a small smile. "Medical ninja rarely get sick. We're exposed to so many pathogens that our immune systems adapt." I stopped, feeling foolish for explaining myself.
The silence between us stretched, taut with unspoken words. I shifted my weight, acutely aware of the distance between us—close enough to reach out and touch, yet somehow farther than it had been last night when we'd shared the same bed.
"About this morning," Kakashi began, his voice dropping lower, that rare uncertainty creeping in.
My heart stuttered. "Minato-sensei won't hear anything from me," I supplied quickly, assuming he meant my spending the night in his house, in his bed no less.
"What won't I hear?"
The cheerful voice materialized inches from my ear. I jumped, a small squeak escaping my lips as I whirled to find Minato-sensei's face hovering beside mine, blue eyes twinkling with mischief. He'd appeared with that impossible speed that had earned him his nickname, not even a whisper of warning.
Before either of us could respond, a blur of red yanked Minato backward by his collar.
"Minato! What did I tell you about doing that to your students, ya know?" Kushina scolded, her crimson hair swaying like angry flames around her face. She kept a firm grip on her husband's shirt, pulling him to a respectful distance. "They've been through enough without you giving them heart attacks!"
Minato rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile spreading across his face. "Sorry, sorry! I couldn't resist." His eyes darted between Kakashi and me with poorly concealed curiosity. "Though now I'm definitely wondering what I'm not supposed to hear about."
I felt heat rush to my face. From the corner of my eye, I caught the faint pink tinge visible above Kakashi's mask. The flush crept up his neck to his ears—a tell I'd noticed on rare occasions when he was truly flustered.
"Rin stayed at my apartment last night," Kakashi stated flatly, his voice betraying none of the discomfort evident in his posture. "She was coming to check on me for a medical assessment of the Sharingan and fell asleep from chakra exhaustion."
The stunned silence that followed his blunt admission was absolute. I froze, my mouth slightly open, unable to believe what Kakashi had just revealed so matter-of-factly.
Minato's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline, while Kushina's eyes widened to an almost comical degree. The redhead recovered first, a delighted grin spreading across her face.
"Well! That's certainly... direct," Kushina said, barely containing her amusement. "Always the tactician, aren't you, Kakashi? Just throw out the truth bomb to end all questioning, ya know!"
"Kakashi..." I managed to whisper, mortification turning my face the color of Kushina's hair.
Kakashi shrugged, seemingly unbothered. "It's an efficient strategy. Now they won't waste our time by speculating or asking further questions."
Minato cleared his throat, clearly struggling between his role as their responsible sensei and his barely suppressed smile. "I see. Well, that was... certainly forthcoming of you, Kakashi."
"It was entirely professional," I hurried to add. "I was only checking on his recovery and—" I didn't add the real story, the true story, for a couple of reasons. The open door would make sensei worried, and it wasn't professional at all.
"And you were exhausted from your research at the medical library," Kakashi finished for me, smoothly leaving out any mention of forbidden archives. "Which is why I made breakfast this morning."
"You COOKED for her?" Kushina practically squealed, clapping her hands together. "Minato, did you hear that? He cooked!"
"Kushina-san!" I protested, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole. "It wasn't like that at all!"
Kushina stared at us both for a moment, then burst into delighted laughter. "Oh, this is too good!" Her expression softened as her initial amusement faded. She released her hold on Minato's collar, allowing him to straighten his rumpled blue shirt.
"Well, I'm glad someone's looking after you two," she said, her tone warming. "I was worried about you both, ya know. That's why I brought these!"
She reached into a cloth bag slung over her shoulder and pulled out two carefully wrapped packages. The delicious aroma of freshly baked goods wafted through the air, making my stomach growl despite my recent breakfast at Kakashi's.
"Sweet bean buns," Kushina explained, pressing one package into my hands with a knowing wink that made me blush even deeper. "And for you, Kakashi—salted rice balls, since you never eat anything sweet. Too serious even for dessert, ya know!" She handed him the second package. "You're both way too skinny! How are you supposed to fight a war when you'll blow away in a strong wind, huh?"
Sensei cleared his throat, shifting into the more practical matters at hand. "While Kushina definitely wanted to bring you both breakfast, there's another reason for her visit today."
"Oh!" Kushina's eyes brightened. "I almost forgot, ya know!" She turned to me with sudden intensity. "Minato told me you wanted to grow stronger—not just as a medical ninja, but as a full combat shinobi."
I nodded hesitantly. "I need to be able to protect my team better." The words 'never be helpless again' remained unspoken but hung heavily in my mind.
"And you," she pointed dramatically at Kakashi, "need specialized training with that Sharingan. Minato's going to work with you on integrating it into your combat style, but controlling the chakra drain requires a different approach."
Kakashi's posture straightened with interest. "What kind of approach?"
Minato smiled, the gentle expression I'd come to associate with his most insightful moments. "Who better to teach chakra control for high-drain techniques than Konoha's last uzumaki?"
My eyes widened as understanding dawned. Of course—Kushina had been managing enormous chakra reserves and complex sealing techniques her entire life.
"We'll split the training," Minato explained, his hands moving in that precise way they did when he was laying out mission points. "Initially, I'll work with one of you while Kushina works with the other, then we'll swap. This allows for specialized attention and maximizes what you can learn in a single session."
"I'll start with you, Rin," Kushina said, her enthusiasm infectious. "While Minato helps Kakashi with the Sharingan's combat applications. Then we'll switch—I'll help Kakashi manage the chakra drain, and Minato will work on improving your speed and evasion tactics."
"Precisely," Minato nodded. "This approach lets us address your individual needs while ensuring you both receive training from each of us."
"I'll be working with both of you," Kushina announced proudly. "I might not know medical jutsu—that's your specialty, Rin—but I can teach you practically everything else, ya know!"
