The heavy, ceramic jar was passed into his waiting hands. Renjiro's fingers, sensitive to the most minute vibrations, traced the smooth, cool surface.
It felt, in every tangible way, like a funerary urn. And in a sense, it was as it contained the ghost of the God of Shinobi, a power that had shaped the world, now condensed into a biological weapon and handed to him as a reward.
He cradled it against his chest, the act feeling both sacrilegious and momentous. The silence in the office stretched, thick with the Hokage's unspoken expectations and his own swirling calculations. Finally, he broke it, his voice carefully modulated into a tone of polite, almost naive inquiry.
"Lord Hokage," he began, tilting his head slightly. "Your gift is… beyond measure. But if I may be so bold, my knowledge is limited. How, precisely, am I to use the First Hokage's cells to restore my sight? The mechanisms of the Mangekyō Sharingan are… esoteric, even to most Uchiha."
He heard the soft, leathery creak of Hiruzen's chair as the old man shifted. A long, slow exhalation followed, a sigh that seemed to carry the weariness of the entire village.
"That… I cannot say with certainty," Hiruzen replied, his voice deliberately measured.
"I am not well-versed in the unique biology of the Sharingan, nor the specific rituals of the Mangekyō. Tobirama-sensei's notes on the subject are… fragmented. The path to restoration is one you will have to walk yourself."
Inside Renjiro's mind, a silent, scathing curse echoed. 'This bastard…'
The thought was instantaneous and venomous. His mental voice dripped with contempt.
'He was the personal student of Tobirama Senju, a man who dissected Uchiha corpses with the clinical fascination of a botanist classifying a new species of venomous plant. The distrust between this office and the Uchiha is built on a foundation of Tobirama's paranoid 'research'. '
The Third Hokage's entire political career had been defined by managing, containing, and suspecting the Uchiha. To claim ignorance now was not just a lie; it was an insulting one.
'There's no way this old man knows less than I do. He knows exactly what this substance can do, and what it might do to me.'
A plan, cold and sharp, formed in his mind. He would test the boundaries of this feigned ignorance. He allowed a note of hopeful confusion to enter his voice.
"I see… perhaps… perhaps I could consult Lady Tsunade? Her mastery of medical ninjutsu is unparalleled. If anyone could understand the cellular integration required, it would be Lord First's own granddaughter."
He felt the minute hesitation in the Hokage's chakra, a flicker of disrupted rhythm, like a skipped heartbeat.
"Tsunade…" Hiruzen said, the name heavy on his tongue. "Her expertise is in healing, not in… ocular Kekkei Genkai. I fear she might not possess the specific knowledge you require either."
'Ridiculous,'
Renjiro's inner monologue sneered. 'A Senju, born of the very lineage that produced these cells, a rival to the Uchiha for generations, and you want me to believe she knows nothing about the pinnacle of our visual prowess? He must be high. Yes, there is no other way to explain this. The tobacco he smoked finally rotted the logic centres of your brain? The lie was becoming transparent, and with its transparency came a new, chilling suspicion.
It unfurled in his mind like a black flower. 'Wait… is this some ploy to get the jar into Uchiha hands?'
The thought was a splash of ice water. The jar wasn't a reward; it might even be a Trojan horse. A political trap. By giving it to him, an Uchiha, Hiruzen was placing a catalyst for chaos directly within the clan compound.
Would it cause a schism as elders fought over it? Would it tempt someone like Fugaku into a disastrous attempt to use it, revealing seditious ambitions?
Or was it meant to be a poison pill, designed to malfunction and cripple or kill its user, neatly eliminating a powerful but troublesome asset? He was holding a box that might contain a miracle or a landmine, and the Hokage was refusing to tell him which.
He decided on one final, direct probe.
"Then, Lord Hokage," he said, his voice dropping, taking on a conspiratorial tone that was entirely fabricated. "My last resort would be the clan's elders. Perhaps with their guidance, and this gift, a path could be illuminated."
This time, the evasion was masterful in its vagueness. Hiruzen did not hesitate.
"The jar is yours, Renjiro," he said, "How you achieve the goal of restoring your sight is your prerogative. Consult whom you must. My only command is that you succeed. Konoha needs your eyes."
The answer was a political masterpiece, and it solidified Renjiro's distrust into a cold, hard certainty.
'I don't trust that old man anymore.'
The realisation was simple and absolute. 'He is playing a game, and I am a piece on the board.'
His mind flashed to Shisui. Shisui, who had been so fiercely loyal, so indispensable, whose power could rewrite reality itself. And yet, the village—through the venomous proxy of Danzo—had consumed him without a second thought. He had been a tool, and when a tool becomes too dangerous or too inconvenient, it is discarded.
No one was safe.
Not Shisui, and certainly not him. This jar might be his test, his crossroads. He would not walk into it blindly, trusting in the benevolence of a system that had already proven its ruthlessness.
He bowed, a deep, formal, and utterly cold gesture. "Thank you for this… opportunity, Lord Hokage. I will not fail the village." The words were ash in his mouth.
"See that you don't," Hiruzen replied, the double meaning hanging in the air between them.
Renjiro turned, the jar held securely under his arm, and left the office. The door closed behind him with a soft, definitive click, separating him from the source of the deception.
He walked down the polished hallway, his footsteps silent, his chakra field tightly coiled around the jar, as if trying to wrest its secrets through sheer force of will.
'I must verify everything myself,' he thought, the resolution a steel spike driven into his mind.
'No optimism. No trust. Assume every word was a lie, every gesture a manipulation.'
The jar seemed to grow heavier, its smooth ceramic now feeling like the carapace of some dormant, dangerous insect.
Back in the office, Hiruzen remained seated in the lingering haze of his pipe smoke. The warm, grandfatherly facade he had maintained for Renjiro melted away, leaving behind the grim visage of the man who had commanded a village through three world wars. The room was silent save for the slow, ticking clock and the faint, distant sounds of the village. The tension was a physical thing, a wire pulled taut.
It was severed by a silent shunshin-crack.
An ANBU operative materialised in the centre of the room, kneeling on one knee. The agent's mask was that of a bear, its painted snout a silent snarl.
"Hokage-sama," the ANBU's voice was filtered, devoid of emotion. "Our deep-cover cell in Kirigakure has successfully exfiltrated their report. The transmission was high-risk; the agent is presumed compromised."
The operative offered a small, tightly rolled scroll that Hiruzen took.
"Dismissed," Hiruzen said, his voice low. The ANBU vanished as silently as it had arrived.
Hiruzen unrolled it, his eyes scanning the cramped, coded script. As he read, the lines on his face seemed to deepen, carved by a new and immediate worry.
He finished reading. The scroll remained open in his hands, the words seeming to burn on the page. He looked up, his gaze piercing through the window, seeing not the familiar rooftops of Konoha, but the mist-shrouded horrors of Kirigakure.
"So the Fourth Mizukage… is Yagura Karatachi?"
He let the implications hang in the smoky air for a single, dreadful second before his voice sharpened into a whip-crack of command.
"Send for Nara Shiba. Immediately."
A shadow from his office then moved.
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