The morning sun filtered through the shoji screens of the Uchiha compound, casting soft patterns on the tatami mats of Akira's room. He knelt before a low wooden table, a scroll of basic fire-style jutsu unrolled before him. His fingers traced the inked diagrams, but his mind was elsewhere, tangled in the web of futures he'd seen in the *Naruto* visions. The weight of those images, blood-soaked streets, Itachi's cold eyes, Sasuke's screams, pressed against his chest like a stone. He exhaled slowly, forcing his focus back to the scroll. Knowledge was his weapon, but without skill, it was useless. And skill took time he didn't have.
Three months. The words echoed in his mind, a relentless countdown. Three months until the Uchiha Clan would be erased, and Akira Uchiha would be nothing more than a forgotten name. He clenched his fist, the single-tomoe Sharingan flickering briefly in his eyes before fading. He wasn't ready, not physically, not mentally, he had no choice. The visions had given him a chance, and he would claw his way to survival, no matter the cost.
A soft knock at the door broke his thoughts. "Akira?" His mother's voice, gentle but tinged with concern, drifted through the screen. "You've been in there all morning. Breakfast is ready."
Akira forced a smile into his voice, though his heart wasn't in it. "Coming, Kaa-san." He rolled up the scroll, tucking it beneath his bed with a practiced motion. He couldn't let his parents see his obsession, not yet. They'd ask questions, and Akira wasn't ready to lie to their faces. Not when the truth was so much heavier.
He slid the door open and stepped into the main room, where the scent of miso soup and grilled fish filled the air. His mother, Hana, stood by the low table, her dark hair tied back, her eyes warm but searching. She had the quiet strength of an Uchiha woman, tempered by years of living in a clan that demanded perfection. Across from her, his father, Taro, sat cross-legged, polishing a kunai with a cloth. His broad shoulders and stern expression marked him as a typical Uchiha warrior, loyal to the clan but quick to anger at the village's slights.
"You're late," Taro said without looking up, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Training starts soon. You can't keep lagging behind, Akira. The clan expects better."
Akira nodded, taking his place at the table. "I know, Tou-san. I'm working on it." The words were automatic, a shield to hide the storm in his mind. He couldn't tell his father that he wasn't just training to meet expectations, he was training to outlive them all.
As they ate, the conversation turned to clan matters, as it always did. Taro's voice grew sharp as he spoke of the village's latest restrictions on the Uchiha police force, of whispers that the Hokage suspected the clan of disloyalty. Hana's responses were measured, calming, but Akira could see the tension in her posture, the way her fingers tightened around her chopsticks. They didn't know the full truth, about Danzō's schemes, about the coup simmering in the clan's heart, about Itachi's impossible burden. But Akira did. And that knowledge made every bite of rice taste like ash.
He listened in silence, his mind racing. The Uchiha's pride was their strength, but it was also their weakness. It blinded them to the danger closing in, made them easy prey for manipulation. Akira's first move had to be subtle, a ripple that would grow into a wave. He needed allies, not just to fight but to sow doubt, to fracture the clan's reckless path toward rebellion. And he needed to start small.
---
The training grounds were a short walk from the house, nestled in a clearing surrounded by towering pines. The air was thick with the sounds of effort, grunts, the clash of steel, the crackle of fire jutsu. Young Uchiha trained under the watchful eyes of their elders, their Sharingan spinning as they sparred or practiced forms. Akira stood at the edge, his kunai in hand, watching his cousin Kenta dominate a sparring match against another teenager. Kenta's movements were fluid, his two-tomoe Sharingan tracking every feint and strike. He was everything Akira wasn't: strong, confident, a rising star in the clan.
But Akira didn't need to match Kenta's strength. He needed his loyalty, or at least his doubt.
"Hey, Kenta!" Akira called, waving as the match ended. Kenta turned, wiping sweat from his brow, his expression a mix of annoyance and curiosity. He strode over, his taller frame casting a shadow over Akira.
"What do you want, kid?" Kenta asked, his tone sharp but not cruel. "You're supposed to be training, not standing around."
Akira shrugged, forcing a sheepish grin. "I was watching you. That last move, the way you used your Sharingan to predict his shuriken, how do you do that? I can barely keep up with one tomoe."
Kenta's chest puffed slightly, his pride stoked. "It's not just the eyes, Akira. It's instinct. You'll get there if you stop daydreaming and actually train."
Akira nodded, his expression earnest but his mind calculating. Flattery was the first step; pride was Kenta's weakness. "Yeah, you're right. I just… I get distracted sometimes. I overheard some elders talking last night, about the village. They sounded worried. Like maybe the Hokage's watching us too closely."
