Disguised secrets and dusty memories
The disciplines of aristocratic life were like countless fine, resilient threads, entwined day and night, layer upon layer, attempting to mold Uchiha Aoi into the expected, gentle, and docile template of a noble lady. Her learning rate was far superior to that of ordinary people, and many things were easy for a time traveler with an adult soul to understand, even somewhat dull. Her performance occasionally elicited a subtle flicker of approval from the stern old lady-in-waiting. But only Aoi herself knew the turbulent, unsettled soul hidden beneath this mask of obedience, sometimes timidity, and dullness.
For her, the biggest challenge is not the extremely complicated etiquette regulations, but how to carefully hide two secrets that must not be exposed, otherwise it may bring fatal disaster: her identity as a time traveler from the future, and her shocking understanding of the ninja world, especially the magnificent, bloody and tragic fate of the Uchiha and Senju future.
During a calligraphy class, the court lady asked her to copy a few simple Chinese characters from the Kokin Wakashu (Kokin Wakashu). She grasped the brush, subconsciously employing a pen-handling technique and pressure control more similar to modern hard-pen calligraphy. While her characters were neatly structured, they lacked the rhythmic rhythm and strength of brush calligraphy. The order of some strokes even seemed odd.
The old female official walked over, her eyes like a hawk scanning the handwriting on the paper, her brows slowly furrowed. "Miss Kui, your calligraphy style... the brushwork is frivolous, lacking strength. Especially this downward stroke, the flow is quite peculiar. I have been teaching for many years, but I don't think I have ever seen such a style of calligraphy. I wonder where you learned it from?"
Aoi's heart suddenly sank, as if gripped by an invisible hand. A cold sweat instantly broke out on her back. A huge sense of crisis overwhelmed her! She immediately lowered her head, her shoulders hunched slightly, and her hands knitted together nervously, perfectly portraying the role of a little girl who was insecure and terrified by her lack of formal education, and was afraid of being punished.
"I, I'm sorry, teacher..." Her voice was trembling with tears, and her eyes quickly turned red. "I... I... no one taught me how to write properly before... I looked at the calligraphy copybook left by my mother and imitated it randomly... My writing is not right... Please punish me..." She even took the initiative to stretch out her little hand slightly, as if ready to accept the punishment with the ruler.
The old court lady observed her, looking frightened and on the verge of tears. Then, thinking of her mother, who had "died tragically young," "of noble birth but married a ninja," and her experience living abroad and lacking proper discipline, the suspicion in her eyes gradually gave way to a hint of pity and a look of "as expected." She simply tapped the table lightly with her ruler, her tone softening slightly. "It's okay. Since you didn't have anyone to teach you, it's not your fault. You need to be more diligent in the future and learn proper calligraphy from the beginning."
The crisis was temporarily resolved, but Aoi broke out in a cold sweat, her undershirt sticking to her back with a damp, icy chill. From then on, she became even more cautious, meticulously imitating the expected behavior of a noble child of the era in all her studies and actions. She even occasionally made minor, harmless mistakes befitting her age and "experience," like "forgetting" a complicated etiquette step or expressing "not understanding" to a profound allusion, in order to maintain her youthful image of someone who "needed to be taught."
A greater challenge came from the influx of outside information. My grandmother would sometimes receive visiting noble ladies or officials, and after dinner, they would discuss interesting stories from the capital or current events. Sometimes, when no one was around, the young maids who cared for her would whisper to each other about rumors they had heard from outside, rumors that were difficult to verify.
Whenever she heard words like "border friction," "mission commission," or "ninja conflict," especially the names "Uchiha" or "Senju," which burned like a branding iron to her heart, Aoi had to pinch her palms, using the sharp pain to maintain a calm and ignorant expression. She couldn't show any excessive concern, her eyes couldn't flicker, and she couldn't betray even the slightest understanding beyond her years, based on future knowledge. She had to appear like an ordinary aristocratic girl, completely uninterested in fighting and killing, even a little afraid of hearing about it, and only concerned with flower arrangement and the art of incense.
Once, a visiting noblewoman, in casual conversation, mentioned a minor conflict on the northeastern border of the Land of Fire, vaguely mentioning how "the Uchiha clan leader led his troops in repelling the attacking enemy, and his Sharingan was renowned for its terrifying power." Grandma's hand, holding the teacup, paused imperceptibly, and she seemed to casually glance at Aoi, who was quietly practicing flower arrangement nearby.
Aoi felt that probing gaze, and her heart nearly leaped from her throat. She forced herself to focus completely on the calamus in her hand, her eyes vacant, childlike, yet focused on the flowers before her. It was as if she hadn't understood what the woman was saying, and even seemed distracted and bored by the adults' dull conversation. Her fingers pruned the branches steadily, without a single tremor.
Grandma's gaze lingered on her face for a few seconds, seemingly noticing nothing unusual. Finally, she slowly shifted her gaze and continued her conversation with the guest. Aoi's back, however, was already drenched in cold sweat. She had successfully transformed a potential provocation into a little girl's natural reaction to boring adult conversation, but the danger within was only apparent to her.
The nights were the hardest. Lying alone in the darkness, she could finally relax from the disguises and tense nerves she had worn during the day. Memories of the future replayed frantically in her mind like an uncontrollable silent film: the earth-shattering battle at the Valley of the End, the founding of the Hidden Leaf Village, the Nine-Tails Rebellion, the Uchiha clan's demise amidst suspicion and conspiracy, the smoke of the Fourth Shinobi World War... and Uchiha Madara's paranoid, mad, yet incredibly tragic end.
She knew too many secrets that could overturn the world, yet she could say nothing, could do nothing. This vast information gap and sense of powerlessness tormented her deeply. She could only suppress these secrets deep in her heart, like sealing a ferocious tailed beast that could break free at any moment and bring devastating consequences.
She began consciously using her identity as a "studious" noblewoman as a cover. She showed a keen interest in books, particularly asking her grandmother for books on history, geography, local customs, and folklore. Her grandmother welcomed her, believing it was a positive path to cultivating her character and broadening her horizons, and generously opened her home library to her.
Aoi eagerly devoured these orthodox books, striving to fill in the gaps in her understanding of the common sense of the era, making her words and actions more grounded and less prone to error. At the same time, she carefully avoided any sensitive content that might trigger associations or involve ninjas, chakra, or the secrets of the major families, choosing only the most "safe" reading materials.
She tried hard to play the role of a motherless, somewhat timid little girl struggling to adapt to her new environment and yearning for recognition. Using kindness, silence, and the occasional touch of clumsiness as a protective hue, she concealed the modern-minded Uchiha Aoi, who knew countless secrets of the future, deep within the body of a five-year-old child, hidden beneath the eaves of this magnificent aristocratic house.
The process was exhausting, like walking a tightrope on a precipice. She often felt an indescribable loneliness late at night, as if she was the only one in the world stumbling forward with this heavy and dangerous secret.
But she knew it was the only way to survive. In this seemingly peaceful, yet in reality rigidly hierarchical, omnipresent aristocratic cage, if her secret were exposed, she would not be met with understanding or curiosity, but with unpredictable fear, rejection, or even death. The "ordinary" life her mother had sacrificed for her must not be destroyed by her own negligence.
After wearing the mask for so long, she almost believed it was her true self. Only the cold, rough stone in her palm silently reminded her, through countless late nights, where she came from, who she was, and what she carried.
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