Reborn as a Yamanaka Genius

SATOSHI YAMANAKA

"You're looking quite fit compared to the last time I saw you," Dad said, interlocking his hands and lifting them high above his head in a deep stretch.

I sat meters away on the grass training field, accessible only by the clan head, hands clasped around my feet and head to my thighs. After a thirty-count, I released my grasp, my gaze lifting to meet the slight smirk on his face.

"Am I?" I lifted myself, dusting stray blades of grass off my fitted white training gear.

My outfit today differed from the traditional Yamanaka kimono I was forced to wear out and about in public—and from the geta I usually wore along with it.

Instead, I was dressed in white skin-tight fabric that hugged my body, with sturdy, black combat boots laced securely on my feet.

Right now, I didn't have the luxury of wearing anything that might offer my father an advantage.

Saturday went as quickly as it came.

The elders spent the entire day conducting test after test on the storage scrolls: how far apart they could be and still work—they hadn't yet found a limit; how large the storage space was—exactly ten cubic meters; whether the seal could be accessed by anyone other than those imprinted—no; and countless other tests.

In the end, it was decided that the storage scrolls would remain a clan asset and their creator a clan secret. At least for now.

My clan, the elders specifically, were quite cautious people. Their principle, like that of most clans, was to prioritize the prosperity and well-being of their own above all else—even the village.

Still, I was sure the Akimichi and Nara would be getting their share of storage scrolls soon enough. They were our closest allies, after all.

"You do. I see their training has borne a fruit or two," He replied, moving his arms in small circles beside his body, warming up for the spar we were about to have.

I hummed, silently acknowledging his observation. My body has toned considerably since the last he's seen. It was to be expected with what the elders put me through over the past year.

My eyes drifted across the training field, softened by the pale light of dawn.

It was only the second time I'd set foot here—or rather, could set foot here. Since it was the clan head's personal training ground, only my father had access. No one could use it without his presence with explicit permission.

Just another piece of tradition that had to be followed.

The field was spacious, about forty meters across. Dewy green grass blanketed the space while a calm, crystal-clear river traced the back edge of the field. Tall Hashirama trees, their leaves a rainbow of colors, encircled the area, sealing it off from any curious eyes.

It felt as if we were in a completely different space, separated by the chirping of birds and the sway of tree leaves in the crisp morning breeze.

"Same rules as last time?" I asked, swinging my arms back and forth to loosen the tightness in my shoulders. 

"Yup."

He let his arms drop casually to his sides. Instead of his usual Jonin flak jacket, he wore casual shorts and a fitted T that showed off the muscles and a few scars that came from years of training and battle.

"I want to see how much you've improved, so anything goes. First one to surrender or be incapacitated loses."

"Sounds good to me," I replied, settling into a stance that mirrored his.

He reached down to pick up a stray rock on the ground.

"When it hits the ground, we start."

I nodded and lifted my hands in the traditional Yamanaka taijutsu stance—weight on the soles of my feet, ready, watching.

Dad tossed the rock into the air, high above. He remained in his casual stance, body relaxed, one hand in the pocket of his shorts as if he knew no matter how much his son was a genius, he was still but a five-year-old child who lacked the years of experience and skill he had.

The rock began its descent, falling closer and closer to the ground until it finally landed with a soft thud.

And with it, Dad vanished in a blur of movement, his body gone, only to reappear directly in front of me, his fist driving into my stomach.

His knuckles struck with brutal force, and spittle spewed from my mouth onto his shirt.

But instead of a grimace, a smirk crept onto my face.

Dad's eyes widened as the chakra I'd layered across my torso clamped down on his fist, holding him in place.

Before he could react, my body began to swell, inflating like a balloon ready to burst. He flicked a kunai into his left hand, but before he could slice himself free, my body exploded.

A shockwave blasted across the field, shrouding the area in a thick cloud of smoke, curling up from the impact like a fog.

My real body was hidden high in the treetops, clinging to the rough bark, chakra anchoring me against the surface.

A henge coated my body, disguising me as one of the many thick, twisting tree branches overhead.

