He exited through the back door into the inner courtyard.
The space behind the house was enclosed by high fencing, hidden from sight. Green grass blanketed the ground, and the soft morning sun spilled across it—only the shadow of the second floor roof cut a line through the yard.
The scent of pine and smoke still lingered—Kyūbi's aftermath still clung to the air—but here, in this quiet, tucked-away corner, peace reigned.
He stepped barefoot onto the grass. Closed his eyes. Inhaled deeply.
This body feels different… but in some ways, even better.
He began with simple warmups—jogging along the yard's edge, a series of push-ups, deep squats, rolls.
The muscles responded easily—no pain, no stiffness. As if his body had been waiting to be truly used.
Each motion—a clean strike. Each strain—a flash of strength.
Fugaku was doing one-handed push-ups, each repeating motion sending a powerful, precise wave through his body. One hundred ninety-seven… one ninety-eight… one ninety-nine… two hundred.
He straightened, rose to his feet, and shook out his wrist—casually, almost lazily. Not the slightest burn in his muscles. No tension. His body, warmed from within by flowing chakra, worked like a perfectly tuned machine. Energy moved through his chakra pathways, reinforcing every tendon, every cell.
"So, thirty years again?" he thought with a smirk.
In the shinobi world, one grows up early. Thirteen-year-olds lead squads. Some die heroes at ten. In their eyes, he was a veteran. A little more—and he'd have a place in the cemetery.
He paused, ran a hand over his warmed-up muscles.
And smiled.
"What nonsense!"
His bones were solid. Joints—well-oiled. Skin—smooth, without age spots, without scars. No aching. No dizziness. He was strong. He was ready. He was alive.
This wasn't a sunset. This was the dawn of a second life.
Soon, he would merge the knowledge of Batman with the art of the shinobi. Create something new. Not just deadly—inevitable.
Steel is tempered in fire. And he was still fire.
He stepped into the middle of the courtyard and dropped into a fighting stance. Left foot forward, right one slightly back. Palms open. Knees slightly bent. Center of gravity lowered. And it began.
Sharp palm strikes. Series of straight and side blows. Knee strikes, quick sweeps, shoulder rolls, aerial flips, slowed-down blows to an imaginary enemy. He moved as if fighting an invisible opponent who would not forgive a single mistake.
Every motion precise. Nothing wasted. No showmanship. Only efficiency.
At first, he considered adjusting the flow—after all, he knew more than thirty styles from his past world. But within a minute he realized: there was no need. Everything was already here. The clans had spent centuries refining their techniques. Killing, control, suppression. They had their own versions of capoeira, boxing, jiu-jitsu. All deeply embedded in their traditions and training.
Which meant martial arts alone wouldn't surprise anyone here. He needed weapons. Something to make him unpredictable. Something to restore Batman's advantage—stealth, armor, arsenal.
Fugaku wiped his forehead and headed to the kitchen. A spacious room with clean shelves, a carved wooden table, and the faint aroma of green tea in the air—domestic quiet, so rare in the shinobi world. He picked up a ripe, glossy apple from a woven basket—red like polished glass—and bit into it with a crunch. Sweet juice burst across his tongue.
Then he walked into the living room, toward an old wooden cabinet, and pulled out a thick encyclopedia of medicinal and poisonous herbs.
The cover was cracked, the pages worn, but inside lay a full pharmacy of knowledge.
He returned to the veranda and sat on the warm wooden steps, legs dangling into the cool, dew-wet grass.
In one hand—the apple. In the other—the encyclopedia.
He chewed and read at once, as if it were a ritual: feeding the body and the mind.
For a moment, he closed his eyes and focused.
He sent chakra to the optic nerves—to the place where the Uchiha power slumbered.
A sharp sting lanced through his skull, like someone scraping a nerve with a match. He didn't even flinch.
After the agonies he'd endured in the final years of his life in Gotham—this was nothing.
Then—the flash.
His eyes flared crimson.
The irises turned a sinister shade of blood.
Three tomoe spiraled around each pupil.
The world shifted. Became richer. Sharper. Volumes gained new edges; motion, new dimensions.
He looked up—and on a nearby tree, a spider was spinning its web.
Fugaku could count all eight legs with ease, even spot the microscopic hairs on them.
This was the true weapon of the Uchiha. The Sharingan.
But it wasn't just a visual amplifier.
His brain kicked into overdrive. Information no longer just entered—it was sorted, filtered, processed with merciless precision. In his past life, that had been the job of the Batcomputer. Here—his mind had become one.
