Renjiro remained perfectly still, his body aching, his senses slowly returning as the shock of the process faded.
He waited for his vision to recover.
Temporary optic shock, he told himself, his internal voice calm, measured.
The ritual overloaded my eyes. They'll recover in a few minutes. I just need to wait. The body always heals. It's just a matter of time.
Seconds passed. Then minutes. His breathing gradually steadied, his heartbeat slowing to a more regular rhythm. He blinked repeatedly, willing the darkness to recede, to reveal the familiar shapes of the laboratory—the workbench, the sealing platform, the shelves of instruments, the jars that had once held his precious eyes.
Nothing changed.
Come on, he thought, a flicker of unease creeping into his consciousness. Recover. Just a little. Any amount of light—anything at all—
He blinked again. Still nothing. The darkness remained absolute, unbroken, complete. There was no differentiation between black and deeper black, no hint of shadow or shape, no suggestion of the world he knew existed around him.
The unease began to tighten into something sharper. He had been blind before—had lived through the gradual deterioration of his Mangekyō during the war, had navigated battlefields with nothing but his other senses and his chakra perception. But that blindness had been a fading, a slow descent into darkness. This was different. This was sudden, absolute, and terrifying in its completeness.
He tried to activate his Sharingan. It was instinctive; the familiar pull of chakra toward his eyes, the subtle shift in perception that had been part of his consciousness for years. He channelled chakra, waited for the familiar sensation, the warmth behind his eyes that signalled the activation of his dojutsu.
Nothing.
He tried again, with more precision, more focus. Still nothing. His chakra simply dissipated, absorbed into the darkness without effect.
A third attempt. Complete silence.
He could not even feel where the Sharingan used to be. The familiar pathways, the channels that had carried chakra to his eyes for so long; they felt empty, dormant, as if they had never been used at all.
Is this permanent? The thought surfaced from the depths of his consciousness. Have I destroyed my eyes completely? Have I blinded myself for nothing?
He forced the thought aside. Panic would not help. Panic had never helped. He had survived worse than this. He would survive this too.
Instead of panic, old habits immediately returned. He slowed his breathing, forced his heart to steady, expanded his chakra field. The laboratory gradually formed in his mind—a three-dimensional map of surfaces and objects, rendered in shades of chakra perception rather than sight.
The workbench. The sealing platform. The shelves of instruments. The fragments of shattered eyes scattered across the floor. The cooling bodies of the barrier seals. The empty jars that had once held the preserved Mangekyō. The lingering traces of chakra that still hung in the air like ghosts of the power that had been unleashed.
I can function like this, he reminded himself, forcing calm into his internal voice. I lived like this during the War after originally losing my Mangekyō. I'm slower than normal. But functional.
He rose slowly, his movements careful, his chakra field guiding him. Each step was deliberate, measured, his hand reaching out to touch surfaces he could not see. The cold stone of the floor gave way to the rough texture of the workbench, the smooth surface of the sealing platform, the sharp edges of the shattered fragments.
He approached the Fourfold Array, his hands reaching out to touch its surface. The seals were cold, inert, their energy spent. The Adamantine Chains had dissolved, their support withdrawn. The medical equipment was silent, its displays dark, its functions exhausted.
He reached toward the fragments of the preserved eyes, one by one. Every eye had become ordinary—no chakra, no spiritual pressure, no Mangekyō signature. Nothing. The vessels remained, but the power had vanished. He could feel the physical structures, the familiar shapes of the eyes, but they were empty shells now—husks that had been drained of everything that made them special.
The Mangekyō weren't destroyed, he reasoned, his internal voice analytical. They were consumed. The process didn't reject them—it exhausted them. Their awakened chakra no longer exists inside those physical eyes. The vessels remain. The power doesn't.
He continued his inspection, moving through the laboratory with careful, deliberate steps. His chakra field brushed against the walls, the shelves, the scattered instruments. Everything was in its place, everything was as it should be—except for the absence of light, the void where his vision should have been.