The Art of War (p. 11, para. 3): "Successful war follows the path of Deception. Thus, when you are able to act, feign incapacity; when you are close, appear far off; when you are distant, appear close. When your enemy seeks an advantage, lure him further; if he is in disorder, crush him; if he is organized, be ready for him; when he is strong, avoid him…" 

 Dad was strong—I was well aware of that fact, so I decided to use deception to my advantage and avoid a head-on confrontation at all costs.

He also, like all Yamanaka, was a natural sensor. So, I suppressed my chakra completely with the seal that lay over my heart and used an exploding clone as a deception.

One of the clone variations I… persuaded Nao to teach me (I have found bribes in the form of food to be highly effective).

Chakra coursed through familiar paths, swimming to my ears, sensing the wind around me for any slight shifts that would hint at his movement.

The forest was quiet, eerily so, broken only by the distant chirp of crickets and—

"That was clever, son."

The voice came from above, deep and ominous. My body jolted in shock.

I pushed chakra to my feet, ready to dart away, but I was too slow; he was already beside me, hand reaching out.

"You've got to be kidding me," Dad said.

And then—boom.

Another explosion echoed from the opposite end of the forest, sending a fresh plume of smoke into the air. I couldn't stop the smirk from curling my lips.

The Art of War (p. 11, para. 4): "A victorious leader plans for many eventualities before the battle; a defeated leader plans for only a few. Many options bring victory, few options bring defeat, no options at all spell disaster." 

*** 

INOICHI YAMANAKA 

Inoichi flickered away to a distant tree branch—apparently not in the mood to get blown to bits today.

He couldn't stop the frown from curling his lips. When he said, "Anything goes," he hadn't exactly expected his loving son to take that as permission to try and blow him to smithereens.

But Satoshi was a literal-minded child, so he supposed he should have seen it coming.

I'll have to choose my words more carefully next time, Inoichi mentally noted.

Drawing chakra from within, he extended his senses outwards into the forest, searching for any trace of his son's chakra signature.

Rabbits, frogs, fish, insects, and birds registered in his mind, but not a single hint of Satoshi.

Inoichi sighed internally, realizing this would be a bit trickier than he'd prefer. That chakra suppressant seal was quite the inconvenience.

Akira has known Inoichi all these years, but she never gave him such a seal—the preferential treatment she had for Satoshi made him smile a bit.

His son had been training with the clan elders for a bit over a year now, and during that time, Inoichi had received regular progress reports on Satoshi's growth.

The results spoke for themselves: if given enough time to mature, his son would likely become one of the strongest Yamanaka the clan had ever seen—perhaps even the strongest.

Those two explosions were evidence enough.

Exploding clones was a technique Inoichi hadn't mastered himself, but it seemed Nao had spared no effort in teaching Satoshi everything he knew.

Atypical for Nao—but Satoshi had that effect on people. He had a way of pulling the unexpected out of the unassuming.

His finger twitched, suddenly sensing something—no, several somethings, barreling his way.

His eyes flicked to the left, locking into glints of sliver slicing through the air. Thinking it best to get out of the way, Inoichi coated his feet in chakra and sprang upward, higher into the treetops.

The shuriken thudded into the trunk below, sending vibrations through the wood with their impact.

Muscle memory took over, and he raised his hand into a familiar seal.

Shadow Clone Jutsu.

A shadow clone appeared beside him, meeting his gaze with a nod.

He, alongside the clone, darted off in opposite directions through the forest. Best to change location.

The shuriken had come from the left, but knowing Masaru taught his son strategy… Inoichi headed right, leaping swiftly from branch to branch, suppressing his chakra as much as possible.

It wasn't as flawless as Satoshi's seal, but it would do. If anyone tried to sense him, they would only pick up the faint chakra signature of a small insect.

Tracking his son would be nearly impossible, and Satoshi was undoubtedly henged into something unrecognizable.

So, there was only one thing to do: make him regret hiding in the first place. 

*** 

SATOSHI YAMANAKA

My senses remained on overdrive, doing their best to track my dad from the wind as our spar transformed into a more deadly form of hide-and-seek.

I had somewhat of an advantage in stealth, while his edge lay in… well, almost everything else. That's why I had to make sure I stayed on the—

The air shifted.