"Kushina excels in areas that would complement your medical training," Minato explained more formally. "Advanced fūinjutsu requires big reserves of chakra and a delicate control, taijutsu specialized for someone with your build, weapons training to improve skills, and even genjutsu detection and dispelling."
Kushina nodded enthusiastically.
I felt a surge of hope rising in my chest. The possibility of learning from Kushina—one of the most formidable kunoichi in the village—was unexpected and thrilling. Everyone knew her skills were legendary across the nation. her fūinjutsu rivaled the Uzumaki clan elders' legends, her taijutsu was terrifying despite her slender frame, her weapons proficiency extended to dozens of rare and exotic tools, and her genjutsu resistance was unmatched thanks to her tenant's chakra disruption capabilities.
"And for you, Kakashi," Minato continued, "we'll be focusing on managing the Sharingan's chakra consumption. The techniques Kushina uses to regulate the chakra needed for fūinjutsu techniques be can modified to help you control how much the eye draws from your reserves."
"Two birds, one stone, ya know!" Kushina declared with a satisfied nod. "I train Rin in combat, you train Kakashi with the Sharingan, and then we swap and I help Kakashi with chakra control while you help Rin with her speed and reaction time."
It was a comprehensive training program, carefully crafted to address our specific weaknesses. Mine was everything but the medical ninjutsu. I glanced at Kakashi, curious about his reaction to this unexpected development. His visible eye had widened slightly, the only indication of his surprise.
"When do we start?" Kakashi asked, almost eagerly.
"Right now," Kushina grinned, cracking her knuckles with theatrical menace. "But eat your food first. You'll need the energy!"
As the sun began its descent toward the horizon, Minato-sensei finally called an end to our training session. My limbs felt like they were made of lead, my chakra reserves scraped hollow, and every muscle in my body screamed in protest at the slightest movement.
"That's enough for today," he announced, his voice carrying that perfect balance between authority and compassion. "You've both worked hard. Rest, recover, and we'll continue tomorrow."
Kakashi stood a few feet away, his posture only slightly less rigid than usual—the only outward sign of his exhaustion. His hitai-ate was back in place over Obito's eye, though damp patches of sweat marked his shirt and his breathing came just a touch heavier than normal. Unlike me, who was practically swaying on my feet, he maintained the appearance of a shinobi in control.
We gathered our things in silence, both too drained for conversation. As we made our way back toward the village, the setting sun painted Konoha in shades of gold and amber. I clutched the basic sealing book Kushina had pressed into my hands at the end of our session, my fingers tracing the worn leather binding as if it contained all the answers I sought.
"Nature transformation is about understanding your chakra's innate properties," Kushina had explained that morning, her crimson hair tied back in a practical ponytail. "Medical ninjutsu has already given you excellent chakra control, which gives you a head start, ya know!"
She had me hold a small square of chakra-sensitive paper between my fingers. When I channeled chakra into it, the paper grew damp and limp.
"Water affinity!" Kushina clapped her hands together in delight. "Perfect for you! Water techniques balance both defense and offense beautifully." Her eyes softened with something like nostalgia. "It's my affinity too, you know. In Uzushiogakure, before it fell, water techniques were our specialty alongside sealing."
The mention of her lost clan gave her words extra weight. She was offering to share something precious, something that had nearly vanished from the world.
"I could teach you our clan's water techniques someday," she added more quietly. "But they require substantial chakra reserves - more than you currently have. We'll work on your water manipulation first, then build your capacity for the advanced jutsu."
For the next hour, she had me attempting to create a single drop of water from pure chakra—a basic exercise that proved frustratingly difficult. By the end of the session, I'd managed to produce a tiny bead of moisture that trembled on my fingertip for three seconds before evaporating.
"Not bad for a first Training," Kushina had nodded approvingly. "Water is life, ya know. It heals, sustains, and protects—but it can also cut through stone with enough pressure and time."
"Choose," Kushina had said next, gesturing to an array of weapons she'd laid out on a training mat. Kunai, shuriken, and senbon I was already familiar with, but there were others—naginata, kusarigama, war fans, and various swords.
My hand had moved almost of its own accord to a kodachi—shorter than a standard katana but longer than a tantō. The weight felt right in my grip, balanced and manageable for my frame.
"Good choice," Kushina had nodded. "Versatile, concealable, perfect for a ninja who needs to create space quickly."
She had me practice basic forms for two hours, insisting I train with both hands.
"A weapon is an extension of your body," she'd repeated, adjusting my grip for the twentieth time. "Your dominant hand may be severed in battle. Your other arm might be occupied maintaining a jutsu. You cannot afford preferences."
By the end of that session, my arms burned with fatigue, my palms raw with fresh blisters. But I hadn't complained once, thinking of Obito beneath that boulder, thinking of Kakashi bleeding from his eye.
After weapons training came meditation—not for rest, but to expand my chakra reserves.
"Visualize your chakra system like a network of rivers," Kushina had instructed, her voice dropping to a soothing cadence. "Now, imagine digging the riverbed deeper, widening the banks, allowing more energy to flow through each channel."
The technique was subtle but demanding, requiring me to push chakra through pathways until they ached, then hold it there, stretching them like muscles. The discomfort was intense, but Kushina assured me this was how jōnin-level shinobi developed the reserves necessary for combat.
The taijutsu session had been the most humbling. Despite my years of training, Kushina moved like water itself—fluid, unpredictable, impossible to grasp. She knocked me down again and again, each time offering a correction or insight.
"You're still thinking like a support ninja," she'd observed, helping me up after a particularly brutal takedown. "You position yourself defensively, always leaving space to retreat. A medical ninja who can only run away is still just a target, ya know!"
She'd demonstrated a modified stance that played to my strengths—utilizing my smaller frame for speed, my flexibility for evasion, and medical knowledge of pressure points for precision strikes.
