(3rd POV)
"What do you think about her?" Tajima asked, arms crossed and chin slightly raised, as he stood tall before the seated elders, as they were no longer in the fighting scene.
There was an unmistakable glint of pride in his eyes as he watched the backs of his wife and daughter disappear from the meeting hall. His voice was calm, but the smug undertone was impossible to miss.
To most outsiders, Tajima Uchiha was the epitome of stoicism—calculated, cold, a man carved from steel and flame.
But the elders seated before him knew better. When it came to matters concerning his family, that carefully forged armor of dignity often developed cracks—cracks through which a rather embarrassing level of fatherly pride leaked out like steam from an overheated kettle.
The elders exchanged glances, a few already sighing internally because they already knew what would happen since the end of the battle. Here he goes again.
One of them, a sharp-eyed elder named Fukio, was less impressed.
The man leaned forward ever so slightly, folding his hands with the subtle grace of a scholar but the directness of a man unafraid of conflict. "There's no denying her talent," Fukio said, eyes narrowing. "That girl of yours is gifted. Unquestionably so. With your guidance, she might even become the strongest of our clan one day. Perhaps even awaken the Mangekyō Sharingan itself."
"But strength alone isn't everything."
Tajima, who was at first smiling, frowned at the 'but,' then continued listening.
"She'll need a broad mind," Fukio continued, tone measured but firm.
"One capable of understanding more than just jutsu and chakra. We can't afford another incident. Another... departure." He said it with care, but the weight of the word 'departure' was like a blade unsheathed.
Tajima's entire posture stiffened.
"You're talking about—"
"Yes," Fukio said simply. "I'm talking about him."
For a moment, Tajima didn't speak. He didn't have to. His eyes—the very symbols of the Uchiha's cursed power—had shifted.
The three tomoe of his Sharingan spun slowly in his irises, almost converging together, which would have shocked the outside world—but not the few elders present.
"Elder Fukio," Tajima said, voice barely above a whisper but cutting through the silence like a kunai through silk, "I'll let it pass this time. But I sincerely hope this is the last I ever hear anyone within this room, within this clan, even imply that my daughter might one day become a rogue ninja."
He stepped forward. Just once. It was enough.
"A future where Azula walks the path of a traitor," he continued, "is not just impossible—it is insulting. It doesn't exist. And if you're seeing it in your dreams, Elder, then you better start dreaming something else."
The Sharingan glowed faintly, and for a brief moment, Fukio wondered if the very room itself was watching him.
To anyone else, the elder's remark might have seemed like nothing more than a concerned observation, a cautious comment.
But to Tajima, it was worse than a direct curse—worse than blasphemy—because in the long, bloodstained history of the Uchiha, there had been only one man who bore the dishonor of leaving the clan behind—Madara.
And Madara hadn't slithered away like a coward. He had walked out with his head high, proud and unbowed, a storm behind each footstep.
And yet… the wound he left behind still hadn't closed.
Fukio bowed his head, neither flinching nor resisting. "You're right, Tajima-sama. I spoke poorly. My concern got the better of me. I meant no disrespect."
To his credit, the elder wasn't the type to cower. He had seen too much blood in the Warring States period to fear a scolding—even from a man like Tajima. But he did regret the words. They had come from a place of worry, not doubt.
Fukio, unlike the younger, more aggressive hawks of the clan, had become something the children called a dove. He believed in peace—or at least, in its pursuit. After decades of chaos and fire, the founding of Konoha had been a miracle. One he never wanted undone.
The world had changed. The age of clans was over. The era of villages had begun. And in this new world, the Uchiha could no longer afford to act alone, as they once did. If they walked away now, as some believed they should have done with Madara, they would become targets—weak, vulnerable, and maybe even extinct.
It was better to bide their time. Stay, endure, and one day, perhaps, the clan would produce someone who would awaken the Mangekyō, who had Hokage thinking, and who would free the clan.
Tajima understood that. He wasn't blind to the shifting tides. But still… the mere idea of Azula being compared to a deserter...
