The hour was late, and Mayumi's room was bathed in the soft glow of a lone lantern. She sat silently on the floor, a kunai held tightly in her delicate hands.
It was stolen — a tool taken from the training grounds. The blade's cold, unforgiving edge felt wrong in hands that had known only softness. It didn't belong in her grasp… not yet.
She couldn't sleep. Even now, her father's voice echoed in her ears, sharp and final:
"The path of a ninja is not for women. Do you understand, Mayumi? Your place is here, inside the clan"
Madara's voice followed, softer, but no less heavy:
"War is cruel, Mayumi."
To them, she was something to be protected — fragile, tender, untouched by blood or violence. She understood. Their care came from love.
But… they didn't understand her.
Mayumi slowly reached for the small mirror on her desk and propped it up. Staring back at her was a girl with jet-black eyes and long, flowing hair. A beautiful child by any standard, especially among the Uchiha. She had never been an exception to that.
The kunai in her hand was meant for battle — but tonight, it would be used to make a choice.
Gently, she gathered her long hair in one hand, fingers trembling only slightly.
"This hair will get in the way when I train..." she whispered to herself.
Her mother had always loved her hair — straight, silky, and unusually refined, even among the Uchiha. But it made her look soft. Delicate.
"That's why... I don't need it anymore."
With one swift motion, the kunai sliced through the strands. Silken locks slid down her shoulders, cascading onto the wooden floor in a dark waterfall. As they fell, so too did a single tear down Mayumi's cheek — not out of sorrow, but clarity.
It was not grief.
It was recognition — of a decision made without hesitation.
She was no longer the gentle daughter they remembered. Not entirely. For her family… for herself… Mayumi had chosen.
She would become a warrior.
"I won't turn back."
---
The breakfast table was silent.
As always, the Uchiha clan head's morning meals were simple, balanced, and efficient — nothing too indulgent, everything with purpose. Yet this morning, no one seemed truly focused on the food.
All eyes, subtly or not, were drawn to Mayumi.
Tajima, stoic as ever, ate quietly — but now and then, his gaze flicked toward his daughter with the quiet calculation of a seasoned general. Keiko sat with a serene expression, absently running her fingers along the smooth flow of Mayumi's newly cut hair. She said nothing, but the tension in her hands betrayed her thoughts.
Madara stared too, though more openly. He watched his sister from across the table — the overnight transformation from girl to… something else unsettling him. Her hair now brushed her earlobes, sharp and uneven, as if she had sheared it herself with a kunai. If he didn't know better, she looked like a younger brother instead. What pushed her to do this?
He said nothing. But the slight crease between his brows deepened.
"Mayumi… did a rat chew off your hair?"
The silence shattered as Izamu sauntered in.
He always arrived late — younger, brash, always trying too hard to prove himself. Especially jealous when their parents gave Mayumi more attention. Because she was a girl.
"Did you forget to train your head along with your hands or what?" she snorted.
"You're gonna get scolded by Big Brother if you keep looking like this."
When it comes to reading situation, her second brother is absolutely hopeless.
"Izamu," Tajima's voice cut in — calm, clipped. "Eat. No more chatter."
"…Yes, Father."
And so, the silence returned.
Tajima paused, then turned his full attention to his daughter. His gaze was unreadable. But when he spoke again, his voice was heavier — an undercurrent of command lying beneath.
"What was the purpose of this?"
Mayumi didn't look up. She stared at her bowl, her voice steady.
"I want to become a ninja."
"I've made myself clear about this before."
"I still want to become a ninja," she repeated — quieter, but more defiant.
Her words settled like a stone in the center of the table.
None of the others spoke — only watched. An unspoken battlefield stretched between father and daughter. A war fought with glances and words left unsaid.
"This isn't a place for girls like you," Tajima said, eyes narrowing. "Keiko, didn't you speak to her?"
"Mayumi… why are you being so stubborn, child?" her mother asked, voice gentle, almost pleading.
But Mayumi did not relent.
"If I have the talent, will you allow it then?"
"…How do you intend to prove that?"
Tajima's chakra rose subtly, but those with trained senses could feel the pressure build — heavy, almost suffocating. His eyes — now tinged with the power of the Sharingan — locked onto her.
Mayumi swallowed hard but did not flinch.
"Give me three months. If I can't meet your standards, I'll give up."
There was a pause. Then Tajima answered, without a hint of softness.
"Fine. Starting today. In three months, you'll fight Uchiha Yuko. Lose — and this ridiculous fantasy ends."
"But… Father! Yuko's already an elite-level genin!" Izamu protested.
A single look from Tajima silenced him. Izamu ducked his head, lips pressed tight.
Mayumi said nothing.
She had anticipated this. If she challenged her father, he would demand something nearly impossible. But that was fine. Three months — even if she couldn't win, she would become something immovable. A root that would grow.
Losing without trying was worse.
---