The Sharingan provides a significant advantage in close-quarters combat. If Shisui had his Sharingan active, he might've still had a chance at victory today.
Maybe this is that "talent" Saitama keeps talking about...
"You're strong too, Shisui. Without the Sharingan, I wouldn't have stood a chance against you!"
Saitama recalled how Shisui's swordplay had grown more ferocious as the battle progressed, his strikes increasingly unpredictable and sharp. Without the insight granted by his Sharingan, Saitama might not have kept up.
"Sharingan is a part of being a shinobi. A loss is a loss—I admit it,"
Shisui said seriously, stepping aside to retrieve his short sword from the ground.
When did Saitama awaken his Sharingan?
Shisui was genuinely curious. In their last spar, Saitama hadn't awakened it. Now he had two tomoe in both eyes? That wasn't normal for even an Uchiha.
"I awakened it not long after our last match. Two tomoe ca in at once. Guess it's talent, huh?"
Saitama answered casually, a glint of pride in his eyes.
Shisui looked away, ignoring the subtle provocation in Saitama's gaze.
He had underestimated Saitama's potential. If the clan elders knew that soone Saitama's age had awakened the Sharingan—and with two tomoe at that—they'd be stunned.
Shisui couldn't help but smirk. He wanted to graduate Saitama early and pull him into the Uchiha Police Force—just to see the look on those so-called "genius" officers' faces.
"Let's head back. It's getting late."
Saitama cleaned up the signs of their battle, using earth to snuff out the residual flas from his earlier Fire Style jutsu.
The winter sky had darkened completely, and the temperature had dropped sharply.
Though neither of them feared the cold, the spar had drained them physically and ntally. There was no reason to linger.
Stepping over brittle branches and fallen leaves, the two boys made their way out of the training grounds reserved for the Uchiha clan.
Far in the distance, the lights of the compound glowed warmly.
---
Sparring with Shisui had exposed many of Saitama's weaknesses.
His fighting style was too straightforward. He had no particular skill that could dominate Shisui—he'd only won by relying on the enhanced perception of his Sharingan.
The New Year is just a few days away. Konoha will be blanketed in snow...
Large, feathery snowflakes drifted down from the sky.
It hadn't snowed in the village for years. For Saitama, this was the first ti seeing real snow since arriving here.
There's an old saying in the village:
"A snowy year brings prosperity."
Despite the thick snow on the streets, the village was buzzing with excitent. Vendors shouted cheerfully, and families strolled together—bundled up and smiling.
Saitama wandered the snow-covered streets, savoring the rare calm.
It's been a while since I had ti like this to relax. I should treat myself today.
"Father, look! A mask vendor!"
A child's voice called out nearby.
Turning his head, Saitama imdiately recognized the man with the child.
Uchiha Fugaku—the current head of the Uchiha clan.
And the child by his side could only be Uchiha Itachi.
It was the end of Konoha's 44th year. Itachi, born in 43, was just over a year old—nearly two. A small, delicate child with an aura of quiet grace even at that age.
Saitama stopped, watching from a distance.
He wanted to observe the pair.
Fugaku picked up a festival mask and spoke gently to his son,
"If you like it, pick one out."
There was a rare warmth in Fugaku's expression.
Itachi nodded, walking over to the stall and examining the masks with innocent curiosity.
Fugaku's eyes suddenly shifted. He glanced over at Saitama, noting the Uchiha crest on the back of his cloak.
He studied him for a mont.
Noticing the gaze, Saitama politely lowered his head in acknowledgnt, then turned and walked away.
The scene between father and son seed far more peaceful than he rembered.
Snow continued to fall, blanketing Konoha in soft white.
---
It wasn't long before Saitama ducked into a familiar yakiniku (grilled at) restaurant.
His stomach had been growling for a while—and this place had always served him well.
Eating alone didn't bother Saitama. He was ntally strong, and solitude felt more like a quiet celebration than loneliness.
He ordered so side dishes and two catties of at.
Growing kids need good food. If I don't eat well now, I'll end up like Prince—short and mocked for it.
At six years old, Saitama was barely over a ter tall. While not short among his peers, he wasn't especially tall either.
Shisui was similar in height, but slimr in build.
This shop's portions were generous, the flavor excellent, and the prices reasonable.
Saitama picked a corner seat—clean, quiet, and tucked away from others.
He placed the at on the grill. The sizzle of fat eting fire filled the air.
He couldn't help but smile.
This was the good life. No worries about survival or hunger.
It would be perfect... if there wasn't so much pressure looming over everything.
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