"You don't need to overpower an opponent," she'd explained. "You just need to disable them long enough to either escape or deliver a finishing blow."
After those grueling four and half hours with Kushina, Minato-sensei had taken over my training while Kushina worked with Kakashi on chakra regulation techniques.
"A ninja must react instantly," Sensei had explained, his usual warmth replaced with focused intensity. "Your attackers won't wait for you to react, you need to react first” and I wondered if that mentality led him to become the yellow flash.
What followed was a reaction training exercise that had seemed simple in explanation but proved nearly impossible in practice. Sensei would throw objects—blunted kunai, small rubber balls, even leaves—from various directions, and I had to catch them before they hit the ground.
The exercise quickly revealed the limitations of my perception and speed. For every object I caught, three would hit the dirt. My frustration must have shown on my face, because Sensei had paused mid-exercise.
"Rin," he'd said gently, "this isn't a test you're failing. It's a skill you're developing. Even I couldn't catch everything when I first started this training."
That seemed impossible to believe—the Yellow Flash, too slow for anything? But his encouragement had helped me push through the remainder of the session, even as my success rate remained dismally low.
"These characters are the foundation of all sealing techniques," Kushina had explained at the end of our training, pressing the battered book into my hands. "Learn to write them perfectly—with brush, with blood, with chakra alone. When you can reproduce all one hundred and eight without error, we'll begin actual fūinjutsu."
I'd clutched the book to my chest like a lifeline. Fūinjutsu was rare, complex, and incredibly valuable for a ninja. The possibilities were endless… fuijutsu was a land unknown.
"Thank you, Kushina-sensei," I'd said, the honorific slipping out unintentionally.
She'd blinked in surprise, then grinned widely. "I like the sound of that, ya know!"
"You're limping," Kakashi observed, his voice pulling me back to the present as we walked through the village streets. The training memories scattered like leaves in the wind.
I hadn't even noticed, but he was right. I'd been favoring my left leg, where a particularly hard fall during taijutsu practice had left what would certainly be an impressive bruise by morning.
"Just muscle fatigue," I replied, trying to correct my gait. "Nothing serious."
Kakashi looked less battered than I felt, but exhaustion showed in the slight slump of his shoulders and the measured pace of his steps. Even prodigies had limits, and today had pushed us both to ours.
"Kushina-san is..." I searched for the right word.
"Intense," Kakashi supplied.
A small laugh escaped me, easing some of the tension in my aching body. "That's putting it mildly. How was your session with her?"
Kakashi was quiet for a moment, his visible eye fixed on the path ahead. "Enlightening," he finally said. "The chakra regulation techniques she taught me... they're unlike anything in standard training. She understands how to manage chakra in ways I wouldn't have considered."
Coming from Kakashi, this was extraordinary praise. I found myself smiling despite my exhaustion.
"And Minato-sensei?" I asked.
"He's helping me develop the ability to read moments with the Sharingan," Kakashi replied. "Techniques that maximize its abilities while minimizing chakra drain." He paused, then added in a lower voice, "He believes Obito's eye will allow me to complete the Chidori properly."
The mention of Obito sent a familiar pang through my chest, but it was tempered by something else. The idea that Obito's gift might help Kakashi perfect his technique felt right somehow, like our teammate was still contributing, still part of our team.
We walked in companionable silence for a while, both lost in our own thoughts. The streets grew quieter as we moved away from the village center, fewer people out as dinner time approached.
"Will you be alright?" Kakashi asked as we stopped because I swayed, his eye moving from my face to the training-induced injuries I'd accumulated.
"I'm a ninja," I reminded him with a tired smile. "I will handle pain also I can heal myself." Though truthfully, I was so drained I wasn't sure I could manage even a basic healing jutsu tonight.
He nodded, but didn't immediately turn to continue walking. "Tomorrow," he said, his voice taking on that formal tone he used when discussing missions, "we should arrive at the training ground together. It would be... efficient."
I blinked, trying to decipher his actual meaning. Was this Kakashi's roundabout way of suggesting we walk to training together? The thought sent a small flutter through my chest that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion.
"Efficient, yes it would be," I agreed, unable to keep a small smile from my lips. "Shall I meet you at your apartment, or would you prefer to meet me at mine?"
"No one is training tomorrow," a sweet feminine voice interrupted us.
I turned to see a pair of striking red eyes—not the Sharingan I'd become so familiar with, but the natural crimson irises of Kurenai Yuhi. Her dark hair fell in gentle waves past her shoulders, longer than when I'd last seen her.
"Kurenai," I said, surprised to see her. "What do you mean?"
Asuma Sarutobi stood beside her as always, chewing on an empty dango stick with that permanent air of casual confidence. The Hokage's son had grown taller since I'd last saw him, his broad shoulders already hinting at the powerful frame he’ll develop in a few years.
Before either could answer, a green blur streaked toward us from down the street. Kakashi reacted instantly, leaping backward and deflecting a flying kick aimed at his head. I barely had time to blink before Might Guy landed in a dramatic pose, his sleeveless green bodysuit and orange leg weights as eye-catching as his enthusiasm.
"My eternal rival!" Guy boomed, his voice carrying down the entire street. "I've found you at last! Your training today looked most youthful—I must challenge you immediately!"
Without waiting for a response, Guy launched into another attack. Kakashi, despite his obvious exhaustion, met him blow for blow, their impromptu sparring match spilling into the middle of the street. Villagers sidestepped the display with the practiced ease of people long accustomed to shinobi antics.
"Guy," Kurenai called sternly, her tone carrying that unique blend of exasperation and fondness we all felt toward our most exuberant peer. "This isn't the time."