He exhaled slowly, the pressure in the room fading with his breath. The Sharingan receded, and the calm returned.
Tajima nodded at Fukio, letting the moment pass. But deep inside, the doubt lingered a little, because if there was anyone in the entire clan who might one day turn her back on the village, it wasn't some distant cousin or unknown rebel—it was Azula.
He had raised her. Trained her. Watched her grow from a fierce-eyed baby to the sharp-tongued five-year-old prodigy she was today. And if there was one thing he knew about his daughter, it was this:
She didn't like being told no. She had asked him—sweetly, innocently, dangerously—to teach her the Shadow Clone Technique. He refused. She didn't argue. She didn't complain.
Which, in Tajima's mind, was far more concerning.
She was planning something. He could feel it. Even coming home to find she'd dissected a Kage Bunshin textbook, reverse-engineered the jutsu, and somehow found a way to improve it just to prove a point was somehow possible.
He groaned internally, rubbing his temple.
"That girl is going to be the end of me."
With a resigned sigh, he waved the matter away, choosing mercy over escalation. He changed the subject smoothly.
"Anyway... Sarutobi Hiruzen came to me again," he said, as though casually mentioning the weather. "Wants to take Azula as his disciple."
"Impossible! Absolutely not! This can never be allowed!"
Elder Takana Uchiha, whose pride was currently nursing a black eye after his son Futake got spectacularly beaten by Azula, was the first to slam his metaphorical gavel on the idea.
Of course, what nobody in the room—aside from Tajima—knew was that the entire reason Futake even said Azula was worthy to lead him during the duel… was because Takana had told him to. That's right. He gave Futake a script.
If she holds her own? Compliment her. If she shows signs of winning? Submit to her leadership. If she fails? Step on her.
Ironically, Futake had followed the script like a good little actor… and now Takana was pretending the whole thing had nothing to do with him.
A masterclass in political hypocrisy.
You see, Elder Takana was a complicated man. Not very old—just a few years ahead of Tajima—but very nostalgic. The kind of nostalgia that made everything before breakfast seem like the golden age.
He had witnessed the Uchiha in their prime, back when Madara's shadow was long and glorious. And ever since then, he'd measured everything against that impossible yardstick.
In his mind, strength was everything. Absolute, undiluted power. If you had it, you could walk on water, fly through the air, or punch an elder in the face and still earn a standing ovation.
Hell, if you were strong enough, Takana would worship you. He had no problem bowing to legends like Hashirama or even Tobirama, whose brutal clarity he admired.
But Hiruzen? Hiruzen Sarutobi?
Hah.
Takana wouldn't even spit in his direction unless it was for a jutsu. That man was, in his opinion, the walking embodiment of mediocrity dressed in Hokage robes.
A man who'd once served as Tobirama's personal guard… and didn't even die properly when he was supposed to! Instead, Tobirama had to throw himself into the meat grinder just to save the guy.
Disgraceful.
"If you couldn't even sacrifice your life properly, what kind of Hokage do you make?" Takana once famously grumbled—though never to Hiruzen's face. He was hypocritical, not suicidal.
And as for Kagami? Well, his absence today said everything.
Once celebrated as a prodigy, now conveniently missing during one of the biggest clan decisions since the founding of the village? Tch.
Had it not been for his strength, the clan might've started calling him "That Guy Who Used to Be Important." He was respected, sure—but barely. Not exactly a poster boy for inter-clan diplomacy.
"Elder Takana is right. Hiruzen Sarutobi isn't qualified to lead our heir. That man's shoulders are too narrow to carry our legacy," another elder chimed in.
At this point in history, the village was still a relatively new project—fresh paint, new banners, fake smiles. The illusion of unity hadn't fully taken root yet. Criticizing the Hokage didn't yet brand you a traitor, just someone with... strong opinions.
And strong opinions were the Uchiha's specialty.
Tajima, meanwhile, felt the onset of another headache. The kind of headache that no healing jutsu could soothe—the political kind. He already had a few thousand of them. This one would just be added to the pile labeled "clan drama."