Kenta's eyes narrowed, the crimson of his Sharingan fading as he focused on Akira. "What do you mean, 'watching us'? The village always has its nose in our business. What did they say?"
Akira hesitated, as if reluctant to share, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Just… stuff about spies. Like maybe someone in the clan's talking to the Hokage's people. I don't know, it's probably nothing." He looked away, feigning nervousness, but he watched Kenta's reaction from the corner of his eye.
The older boy's jaw tightened, his gaze drifting to the other Uchiha training nearby. "Spies, huh? That's not nothing. If someone's betraying the clan…" He trailed off, his hand clenching into a fist.
Akira hid a smile. The seed was planted. Kenta was loyal, but he was also paranoid, quick to suspect others. A few more whispers, a few more carefully timed comments, and Kenta would start questioning the clan's unity. Doubt was a slow poison, and Akira would wield it like a master.
---
That evening, Akira slipped away from the compound, his footsteps silent as he moved through the shadowed streets. The visions had shown him something valuable: a hidden cache of Uchiha scrolls, tucked away in a shrine beneath the Naka River's bridge. If he was going to survive, he needed more than basic jutsu. He needed the clan's forbidden techniques, the kind only the elders knew about.
The shrine was small, half-buried in moss and vines, its entrance hidden behind a false stone. Akira's heart pounded as he pried it open, his single-tomoe Sharingan scanning for traps. Inside, the air was damp and heavy, the walls lined with ancient carvings of the Uchiha crest. A wooden chest sat in the center, sealed with a chakra lock. Akira's hands trembled as he channeled his chakra, guided by the visions' knowledge of the seal's pattern. The lock clicked, and the chest creaked open, revealing a dozen scrolls, their edges yellowed but intact.
He unrolled one, his eyes widening at the title: *Fire Release: Dragon Flame Jutsu*. Another detailed advanced genjutsu, techniques that could trap an enemy in their own mind. These were the tools of prodigies, of warriors like Itachi. Akira wasn't a prodigy, but he didn't need to be. He had time, three months, and he had foresight. He would learn these techniques, master them, and use them to carve his path.
As he tucked the scrolls into his tunic, a sound made him freeze, a soft rustle, like fabric brushing against stone. His Sharingan snapped to life, scanning the darkness. Nothing. But the hairs on his neck stood on end. Someone was watching. Itachi? A spy? Or just his own paranoia? He slipped out of the shrine, sealing it behind him, and vanished into the night.
---
Back in his room, Akira sat cross-legged, the stolen scrolls hidden beneath the floorboards. His mind churned with plans. Kenta was the first step, a pawn to spread doubt. The scrolls were the second, a means to power. But the third step was the most dangerous: his Sharingan. The visions had shown him the truth, trauma fueled its evolution. Itachi had awakened his Mangekyō through pain, Sasuke through loss. Akira couldn't wait for fate to break him. He would have to break himself.
He closed his eyes, weaving the hand signs for a genjutsu. The visions had taught him this too: a technique to trap the mind in illusions of its own making. He would create a nightmare, a vision of the massacre, vivid enough to scar his soul. If it worked, his Sharingan might evolve. If it failed, he could lose himself to madness.
His hands stilled, the air around him growing heavy. The room dissolved, replaced by the Uchiha compound in flames. His parents lay lifeless, their eyes staring blankly at the sky. Kenta's body slumped against a wall, blood pooling beneath him. And there, in the center of it all, stood Itachi, his Mangekyō Sharingan glowing like twin moons.
Akira's breath hitched, his heart pounding as the illusion tightened its grip. This was his design, his creation, but it felt real, too real. He forced himself to endure, to feel the pain, the loss, the betrayal. Tears streamed down his face, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.
When the genjutsu finally broke, he collapsed, gasping, his vision swimming. He crawled to a small mirror on the wall, his hands shaking as he looked into it. His eyes burned, and there it was: a second tomoe, spinning slowly in the crimson of his Sharingan.
It wasn't enough, not yet, but it was progress. Akira wiped the tears from his cheeks, his resolve hardening. The massacre was coming, and he would be ready. He would manipulate, deceive, and fight. He would become the strongest, not for pride or vengeance, but because he refused to be forgotten.
Outside, a crow landed on the windowsill, its black eyes glinting in the moonlight. Akira's breath caught. Was it a sign? A warning? Or just a bird? He didn't know. But as he stared into its gaze, he felt the weight of his vow settle deeper into his bones.
"I will not die," he whispered, his voice steady despite the ache in his chest. "And I will not be a nobody."