Unsteady Shuriken

That night at the temporary residence, the wooden plaque, the shuriken, and the pair of eyes that had briefly swept over him from the rooftop all kept Che from sleeping soundly.

The small courtyard on the north side of the Uchiha compound finally looked somewhat like a training ground on the third day after the Nine-Tails' night.

It was not an official training ground. The ground had yet to be leveled again, one corner of the courtyard wall was blackened by fire, and half the locust tree's branches and leaves were scorched dry. When the wind blew, fine black ash would drift down. Still, the clan had set up three wooden targets at the end of the open space and marked where the children should stand with white lines.

Uchiha Che stood in the second row, his left shoulder still wrapped in bandages.

Kiyo stood beside him. On his other side was a girl clutching a doll, named Uchiha Saori. Saori was not holding the doll with the damaged ear today. Instead, she had placed it on the steps by the courtyard, facing the training ground as though it, too, were attending the lesson.

The one in charge of training was a middle-aged ninja named Uchiha Jian. A faint scar ran diagonally across his face from his left brow to the bridge of his nose. He did not speak quickly, but every word seemed driven into wood like a nail.

"You don't need to learn much right now." Uchiha Jian stood before the wooden targets, pinching a shuriken between his fingers. "First, learn two things. One, don't hurt yourselves. Two, don't close your eyes just because you're afraid."

One child asked quietly, "What if I close them?"

Uchiha Jian looked at him. "Then open them."

The child shrank back.

Uchiha Che lowered his eyes to the shuriken in his palm.

He had not taken out the three shuriken his father had left behind. The one he held now was a training shuriken issued by the clan. Its edges had been dulled, but its weight was still real. The metal pressed against his palm, coldness creeping up through his fingers.

He knew very well that things like this would become part of his daily life in the future.

But knowing was not the same as getting used to it.

The memories of the part of him that had grown up in the modern world instinctively warned him: don't wave sharp metal around. Yet the body's memories of the ninja world told him: grip it, lower your wrist, and don't tremble when you throw.

The two instincts fought in his palm, leaving his grip a little stiff.

Uchiha Jian demonstrated first.

His movement was not flashy; he had even deliberately slowed it down. He adjusted his footing, relaxed his shoulders, lowered his wrist slightly, and the shuriken slipped from between his fingers with a faint whistle through the air.

Thunk.

The shuriken embedded itself in the outer ring of the wooden target.

"I'm not asking you to hit the center today," Uchiha Jian said. "First, remember how your body should move. Ninja tools aren't thrown with just your arm. Your feet, waist, shoulders, and wrist all send them out together."

Uchiha Che saw it.

When the sole of the foot pressed down, force traveled up from the legs. The waist turned, the shoulder did not jerk rigidly, and the wrist gave the final direction only at the end. It was not a single movement, but a short sequence of transfers.

Lines surfaced in his mind again.

Much simpler than the Great Fireball.

Trajectory, center of gravity, order of exertion, wrist angle.

He could even tell that if he copied the motion, he could probably send the shuriken to the edge of the target.

The problem was that he could not send it too accurately.

A four-year-old child who had just lost his parents, had an injured shoulder, and had only just begun temporary clan training producing a dazzling result—that sounded less inspiring and more like hanging a bell over his own head.

Che sighed inwardly.

Talent was best displayed when needed and left pretending to sleep when it was not.

"First group," Uchiha Jian called.

Several children in the front row stepped forward. One's hand shook, sending the shuriken into the dirt beside the target. Another threw too early, and the metal blade skidded across the ground. Some did not throw at all, standing behind the white line with their lips clenched.

Uchiha Jian did not scold them.

He simply walked over, picked up the shuriken one by one, and placed them back into the children's palms.

"Again."

The words were ordinary, yet they loosened the tense atmosphere in the courtyard a little.

When it was Uchiha Che's turn, he walked behind the white line.

The target was not far away. Wind blew in from the right, carrying a faint burnt smell. Kiyo watched him nervously from behind, Nao stood by the courtyard gate, and Uchiha Jian's gaze fell on his shoulder.

"If your wound hurts, don't force yourself," Uchiha Jian said.