Unlike his peers, Tajima wasn't entirely stuck in the past. He believed in the forbidden art known as communication. Yes, the ancient technique of talking.
Call him a revolutionary, but he genuinely thought many conflicts could be resolved by opening your mouth and using words instead of shuriken.
Sure, he wasn't a Hiruzen fanboy either, but he understood reality. Like it or not, Hiruzen was going to be Hokage. That ship had sailed, the sails had been set on fire, and the wind was already blowing. Resisting it now would just burn your fingers.
"Isn't it better," he thought, "to embrace what's coming and prepare, rather than resist and then regret?"
But even as the head of the clan, Tajima didn't hold absolute power. If he let Azula become Hiruzen's student without proper planning, the backlash could be catastrophic. She might end up like Kagami—ignored, isolated, politely erased from history.
And Tajima wouldn't let that happen.
He sighed internally. Being a clan head wasn't all prestige or pipe-smoking. It was mostly stress, stomach ulcers, and listening to old men argue like his wife kept talking.
Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but authoritative. "I also don't approve of this 'Third Hokage's' little suggestion. But I won't dismiss it either. This isn't a decision we can make with just our pride—we must weigh the risks and rewards."
The room quieted slightly. The elders were warriors, yes—but they were also decision-makers. And Tajima had just tossed them a bone they could chew on: strategy.
Another elder stroked his beard, frowning. "...The benefits would be access to forbidden jutsu. She could learn things the clan has long been locked out of. Unlike Kagami, Azula would even share."
"And if we give her our full support," added another, eyes gleaming, "there's a strong chance she could become the Fourth Hokage. That would give the Uchiha a level of integration and influence we've never had before."
Such a prospect would've made any clan in Konoha—yes, even the eternally stiff-necked Hyuga—laugh themselves awake in the middle of the night from sheer joy.
A chance to secure political favor without shedding blood, a shortcut to influence and security, most would leap at it like starving wolves offered cooked meat.
But of course, this wasn't just any clan. This was the Uchiha.
And the Uchiha didn't do shortcuts. No, no. They didn't compromise, they didn't beg, and they sure as hell didn't dance to another man's tune—even if that tune could save them years of internal strife.
No, the Uchiha did things with style, with honor, and most importantly, with explosive collateral damage if needed. Preferably with fire.
"If she does that," one elder began, his tone cold and logical, his expression grave, "it would mean we have officially accepted Sarutobi Hiruzen as Hokage. That we've chosen to support him—openly, unconditionally. Which might even mean sacrificing something of value to prove our loyalty."
The room went silent, but not for lack of thought. The irony hung in the air like a smoke bomb in a training yard.
"And let's not forget what happened with Kagami," another elder added, stroking his chin like a philosopher, though the smugness in his eyes betrayed the bias in his soul. "He was clearly stronger than Hiruzen, smarter too. But did Tobirama pick him? No. He picked his favorite little monkey boy and told us to clap politely. What guarantee do we have that history won't repeat with Azula?"
The others murmured in agreement, each one nodding like wise men... wise men who somehow thought refusing a chance at peaceful influence made them more dignified. Because obviously, the Uchiha ideal of diplomacy was 'win or burn everything down.'
"We're the Uchiha," one elder added proudly, chest puffed like a peacock in a firestorm. "We take power through merit, through strength. We don't grovel for scraps from someone else's table. We build the damn table."
Tajima simply sighed. Deeply. The kind of sigh that came from a man who knew he was surrounded by brilliant shinobi but possibly hopeless politicians.
It was clear they had made up their minds—and once Uchiha had set their minds on something, even the Sage of Six Paths might've needed a PowerPoint presentation, three resurrections, and a divine slap to change it.
If they weren't supporting the Hokage, then by Uchiha logic, that meant they were against him. There was no middle ground, this wasn't the Hyuga clan, where neutrality could be dressed up as noble silence. The Uchiha didn't sit on fences. They either ruled the village or watched it burn.
