It had only been a week since Enso and Itachi entered the Ninja Academy, yet the entire school was already buzzing with their names. They'd been dubbed The Black and White Duo—not just because of their stark hair colours that made them impossible to miss, but because of the way they moved. It was like watching shadows and light collide.
During afternoon Shuriken drills, they stole the show.
The training field buzzed with laughter and the rhythmic thuds of steel striking wood. Trees swayed softly in the breeze, leaves rustling overhead like nature whispering its approval. Students lined up beside wooden dummies wrapped in thick straw, awaited their turn to hit the target.
Itachi stepped forward, calm and deliberate. His stance is relaxed. When he threw, his wrists flicked almost lazily, but the results were anything but casual. Shuriken thudded into the bullseye, over and over again—each blade biting into the same point as the last. One by one, the red circle in the bullseye of the target was slowly replaced by a blooming blot of black iron.
The crowd gasped, a wave of whispers spreading like wildfire. Girls giggled from the sidelines, their eyes locked on Itachi as if he were some hero straight from the fairy tales. And yet, their attention slowly drifted to the boy beside him—the one who hadn't moved yet.
Enso.
He stood a step behind, watching the target like a predator studying its prey. His white hair shimmered under the sun, tousled and untamed, catching the light like fresh snow. Unlike the others, His shirt clung to his torso, soaked in sweat from earlier drills, and his jacket was tied loosely around his waist. The lean muscle beneath his skin, the effortless way he carried his weight. The air around him felt heavier, denser.
When he stepped forward, silence fell over the field.
There was no flair in his movement. No flash. Just a breath, a pivot of the hips—and then ten Shuriken burst forward like gunfire.
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud.
Ten. Perfect. Precise. All landed in the same spot, striking with such speed and force that the wooden centre of the target cracked, then crumbled into a fist-sized hole. Dust floated into the air in slow motion as the rest of the target wobbled from the shock.
No one spoke. Even the wind paused to witness it.
Then came the screams.
"He broke it!"
"Did you see that?!"
Enso exhaled, letting the tension fade from his shoulders. He hadn't done it to show off—but it was hard to stay unnoticed when your technique could punch holes in reinforced wood. Enso physique and demeanour would make people think twice before messing with him. Itachi, however, had a knack for attracting trouble. Older kids in the Academy seemed to love picking on him.
Later, as the students gathered for cleanup, Enso noticed something strange. Itachi had wandered off toward the side of the field, where a group of older boys were circling a few younger students. They were cornered, wide-eyed, trying not to look afraid as they were clearly outnumbered. Itachi stood in front of them, hands tucked into his pockets, while raising his right hand and form a Seal of Confrontation.
Enso couldn't help but shake his head in amusement, "Not again, what a trouble magnet."
The upperclassmen sneered, one cracking his knuckles as he approached. "What's the genius Uchiha gonna do now, huh? Throw sparkles at us?"
Enso slowly approached them with a devious smile, which caused goosebumps to all the onlookers.
He moved in without a word, stepping between Itachi and the tallest boy in the group. The air tensed instantly. The lead bully blinked in confusion, unsure of when Enso had even gotten there. His shadow loomed large, cutting a line through the circle of boys like a falling blade.
The moment stretched. Then chaos erupted.
With Enso backing him, Itachi dismantled the group with surgical efficiency. A kick here, a sweep there. Enso's strikes were heavier, brutal, dropping two boys in quick succession with short, explosive punches to the gut. Itachi would just subdue them with his superior skills, but Enso was different, as his physical strength is on a whole other level. Each punch causes them to vomit and pass out on the spot. Itachi's opponents quickly gather and pick up their fallen friend on their backs before scrambling away from the scene.
As the dust settled, Enso and Itachi walked back toward the main training grounds. The silence between them was casual, comfortable. But Enso couldn't help glancing sideways, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You're a shadow clone, aren't you?"
Itachi stiffened slightly.
"What makes you say that?" he replied, scratching his head like a boy who just got caught sneaking candy.
