The world snapped back into focus with the force of Gerold's voice, thick with rage and confusion. "What trickery is this? Did you trip me?"
Kaelen's gaze lifted from the water pail, the reflection of his crimson eyes searing itself into his mind. He was a maelstrom of colliding identities: the earth-born strategist, the scorned noble Kaelen, and now, something more. Uchiha. The name resonated with a power that felt both ancient and brand new.
His heart hammered, but his mind, the strategist's mind, took command. Panic was a luxury. Revelation could be a death sentence.
"You move like a water-snake," Gerold snarled, taking a threatening step forward, his Anima flaring with renewed heat. He was reasserting his dominance, trying to crush the spark of defiance he'd just witnessed. "Have you been hiding some meager skill? Is that where Father's money has gone? To some back-alley tutor?"
Gerold's blue eyes locked onto his. In that moment, instinct and knowledge fused within Kaelen. He knew, with absolute certainty, what he had to do. He didn't look away. He met his brother's gaze, and as he did, he focused his will through the spinning tomoe in his eyes.
He didn't want to harm Gerold, merely to stop him. He dredged up one of the original Kaelen's most potent memories: a moment of utter insignificance, standing alone in the grand hall while his father and brothers received praise, the feeling of being invisible, a ghost in his own home. He pushed that feeling, that absolute sense of nothingness, into his gaze.
Genjutsu.
To Kaelen's Sharingan-enhanced sight, the effect was immediate. The vibrant blue aura of Gerold's Anima wavered, its confident pulse turning erratic. His brother's forward step faltered. The anger on Gerold's face went slack, replaced by a vacant confusion. His eyes unfocused, looking past Kaelen as if he were made of glass. The illusion had taken hold.
Kaelen felt a slight throb of pain behind his eyes, a sharp reminder that this power had a cost. He immediately willed the Sharingan away. The world's colors muted slightly, the hum of ambient energy faded, and his eyes returned to their normal, unassuming black.
He broke eye contact and took a half-step back, forcing a tremor into his hands. "I... I don't know what you mean, brother," he stammered, playing the part of the frightened boy Gerold expected to see. "You stumbled. The floor is uneven."
The spell was broken. Gerold blinked hard, shaking his head as if to clear away a phantom cobweb. He looked at Kaelen, then at his own feet, a flicker of profound unease crossing his features. He couldn't grasp what had just happened; the brief, imposed sensation of non-existence had been too alien for his mind to process.
"Hmph," he grunted, the sound lacking its earlier conviction. "See that you're ready by dawn." He gave Kaelen one last, suspicious glare before turning on his heel and storming out, pulling the door shut with a resounding boom. He would dismiss the incident as a trick of the light, a moment of anger-fueled disorientation. But a seed of doubt had been planted.
The moment the bolt slammed home, Kaelen leaned against the cold stone wall, his legs threatening to give way. He slid to the floor, his mind racing faster than it ever had on Earth.
He was here. This was real. The scorn, the castle, the looming exile. And the eyes... the Sharingan. It wasn't a dream. It was his new, terrifying reality.
He closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to slow. He sorted through the memories, integrating them. The pain of Kaelen von Hess's life was a dull, chronic ache. The knowledge of the 21st-century strategist was a sharp, analytical tool. They were both him now. The pain would not be a weakness; it would be fuel. The knowledge would not be a remnant of a past life; it would be his primary weapon.
He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the room's single, arrow-slit window. He activated the Sharingan again, this time with intent. The world bloomed. He could see the intricate grain of the wood in the floor, the individual fibers in his threadbare tunic, the path of a single spider scurrying along the ceiling. Beyond the window, he could perceive the heat signatures of the guards on the battlements, their Anima pulsing with the slow, steady rhythm of boredom. This perception was a god's-eye view, an unimaginable tactical advantage.
And the Genjutsu... it was the perfect weapon for a man who started with nothing. It required no overt power, no grand gesture. It was subtle, insidious, and utterly incomprehensible to a world that fought with steel and brute spiritual force.
His mind turned to the "punishment" his father had decreed. Blackwood Outpost. Exile. A worthless, rotting fort on the edge of a cursed swamp.
A slow smile, the first genuine smile to grace this face, spread across his lips. It wasn't a cage. It was an escape hatch.
They were sending him away from the capital, away from scrutiny, away from anyone who mattered. They were giving him ten men, a remote location, and complete autonomy. They didn't see it as a command; they saw it as a garbage heap. But a strategist doesn't see a heap of garbage; he sees resources waiting to be repurposed.
The plan began to form, elegant in its simplicity. He would accept the exile. He would travel to Blackwood Outpost. He would assess the ten men assigned to him—their skills, their loyalties, their grievances. Then, using the Cursed Marshes as his cover, a place where patrols were known to vanish without a trace, he and his new retinue would disappear.
Kaelen von Hess, the family's shadow, would die a pathetic, unmourned death in a swamp.
And from that swamp, someone else would rise. He would find a defensible, hidden location. He would use his 21st-century knowledge to build a foundation and his Sharingan to defend it. The von Hess name, with its legacy of scorn, would be left to rot with the body.
He would found a new house, a new clan. A clan built not on inherited glory, but on overwhelming power and absolute secrecy. A clan where his bloodline, his crimson eyes, would be the ultimate mark of nobility.
He turned from the window, his normal dark eyes now holding a glint of cold, crimson resolve. He began to pack his few meager belongings into a rucksack. There was little of worth—a change of clothes, a dull whetstone, a small pouch of coins that constituted his entire fortune. It didn't matter. He was leaving this prison with the only two things he needed: a mind forged in a future world, and the eyes that would build an empire.
The House of Uchiha was about to be born.