Sharingan, Awaken

Three years ago, Feng was eleven and had yet to awaken his eyes.

The Uchiha Clan Grounds' training field baked beneath the noon sun, fine turtle-shell cracks spreading across the yellow earth. Seven or eight youths sat scattered beneath the wooden veranda. Feng leaned against the pillar in the farthest corner, flipping through a yellowed notebook on tactics. He had been there for forty minutes, waiting for today's taijutsu training rotation.

"Yo, Uchiha Feng." The voice came from the steps, deliberately drawn out. Uchiha Kancang led the way, followed by two lackeys. Kancang was eleven, two years older than him, and had passed the first written round of the Chunin Exams three months ago. His father was a squad captain in the Police Force, and Kancang considered himself "Uchiha proper." What he despised most were "orphan households" like Feng, whose father had died early.

"Today's taijutsu rotation, our group is short one person. The instructor told you to fill in."

"I signed up for the afternoon session." Feng stood, his tone calm. "The morning session is reserved by the jonin faction."

"You've got connections now." One of Kancang's lackeys grinned. "The instructor said he wanted to see what the newcomer was made of. What, scared?"

Kancang lowered his voice. "My dad's been saying lately that if I don't make the top three in the Trial Battle, I'll disgrace him. Perfect. I'll use you for practice today."

Feng looked at them for three seconds. Of course he knew this was no "instructor's arrangement." He stuffed his notebook into his waist pouch. "Lead the way."

The open space at the center of the training field had already been cleared, and a few more pairs of eyes had gathered to watch. Kancang stood six meters away. "The rules are simple. No ninjutsu, taijutsu only. Whoever concedes first or can't get back up loses. Of course, if you want to use ninjutsu, go ahead. It's not like you can use anything worth seeing anyway." A few people around them laughed.

Feng did not laugh. He lowered his center of gravity, his left hand loosely curled at his waist and his right half-extended before him—the standard opening stance of the Uchiha Gentle Fist. Kancang assumed a stance as well. His fundamentals were indeed solid. There was no wasted sway in his footwork, both hands guarded his centerline, and his intent to attack was clear.

The first strike came quickly. Kancang pushed off with his right foot and drove a straight punch at Feng's face. Feng tilted his head aside and reached with his left hand to seize the other boy's wrist, but Kancang's left hand had already sliced across and smashed into Feng's right ribs. Feng staggered back half a step, a stabbing pain shooting through his ribcage.

Kancang did not press the attack. Instead, he stepped back. "Your reactions are decent, but your opening's too big. When you went for my wrist, you left your centerline open." He sounded like a teacher critiquing a student. Feng said nothing and resumed his stance.

Kancang moved again, throwing three consecutive punches—two feints and one real strike. The third slammed into Feng's left shoulder. Feng spun halfway around from the blow, dust rising beneath his feet. "Too slow," Kancang said, shaking his head. "Your father was an elite jonin back then, yet this is all you can do?"

Father. The word pierced his chest like a red-hot needle. An image flashed through his mind—his father crouching in the courtyard, a wooden sword in hand, drawing footwork diagrams in the dirt. Feng had not even been five then, and the wooden sword had been so heavy he could barely lift it with both hands. His father looked up, his eyes curving into a smile. That was the last image his father had left him.

"Your dad died, and you became useless—" Kancang continued.

Feng moved. Before Kancang could finish speaking, he pushed off the ground and shot forward, his body skimming low. His right fist drove upward from his lower abdomen at full speed, catching the gap while Kancang spoke. Kancang's pupils contracted as he hastily blocked, his arm jolted numb. Feng's second blow followed at once. Using the recoil to turn, he whipped his left elbow across at Kancang's temple. Kancang bent aside, the edge of the elbow brushing past his hair.

The crowd fell silent for two seconds before someone whistled. "Kancang, a newcomer got your hair." Kancang's expression changed. He stopped smiling, drew in a breath, and chakra surged through him. "I said no ninjutsu. I never said taijutsu restrictions were off." His speed nearly doubled in an instant—the Uchiha's basic taijutsu enhancement, using chakra for a sudden burst to increase muscular output.

Feng saw only a black blur crash toward him. A knee rammed brutally into his abdomen. He was sent flying two meters, his back slamming into the ground. Before he could roll over, Kancang had stepped on his right wrist and bent down. "Your dad died, so you should keep your tail between your legs. Do you know how many people he offended back then? If you win today, someone even nastier will come looking for you tomorrow."

Feng coughed twice, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. But he smiled. Kancang frowned. "What are you laughing at?"

"You got it wrong." Feng raised his free hand and wiped the blood from his lips. "Today isn't about me beating you." His trapped right hand suddenly twisted, two fingers clamping down on the inside of Kancang's ankle before wrenching hard. It was one of the most vulnerable tendon points on the human body.

Kancang recoiled in pain. Feng used that half-second opening to roll to his feet. Kancang looked up, the contempt in his eyes replaced by genuine fury. Then his expression abruptly froze.

Feng's eyes were turning red. The black of his pupils darkened into crimson, like red-hot iron plunged into cold water. Then, at the edge of each pupil, a black tomoe slowly emerged.