Guy paused mid-kick, his leg suspended at an impossible angle. "Not the time? But rivalry waits for no—"
"Come eat dango with us," Asuma cut in, jerking his thumb toward a nearby teahouse where I could now see a table crowded with familiar faces. "Everyone's there."
Sure enough, gathered around a large table on the teahouse patio were the faces of our generation—Anko Mitarashi twirling a dango stick between her fingers like a senbon; Genma Shiranui with his ever-present senbon tucked in the corner of his mouth; Hayate Gekko trying to suppress a cough; Aoba Yamashiro adjusting his sunglasses; Kaori Haruno chatting animatedly; and Renji Inuzuka with his ninken puppy curled in his lap. All of them were around my age, part of the same Academy cohort that had become genin within the same year of each other.
Kakashi lowered his guard, his visible eye narrowing with suspicion. "Why is everyone gathered?"
Asuma's expression grew more somber, the casual demeanor slipping to reveal something heavier beneath. "My father ordered it. All shinobi of jōnin rank and below are to attend Uchiha Obito's funeral tomorrow. No missions, no training."
The world seemed to tilt beneath my feet. Obito's funeral. Of course—the three days of ritual preparation the Uchiha clan required would be complete by tomorrow. Somehow, in the intensity of training and research, I'd managed to push the reality of the ceremony from my mind.
"We thought..." Kurenai began, her gentle voice faltering slightly. "We thought you might want some company tonight. Both of you."
I glanced at Kakashi, trying to read his reaction. His posture had stiffened, his hand unconsciously moving toward where Obito's eye rested beneath his hitai-ate.
"Come sit with us," Asuma said, not a request but not quite a command either. "Everyone's talking about it anyway. Might as well be with people who understand."
Guy, suddenly subdued, placed a hand on Kakashi's shoulder. "My rival, even the most solitary wolf needs his pack in times of sorrow."
The unexpected wisdom from Guy seemed to penetrate Kakashi's reluctance. After a moment's hesitation, he gave a small nod.
We followed them to the table, which fell momentarily silent as we approached. I felt the weight of their curious gazes—not just on me, but especially on Kakashi with his covered eye. Word of Obito's Sharingan being transplanted had clearly spread, though the details were probably still classified.
Anko, never one for uncomfortable silences, shoved a plate of dango toward us, a kind gesture on her part as everyone knew how she loves dango. "Eat," she commanded. "You both look like death warmed over."
"Tactful as always, Anko," Genma drawled, but he shifted to make room on the bench.
As we settled in, the initial awkwardness began to dissolve. These were our peers, after all—young shinobi with whom we'd shared classrooms, training grounds, and now, increasingly, the realities of war.
"So," Asuma said once we'd been served tea and dango, "has anyone here ever attended a shinobi funeral before?"
Kaori raised her hand slightly. "My cousin, last year. He was a chūnin stationed at the northern border."
"My uncle," Hayate added between coughs. "During the Second War."
"I've been to three," Aoba said quietly. "None of them were for people our age."
And there it was—the unspoken weight that had gathered us all today. Obito wasn't just another casualty. He was one of us. Young, barely thirteen, with dreams and rivalries and crushes and all the small, precious things that made up a life barely begun.
"The Uchiha funerals are different," Renji said, scratching behind his ninken's ears. "My dad told me they have special fire rituals. Something about purifying the soul and the eyes."
I felt Kakashi tense beside me. I reached under the table and placed my hand gently on his arm, a silent reminder that he wasn't alone in this.
"My father says attendance is mandatory because we need to honor every shinobi who falls," Asuma continued, rolling the dango stick between his fingers. "But I think... I think he wants us all to see it. To understand what we're fighting for. What we're risking."
"It's different when it's someone you know," Kurenai said softly. "Someone you sat next to in class, or competed against in training."
"Or called an idiot," Genma added, his eyes flicking briefly to Kakashi.
I felt a pang in my chest. Had they all known how Kakashi and Obito argued? How often Kakashi had dismissed him as foolish or incompetent? The shame of those moments must be crushing him now.
"Obito was my rival in many youthful challenges!" Guy declared suddenly, raising his tea cup in a toast. "His determination was second only to my own!"
This startled me. I'd never known Obito and Guy to be particularly close.
Guy caught my confused look and smiled—not his blindingly bright grin, but something gentler. "He challenged me to a race once, when Kakashi refused. Lost terribly, of course, but insisted on five rematches! His spirit burned with admirable passion!"
One by one, others began to share their own small memories of Obito. Kurenai recalled how he'd helped her carry library books when her arms were full. Asuma remembered Obito sharing his lunch when Asuma had forgotten his. Anko laughed about the time Obito had accidentally set his own scarf on fire with a fireball jutsu. Hayate mentioned Obito's kindness when he'd had a coughing fit during an exam.
Little moments. Small kindnesses. Brief encounters that none of them had thought significant until now, when they added up to the outline of a boy who would never grow into a man.
Through it all, Kakashi remained silent, his eye fixed on the untouched dango before him. But he didn't leave, and his arm remained under my hand, accepting the small comfort I offered. I squeezed it gently, hoping that he might hold my hand in return, but all he did was tense beneath the gesture. A small ache bloomed in my chest at his reaction, but I understood. Even this small acceptance of comfort was progress for him, and I wouldn't push for more than he could give right now.
"Tomorrow will be difficult," Asuma said finally, his voice dropping lower. "The Uchiha clan will be there in full force, and my father says the ceremony is... intense. But we'll all be there together." He looked directly at Kakashi. "All of us."
I understood the unspoken message. Our peers would stand with us—with Kakashi—during what promised to be a painful public ceremony. Not just out of duty or the Hokage's orders, but out of solidarity. Out of the recognition that what happened to Obito could happen to any of us.
As conversation gradually shifted to other topics, I leaned slightly toward Kakashi. "Are you okay?" I murmured, pitched for his ears alone.