Enso chuckled. He hadn't been sure until now—but the reaction sealed it.
"Just a guess," he said, grinning.
Enso didn't expect that Itachi would start off with shadow clone, first week upon entering the Ninja Academy. Turns out, the real Itachi only showed up once—on Wednesday.
Enso couldn't blame him. With a clone in his place, he could train more freely, a real smart move. And now, it gave Enso an idea of his own. As long as the Hokage's seminars were announced in advance, he could plan his own training around them. He didn't want to disappear completely—there was still value in keeping an eye on the Academy.
Enso and Itachi would regularly train together 2 times a week, they would either compete in rock climbing exercises or spar with Taijutsu. After a month, Itachi would show off his skill with Fireball Jutsu, which he recently learn from his father Fugaku. Enso couldn't help but be impressed with the size of Itachi's Fireball. He even gave him a round of applause for his performance, and Itachi looked at him proudly. Enso didn't show any Ninjutsu Skill, as he doesn't feel the need to compete with his friend on such matters.
Later that week, under the red-orange glow of sunset, Enso approached Itachi again. The academy was quiet now, most students having already gone home. The rustling of trees sounded louder with fewer voices around, the shadows stretching long across the village paths.
"Itachi," Enso said, keeping his voice even. "Mind if I train at your clan's training grounds sometime?"
Enso wasn't asking out of convenience. He knew the value of that kind of space—isolated, private, and filled with strong Shinobi. Since the Nine Tails incident, the Police force and the Uchiha clan have been relocated to the edges of the village to be kept under surveillance. This is bad news to Uchiha, but at the same time, they have gained a bigger space for themselves, including a personal training ground.
Itachi paused, his eyes narrowing slightly, as he considered the request. His voice was calm when he answered.
"I'll have to ask my father," he said, after a moment.
Enso couldn't help but want to test something that had been gnawing at the edge of his mind: could his Void Step outpace Shisui Uchiha's famed speed? It is also why he asks Itachi to train at the Uchiha Clan.
Everyone knew Minato Namikaze, the Fourth Hokage, earned his title as the Yellow Flash through his mastery of the Flying Thunder God technique. Across long distances, no one could match him. He didn't run—he vanished. One moment here, the next behind you, kunai spinning in hand like death's whisper. In terms of battlefield mobility, Minato was still unmatched.
But Shisui—Shisui was different.
Known as Shisui of the Body Flicker, his movement wasn't teleportation. His mastery of the body flicker produces pure speed and control—blinding acceleration, vanishing from view, so smooth that it leaves afterimages behind. In close to mid-range, Shisui was a spectre, a blur, an artist of motion. And he didn't need markings or seals. Just movement. Just chakra. Just mastery.
Enso was drawn to that kind of movement. It felt real. Tangible. Earned.
His Void Step shared many similarities with Shisui's technique. A raw sprint and absolute control of motion. The difference? Enso didn't use chakra.
Not even a drop.
That made it terrifying.
Enso didn't mind Itachi's response. He had his priorities. As usual, he headed to his favourite training spot, a secluded, tree-lined clearing tucked behind the Academy's east perimeter.
The wind was sharper than usual. From 6 AM to 11 AM, cold drafts carved through the village streets like knives. It was the kind of wind that bit into your skin, peeled back your thoughts, and cleared your mind whether you liked it or not.
For Enso, it was perfect.
Every gust slicing past his face felt like friction against a sharpening blade.
By now, his raw speed had pushed past 100 kilometres per hour. No chakra. No ninjutsu. Just body and earth. He had become the phantom gale—a blur that danced through alleyways, kicked up leaves behind fences, left villagers wondering if they'd imagined it. Of course, Enso would use his Invisibility gain from Tyrant Dragon.
No one had seen him, but everyone had felt him.
The tremble of wooden signs. The flash of a kicked-up pebble. The sudden rustle of clothes when no one else was near. Enso's body had changed, as it slowly adapted to his inhumane speed.