"It does hurt," Che said softly. "But it already voiced its opinion yesterday. Today, I'm letting it sit in and listen."

Uchiha Jian's brow twitched.

Nao pressed a hand to her forehead by the gate.

Che gripped the shuriken.

He deliberately did not follow the sequence of exertion he had just analyzed all the way through. His foot was half a beat slow, his wrist angle was slightly off, and as he threw, his shoulder drew in faintly, making the movement look as though the wound had tugged at it.

The shuriken flew out, grazed the edge of the target, and embedded itself in the wooden post beside it.

Thunk.

Not good, but not bad either.

Uchiha Jian glanced at the post, then looked at Che.

"You held back just now."

Che's heart tightened, but a trace of embarrassment appeared on his face.

"My shoulder hurt, so my hand chickened out on its own."

"Hands don't chicken out. People do."

"Then my hand and I will reflect on it together."

Several children could not help laughing.

Uchiha Jian did not smile. He walked over to Che, pressed a hand against his right shoulder, and had him assume the throwing stance again.

"It's not that you don't know how to exert force," he said. "You're afraid of pain, and you're afraid of others seeing that you're afraid of pain."

Uchiha Che looked up at him.

That sounded exactly like something one would say while instructing an ordinary child.

Maybe he was only instructing an ordinary child.

But Che could not be sure.

Uchiha Jian pressed his wrist down half an inch. "Don't twist your body into a knot. Pain is pain. Fear is fear. Ninja are not people without feelings. Ninja simply know that when those feelings come, they still have to throw what's in their hands."

Che was silent for a while.

That was practical advice for a four-year-old, and not a light one for a transmigrator either.

"Again," Uchiha Jian said.

Che picked up another shuriken.

This time, he did not deliberately make his movement too sloppy. He only kept a slight deviation in the final throw. The shuriken cut through the air and lodged in the outer ring of the target.

Thunk.

Kiyo let out a quiet "Ah," as though he were happy for him.

Uchiha Jian nodded. "Remember that feeling. Your injury hasn't healed. That's enough for today."

Che looked at the shuriken embedded in the outer ring of the target.

He could have been more accurate.

But being more accurate had no meaning.

What mattered most now was making people think: Uchiha Che had decent reflexes, a fair foundation, did not overexert himself after an injury, had a somewhat cheeky personality, and overall remained within a reasonable range.

Reasonable.

Those two words would be his protective charm for a long time.

Training continued.

Uchiha Che retreated to the back of the group and watched the other children throw. Kiyo's hand trembled badly. He lost his grip outright at first; his second attempt struck below the target; only on his third did he barely touch the outer ring. Every time he threw, he would instinctively glance at Che.

Che said softly, "Look at the target, not me. It's not like I'm growing out of the bullseye."

Kiyo's face reddened, and he turned back around.

Saori's movements were steady. She did not speak, but her fingers were precise when she gripped the shuriken. Her third throw embedded directly in a spot near the inner edge of the outer ring. Uchiha Jian glanced at her and nodded.

Saori did not look happy. She merely ran over to pull out the shuriken, then turned to look once more at the doll on the steps.

Uchiha Che noticed that gesture.

Everyone had their own anchor.

Some clung to a rice bowl. Some clung to the thought that their older brother would return. Some clung to a doll with a burned ear. He clung to the forehead protector clasp his parents had left him, the chakra needle, and that note.

Those things held no power.

Yet they could keep people from falling apart amid the ruins, at least for a while.

Near noon, training ended. Uchiha Jian had the children line up for water and assigned each of them a simple set of exercises: stance, grip, breathing, and no throwing without permission.

"Especially you." He looked at Che. "Until your injury heals, you are not allowed to practice throwing with your right hand on your own."

Che raised his left hand. "What about the left?"

Uchiha Jian stared at him.

Che lowered his left hand. "I understand. The left hand is off-limits too."

Nao could not help sighing softly beside him. "That mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble sooner or later."

"Then I'll try to make it small trouble."

"Small troubles pile up too."

"Then I'll cause them in installments."

Nao glared at him, and Che wisely shut up.

After lunch, the courtyard grew quiet. Some children fell asleep, while others sat beneath the eaves in a daze. Uchiha Che returned to his room, closed the door, and did not rest immediately.

