The morning sun shone brightly in the sky, but Ren wasn't really *seeing* the light.
Sitting on the veranda with his eyes closed, he let the wind brush against his face, as if that alone could help organize what still felt far too big inside his head. The exhaustion from the mission no longer weighed on him like it had on the first night, and his body felt better. Even so, the sensation of having crossed a boundary still lingered.
It was strange.
He had already lived through too much for someone his age. He had blood on his hands, screams trapped in his throat, and a kind of inner silence that didn't match a *genin*. Even so, none of that had felt as definitive as opening his eyes and sensing something new *respond*.
Mugenkoku. Saisei.
Two names that should never exist in the same place, the same body, the same pair of eyes. And yet, there they were—like they had been waiting their entire lives to appear.
The ability of his right eye, Mugenkoku, allowed him to create and control a black substance capable of taking on various forms and densities.
The ability of his left eye, Saisei, was different. Passive. Silent. It wasn't the kind of power that exploded outward; it simply corrected what was broken. It drastically increased regeneration and, as he healed, slowly adapted to the damage that had been inflicted.
Ren took a deep breath.
He already knew about the evolution of the Sharingan. Years ago, he had seen the different pattern in Itachi's eyes—back when he still believed certain things were too distant to ever become his problem. Later, while reading what his father had left behind, he found the word that had refused to leave his mind ever since: Mangekyou Sharingan.
And with it, the warning.
Using those eyes caused damage. In the long run, it led to blindness. To remove that effect, it would be necessary to transplant a pair of Mangekyou from a sibling.
A cruel rule, made to ensure that power and loss always walked together.
Ren kept his eyes closed, but the memory came with perfect clarity. The effort of keeping those wings active while carrying two people. The weight dragging at his body, the wind cutting against his face, the constant feeling that a single second of hesitation would be the last.
He had felt the damage.
He had felt his eye burn, as if his own chakra were tearing itself apart from the inside just to sustain it. At the same time, he had also felt the damage being repaired—as if some part of him simply refused to accept that as the final price.
Ren remained seated for a while longer, unhurried.
Then he opened his eyes and stood up, as if the decision had already been made hours ago.
"I won't waste time… if I have this ability, I'm going to make good use of it."
The world didn't change. The yard was the same. The sky held the same color.
But inside him, everything seemed to align as the evolved Sharingan awakened.
The Mangekyou appeared.
For a moment, his vision sharpened unnaturally, as if every detail had gained too much definition. Ren raised his hand.
Then the black substance was born.
Not like ordinary smoke. It was denser—more present. It gathered in his palm, flowing in a way that looked like liquid and shadow at the same time. Ren didn't force it.
He simply asked for shape.
The substance obeyed.
A sword formed in his hand, shaped with precision, as if instinct itself knew exactly where every curve should be.
Ren began with simple movements.
A horizontal slash. A vertical one. A short twist of the wrist to feel the weight—not physical weight, but the weight of control. That wasn't iron. It wasn't wood.
It was him.
When he missed the angle, the blade trembled, reflecting the slight deviation in his focus.
He gradually increased the intensity. Not by speeding up, but by demanding more.
The sword cut through the air without any metallic sound. The noise came from torn wind, from displacement, from the earth beneath his feet.
After a few minutes, Ren stopped.
He looked at a tree in the yard. It wasn't very far, but far enough that any mistake would be obvious.
He threw the sword.
The black blade crossed the distance and embedded itself into the trunk with a dull impact.
Ren didn't celebrate.
He extended his hand, slowly closed his fingers, and focused on the substance, imposing his command.
The sword obeyed.
It was ripped from the tree by an invisible force, as if the air itself had become a hand. It flew back toward him, straight and controlled, and Ren caught it at the last instant, feeling the vibration of its return—like chakra stretching and snapping back into place.
For a few seconds, he simply stared.
Not at the sword.
But at what it meant.
That wasn't just a weapon. It was a kind of control he had never possessed before: controlling something outside his body as if it were part of him.
At the same time, his eye protested.
A thin, discreet pain tried to grow. A sensation of concentrated strain behind the eyelid, as if the eyeball were being pressed from the inside.