He didn't answer immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low I barely caught the words.
"I didn't know," he said, "that he had touched so many lives."
I followed his gaze around the table, where our peers now laughed at some joke Anko had made, the mood lightening even as the reality of tomorrow loomed. In their faces, I saw what Kakashi meant—Obito had left his mark on all of them, in ways big and small. He hadn't been the top student or the most skilled fighter, but he had been kind, determined, memorable.
"That was Obito," I whispered back. "Always making connections, even when you didn't notice it happening."
Kakashi's eye curved in what might have been a sad smile beneath his mask. "Yes," he agreed quietly. "That was Obito."
Then his expression changed, hardening into something painful and raw. "And he laid his life as a sacrifice for mine."
Before anyone could respond, Kakashi stood abruptly, the bench scraping against the ground. Without another word, he turned and walked away, his shoulders rigid with tension.
I half-rose to follow him, my heart racing with concern. The self-blame in his voice had been unmistakable—the weight of guilt he carried was crushing him, and I couldn't bear to let him face it alone. Not after everything we'd shared.
But Guy was already on his feet, one hand raised to stop me. "Let me handle this," he said, his usual boisterous tone replaced with something surprisingly gentle.
I wanted to protest. What could Guy possibly understand about what we'd been through? He hadn't been in that cave. He hadn't watched Obito's life slip away beneath tons of crushing rock. He hadn't been forced to make the impossible choices we had made.
Yet something in Guy's expression—a determined look—made me hesitate. Perhaps there was more to Kakashi's self-proclaimed "eternal rival" than I had ever given him credit for.
I sank back onto the bench, watching Guy's green-clad figure hurry after Kakashi's retreating form until both disappeared around a corner.
"I'll get going too," I said after a moment, unable to bear the sudden awkward silence that had fallen over the table. The weight of Kakashi's parting words had cast a pall over the gathering, reminding everyone of the reality we were trying so hard to navigate.
As I stood to leave, Kurenai rose with me, her crimson eyes soft with concern. "I don't think you should be alone right now," she said, her perceptiveness catching me off guard. "Your father is out on a mission, right?"
I nodded, surprised she know that detail about my life. Kurenai and I had never been particularly close, though we'd always been friendly. She had been more focused on genjutsu training while I'd poured myself into medical studies.
"It's the perfect opportunity for a sleepover!" Anko declared loudly, slamming her palm on the table with enough force to make the tea cups rattle.
Realizing the volume of her outburst, she clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes widening comically. "Sorry," she said through her fingers, voice only slightly muffled. "That came out way too enthusiastic, didn't it? Considering... you know."
Despite everything, I felt a small laugh bubble up. Anko's lack of filter was somehow exactly what I needed in that moment—a brief respite from the carefully measured sympathy and solemn understanding that had surrounded me since Obito's death.
"A sleepover might not be the worst idea," I admitted, surprising myself with the words. The thought of returning to my empty apartment, with only memories and medical scrolls for company, suddenly seemed unbearable.
Kurenai smiled, linking her arm through mine with a casualness that felt both foreign and comforting. "It's settled then. Your place, Rin, as your father is on mission"
"I'm coming too!" Anko declared, abandoning all pretense of restraint. "I'll bring snacks. And weapons. For, um, security purposes."
"You just want to show off your new poisoned senbon collection," Genma drawled, but his eyes held a knowing look as they met mine. He understood what they were doing—creating a distraction, offering companionship to fill the void that threatened to swallow me.
"we can look at the sealing book Kushina-san gave you," Kurenai suggested quietly. "We could help you study. I'm decent with calligraphy."
It was such a simple offer, so ordinary and normal, that I felt my throat tighten with unexpected emotion. Since Obito's death, every interaction had been colored by trauma—training to grow stronger, researching to help Kakashi, working to ensure no one else would die on my watch. The idea of just studying with friends, of doing something mundane and everyday, felt like a lifeline I hadn't known I needed.
"I'd like that," I whispered, blinking rapidly to dispel the moisture gathering in my eyes.
As we said our goodbyes to the others and made plans to meet at my place after they’ve gathered their things, I found myself glancing in the direction Kakashi and Guy had gone. I hoped Guy would find the right words—or perhaps the right silence—to offer Kakashi. I hoped Kakashi would allow himself to accept whatever comfort was offered, rather than withdrawing further into his guilt and grief.
"He'll be okay," Kurenai said softly, following my gaze. "Guy may seem... as a lot , but he understands Kakashi better than most people realize."
"How?" I asked, genuinely curious. "They're so different."
Kurenai's lips curved in a small, knowing smile. "Sometimes the people who understand us best are the ones who see us most clearly from the outside. Guy has been chasing Kakashi since they were children—watching him, challenging him, studying him. He might not know what happened in that cave, but he knows Kakashi."
I wasn't entirely convinced, but I nodded anyway. Tomorrow would bring Obito's funeral—a public ceremony where Kakashi and I would have to stand before the entire village and the Uchiha clan, carrying our private grief and guilt in the open. Perhaps it was better that we each found our own way to prepare for that ordeal. Even though I would've preferred to prepare for tomorrow as I had prepared for today, with Kakashi by my side, in sleep, during the early hours before we faced the world again.
"Come on," Anko said, throwing an arm around my shoulders with her characteristic lack of concern for personal space. "You can tell us all about training with the Red Hot-Blooded Habanero. Is it true she threatened to hang Kakashi upside down from the Hokage Monument if he didn't cooperate?"
The absurdity of the question—and the fact that, knowing Kushina, it wasn't entirely implausible—startled another small laugh from me.
"No, but she did make him do chakra control exercises while standing on water," I admitted, allowing myself to be led away.
