The Uchiha training field always smelled of lightning and sweat.
Every morning, before the sun crested over the tiled roofs of the compound, a dozen young Uchiha lined up in silent rows. Feet evenly spaced. Arms rigid. Eyes sharp, even if still bloodshot from pre-dawn drills.
Sōgen stood among them, but never quite with them.
His stance was impeccable. Posture flawless. But there was always a half-second delay between the others and him—intentional. Just enough to never be accused of insubordination, but always enough to not blend in.
Today, the drills were for shuriken accuracy and fire release control. Classic clan discipline. The kind his cousins relished because it made them feel like something out of legend.
Sōgen, on the other hand, was busy mapping the angles between each instructor's eye movement and voice rhythm. By the fourth rotation, he had a basic pulse-chart of Instructor Gennai's decision-making timing: 0.7 seconds between noting a mistake and issuing a correction. If he wanted to fake a slip and gauge response levels, 0.6 seconds would be optimal.
Not that he needed to fake anything. He'd already calculated the parabolic arc for a five-shuriken spread five days ago. He just needed to confirm the field conditions hadn't changed.
"Uchiha Sōgen!" barked Gennai. "You're last again!"
Sōgen nodded with an almost imperceptible smile. He stepped forward.
His stance was smooth, but his throw lacked aggression. It was calculated—five shuriken, one spinning a hair slower than the others. A test.
Two hit the target cleanly. Two grazed the edge. The last one embedded itself slightly off-center.
The instructor frowned. "You're slipping."
Sōgen bowed shallowly. "Apologies, sensei."
Internally, he marked the reaction time. Gennai's frown deepened by 0.3 millimeters more than yesterday. Stress levels rising. Probably from his daughter's illness—he'd overheard whispers two days ago.
Information. Data. Patterns.
---
Later, during the midday kata cycles, he stood across from Renji, who moved like a storm in silk.
Renji was popular. Confident. Everything Sōgen wasn't, yet precisely because of it, they made a good duo.
"Try not to overthink this time," Renji muttered, cracking his knuckles.
Sōgen didn't reply. His hands were already moving.
The clash was fast. Taijutsu drills usually ended in five counts. On the third count, Sōgen side-stepped a palm thrust and tapped Renji's ribs with two fingers—just enough pressure to be felt, not enough to bruise.
Renji blinked. "How did you—?"
"You shifted your weight a half-second early."
"Damn, you're annoying."
The others clapped. Renji grinned and clapped back. Sōgen just bowed and stepped back into the shadow of the group.
He didn't care about praise.
But the tap on Renji's ribs?
A micro-seal transferred.
Not active. Not yet.
Just... placed.
---
Back in his quarters, he connected to the Network. The seal on his left forearm shimmered with pulsing warmth as his consciousness sank into the mindspace of the Spiritual Web Prototype.
A vast chamber of invisible threads. Each thread pulsed softly with data.
The chat function had evolved.
No names now—just sigils.
🜂: "Learned a new water-fishing technique today. Uploading now."
🜄: "Received. Cross-checking against my mud-trap strategy."
🜁: "Anyone else feel... watched lately?"
🜃: "There's a whisper in the code. Something's growing."
Sōgen monitored the patterns like a spider tending a cosmic web. He didn't always reply, but he always listened.
He'd created bot accounts that replied occasionally to keep morale balanced. Some offered praise. Others asked provocative questions. A few challenged outright—just to incite discussions and generate deeper uploads.
Humans shared best when they felt seen. Or judged.
---
At night, while the rest of the Uchiha burned chakra on fire-style meditations and duel simulations, Sōgen sat beneath the ancient Fan Tree.
He was reviewing a new Network packet—uploaded from a wanderer herbalist sealed three towns away.
Topic: Bark-tone changes and their link to chakra sickness.
Fascinating.
He updated his internal "disease mimicry" archive. This would help camouflage future seal placements. If a mark mimicked a chakra fever, most healers wouldn't look closer.
"Thinking again?" a voice broke the silence.
It was Yuka, an Uchiha a year older than him. Talented. Reserved. One of the few who didn't dismiss Sōgen as "that weirdo with no real fire."
"Always," he replied without looking up.
She sat beside him. Not close—just within conversational reach. They stared ahead.
"Some say you're cursed. Others say you're brilliant."
"They're both right."
Yuka chuckled. "I saw your match with Renji. You're holding back."
"Observation is the highest form of combat."
"No wonder you don't spar much."
"I do. Just... differently."
He didn't elaborate.
And she didn't push.
---
Later that night, in his journal—a scroll bound with a chakra lock that only he could read—he wrote:
> Day 82.
Users: 74
Knowledge transfers: 912 total / 300 usable
Chat engagement: 61% active
Uchiha compound scan complete: 37 minor pathways for passive seal infusion. Targeting four more candidates this week via kata drills and sparring routines.
Sharingan development: Pre-loop spiral integration at 23%.
Night tremors decreasing. Emotional flatline stable.
Current hypothesis: If Sharingan emotion-trigger is a bypass to cortical inhibitors, then perhaps sustained passive Network stimulation will unlock alternative access points.
He paused.
Then underlined the last sentence twice.
That was it.
The method.
No death. No loss. No brother's blood or lover's scream.
Just pattern.
Just will.