@vinodiriso sent: The young girl's expression was cold and uninterested as she measured the older man standing in front of her. Her sensei, the Academy examiners had told her after she passed her Genin exam, the leader of her soon-to-be team. "Hatake Sakumo, mh? It's Yukinohana Yoshino".
Hatake Sakumo stood in the center of the training field, the late afternoon sun casting a long, weary shadow behind him. He looked less like the legendary “White Fang” of the Sannin’s era and more like a man trying to remember how to breathe in a village that had turned its back on him. The silver hair, once a symbol of terror on the battlefield, now seemed frayed at the edges.
At his feet, a silver-haired toddler—barely three years old—sat on a patch of flattened grass, diligently trying to tie his own tiny sandals. Kakashi was a quiet child, far too serious for his age, perhaps sensing the heavy silence that had permeated their home since the mission went wrong.
Sakumo turned his gaze toward the girl who had approached him. Her stance was stiff, her expression a mask of chilly indifference. It was a look he had seen a thousand times in the eyes of his peers lately, though her version seemed born more of youthful skepticism than the biting judgment of the village elders.
“Hatake Sakumo, mh? It’s Yukinohana Yoshino.”
Sakumo’s lips curved into a faint, self-depracating smile. He didn’t miss the way she omitted any honorifics or the casual, almost bored way she spoke his name. He was a disgraced hero, a man who had chosen his comrades over the code, and even the new graduates knew the weight of that failure.
“Yukinohana-san,” he greeted, his voice remarkably soft, lacking the sharp authority one might expect from a jōnin. He reached down and gently placed a hand on Kakashi’s head to keep the boy from wandering off. “I’ve seen your Academy records. You have a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue. Both are useful tools for a shinobi, provided you know when to unsheathe them.”
He shifted his bodyweight, the blade at his back clinking softly—a reminder of the power he still held, despite his status. He looked at her directly, his dark eyes searching hers not for respect, but for a spark of resilience.
“I know I wasn’t the ‘war hero’ your parents likely told you to expect,” he said, his tone devoid of bitterness, replaced instead by a quiet, grounding honesty. “But if you can look past the rumors, I might still have a few things to teach you about survival.”
He gestured to the open field around them. “Where are the others? Or are you the only one brave—or bored—enough to show up to the disgraced man’s team on time?”