I need to understand what happened, he thought, his internal voice firm. I need to know if this is permanent. I need to know if I've succeeded or failed.
Then he noticed something unexpected.
At the centre of the array, where the preserved eyes had been arranged, there was a new presence. One pair of eyes. Freshly formed. Immediately different.
He studied them through chakra perception only, unable to see their pattern, their colour, their structure. They felt denser than any Sharingan he had ever encountered; their energy condensed, refined, compressed into something that radiated ancient power. There were no violent fluctuations, no instability, no emotional turbulence.
Just immense, steady power, calm and controlled.
What are you? he thought, his internal voice carrying the weight of years of research. Did the ritual fail? Is this chakra condensation? A new ocular mutation? The Eternal Mangekyō? Or something entirely new?
His scientific side immediately activated, possibilities forming and being eliminated. The chakra signature was unlike anything he had ever encountered—not quite Mangekyō, not quite ordinary Sharingan, not quite anything he had read about in the Uzumaki sealing archives or the Uchiha records or Orochimaru's notes.
Could it be the Eternal Mangekyō? he wondered, his internal voice sharp with cautious hope.
But he could not see the pattern. Could not inspect the tomoe. Could not compare structure. Could not confirm anything visually. He was the world's foremost expert on this ritual—and simultaneously the least qualified person to judge the result.
"I can't even verify my own experiment," he said aloud, a quiet, ironic laugh escaping his lips. "I created something that might be the greatest breakthrough in Uchiha history… and I can't even see it."
He reached toward the eyes, his fingers hovering over their surface.
If these are Eternal Mangekyō, he thought, I need to transplant them. I need to see if they work, if they restore my sight, if they grant the power I've been seeking.
But I can't do it alone. I need help. And the person I trust most is the same person who warned me not to do this in the first place.
The excitement faded, replaced by practical reality. He still had no eyes. Even if those truly were Eternal Mangekyō, they were sitting on the table. Not inside him. He needed to perform the transplantation, but he could not do it himself. He needed someone he could trust, someone who understood chakra anatomy, someone who wouldn't panic, someone who could keep a secret.
He considered his options.
Miwa. The closest person available, living nearby. Family. Absolute discretion. No political complications.
She's familiar with Uchiha ocular anatomy, he thought, his internal voice analytical. She'll immediately notice something impossible. She'll ask questions. She'll want to know what happened.
He dismissed the option reluctantly.
Kushina. The greatest seal master he trusted. Already understood his regeneration ability. Knew enough to assist. Familiar with his chakra network.
She warned me repeatedly, he thought. She explicitly told me to stop regenerating Sharingan. She said it was dangerous, that I was pushing too far, that I was risking everything. She'll immediately realise I ignored every warning. She'll be furious. She'll panic. Worse—she may tell Minato. And once Minato knows, the Hokage cannot unknow something this dangerous.
Long silence.
He sighed.
"I'm going to owe Kushina an explanation…"
Not because she was the safest choice. Because she was the only person capable of helping him transplant the eyes. Because she was the only person he trusted enough to reveal this secret—and the only person who would be able to forgive him for keeping it in the first place.
He carefully sealed away the empty eyes, the Fourfold Array, his research notes, and the shattered remains of the preserved Mangekyō. Everything was catalogued, stored, secured for future analysis. The fragments were placed in preservation jars, their labels carefully written despite his blindness. The array was deactivated, its components stored in sealed containers. The notes were organised and secured.
Only the mysterious new pair remained, carefully preserved in a jar full of chakra fluid, its contents glowing faintly even through his chakra perception. He could feel their power, their presence, and their potential.
He turned toward the laboratory exit, his movements deliberate, his chakra field guiding him. He paused at the threshold, his hand resting on the doorframe.
Let's hope I didn't blind myself for something I can't even use.
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