Seeing their resolve, Tajima gave a resigned nod. "Very well. Azula will continue her education within the clan. Judging by her current strength, the Academy has nothing left to teach her. She'll graduate within the year."
With the main topic of debate settled (or rather, set aside), the elders transitioned seamlessly into their usual marathon of clan matters.
From D-rank mission allotments to patrol rotations, from the best blacksmith for shuriken to whether someone's cat was secretly a spy—everything was on the table. Because when it came to Uchiha meetings, no detail was too trivial, and no opinion went unargued.
By the time they finally wrapped up, the sun had shifted high in the sky. It was nearly noon.
And even then, they didn't stop because they had run out of things to say.
They stopped because—well—humans have this pesky need to eat.
After all, these were the Uchiha. A clan so passionate, so stubborn, and so opinionated, that putting more than two of them in a room automatically generated ten conflicting philosophies and at least one shouting match.
So yes, the meeting ended.
Unfortunately for Tajima Uchiha, the title of 'Infinity Headache' was not just poetic exaggeration—it was his life.
After enduring the migraine-inducing torture known as a clan meeting, he returned home to face the other half of his eternal torment: Azula Uchiha.
His dear, sweet, innocent five-year-old daughter… whose angelic smile was more terrifying than any battlefield. That tiny curve of her lips, that gleam in her eyes—it didn't radiate purity; it radiated mischief.
That was the kind of smile that could make a man wake up at night in a cold sweat, wondering which booby trap she'd "experimented" with today.
Tajima's eyes drifted to his wife, the only woman capable of soothing his storm-tossed soul.
For a fleeting moment, he considered pleading for help—just a desperate little nod, a subtle "please remove this child from my vicinity before my blood pressure explodes"—but his Uchiha dignity strangled the idea in its cradle.
He was the Patriarch, the pillar of the clan. Pillars did not beg for mercy in front of their five-year-old daughters, no matter how demonic those daughters might be.
Azula tilted her head, observing him with those sharp little eyes. She could sense that her father was acting… weird. But she decided it wasn't worth much thought. After all, this was the Uchiha clan.
Every adult here seemed like they were permanently suffering from mood swings. In her previous life, she'd had a girlfriend who hit menopause early—and honestly, these people weren't far off.
Before Azula could unleash whatever question or outrageous demand she'd been cooking up, Tajima did something shocking. Something legendary. Something he never did.
He spoke first.
"Azula," he said in his calm, mountain-stable tone, "the Third Hokage wishes to take you as his disciple. What do you think?"
For him, it was a clever tactical strike. There was no way a five-year-old could resist the allure of becoming the Hokage's personal student.
With luck, she'd forget all about pestering him to teach her forbidden jutsu—like the Shadow Clone Technique she'd been eyeing with the persistence of a starving wolf.
Any normal child would squeal, jump up and down, and start bragging about becoming a future Hokage.
Azula… did not.
Instead of joy, her face showed surprise and deep suspicion.
It was the exact same expression she'd worn the day she "accidentally" found his secret stash of explosive tags.
Just remembering what she'd done with them made Tajima's left eye twitch. He still hadn't fully recovered from discovering a perfectly rigged tripwire on the clan training ground.
His hand trembled ever so slightly as his wife, in her infinite mercy, passed him a cup of tea. She alone knew exactly what he needed to maintain his legendary composure. He took a slow, calming sip.
Then Azula opened her mouth.
"Hmm… Does that mean Grandpa Monkey wants to make sure the Uchiha don't rebel in the future? Or is he trying to bribe me with candy and jutsu so I'll spy on you, old man?"
Tajima choked. Tea exploded from his mouth in a glorious spray, misting the table and almost hitting the wall. His Uchiha dignity died a silent death as he coughed, trying to reclaim the air in his lungs.
His wife covered her mouth, pretending to be horrified, but her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
(END OF THE CHAPTER)
By the way, do you think she should became a Jinchuriki or not? I'm honestly more interested in this but then, I saw many readers don't like mc having some living being inside him nowadays and don't forget to vote 🙏