The shogi pieces clicked softly against the wooden board. Shikamaru studied the pattern before him, fingers hovering over a knight. The position was familiar – he'd seen it in one of his father's old game records, though he couldn't quite place which one.
"Your move," Shikaku said, his voice carrying that particular tone that always made Shikamaru's neck prickle. It was his 'pay attention, there's more here than meets the eye' voice.
Shikamaru withdrew his hand from the knight. The obvious move was a trap – his father had set up a classic Yagura castle formation with a subtle twist. Three moves ahead lay an elegant forced mate.
"You know," Shikamaru drawled, leaning back on his hands, "for someone who claims I still need to work on my fundamentals, you're playing awfully seriously today, again."
Something flickered in Shikaku's eyes – "I've decided to train you."
Shikamaru kept his face carefully neutral, though his mind picked up a storm. "Oh? What brought this on?"
"You have potential," Shikaku said simply, as if commenting on the weather. "It would be troublesome to waste it."
Shikamaru's eyes narrowed slightly. His father was lying – or rather, not telling the whole truth.
"Hmm," Shikamaru hummed noncommittally, moving a pawn instead of the knight. "Just like that?"
"Just like that." Shikaku countered immediately, his own piece clicking against the board. "Though we should probably pause this game. Let's see your taijutsu form first."
Shikamaru stood, stretching lazily to hide the way his muscles tensed in anticipation. He'd been expecting this – the standard Nara clan fighting stance was practically civilian-level, designed more for emergency defense than actual combat. It was part of their carefully cultivated image: too lazy to fight unless absolutely necessary.
He settled into the stance, feet shoulder-width apart, hands loose at his sides. The position felt wrong to both his lives.
The kick came without warning.
Pain bloomed across his ribs as Shikaku's foot connected, sending him stumbling backward. He'd seen the attack coming – both sets of combat instincts had recognized the tell-tale shift in his father's weight – but the civilian-level stance had left him no options for defense.
"That," Shikaku said mildly as Shikamaru wheezed, "was Academy-level speed. Care to guess how long you'd last against someone actually trying to kill you?"
"Not long," Shikamaru muttered, rubbing his side. "I thought the whole point of our clan techniques was avoiding direct combat?"
Shikaku's expression shifted, becoming more serious. "Sit down, son. It's time we had a proper talk about our clan."
They settled back at the shogi board, though neither reached for the pieces. Outside, crickets began their evening orchestra, a counterpoint to the distant sounds of the village preparing for night.
"The Nara clan," Shikaku began, his voice taking on the cadence of a teacher, "has always been known for three things: our intelligence, our medicine, and our shadows." He held up two fingers. "Can you tell me why I'm only holding up two fingers when listing three things?"
Shikamaru's eyes widened slightly as understanding clicked into place. "Because the shadows aren't separate from the other two. They're... connected?"
"Good." Shikaku nodded. "Our shadow techniques were originally developed as a way to hold patients still during delicate medical procedures. The intelligence part came naturally – you need a sharp mind to manipulate shadows effectively while maintaining the precision needed for medical work."
He paused, reaching for something in his vest. Shikamaru's breath caught as his father pulled out a kunai, its metal surface catching the last rays of sunlight.
"Over generations," Shikaku continued, spinning the kunai idly between his fingers, "we found other applications. Military uses. But we never pushed them to their limits. Never really tried to understand what shadows truly are, what they could be."
"Why not?" Shikamaru asked, though he was beginning to suspect he knew the answer.
"Comfort," Shikaku said simply. "We found our place, our role. Advisors. Strategists. Support specialists. Why risk more when what we had worked so well?" His eyes met Shikamaru's, sharp and knowing. "But you've already figured that out, haven't you? Been thinking about it for a while."
Shikamaru thought about the questions that had been burning in his mind. "Maybe."
"The Academy starts soon," Shikaku said, suddenly standing. "Before then, we need to get you up to speed on proper taijutsu. Some weapons training wouldn't hurt either."
A muscle twitched in Shikamaru's jaw at the mention of weapons. "Oh? You're giving me kunai and shuriken to practice with?"
"Among other things." Shikaku's eyes crinkled with amusement. "Though I heard the most interesting story from Tenten's father today..."
Shikamaru groaned, but his embarrassment was quickly forgotten as his father pulled out a weapons scroll, unrolling it to reveal neat rows of training equipment.
His eyes went wide, previous life's muscle memory singing at the sight of proper ninja tools. A grin spread across his face.
"You know how long I've been waiting for this?"
-
The Nara forest seemed to hold its breath, watching. Even the ever-present deer had withdrawn to the shadows of the trees, as if sensing the change in the air. A kunai whistled through the space where Shikamaru's head had been a heartbeat before, thudding into the bark behind him with a dull finality that made his stomach clench.
Too close.
