Jogendra's POV:
The trek to the Fire Country capital was a strange cocktail of calm and coiled anticipation, like filing a report just before a surprise audit. My Father Madara, My Grandfather Tajima, My Uncle Izuna, and I moved through the countryside with the quiet precision of seasoned shinobi—feet silent on the earth, senses sharp as kunai. The landscape unfurled before us like a scroll: dense forests whispering with hidden life, hills rolling under a sky streaked with dawn, and villages dotting the horizon, their smoke curling upward like chai steam. I soaked it all in—chakra signatures flickering in the distance, birds darting through the canopy, the hum of trade routes buzzing with merchants. It was a far cry from Hyderabad's honking chaos, but my old instincts still ticked, cataloging every detail like a ledger.
We kept a steady pace—no rush, no dawdle—arriving at the capital with time to spare. The city hit me like a wall of sound and motion: towering wooden spires, marketplaces alive with haggling voices, streets thrumming with a thousand footsteps. It was a metropolis of raw energy, chakra signatures overlapping in a dizzying weave—nothing like the Uchiha compound's stern isolation. We booked rooms at a sturdy inn, its multi-tiered frame bustling with travelers. The owner, a round-faced man with a grin too wide for his own good, nearly dropped his ledger when he saw My Father Madara. "L-Lord Madara!" he stammered, then recovered with a bow. "Welcome! Your rooms are ready."
Our quarters were spacious—polished floors, sliding screens, a faint scent of cedar. I made sure My Father Madara, My Grandfather Tajima, and My Uncle Izuna were settled before collapsing onto my futon, staring at the ceiling. My mind spun through the whirlwind since Truck-kun's crash: the Uchiha's shift under my techniques, Zoshima's alliance, Black Zetsu's unseen gaze—I could feel it all piling up, a stack of forms begging for order. This competition wasn't just a fight; it was a chance to stamp my name on this world, to turn Retsu's dream into something tangible.
Next morning, we hit the registration center—a sprawling complex buzzing with shinobi and their clans. The air crackled with nerves and bravado, every breath laced with the weight of the Fire Country Annual Youth Ninja Competition. The line snaked through the courtyard, but we navigated it with patience—My Father Madara's glare kept the grumblers quiet, My Grandfather Tajima's presence parted the crowd, and My Uncle Izuna's quips kept me sane. "Think they'll make you sign in triplicate?" he muttered, smirking. I snorted. "If they do, I'm forging your name on it."
I scanned the competition as we waited. The Senju stood out—fifteen kids, all radiating vitality, their chakra thick and steady like a river. The Uzumaki, ten strong, flaunted red hair and bottomless reserves, a quiet storm waiting to break. Seven Hyūga moved with eerie precision, their pale eyes glinting with Byakugan's promise. Five Sarutobi bristled with fire and grit, while five Shimura flowed like wind, calm but deadly. Nine from the Ino-Shika-Cho trio synced like a machine, and five Inuzuka prowled with their snarling dogs. A lone Hatake caught my eye—sharp, quiet, a blade in waiting. Five Kurama shimmered with genjutsu's edge, and a single Namikaze blurred with Swift Release speed. Each clan was a force, and I was the wildcard in their midst.
Registration done, we returned to the inn. I spent the day refining my arsenal—neo-green flames flickering in my palms, *Soru* blurring my steps, Observation Haki sharpening my senses. My Father Madara watched with a nod, My Grandfather Tajima barked pointers, and My Uncle Izuna tested my dodges with playful jabs. "You're fast, nephew," he grinned, "but can you dodge a Senju tantrum?"
The competition dawned crisp and clear, the arena a colossus of wood and stone packed with thousands. The crowd's roar hit like a physical thing, a tidal wave of excitement that set my nerves alight. We took our seats—My Father Madara stoic, My Grandfather Tajima smug, My Uncle Izuna leaning forward like a kid at a festival. The host strutted onto the stage—a flamboyant figure in crimson robes, his voice booming like a tax collector on a deadline. "Ladies and gentlemen, shinobi and honored guests, welcome to the Fire Country Annual Youth Ninja Competition!"
The stadium erupted, cheers shaking the rafters. The host soaked it in, then launched into introductions, his flair turning each clan into a legend. "First, the noble Senju clan—fifteen warriors of unmatched vitality and versatility!" The Senju stepped up, stone-faced and solid, earning a wave of applause. "Next, the formidable Uzumaki—ten masters of chakra and seals!" Red hair gleamed as they moved, quiet power in their strides. "The esteemed Hyūga—seven heirs of the Byakugan!" Their white eyes flashed, precision in every step.
"The stalwart Sarutobi—five fire-wielders of iron will!" Flames seemed to dance in their eyes. "The strategic Shimura—five wind-blades of calm fury!" They flowed like a breeze with teeth. "The Ino-Shika-Cho trio—nine paragons of unity!" Their sync was a dance, seamless and sharp. "The wild Inuzuka—five beast-bonded warriors!" Dogs growled at their heels, a primal chorus. "The samurai Hatake—one master of Kinetic Adaptation!" My brows shot up—Hatake with a bloodline? This timeline kept twisting. "The enigmatic Kurama—five illusionists of reality's edge!" Their stares unnerved me, heavy with secrets. "And the swift Namikaze—one speedster of Swift Release!" He blurred into place, a streak of gold.
The crowd roared for each, but the host held up a hand, voice dropping to a hush. "And now, a special entrant—a name that stirs intrigue and awe." He paused, milking the suspense, then bellowed, "From the legendary Uchiha clan, son of Madara Uchiha… Jogendra Uchiha!"
Silence crashed over the arena, thick and stunned. Madara's name alone was a thunderclap—his son, a bolt from the blue. I stepped forward, calm despite the weight of every eye on me—curiosity, fear, expectation pressing like a vice. The Senju contingent flinched—Hashirama's wide eyes, Tobirama's narrowed glare, Butsuma's clenched jaw. Memories of Madara's wars flickered in their faces, and I caught the glint of satisfaction in My Grandfather Tajima's smirk. We'd rattled them, just as planned.
The host recovered, voice booming anew. "Let the opening ceremony begin! Matches start tomorrow—prepare for a clash of skill, grit, and shinobi spirit!" Drums pounded, flags waved, and the crowd surged back to life. I returned to my family, My Father Madara's hand on my shoulder a silent anchor. "They're shaken," he murmured. "Good."
My Uncle Izuna grinned, leaning close. "You've got the Senju sweating already. Save some of that flair for the ring, yeah?"
*Ding!* The System chimed in my head. *Host has entered the Fire Country Annual Youth Ninja Competition. Quest progress updated.*
I smirked, adrenaline buzzing. The crucible was lit—time to burn bright.
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