As we walked toward Kurnei’s house to collect her things, I cast one more glance back in the direction Kakashi had gone. Tomorrow, we would face Obito's farewell together, as a team—the two who remained of three. But tonight, perhaps it was okay for us to find comfort where we could, in the companionship of those who, while they couldn't truly understand, were doing their best to help us carry on.
The gentle clinking of tea cups and occasional rustle of snack wrappers filled my living room. The faint scent of jasmine incense hung in the air, creating an atmosphere of calm that felt worlds away from the tension of training grounds and hospital rooms.
I sat cross-legged on a cushion, the sealing book open before me as Kurenai demonstrated the proper brush technique for the more complex characters. Anko sprawled nearby, meticulously arranging her collection of exotic dango on a plate she'd brought.
"No, no, you need to apply more pressure at the beginning of the stroke, then ease off," Kurenai corrected gently, guiding my hand with her own. "These characters need to flow with your flow, not fight against it."
I nodded, trying again. The character looked better this time—still not perfect, but improving. For nearly an hour, we'd focused on nothing but calligraphy, the simple concentration required offering a welcome distraction from thoughts of tomorrow's funeral.
"Enough studying!" Anko declared suddenly, flopping onto her back with dramatic flair. "My brain is melting, and we haven't even gotten to the good part of a sleepover yet."
"Which is?" I asked, setting down my brush with secret relief. My hand had begun to cramp from the precise motions required for sealing characters.
"Gossip, obviously," Anko grinned, popping a sweet dango ball into her mouth. "I want to hear all about training with Kushina-san. Is she as terrifying as everyone says? Does she really hang people upside down by their ankles with her chakra chains?"
I laughed, the sound surprising me with its lightness. "She's... intense. But in the best way possible." I found myself describing that morning's training session, detailing the water nature exercises and weapons practice.
"A kodachi is a good choice for you," Kurenai nodded approvingly. "Versatile and elegant."
"Better than my choice," Anko snorted. "Orochimaru-sensei took one look at the kusarigama I picked and said, 'Somehow I'm not surprised you chose the most unnecessarily dangerous option available.'"
This prompted a round of stories about our respective mentors and their training methods. Kurenai described the elaborate genjutsu exercises her sensei put her through, while Anko regaled us with increasingly outlandish tales of Orochimaru's unorthodox teaching style.
The conversation flowed easily, punctuated by laughter and the occasional dramatic reenactment. For a while, I almost forgot why we were having this sleepover in the first place—forgot about the hollow ache in my chest, the weight of tomorrow's ceremony, the guilt and grief that had become my constant companions.
Then, during a lull in the conversation, Anko's expression grew more serious.
"So," she said, her voice uncharacteristically gentle, "what really happened out there? On the mission?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. The easy atmosphere evaporated, replaced by the heavy silence of anticipation. I stared down at my tea, watching the ripples form as my hands trembled slightly.
"You don't have to talk about it," Kurenai said quickly, shooting Anko a reproachful look. "We understand if it's too—"
"No," I interrupted, surprising myself. "No, it's okay. Maybe... maybe I need to talk about it."
The official mission report would be classified, of course, but the basic facts were already common knowledge throughout the village—Uchiha Obito had died in action, his eye had been transplanted to Kakashi, the mission had been completed successfully. But the sterile language of reports couldn't capture what had actually happened in that cave, the moments that would forever define who I was becoming.
"We were sent to destroy Kannabi Bridge," I began, my voice steadier than I expected. "Kakashi had just been promoted to jōnin, so he was our team captain. Minato-sensei was with us at first, but then he left to support the front lines while we completed the mission."
I told them how I had been captured by Rock ninja, how they had placed me under a genjutsu to extract information. How Obito had insisted on rescuing me despite Kakashi initially arguing that the mission should come first.
"Kakashi wanted to abandon you?" Anko asked incredulously.
"He was following the shinobi rules," I said, feeling a strange need to defend him. "The mission was priority. And he was right, in a way—if the Kannabi Bridge hadn't been destroyed, many more lives would have been lost."
"But Obito convinced him otherwise," Kurenai guessed, her red eyes gentle with understanding.
I nodded. "He told Kakashi that those who abandon their friends are worse than trash. And... Kakashi changed his mind. They came for me together."
The words flowed more easily now, as if the story had been waiting inside me, pressing against my ribs, desperate to be released. I described how they had found me under genjutsu, how they had fought the Rock ninja together, how the cave had begun to collapse from an enemy jutsu.
"Everything happened so fast," I said, my fingers tightening around my teacup. "Rocks falling everywhere, dust so thick you could barely see. Kakashi... he couldn't see the boulder coming from his blind side. Obito pushed him out of the way."
I closed my eyes, the memory vivid and painful. "Half of Obito's body was crushed. There was... there was no way to move the boulder. No way to save him."
The room was silent now, not even the sound of breathing disturbing the heaviness of my words.
"His fully awakened Sharingan, the Sharingan he wanted for so long and received just minutes before," I continued. "And he asked me to... to transplant his left eye into Kakashi, to replace the one Kakashi had lost the minutes before protecting him."
I didn't tell them how my hands had trembled as I performed the procedure, how the metallic scent of blood had mingled with the dust of the collapsing cave, how Obito's voice had grown weaker with each passing minute. Some details were still too raw, too private to share.
"He made Kakashi promise to protect me," I said instead, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "And... he asked Kakashi to end his suffering. The boulder was crushing him slowly. He didn't want to die that way."
Anko's usual brashness had completely vanished, her face solemn and pale. "And did he? Did Kakashi...?"
I nodded once, unable to speak for a moment as the memory overwhelmed me—Kakashi's hand steady even as tears streamed from both his eyes, the swift mercy of the blade, the final exhale that carried Obito's spirit away.
"I wanted to do it myself," I admitted, the words catching in my throat. "To spare Kakashi that burden. But I couldn't. I was a coward."