As his eyes awakened, Feng felt only a rush of heat spread from his heart, race up his spine to the back of his head, and explode behind his eye sockets. It was scorching, yet painless. Instead, it overlapped with a certain memory—the light refracted by beads of sweat on his father's forehead during morning training carried the same warmth. It was anger, but also something else.

"His eyes awakened—" A chunin disciple beneath the veranda blurted out, shock in his voice.

The Uchiha Clan's Sharingan required a powerful emotional shock to awaken. Even a jonin's son like Kancang was still waiting for his opportunity. Yet Feng, the boy labeled "without family support in the clan, mediocre talent," had awakened his eyes after taking a beating.

Kancang's expression became a spectacle. Shock, unwillingness, and jealousy crowded onto one face. Feng felt warm power flow through his entire body. His chakra circulated more than three times as smoothly, and his opponent's movements became clear and slow. Kancang's weight leaned left when he stood, his breathing was rapid, and the knuckles of his right hand still trembled slightly—these details were no longer deductions, but information directly imprinted in his vision. The Sharingan's first ability: perception.

Feng clenched his fist. "Kancang, you just said that after my dad died, I should keep my tail between my legs." He took a step forward. Kancang instinctively took one back. "Before saying that, you should first make sure of one thing—whether you're worthy of making me tuck my tail."

As soon as the words fell, Feng's figure blurred. Kancang attacked first, feinting with his left fist before sweeping low with his right leg. But Feng's Sharingan had already seen every sign of the force behind it: before his right foot pushed off, his ankle turned outward first; when his left fist shot forward, his shoulder dropped half an inch in advance.

Feng sidestepped the feint, chopped downward with his left hand, and precisely caught Kancang's sweeping ankle—the very spot that had just been twisted and still throbbed with pain. Kancang's entire leg went weak, his balance collapsing. Feng stepped in and drove his right elbow solidly into Kancang's chest. The force penetrated his ribs, cutting off his breath.

Kancang staggered back, viciousness flashing in his eyes. He pushed off the ground fiercely, chakra erupting once more as he sprang to Feng's side, his knife-hand chopping for Feng's neck—fast and ruthless.

But Feng had already predicted his path. As the knife-hand came down, Feng leaned his upper body back to evade it. His right hand shot out beneath his left ribs, fingers spread as he seized Kancang's wrist and twisted with the momentum. Kancang's entire right arm was wrenched behind his back, forcing him to turn halfway around and drop to one knee.

Feng released him and stepped back. "You can get up and continue."

Kancang's shoulders trembled. His right arm was numb from wrist to shoulder blade, while his swollen ankle pulsed with pain. He looked up at the slowly rotating tomoe in Feng's eyes, those cold eyes fixed on prey. He did not get up.

Feng waited three seconds, then walked over. His left hand seized Kancang by the collar, and his right arm swung wide. Smack. The crisp, ringing sound carried across the entire training field. Kancang spun halfway around from the slap and crashed to the ground, a bright red handprint blooming on his face.

Dead silence. No one laughed. No one spoke.

The red in Feng's eyes was fading, and the tomoe vanished. He looked down at Kancang. "You said my father's death was why I became weak. You had it backward. My father died, so I have to become strong. Because no one will fight back for me."

He turned and walked away. The notebook in his waist pouch pressed against his ribs. The spot where he had been kneed still hurt, but his steps were steady.

As he passed the wooden veranda, a chunin leaning in the shadows lifted his head. He was in his early twenties, wearing an ordinary chunin vest with no obvious clan crest. His gaze collided with Feng's, then immediately shifted away. That look was neither the excitement of a spectator nor awe toward the strong. It was a professional appraisal, like assessing the value of a tool. Feng remembered that face. When Feng had his back turned, the chunin's fingers moved inside his sleeve, as though forming a hidden signal seal.

Feng entered the back alley deep within the clan grounds, leaned against a wall, and looked down at his hands. His fingertips still trembled faintly—not from fear, but from the adjustment period after his chakra awakened. A lingering warmth remained behind his eyes, as though something burned behind his pupils without having fully gone out.

He closed his eyes. What surfaced in his mind was not the battle just now, but the morning his father had last left home. His father had crouched down and patted his head. "Feng, the Uchiha's eyes do not exist to kill. They shine to protect what you truly care about." He had been five that year. Two months later, news of his father's death in battle arrived at the Uchiha Clan Grounds.

Feng opened his eyes. His pupils had returned to black, but he knew the tomoe was still there, ready to shine again at any moment. And faintly, he sensed something deeper slumbering behind it—like an undercurrent beneath the water's surface.

"This much ocular power... isn't enough." He clenched his fist, his nails digging into his palm. Kancang was only the first today. There were still those in the Police Force waiting to see him make a fool of himself, the hawks within the clan who had crossed out his father's name, and the cold words on the casualty notice: "No remains recovered."

Only two things sustained him: these eyes that could continue to evolve, and the flame in his chest that refused to die.

At the end of the back alley, the setting sun cast long shadows. Feng's shadow fell across a cracked wall, like a blade yet to be drawn.