He placed the training shuriken on the table and recalled Uchiha Jian's movements.

Feet, waist, shoulders, wrist.

He did not throw. He only simulated the motion again and again in his mind. Then he compressed chakra into his palm, keeping it from rushing out through his wrist.

The lesson from the medical station earlier that day was still fresh.

His ability to analyze was not some free gift. It was more like a door that always wanted to open on its own. Whenever someone used a technique, his mind wanted to peer inside. Once his mind saw inside, his body wanted to try it as well. But caught between Konoha and the Uchiha, an uncontrollable talent was more troublesome than an injury.

The first thing he needed to learn might not be the Great Fireball.

It was closing the door.

Uchiha Che closed his eyes and imagined the lines in his mind gradually dimming. The shuriken trajectory was still there, but he did not pursue it. The structure of medical chakra was still there, but he did not touch it. The outline of a technique as lofty and unreadable as Flying Raijin flashed in the depths of his memories, and he immediately pulled his attention back to his breathing.

Inhale.

Pause.

Exhale.

Chakra rose in his palm, then he pressed it back down.

Once.

Twice.

On the third time, the warmth in his palm neither dispersed nor rushed wildly toward his wrist. It stayed beneath his skin like a spark held in place.

The time was short.

But it was a little longer than last night.

Uchiha Che opened his eyes, sweat already beading at his temples.

"Good," he murmured. "Today's progress is learning how to hold it in."

It did not sound particularly impressive.

But he found it practical.

At dusk, Nao came by with medicine. When she saw the shuriken arranged neatly on the table, her brow rose slightly.

"You didn't practice throwing?"

"No," Che said. "I was just having a friendly exchange with them."

Nao walked over and touched the positions of the shuriken.

None of the three had moved much, and there were no scratches on the tabletop.

Her expression softened a little.

"The clan will arrange for you to attend basic classes tomorrow. It's not the Ninja Academy, just temporary lessons for orphans and injured children. Literacy, clan rules, basic chakra knowledge, and some safety regulations."

Uchiha Che looked up. "Clan rules?"

"You're an Uchiha," Nao said. "You should at least know who you are."

There was nothing wrong with those words.

But when Uchiha Che heard "who you are," what surfaced in his heart was not pride, but a string of future dangers.

Uchiha.

Konoha.

Orphan.

Transmigrator.

Those identities were like layers of clothing. Some could keep him warm; some could strangle him.

Nao put down the medicine and was about to leave when she suddenly stopped.

"Che."

"Yeah?"

"Jian said you held back during training today."

Uchiha Che blinked. "Didn't I explain? My shoulder hurt."

"I know." Nao looked at him. "Holding back when it hurts is normal. But in the future, you need to know when you should hold back and when you can't."

The door closed softly.

Uchiha Che sat at the table. Only after a long time did he lower his head to look at his right hand.

When should he hold back?

When could he not?

That question was much harder than hitting the bullseye.

That night, he went through his father's family records again. The line, "Chakra volume is not yet apparent; no need to rush," was still there, as though his father were telling him through the paper that he did not need to force himself into becoming a genius today.

Uchiha Che closed the scroll and leaned against the wall.

Outside the window, the clan compound was quieter than it had been last night, though the sound of patrols still echoed in the distance. Konoha was repairing its ruins, the Uchiha were tending their wounds, and everyone seemed forced back into normal life.

Che closed his eyes and went over everything that had happened that day in his mind.

Uchiha Jian's throws.

Fugaku's lingering silence.

Itachi's eyes.

Nao's reminder.

Kiyo holding the soup bowl and saying he was still alive.

He noted all of it down, in no hurry to make a judgment.

The timeline in his memories gave him a general direction, but it would not tell him when Nao sighed, how Jian angled his wrist, how Kiyo's voice trembled, or why Saori always looked at that doll.

Those were the ground he was truly standing on now.

"Basic class tomorrow," he said softly. "I hope the teacher isn't too harsh."

After saying that, he tugged at the corner of his mouth.

It didn't matter if they were harsh.

As long as he could learn something.

What he needed was not a pretty beginning.

It was the ability to survive until the next day.