Ren waited a bit longer, observing the limit.
Then he released it.
The sword dissolved into shadow and vanished, as if it had never existed.
He blinked, feeling the burning slowly subside.
"From now on, this will be my training. Control the ability, then wait for the damage to heal and adapt—then push further."
It wasn't glamorous.
It was method.
The training continued throughout the morning.
Ren alternated.
He created the substance in different forms: a shorter blade, a heavier one, then something like a spear, just to understand how density and shape changed the strain. Sometimes, he didn't create a weapon at all. He simply let the shadow wrap around his arm like a thick glove, hardened it, softened it, then hardened it again.
When the eye started to hurt more, he stopped.
Sat down.
Waited.
In the silence, he paid attention to Saisei at work.
It was an almost imperceptible sensation—not like explosive healing, but like a thread being stitched from the inside. The burning faded slowly, and along with it came something even stranger: the impression that if he repeated the same effort many times, it would become easier.
*Adaptation.*
During those pauses, he also practiced ninjutsu.
Basic things, just so his body wouldn't forget everything else because of the eye. Hand seals, chakra control, small variations in flow. Enough to keep his mind occupied while also measuring whether the strain from the Mangekyou affected other areas.
When he finally stopped for real, his body was soaked in sweat. His clothes clung to his skin. His chest rose and fell in controlled breaths.
He wiped his face with his forearm, stared at his own hands for a moment, and exhaled.
"I'll take a shower… then go to the hospital. That way I should arrive in time to visit them."
He went inside.
The shower wasn't long. Not because he was in a hurry, but because staying still for too long always brought his mind back to the same image: Ino unconscious. Shikamaru motionless. The hospital corridor swallowing them in different directions.
Later, clean and dressed in dry clothes, he left.
The path to the hospital felt shorter than it should have.
Or maybe he simply wasn't registering it.
When he arrived, the familiar smell of antiseptic greeted him. Too familiar. Too unpleasant. Inevitable. He asked for information and, after receiving it, walked over to a few benches.
Now, he was sitting, waiting.
They only allowed two people at a time, so he waited for Inoichi and Hanaka to finish.
Ren kept his hands together, fingers loosely interlaced. His body seemed calm, but inside he counted time in a strange way—not in minutes, but in possibilities.
He tried not to follow those lines too far, but his mind insisted.
He also hadn't been given permission to see Shikamaru. Given the delicacy of the situation, only his father and mother had been authorized.
And that hurt.
Not because of pride.
But because of helplessness.
He had carried Shikamaru all the way there. He had seen how gray he looked under the hospital lights. He had heard "surgery" and "now" spoken as if they were ordinary words.
But now, all he could do was wait outside.
Like anyone else.
The door opened.
Ren immediately lifted his gaze.
Hanaka and Inoichi stepped out. Inoichi's face took on its usual scowl when he noticed Ren there. Hanaka, on the other hand, kept her normal expression, as if she had already expected to find him waiting outside.
"Ren… take good care of her, okay? She really needs your support right now," Hanaka said, winking teasingly, as if it were a joke. Even so, Ren caught the real request behind it.
Inoichi looked like he was about to speak, his scowl deepening. Ren already knew that look—the look of a father wanting to say "stay away," even when his daughter had been making her own decisions for a long time.
But Hanaka didn't let him.
"You'd better stay quiet… or we're going to have a long conversation at home."
Inoichi's expression changed instantly. He shut his mouth as if it had been sealed by a jutsu, and Ren almost felt like letting out a small breath of laughter. Almost.
Hanaka nodded in satisfaction, then walked up to Ren, gave him a quick, firm hug, and the two of them said their goodbyes.
When it was just him and the silence of the corridor, Ren paused for a moment.
Thinking.
Not about the hug.
Not about the scowl.
But about the words: "take good care of her."
A decision had already been made a long time ago.
Maybe even before he truly understood what it meant.
Ren stood up.
Walked to the door.
His hand hovered for a moment before touching the handle, as if that simple gesture carried too much weight to be automatic.
He took a breath.
And went in.
Inside that room, something that would define part of his life was about to happen.
(Early access chapters: see the bio.)