Inside the Hokage's office, the cherry-red ember of Hiruzen Sarutobi's pipe glowed and faded rhythmically.
On the desk before him lay a pursuit report penned by Kakashi. It had been two weeks since Orochimaru's defection. Kakashi had returned to the village with the unconscious Kinoe, and after receiving treatment, the two shinobi had reached a silent consensus: they did not want Yukimi entangled in the village's darkness.
Consequently, they omitted the details of the Iburi clan. Their report to Danzo and the Third simply stated that they had encountered Orochimaru and his accomplice, 'Shura,' who appeared to have reached a collaborative agreement. Orochimaru had escaped the Land of Fire, Shura had wounded Kinoe, and Kakashi had been bested.
For reasons unknown, the enemy had spared their lives.
Hiruzen did not scold Kakashi; he simply ordered him and Kinoe to recover. His mind was currently occupied with a different chess game: how to wrest control of Kinoe away from Danzo.
By law, the Root was a branch of the ANBU, and Kinoe was a Konoha shinobi bound to the Hokage's orders. But Hiruzen knew the "Will of Fire" deeply—if the boy's heart still belonged to Danzo, moving his body to the ANBU would merely be placing a spy in his own ranks. Shifting a person's loyalty was far harder than shifting their title.
But before he could solve that puzzle, a new one arrived. Uchiha Fugaku, Chief of the Police Force, entered with a fresh investigation report.
"What did you say? 'Shura' was here again?!"
The aged face beneath the Hokage hat contorted in shock. After the initial attack a month ago and Orochimaru's defection, Hiruzen had ordered sensory ninja and the Barrier Team to sweep the village's defenses. They had found and patched several leaks.
And now, the Police Force was claiming Shura had slipped through again!
Was Konoha a public restroom? To be entered and exited at will?
Fugaku chose his words carefully. "The exact timing is unclear. It's possible the evidence was left behind previously and only discovered now by the shop owners."
Fuu—
"Are you certain it was Shura?" Hiruzen's voice drifted through a cloud of smoke.
"On that night, I don't believe any shinobi within the village would have the capability—or the reason—to pull this off." Fugaku's words made the air in the office turn heavy.
Choose one, Lord Hokage: do you suspect a mysterious enemy, or your own people?
"I see. Let the matter rest for now. He returned the money, after all," Hiruzen said, taking a long drag from his pipe. His voice sounded every bit his age.
"Understood, Lord Hokage." Fugaku bowed and exited.
Once alone, Hiruzen stared at the report. What is your goal, Shura? He had once suspected this man was the same masked individual who caused the Nine-Tails tragedy three years ago, the one who killed the Fourth and Hiruzen's own wife, Biwako.
But many shinobi had seen the Sharingan in the fox's eyes that night. Shura, however, had shown no Uchiha traits. Reports from the Hyuga brothers and spies in the Cloud mentioned nothing of the Sharingan—only a swirling, spherical jutsu that bore a haunting resemblance to Minato's Rasengan.
"Troubled times," Hiruzen sighed, walking to the window.
He watched Fugaku's retreating back as the Uchiha Chief walked down the street. And then there is the Uchiha clan... The friction between the clan and the village was reaching a boiling point. If he couldn't soothe their resentment, someone else would surely exploit it.
Hiruzen's brow furrowed into deep crevices.
After leaving the Hokage building, Fugaku walked toward the Uchiha district. Despite being the village's premier clan, they had been relegated to the most remote corner of Konoha.
As he passed a small pier by the river near the compound, he spotted two familiar silhouettes. A short-haired boy was accepting a stick of tri-color dango from a girl.
Itachi and... Izumi? A rare smile touched Fugaku's lips. He didn't disturb them. I wonder if Sasuke will be jealous when he finds out his brother has a girlfriend, he thought, amused. To the Uchiha, who prized "Love" above all else, these family bonds were the source of their strength—and their curse. It was the loss of such bonds that triggered the evolution of the Sharingan.
"Hey, Itachi, how is it? Is it good?"
On the pier, Izumi Uchiha beamed, her eyes sparkling as she waited for Itachi's verdict. Her long black hair slid over her shoulder as she tilted her head. Even at her young age, the beauty mark beneath her right eye gave her a refined grace.
"Yes. It's good." This was the first time someone had treated Itachi to sweets like this. Izumi's warmth was a small crack in the cold wall of his heart. For a boy constantly pondering the meaning of life and death, this simple, innocent affection was a new experience.
Suddenly, Itachi turned his head toward the top of the riverbank. He saw a familiar figure turning to leave.
It looked like Father. Having already awakened his Sharingan thanks to the "help" of Obito—who had killed Itachi's teammates during a mission—his perception far exceeded that of a normal Genin.
"I'm going home now," Itachi said. He placed the half-eaten dango back onto the lotus leaf in Izumi's hand and stood up to leave, his movements almost clinical.
"So heartless," Izumi sighed, watching his lonely back disappear. She wondered if she would ever truly find the key to this boy's heart.
After a while, Izumi finished the dango and started walking home, humming a soft tune. By the time she reached the main gate of the compound, the sun had vanished, and the world was bathed in ink.
Suddenly, a thick, metallic scent hit her nose. Her hair stood on end.
Now a Genin, Izumi's instincts screamed. She drew a kunai from her holster, her two-tomoe Sharingan beginning to spin. She sprinted toward the source of the smell.
"What's happening? Where is everyone?!"
The Uchiha district was deathly silent. Not even a dog barked. She followed the scent into a nearby courtyard and froze at the scene before her.
Two Uchiha elders lay in a pool of blood in the living room. Itachi, now a teenager in her vision, was dragging a three-year-old child from a hidden compartment. A short blade in his hand dripped with fresh crimson.
Then, without a flicker of emotion, he swung the blade.