"No," Kurenai said firmly, reaching out to clasp my hand. "No, Rin. That's not cowardice. Some burdens are too heavy to bear, even for the strongest among us."
"But Kakashi bare it," I whispered, tears now flowing freely down my cheeks. "He's carried that weight ever since."
"Is that why he left so abruptly tonight?" Kurenai asked.
I nodded, wiping at my tears with the back of my hand. "He blames himself. For everything. For his initial decision to continue the mission instead of rescuing me, for not seeing the boulder, for Obito having to sacrifice himself, for..." I hesitated, then decided to share the final piece. "For having to end Obito's life."
"That's why you've been researching medical techniques so obsessively," Anko realized. "Not just for Kakashi's eye, but because you don't want to ever be in that position again—where you can't save someone you care about."
Her perception startled me. Beneath her wild exterior, Anko was surprisingly insightful.
"Yes," I admitted. "And because Obito loved me."
The confession hung in the air between us, delicate and painful.
"You knew?" Kurenai asked softly.
"Of course I knew. I always knew. He wasn't exactly subtle about it." A sad smile touched my lips at the memory of Obito's transparent adoration, his earnest compliments, his unwavering support. "But I couldn't love him back. Not the way he wanted me to."
"Because of Kakashi," Anko said. It wasn't a question.
I looked up, surprised by her certainty.
"Please," she rolled her eyes, though the gesture lacked her usual sass. "Everyone knew you had a crush on Kakashi. It was pretty obvious."
"It wasn't... it isn't..." I struggled to find the right words, to articulate something I'd barely admitted to myself until now. "It's not just a crush. It never was."
The admission felt both terrifying and freeing—like stepping off a cliff edge, not knowing if I would fly or fall.
"I love him," I said, the words foreign yet familiar on my tongue. "I'm in love with him. And I think I have been since we were children."
Saying it aloud made it real in a way it hadn't been before—not just a private fantasy I nurtured in quiet moments, but a truth I could no longer deny. Even as Obito lay dying, even as I sewed his eye into Kakashi's socket, even as I helped grant him mercy in his final moments—my heart had betrayed me with its unwavering loyalty to the silver-haired boy who tried so hard to be nothing but a perfect shinobi.
"Does he know?" Kurenai asked gently.
I shook my head. "I don't think so. And I can't tell him now. Not after Obito. It would be..." I trailed off, uncertain how to express the wrongness of it.
"Like betraying Obito's memory?" Anko suggested.
"Yes. No. I don't know." I buried my face in my hands. "Obito gave his life for Kakashi. Gave his eye so Kakashi could see the future. How can I possibly tell Kakashi that I love him, knowing that Obito loved me and died protecting him?"
The complexity of it overwhelmed me—the tangled web of love and sacrifice, guilt and gratitude, that bound the three of us together even after Obito's death.
"Rin," Kurenai said after a long moment, her voice gentle but firm. "I didn't know Obito as well as you did. But from everything I've heard tonight, everything people shared at the dango shop, he was someone who put others' happiness above his own. Do you really think he would want you to deny your feelings out of some misplaced sense of loyalty to his memory?"
I looked up at her, startled by the question.
"If he truly loved you," she continued, "wouldn't he want you to be happy? Even if that happiness came from being with Kakashi?"
The thought was so simple, so obvious, and yet it had never occurred to me. Had I been using Obito's love as an excuse? A shield to protect myself from the vulnerability of admitting my feelings to Kakashi?
"I tried once," I said quietly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "When we were surrounded by those Rock ninja, when I thought we wouldn't make it out alive. I started to tell Kakashi how I felt about him."
"What happened?" Kurenai asked, her crimson eyes gentle with understanding.
I swallowed hard, the memory still raw. "He stopped me. Cut me off mid-sentence. He said... he said he was once the trash that abandoned me, that he didn't deserve my feelings." My voice caught. "The guilt was already consuming him—for initially choosing the mission over saving me, for Obito's sacrifice. He couldn't bear to hear my confession on top of everything else."
Kurenai tilted her head thoughtfully. "Wait a minute. He didn't actually reject you, did he? He just said he didn't deserve your feelings. That's very different from saying he doesn't want them or doesn't share them."
"You're right," I replied, surprised I hadn't considered this. "He never talked about his own feelings at all."
"That's classic avoidance," Kurenai said, her voice gentle but knowing. "He redirected the conversation to his worthiness, not to whether he returns your feelings. People don't typically worry about deserving things they don't want."
"I don't know if Kakashi even feels the same way," I added weakly, though Kurenai's observation had planted a tiny seed of hope.
Anko snorted, the sound breaking the solemn mood. "Are you kidding me? The guy made you breakfast. Kakashi Hatake, Mr. Rules-and-Regulations himself, made you breakfast after you spent the night at his place."
"It wasn't like that!" I protested, heat rushing to my cheeks. "I was checking his eye, and I fell asleep. It was completely innocent."
"Uh-huh," Anko smirked. "And he just happened to mention it in front of everyone when Minato-sensei asked what you two were whispering about."
Put that way, it did seem significant. Kakashi could have given any number of vague answers, but he'd chosen to be forthright about my overnight stay—almost as if...
"He was establishing a claim," Kurenai said quietly, her crimson eyes knowing. "Making it clear to everyone that there's something between you two."
"That's... that's ridiculous," I stammered, even as my heart quickened at the thought. "Kakashi doesn't think that way."
"All men think that way," Anko declared with the authority of someone far more experienced than her thirteen years. "Even the stoic, genius types. Maybe especially them."
I shook my head, unwilling to let myself hope. "You didn't see him tonight. The guilt is eating him alive. He can barely look at me without thinking of Obito."