He rolled to his feet, muscles protesting. His father hadn't even given him time to properly grip the weapons before the "training" had begun. Now, 2 hours in, his clothes were sticky with sweat and speckled with blood from a dozen minor cuts. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, eyes never leaving his father's form.
Shikaku stood a few meters away, posture deceptively relaxed. No sign of exertion marked his features – he might as well have been taking an afternoon stroll. "Your stance is still too wide," he commented mildly, as if discussing the weather. "Against an opponent with any real speed—"
The attack came mid-sentence, because of course it did. Shikamaru's body moved before his mind could process, muscle memory from two lives screaming in harmony. He twisted away from the first strike, a precise jab that would have collapsed his windpipe, only to realize too late it was a feint.
His father's knee caught him in the solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs in an explosive gasp. Stars danced at the edges of his vision as he stumbled backward, barely managing to stay on his feet.
"Better," Shikaku acknowledged. "But still too predictable. You're thinking like a brawler, not a shinobi."
Shikamaru spat blood onto the grass, tongue probing a loose tooth. "Maybe," he wheezed, "if you'd actually taught me the forms first instead of just—"
Another attack cut him off, this time a sweep at his legs. He jumped, his hand dipped into his weapons pouch, fingers wrapping around cold metal.
Three shuriken flew in a tight pattern, forcing Shikaku to step left – exactly where Shikamaru had wanted him. His hands flashed through the motions he'd memorized from watching his father practice, chakra molding precisely as the book had described.
Nothing happened.
"Shadow possession without proper training?" Shikaku's eyebrow rose slightly as he casually deflected the fourth shuriken Shikamaru had hidden in the others' shadow. "Ambitious. But you haven't even learned to sense your own chakra properly yet."
Frustration burned in Shikamaru's chest. He knew the theory. The shadow manipulation technique was fundamentally an extension of will, using chakra to bridge the gap between intent and reality. He'd mastered far more complex—
Pain exploded across his jaw as Shikaku's fist materialized in front of his face. He hadn't even seen his father move.
"Stop thinking so much," Shikaku advised as Shikamaru crashed through the underbrush. "Feel."
Shikamaru rolled with the impact, coming up in a crouch. His father was clearly holding back, operating at maybe low-chunin speed. The attacks were precise but telegraphed, designed to teach rather than truly harm.
Think. What do you have?
His hands weren't quite coordinated enough for the more complex weapon techniques, but basic throws were solid. Chakra control was still developing, making ninjutsu unreliable. Physical conditioning was... inadequately adequate.
But he had one advantage: his father thought he was teaching a genius child, not someone with decades of combat experience haunting his muscles.
Shikamaru's fingers dipped into his pouch again, this time emerging with ninja wire. As he dove behind a tree to avoid another casual kick that probably would have broken ribs, his hands worked quickly.
"Running away?" Shikaku's voice carried a hint of disappointment. "I expected better from—"
The smoke tag Shikamaru had attached to the kunai activated exactly where he'd calculated his father would step.
He burst through the cloud low and fast, wire glinting in the dappled sunlight. His father would expect an attempt to entangle – it was the obvious play. Instead, Shikamaru threw the whole coil directly at Shikaku's face, forcing him to catch it.
In that split second of distraction, Shikamaru dropped and swept his father's legs, just as he'd been taught before. It was a civilian move, something no self-respecting ninja would expect in a serious fight.
For a heartbeat, it seemed to work. Shikaku's eyes widened slightly as his balance shifted.
Then Shikamaru felt it – a cold sensation creeping up his spine, his limbs suddenly refusing to respond. Horror dawned as he realized what had happened.
"Shadow possession," his father confirmed, straightening up. "Complete."
Shikamaru tried to move, to speak, but his body was no longer his own. He could only watch as his hand rose against his will, forming a fist.
"The problem with thinking too much," Shikaku lectured as he made Shikamaru punch himself in the face, "is that you miss what's right in front of you." Another punch. "Like the fact that I've been herding you into position for the last ten minutes." A third punch, harder. "Or that while you were setting up your clever trap, I was manipulating the shadows of the entire clearing."
Blood trickled from Shikamaru's nose as his father finally released the jutsu. He collapsed to his knees, body trembling from exhaustion and chakra depletion.
"Yield," he gasped.
Shikaku approached, his footsteps silent on the forest floor. "Better than I expected, honestly. Your throws are precise, if basic. Good tactical thinking, even if the execution needs work." He crouched down to eye level with his son. "But you're still approaching this like someone trying to win a fight, not survive one."
Shikamaru looked up, meeting his father's gaze. There was something there, hidden behind the casual assessment.
"Again," Shikaku said, standing. "And this time, stop trying to prove how clever you are. Just survive."
Shikamaru pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the protest of abused muscles. As he settled into a ready stance, he couldn't help but wonder - no understand - the deeper meaning in his father's words.
The lesson, it seemed, was just beginning.