A Month of Training: The Harsh Reality
The days blurred together. Inside this strange world of infinite space and reflective ground, Itachi had no concept of time. There was only training. Nonstop, relentless training. In the original work people always downplayed the lesson of tree walking and water walking that Kakashi taught Naruto and Sasuke. I know this because I was one of them. No doubt it was a big part of any ninja to learn, but he should have taught them this much before going on a mission, let alone an S rank mission fresh out the academy.
But it looks like my theory on chakra was correct, yes chakra is to bring out physical and spiritual energy and mix it together within one's body. Reading, studying, meditating, and life experience will increase a persons spiritual energy. While pushing your endurance will increase physical energy. With this method you can increase chakra reserves. No matter how hard I train endurance I won't gave as much chakra like naruto or any uzumaki. But I can increase my base power by a lot. As a child Itachi spent most of his time doing this, meditating and doing chakra endurance training.
So yes he's talented but he worked on it. He was smarter rather than went head first and worked harder. As this is what separated them from the rest of arrogant Uchiha. Doing upside down pushups while balancing on a tree, pull ups, and sticking a leaf on their forehead with chakra until the sun went down. So he had to do this training all over again with the older Itachi.
In this one month of training he had become a different person—or rather, a better version of the person he had been before. The skills that flowed from Itachi's body had begun to feel like second nature. His movements, once clumsy and awkward, were now fluid, calculated, and precise. But the cost had been steep.
Taijutsu was a brutal art to master. The older Itachi never held back against him. And got a sick sense of pleasure with the amount of brutal harm he could cause. Ruthless. Absolutely Ruthless. Still he pushed him beyond the limits of his endurance.
He'd been knocked unconscious countless times, thrown to the ground like a ragdoll, his body bruised and bloodied, only to be forced to get back up and do it again. His body adapted quickly, but the real struggle had been accepting the pain and moving beyond it. There was no room for hesitation—he had to act before his opponent did, or he'd find himself in a world of hurt.
Ninjutsu had been easier in some ways. The older Itachi had drilled into him the basics—fire style, lightning style, and the lesser-known Uchiha techniques. But even as he learned the basics, he could feel his power growing. His chakra control was becoming as fine-tuned as his movements. The fireballs that he had once been clumsy with now blasted forward with terrifying precision. The kunai that once wavered in flight now hit their targets dead center.
But then came Kenjutsu, the art of the sword.
Itachi had always been proficient with kunai and shuriken, but this was a whole new beast. The older Itachi had insisted that mastering kenjutsu was an integral part of the Uchiha legacy. The sword became an extension of his will, and at first, it had felt heavy and cumbersome. He struggled with the basic stances, his arms sore, his movements sluggish. But under the older Itachi's constant correction, he started to move with grace. His katana was no longer a burden; it became an elegant, deadly extension of his body.
Every swing, every parry was about control—control over the blade, control over the fight, and ultimately, control over his own mind. He became as fluid with the sword as he had become with his fists.
But the most brutal training of all was Genjutsu.
The first time the older Itachi had trapped him in an illusion, he had been overwhelmed. His mind scrambled, his body froze, and he had felt as though he was drowning in a sea of his own thoughts.
"Focus," the older Itachi had instructed coldly. "Genjutsu is about breaking the illusion, not surviving it."
For hours, Itachi had struggled to escape the illusions that assaulted his senses. He had to break free from the sensation of drowning, the feeling of suffocating in an endless sea of shadows, the endless visions of loved ones dead, his own body falling apart. Each illusion was more horrific than the last.
No doubt this was the most the older Itachi spent with him on. Not to mention he loved the face I'd make after being realize. The amount of times I'd throw up, the amount of times I'd come back crying, the amount of times I'd beg him not to send me back.
In the scene in Naruto where Itachi put Kakashi in the world of Tsukuyomi for 72 hours. He was killed and stabbed every moment of it. The mental damage is enough to kill someone or at least put them in a coma where only Tsunade could save them.
Well what I got was closer to what Sasuke got as it was more bloodier and personal. As the bastard used my actual parents, friends and family from my past life. The first time I cursed him, I wanted to kill him and cut his balls out and punt it up his Uchiha ass. But by the tenth round I was numb to it. Then he wanted me to train in it. Worst part this was the version he made for the regular sharingan and not the Mangekyō Sharingan.
But eventually, he had mastered it. He learned to focus on the rhythm of his breathing, to push through the panic, to break through the mental locks before they consumed him. The older Itachi never let up, though. Each new illusion was worse than the last. But he no longer flinched. He simply endured.
Through all of this, his body and mind had grown. His physical form had become leaner, stronger, sharper. His eyes burned with the power of the Sharingan, the Mangekyō evolving deeper and deeper, until it was no longer simply a tool for sight—but a weapon in its own right.
And yet, despite his progress, despite the power he felt coursing through his veins, there was a gnawing emptiness.
The world outside the training space had long since ceased to matter. There was no longer any question of what the Uchiha clan would do in the future, or if he should warn them about the coming purge. There was only the cold steel of his training and the relentless ticking of an unseen clock.
One evening, after an especially grueling session of kenjutsu, Itachi stood in the center of the empty space, panting lightly, feeling the weight of his katana in his hand. His body was drenched in sweat, his limbs shaking with exhaustion.
The older Itachi appeared in front of him, watching quietly. He said nothing at first, but his eyes spoke volumes.
"You're ready," the older Itachi finally said.
Itachi raised an eyebrow. "Ready for what?"
"For the next step. For the challenges that await you outside. You've learned the techniques. Now, you must learn to apply them."
Itachi felt a cold shiver run down his spine. The outside world.
His gaze flickered toward the endless horizon of swirling red clouds, as if he could somehow see beyond it to the real world. He wasn't sure what would happen when he finally returned—but he had no choice. His training had ended.
And when he walked out of this space, he would face the storm.
"Tell me what to do," Itachi said, his voice steady despite the uncertainty gnawing at him. "I'll do it."
The older Itachi nodded slightly, a glimmer of approval in his eyes.
"First, you must decide what you're willing to sacrifice."