The days when training left him gasping had long gone. Now, to feel even a hint of fatigue, he needed to run 300 kilometres a day. A full marathon was barely a warm-up. His muscles no longer tore as easily. His bones are no longer bruised. Somewhere along the way, his body had adapted—no, evolved.
He believed it was a side effect of his nightly healing rituals. After each punishing day, he would repair the microdamage—meticulously—never letting an injury linger. Over time, his flesh had learned to rebound. His frame had begun absorbing shock like a sponge—suppressing internal vibration, diffusing pressure across his entire body.
But therein lay the problem.
The resistance worked too well.
It was great for handling external impact, reducing injury, and increasing durability. But it also suppressed the stress signals he needed—the internal strain that triggered growth. His body refused to tear itself apart, even when pushed. It had become too efficient.
And so, he waited.
He didn't want to stay in a small, compact form forever. He'd wait for his body to reach its full height naturally. Then, he would begin anew—pushing the outer boundaries of muscle, overloading and healing day by day, forging adaptation the only way it could be forged.
From the inside out.
Today, though, he was thinking about something else.
As he ran—feet barely touching the ground, eyes narrowing into a wind tunnel of focus—he scanned his memories. Searching. Filtering. Analysing every technique he had ever seen. Every battle he had imagined. Every moment of steel clashing against steel.
Then he found it.
A memory that belonged to another world. Another body. Another story.
Licht.
The wielder of twin sword. The bearer of magic and heritage. The founder of the Origin Blade Style.
Enso had always admired Licht's technique. Derived from the ancient Elf-Royal Blade Style—a form once exclusive to the elven nobility—Licht had stripped away the excess. No wasted motion. Only pure killing moves.
He had removed the showmanship.
And what remained was devastating.
He called it the Origin Blade Style—a foundational technique system, built with only the most practical, efficient, and flowing movements. It wasn't just a combat style. It was an answer. A rebuttal to everything excessive.
In Licht's hands, it had become nearly invincible in close to mid-range combat. His sword magic, particularly his Origin Slash, melded perfectly with the rhythm of the form, allowing seamless transitions between magic and motion.
But even without magic, the technique stood on its own.
A sword style that had reached B-Rank with its true power. Kenjutsu and Taijutsu are very different from Ninjutsu, as they could rival the strength of an A-Rank Ninjutsu, and arguably more versatile and consume less chakra. Not to mention, it doesn't require an excessive level of Chakra Control to perform in battle. For a guy like Enso, this style of fighting suits his taste better.
With his current physical strength, Enso believed he had finally met the minimum requirements to perform the base techniques of Origin Blade Style. It was dual-wielding, yes—but not symmetrical. One blade to control the flow. One blade to finish.
It was momentum and interruption.
Like the breath before the storm—and the storm itself.
Amongst the weaponry skill that Enso possess from devouring those conscious souls, only Heracles' Nine Lives can outmatch Licht's Origin Blade Style completely. But then again, the strength required to use such techniques is so overwhelming that the current Enso physique would not be able to perform a single move.
Enso's only option is to build a solid foundation for swordsmanship, using Licht's memories and techniques. With his current growth, once Enso grow up and becomes a full-fledged adult, he might be able to perform Nine Lives without causing his body injuries. But his ambition did not stop there, as he planned to recreate a personal swordsmanship that would combine everything he knew into one. Techniques that only he, Enso Uzumaki, can wield to their fullest potential.
Enso exhaled slowly. The ground beneath him was damp with dew. His breath came out in white mist. The wind howled through the trees, brushing against his skin like icy feathers.
He picked up two wooden training swords—each balanced, each weighted just right. He closed his eyes.
In his mind, Licht moved. Blades weaving in arcs too clean to trace, footsteps cutting paths through shadows, transitions folding into one another like water cascading down rock.
Then Enso moved.
Step by step.
Breath by breath.
His arms drew the air in slow arcs, carving tension through the space around him.
He wasn't attacking.
He was remembering.
Becoming.
And in that moment, the Fierce Wind finally found his silence.
The Origin Blade Style had returned—reborn in a world of chakra, carried by a boy who defied it.