A faint vibration at first, then it ramped up to a violent swirl.

Leaves all around me began rustling, shaking loose from their branches. I was about to reposition when I heard it: a rapid succession of slicing sounds and deep, rhythmic booms, starting from far away but closing in fast. 

Whish, whish, whish, whish, whish!

Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom! 

My back clung tightly to the tree bark behind me, with chakra holding me in place—but a realization dawned, sending a chill down my spine. 

No, he wouldn't!

I released the chakra, which was anchoring me to the tree, and propelled myself to the ground just in time.

The tree trunk above me was sliced cleanly in half, the massive top half crashing down with a thunderous crack.

What the—

I felt the air ripple behind me and curl around a form heading my way. I bent and spun, sweeping my leg in a low arc at his legs, chakra surging through them to add extra force. 

Dad leaped over my kick effortlessly with a smile on his face as he formed a rapid sequence of hand seals. His chest expanded as he drew in a deep breath. "Wind Style: Breakthrough!"

I barely had a second to react. I shifted to move, but my foot snagged on a hidden vine beneath, locking me in place.

Dad's gaze met mine, and his smile faltered. For a split second, he hesitated, but he caught the fear in my expression, and desperation flashed across his face—but it was too late.

"Satoshi!"

The jutsu hit me full force, slicing through cloth and flesh alike. Pieces of my skin and shredded clothing were torn away by the raging wind.

Dad dropped to the ground as the technique faded, panic in his eyes as he flickered to my side.

"S-s-satoshi. I-Im…" his voice shook, his hands hovering over my bloody, broken body, his eyes wide and red with horror at what he had just done.

I looked up at him, lips trembling as I whispered, "W-why?"

His expression instantly crumpled, tears cascading from red-rimmed eyes, "I-I didn't mean—"

But he couldn't finish, as something sharp pressed into his side.

The bloody image of his son flickered, fading into nothingness, and instead, a figure materialized beside him.

"Looks like this is my win, Dad."

He froze, teary eyes widening as he turned to face me. For a moment, he stared in disbelief before muttering, "Impressive, son."

But before I could respond, my control slipped. A jolt of something electric surged through me, and suddenly I couldn't move.

My grip on my kunai loosened as my muscles convulsed uncontrollably. 

A set of footsteps crunched on crisp leaves in front of me, and as I shakily looked up, my father appeared, walking toward me with his hands in his pockets.

The "Dad" beside me winked and faded in a puff of smoke.

***

INOICHI YAMANAKA

Satoshi's legs gave out, his small body slumping to the ground, still twitching involuntarily.

Inoichi stood over him now, grinning like a cat with a caught mouse.

"Almost had me, son. Maybe if I didn't know you were so good with genjutsu, you might've won."

Satoshi's twitching form was all he could offer in response. With a small, amused sigh, Inoichi motioned to raise his hands to dispel the effects of the Mind Body Disturbance Technique.

"Better luck—" His voice caught mid-sentence.

He felt a sudden, jarring sensation in his mind, a sharp pull as though his thoughts were no longer his own. Then, his mouth moved, finishing the sentence with words that weren't his.

"Better luck next time, Dad."

The voice was his, but the tone—the inflection, the cockiness—was unmistakably Satoshi's.

If he had control over his body, his eyes would've widened from realizing what had happened.

The twitching "Satoshi" on the ground shattered into a thousand pieces, dissipating into nothingness.

Across the field, seated with his back against a tree, head lowered, and eyes closed, was the real Satoshi.

For a moment, Inoichi struggled internally, testing the edges of his control, but he could feel his son's chakra tethered firmly to his mind, locking him inside.

He couldn't help but curse inwardly, half impressed, half annoyed.

Trapped in my own mind… by my own son. I suppose I should be proud.

***

SATOSHI YAMANAKA

The Art of War (p. 79, para. 1): "It is the business of a general to keep tight-lipped to preserve secrecy: to be even-handed to ensure control; he must use tricks and rumors to keep both officers and men in the dark as to his true intentions. He should change his dispositions and plans, so no-one knows what he is up to."

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[A/N] Satoshi, Satoshi, Satoshi. Trying to trick even the reader I see—shame. 

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