Fugaku flipped through pages. Fast. Almost devouring them.
The Sharingan remembered everything—names, leaf shapes, drying methods, dosages.
He was searching for specific plants. Ones that could replace the ingredients of his old world.
He remembered.
Scarecrow and his fear-inducing neurotoxins.
Bane and his Venom formula, swelling muscles like balloons.
The Mad Hatter and his psychoactive tea concoctions.
All of them—weapons he'd once faced. Defeated. Studied.
And all of it could be recreated here.
He smirked. Quietly. Almost childishly pleased.
The utility belt wasn't built yet. But the arsenal—it was already beginning.
And in that moment—a voice:
"Fugaku-sama!"
Fugaku looked up.
Behind the fence, squinting slightly at the sun, stood a young patrol officer from the Konoha Police. Long hair fell over his face, and his uniform hung awkwardly off narrow shoulders. He waved enthusiastically, almost cheerfully.
"You're awake!"
Fugaku instinctively activated the Sharingan.
In a split second, he read everything: shoulder tension, head tilt, microfolds near the eyes, muscle stress in the neck. No threat. All clear.
But then—
He immediately deactivated it. His irises darkened back to ordinary coal-black.
Foolish.
To stare at someone with the Sharingan here was to challenge them—to a duel, or to interrogation.
He nodded back—reserved, expression unchanged. His jaw remained tight, but a flicker of interest passed through his eyes.
"Good morning," he replied calmly.
Fugaku narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to recall the boy's face. Uchiha Inabi. Impulsive. Hot-headed. Recently caused a scene in a bar—got into a fight because Fugaku's name wasn't even brought up during the selection of the Fourth Hokage. A sloppy move, but with a "noble" motive. A typical representative of the new generation—too loud, too careless.
One of those subordinates who caused more headaches than they were worth.
"What are you doing, Fugaku-sama?" Inabi leaned lazily over the fence, staring at the book's cover. "Reading an encyclopedia?"
Fugaku didn't even look up. He bit into the apple. The flesh crunched.
"None of your business," he barked curtly.
Inabi instantly straightened, as if snapped into a salute.
Fugaku gave him no time for excuses. His next question came sharp and cold, with the tone of a man forged in command:
"What was the outcome of the battle with the Kyūbi?"
"You… you don't know?" Inabi blinked, clearly thrown off. "The whole village's been talking about it—"
He trailed off.
Fugaku's stare hit him like a punch to the gut. No anger. No words. Just a heavy, relentless intensity that made you want to disappear.
"I mean—we won," Inabi said more evenly. "The Fourth Hokage… he sealed the Kyūbi. At the cost of his life."
Fugaku looked up. His face remained unreadable.
"Who's in charge of Konoha now?"
"Um… the Third Hokage took over temporarily," Inabi answered, and suddenly his face lit up with a foolish grin. "But now those idiots have to choose you, Fugaku-sama!"
Fugaku gave him another look. Cold. Measured. Piercing. The grin vanished as if it had never been there.
"What's the extent of the damage to Konoha?"
"Half the village in ruins. Lots of casualties. But… our clan's territory wasn't touched at all," Inabi reported crisply—almost expecting praise.
But Fugaku remained silent.
"Half the village in ruins, and you're celebrating that your yard was spared?" he thought.
Fugaku had seen how that ended. There'd been an earthquake in Gotham once—he'd been mayor back then.
He'd watched how quickly hatred surfaced toward those who stayed safe. Jealousy. Suspicion. Rage.
One moment a neighbor, the next—an enemy.
Inabi kept going:
"That's… that's just a rumor, of course," he lowered his voice. "But some shinobi say they saw… a Sharingan in the Kyūbi's eyes at the start of the attack."
Fugaku froze. His face didn't change—but something inside him dropped, cold and heavy.
He had seen it too. The red glow in the beast's eyes.
And he knew what it meant.
Manipulation. Someone from the Uchiha had controlled the Fox.
That meant suspicion. Division. Internal investigation. Pogroms. Maybe even civil war.
"Go," he ordered, rising to his feet. "Gather all police officers at the station. Immediately."
Inabi nodded, stumbled once, and ran off without another word.
Fugaku turned toward the house—toward the cabinet that held the Konoha Police captain's uniform.
The unknown enemy thought himself clever.
But he didn't know that Batman had arrived in Konoha.
/////
Author notes:
If you've made it this far, you're already a hero.
Be a legend — leave a comment and like.
Your thoughts, theories, reactions — even a single emoji — are fuel that keeps me writing.