"So help him," Kurenai suggested simply. "Not by hiding your feelings, but by showing him that Obito's sacrifice doesn't have to be a weight that crushes him. It can be a gift that lifts him up—gives him a second chance."
I considered her words, turning them over in my mind as I might examine a complex medical Technique. There was wisdom there, a perspective I hadn't allowed myself to see through my fog of grief and guilt.
"I don't know if I'm brave enough," I admitted finally.
Anko reached across the circle and flicked my forehead—hard enough to sting, but not to truly hurt. "You performed emergency eye surgery in a collapsing cave while enemy ninja tried to kill you," she said flatly. "You're plenty brave. You're just scared of rejection, which is totally different from actual courage."
Her blunt assessment startled a laugh from me. Trust Anko to cut through emotional complexity with the precision of one of her senbon.
"Besides," she added, flopping back onto her cushion, "you might not need to say anything. From what I saw tonight, Guy's going to beat some sense into Kakashi whether he wants it or not."
The image of Guy literally trying to punch emotional awareness into Kakashi was absurd enough to make all three of us dissolve into giggles. The tension that had built during my story dissipated, replaced by the fragile camaraderie of girls sharing secrets in the safety of night.
As our laughter subsided, I felt lighter somehow—as if speaking the truth aloud had released some of the pressure that had been building inside me since that day in the cave. Tomorrow would still bring Obito's funeral, with all its public ceremony and private grief. Kakashi would still carry his burden of guilt, and I would still struggle with my memories and regrets.
But tonight, in the warm circle of unexpected friendship, I'd found something I hadn't realized I needed—not just sympathy or distraction, but understanding. The courage to acknowledge my feelings, even if I wasn't ready to share them with Kakashi himself.
"Thank you," I said softly, looking between Kurenai and Anko. "For listening. For not judging."
"That's what friends are for," Kurenai smiled, squeezing my hand.
"Plus, now we have excellent blackmail material," Anko added with a wicked grin, dodging the cushion I threw at her head.
As the conversation drifted to lighter topics—village gossip, training mishaps, Anko's increasingly outlandish theories about our various sensei's love lives—I felt a small seed of hope take root alongside my grief. Perhaps Kurenai was right. Perhaps Obito's sacrifice could be more than a tragedy to be mourned—it could be a gift to be honored through how we chose to live.
Notes:
This chapter was emotionally dense with a lot of subplot threads woven in - hopefully subtle enough that they'll surprise you when they resurface later!
Kushina and Minato are absolutely everything to me! I adore writing their dynamic - this is exactly how I've always imagined them interacting, and their banter just flows so naturally.
Can we please talk about how absolutely adorable Kakashi is in this chapter?? The unconscious cuddling, making breakfast, all those blushes hidden behind his mask - I'm completely smitten! I genuinely believe that if Kakashi and Rin's relationship had been allowed to develop naturally, they would have had the most heart-melting interactions. Just imagine all the teasing, the meaningful looks, the soft smiles, with Kakashi trying (and failing) to hide his reactions behind that mask of his.
Anko deserves all the love! Every time Kabuto appeared in the war arc, I was practically yelling "WHERE IS MY GIRL?!" at the screen.
Their generation will definitely get more spotlight as we progress - so Asuma fans (aka everyone with taste) and Kurenai fans, you'll get your moments! Just... maybe not for a few chapters yet.
I could honestly ramble about this chapter forever since it took me an eternity to write and edit, but I'll spare you!
I'd absolutely love to hear your thoughts - what hit you the most? What are you hoping to see next?
Chapter 7: Important Message to All Readers
Summary:
Announcement regarding the hateful comments.
Chapter Text
Important Message to All Readers
I need to talk to you all about something that's been eating at me lately. This story? It comes from love. Pure love I have for these characters and the story as I’m a long time fan.
A fanfiction is a place where we can explore the what-ifs and the in-betweens with people who get it. A place of acceptance.
But I've been getting comments that aren't criticism. They're not even disagreement. They're just... cruel. Mean-spirited attacks filled with hate. And honestly? They're succeeding in hurting me.
Here's the thing… I'm going through some really dark stuff right now. I won't dump it all on you because that's not what this space is for, but writing this story and sharing it has become one of the things that brings me happiness. It's my safe place. My sanctuary. And when people come into that space with hate, they're not just hating on a story. they're taking away the one corner of the world I've claimed to heal my soul.
I try not to care. I really do. But I'm human, and I'm already barely holding it together for months. I need this corner in the world.
My request for those people, if you ever read this - if you have a hateful comment, don't comment it. Do what I do when I come across a story I don't like and exit without commenting.
Also, to those people, I need to remind you that I uploaded this story to share with others, but that doesn't mean I'll be your punching bag.
My request from my readers
Please don't engage with the haters. I know your first instinct might be to defend the story or defend me, and I love you for that impulse. But these people feed on attention. They want the drama, the interaction. The best thing - the only thing, really - we can do is starve them of what they're really after… our reaction.
Don't comment back. Don't argue. Don't even acknowledge them. Just... let them scream into the void. And let me deal with it.
From now on, any hateful comments get deleted immediately. If I can, I'll report and block them. The hateful guests' comments will be deleted too.
I'm done letting toxic people poison my safe space, our safe place.
To everyone who has been kind, thoughtful, and supportive—you have no idea how much you mean to me. You're not just reading a story; you're helping me defend something precious to me. Having great discussions and generally... I love answering the comments and engaging with you all.
This is the community I want us to be. That's the space I want us to protect. will to protect.
Thank you for understanding. Thank you for being here. Thank you for letting me tell this story in peace.
With all my love, always
RoyalTides
P.S
I never thought I’ll need to write such announcement. Some people are truly horrid.
also I’m taking a few days off writing because all the hateful comments.. I truly feels like I’m being bullied to stop the story. I won’t.. I just need time to recover.
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