Renjiro moved toward the door, his steps careful, deliberate. The chakra field guided him, brushing against the doorframe, the handle, the wooden surface. He reached for the handle, his fingers closing around the cool metal.
Then—Knock. Knock.
He froze.
The sound was sharp in the silence, unexpected, unwelcome. His hand hovered over the handle, his mind racing through possibilities. Who would be visiting at this hour? Who would have come to his house without warning?
At this hour…? he thought, his internal voice sharp with alarm.
He expanded his chakra field, pushing it beyond the walls of his house, reaching toward the figure on the other side of the door. The signature was familiar—calm, composed, professional.
Oh, thankfully it's just Saki.
Relief flickered through him, immediately replaced by concern. If Saki was here, something had happened. She wouldn't come to his house without reason.
Internal panic began to set in. He could not let anyone know. Not because he distrusted Saki; she was competent, loyal, discreet, but because of what his condition meant. Many people already knew he possessed Mangekyō Sharingan. Almost nobody knew, apart from Kushina, he had regenerated multiple pairs of Sharingan. And absolutely nobody could learn that he had attempted something beyond Eternal Mangekyō, something that had left him blind and changed his chakra in ways he did not yet understand.
If word spreads, he thought, his internal voice cold with calculation, questions begin. Where did the eyes come from? How did he regenerate them? What was he trying to achieve? Why is he blind?
He imagined the cascade of consequences: the council demanding answers, Danzo seizing the opportunity to discredit him, Minato forced to choose between trust and political necessity. The investigation, the scrutiny, the loss of everything he had built.
I need to hide this, he realised. I need to make her believe nothing is wrong.
His mind raced through increasingly bad ideas.
Idea One: Wrap bandages around his eyes. Rejected immediately. Too suspicious. A Jonin Commander who had just returned from a secret project, suddenly wearing bandages; the questions would be endless.
Idea Two: Pretend illness. Rejected. Too vague. Saki would press for details, would insist on calling a medic. The deception would collapse within minutes.
Idea Three: Claim meditation. Rejected. She had already sensed him approaching the door. He couldn't pretend he hadn't been moving.
Idea Four: Simply refuse to answer. Rejected. Would only increase suspicion. She would assume something was wrong and escalate.
I need something better, he thought, desperation creeping into his internal voice. Something that will make her see nothing unusual.
Then he remembered.
The Transformation Technique. Not on his body; only his eyes. Instead of changing his appearance, he would overlay an image of perfectly normal eyes. A microscopic transformation, essentially cosmetic. It wouldn't fool a skilled sensor for long, but it would pass casual inspection.
He began the technique, channeling chakra toward his eyes, creating an image of healthy, ordinary eyes. The familiar dark irises, the normal pupils, the subtle reflections of light.
I hope this works, he thought, his internal voice carrying the weight of uncertainty. I can't verify it. I can't see if it activated correctly. I can't check pupil shape, chakra reflections, or any of the details that would give me confidence.
He reached for the door handle, his hand steady despite the turmoil within.
He opened the door naturally, his movements practised, his posture relaxed. His chakra field guided him, creating the illusion of normal vision—head turned toward the visitor, eyes focused on her face, expression carrying the appropriate warmth.
Saki stood on the doorstep, her expression composed, her posture professional. She carried a stack of documents—mission reports, appointment requests, administrative paperwork. She bowed slightly.
"Commander Uzumaki," she said, her voice respectful. "I apologise for the late hour. I went to your office earlier, but your clone dispelled unexpectedly. I assumed something urgent happened, so I tracked down the real you."
Renjiro's internal reaction was immediate, sharp.
My clone dispelled? I never dismissed it.
He kept his expression neutral, his voice calm.
"I see. Thank you for bringing the documents. I've been occupied with… personal matters."
Saki handed him the stack of papers. He reached for them, his movements careful, deliberate. His hand found the edge of the stack, his fingers closing around the papers.
That was too far, he realised. I overreached. She might have noticed.
He pulled his hand back, the documents safely in his grip. He forced himself to nod, to meet her gaze, to maintain the illusion of normalcy.
"Is there anything else?"
Saki hesitated—just a moment, just enough to make his internal alarms flare.
"No, Commander. That's all."
She bowed and turned to leave.
Saki walked several meters, her footsteps echoing on the path. Then she glanced back.
Something was wrong. She couldn't identify it—his eyes looked normal, his posture was relaxed, his voice was steady. But something about his eyes felt… off. Not the colour, not the shape, not the pupils. The reflections. They looked flat, as though they weren't truly seeing, as though the light that entered them wasn't reaching anything.
He's exhausted, she reasoned, dismissing the thought. The wedding, the work, the paperwork—he's probably running on fumes. I'm just seeing things.
She continued walking and did not look back again.
The door closed, and Renjiro exhaled.
The transformation had worked—probably. He still didn't know for certain, still couldn't verify, still had to trust that his technique had activated correctly. But Saki had left without raising any alarms.
One crisis averted, he thought, his internal voice heavy with the weight of his secrets. But the day is just beginning.
Then something bothered him. Saki had mentioned his office clone had been dispelled. He never dismissed it. He reached through his memory, trying to recall the moment it would have dissolved.
Nothing.
He checked mentally. The clone that had been maintaining his office duties, gone. The clone that had been monitoring Root activity, gone. The clone that had been refining his commercial support seals—gone. Every long-duration Shadow Clone had disappeared.
And no memories had returned. No feedback, no chakra transfer, no flood of experiences that should have accompanied the dispelling of a clone. Just absence; the blank silence of something that had ceased to exist without leaving a trace.
That's impossible, he thought, his internal voice sharp with alarm. Shadow Clones always return memories. Always. That's how the technique works. If a clone dispels, the original receives everything the clone experienced.
But nothing had come to him. Nothing at all.
He thought back to the last time he had awakened new Mangekyō. That had been years ago, during the war. He remembered the experience vividly; the surge of power, the new pattern, the sense of evolution.
But that had never happened. Back then, clones had remained functional. Memory transfer had worked. Chakra had returned normally. His body had adapted to the new eyes without disrupting the fundamental mechanics of the Shadow Clone technique.
So what changed? He wondered, his internal voice analytical. What's different about this transformation?
He reached one conclusion, the answer cold and inescapable.
Back then, he hadn't been maintaining dozens of semi-autonomous clones across Konoha. He had been a field operative, focused on combat, not administration. His chakra had been stable, his network intact, his abilities predictable.
This time, he thought, my chakra had fundamentally changed. Enough that every clone simply… ceased existing. Without reconnecting.
He stood in the darkness of his living room, the weight of the realisation settling into his consciousness like cold water.
This ritual didn't just change my eyes, he thought, his internal voice carrying the weight of quiet horror. It changed my chakra.
He turned his head toward the preserved jar containing the mysterious new eyes, though he could not see them. The chakra field that was his substitute for vision brushed against the container, feeling the steady pulse of power within.
What have I done to myself?
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