The Konoha hospital greeted them, as always, with the sharp scent of sterility—a mix of antiseptics and medicine that filled their lungs and made their noses sting. The whiteness of the walls was almost blinding, and the floor shone as if it had been scrubbed with obsessive care. Everything looked flawless, but beneath that polished surface hid a quiet tension—visible in faces, gestures, and the clipped tones of the staff. They moved like they were walking through a minefield, avoiding eye contact and speaking only when absolutely necessary.
"Itachi said," Fugaku remarked quietly, without slowing his pace, "that Tsunade runs the hospital now. Yells at everyone, and if someone talks back—she hits them."
Mikoto nodded, her eyes fixed on the hallway ahead.
"A miracle the building is still standing," she muttered.
They didn't linger on the ground floor. Without a word, they turned right past the reception desk and took the stairs to the second level. Here, unlike the bustling first floor, everything felt eerily quiet.
Today, Mikoto looked different. Not like a caring mother or a homemaker. She wore a black, form-fitting shirt with the bright Uchiha clan symbol on the back. A dark knee-length skirt, tall boots, and a belt with a sword strapped to her hip. Kusanagi. She looked fierce, almost militant—yet strikingly feminine. It was impossible not to stare.
"You look just like you did when we first met," Fugaku said, glancing at her from the side. "Back then, you also preferred black. And always had a weapon on you."
"I'm tired of being seen as just a housewife," Mikoto replied without turning her head. "The sword is a reminder—I'm still a kunoichi."
She could have hidden the blade inside her body—Orochimaru's old techniques made that possible. But flaunting her snake-like abilities would've been unnecessary.
The left wing of the second floor was completely sealed off. Signs were posted on the doors: Do Not Disturb, Medical Staff Only, Patient Under Observation. An entire floor for one patient.
Sarutobi Hiruzen.
According to Itachi, he had refused all special treatment. Said all he needed was a basic mattress and a few books. But Tsunade didn't care about his opinion.
A nearby door burst open with a bang.
Tsunade stormed out holding a clipboard of test results. Her expression twisted with rage, her eyes blazing. She wore a green haori over a grey vest.
But the moment she spotted the approaching Uchiha, she froze in place. Her face contorted almost instantly.
"Who let you in here?!" she barked, storming toward them. Her eyes burned like a wild animal's. "This is a restricted area! Get out before I throw you out myself!"
Fugaku said nothing. He didn't even blink. Mikoto only raised one eyebrow slightly. A familiar scene. Unable to save her old sensei, Tsunade had turned her grief into anger—and now took it out on everyone around her.
"I'll throw you so far you'll land in the Land of Iron!" Tsunade shouted, raising a fist and closing the distance fast.
What happened next was too quick for an ordinary eye to follow.
Mikoto's Sharingan flared to life. In the next instant, her hand shot to Kusanagi's hilt. The blade gleamed as it traced a clean arc through the air—fast, precise, flawless. It sliced through the space right in front of Tsunade's face.
Despite her lightning-fast reflexes, Tsunade barely managed to flinch back. But even that wasn't enough.
As she struck, Mikoto's arm stretched unnaturally for a split second—then snapped back to normal. Orochimaru's techniques were still with her.
A thin red line appeared across her forehead, exactly centered. The steel hadn't touched her—only the violent air pressure from the strike.
Tsunade froze.
"You bitch," she hissed, a vein pulsing on her temple. "I'm going to—"
"Look at the sword," Mikoto said calmly.
Tsunade looked down. And understood everything at once.
It was the legendary Kusanagi. The most dangerous blade known—able to cut through steel. Any wound it inflicted was fatal. One stab was enough—not even a Senju's regeneration could save you.
Silence followed.
Then Tsunade slowly ran her fingers over the line on her forehead. One millimeter more—and that would've been the end. She knew exactly how easily Mikoto could've killed her just now.
Mikoto slid the sword back into its sheath. The Sharingan faded, as if it had never been there.
"If you charge at someone," she said, looking Tsunade directly in the eye, "be ready to die."
Tsunade stood in silence, her fists clenched so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. Rage pulsed off her in waves, but beneath it—there was already a flicker of fear. And maybe… respect.
"What's going on here?" came a hoarse voice from behind Tsunade.
Hiruzen stepped out of the room. He looked like death was standing right behind him, simply waiting for him to stop resisting. Hunched over, his skin a sickly, earthy color, he moved slowly, gripping both sides of a walker for support.
"Jonin Uchiha Mikoto reporting to her Hokage," Mikoto said crisply, stepping forward. "Your order has been carried out. Orochimaru is dead."
True, unguarded surprise flickered in the old man's eyes. But it was quickly replaced by something harder—his wrinkled face tensed, jaw tightened, and a sharp focus returned to his gaze.
"Come with me," he said at last, turning and shuffling slowly back into the room.
"Sensei, unauthorized personnel aren't allowed in there!" Tsunade called out, starting after him—but Hiruzen gave no reply.
Fugaku followed, walking beside Mikoto. His wife had changed. The battle with Orochimaru, the awakening of the Mangekyō, those days on the edge of life and death—they had stripped away something. She no longer waited for his approval. No longer searched his eyes for guidance before acting. She simply acted. With certainty. Without hesitation.
What Fugaku felt toward her now wasn't just respect—it was something stranger, rarer: admiration. She had found her will, her resolve, and he could see it. And damn it, he liked it.
Hiruzen, meanwhile, had climbed onto the bed with the awkward slowness of the very old. Every movement looked painful. But once lying down, he seemed more composed.
"My apologies for the indecent appearance," he rasped. "Well then, Mikoto—tell me. How did it happen?"
"Orochimaru set a trap. I was the target—as a suitable vessel," she said calmly. "He was clearly expecting a quick capture. But I was ready…"
Each word was measured. She was delivering a version of the truth she had polished to perfection—one that couldn't be challenged.
Hiruzen listened in silence, nodding occasionally.
In the corner of the room, Tsunade stood with her fists clenched, her frustration growing with every moment. She was seething. But no one paid her any mind.
"…and so, Orochimaru is dead," Mikoto finished.
"I confirm her account," Fugaku added dryly.
Hiruzen let out a thoughtful hum. His brows furrowed, and he sank into a long silence. His lips moved slightly, as if tasting the air for lies.
"You say you burned the body," he said slowly, his eyes drilling into Mikoto. "No offense to your skills… but Orochimaru is as slippery as a snake."
"I made sure personally," Mikoto replied, her voice softening just slightly into a smile. "But I have proof. The one who kills the wielder of Kusanagi becomes its new master."
She gently drew the sword from its sheath—and released it.
The blade did not fall. It hovered in midair, suspended just above the floor. Then, slowly, it drifted back into Mikoto's waiting hand.
Hiruzen watched in silence. And in that moment, something shifted in his expression—bitterness, pain… perhaps even guilt. He had truly hoped, right to the end, that Orochimaru could be redeemed. That some part of his morality might still be revived. Foolish, maybe. But sincere.
He closed his eyes for a moment, took a long breath, then opened them again.
"Jonin Uchiha Mikoto," he said in his official voice, "your mission is recognized as complete. S-rank. Payment will be made according to protocol. You are also officially awarded the bounty for eliminating Orochimaru, per the Bingo Book."
"Understood," Mikoto replied with a brief nod. But she didn't leave. "However, there's another reason I came."
She raised Kusanagi slightly, angling the blade so it caught a shaft of sunlight breaking through the window. The light reflected off the metal, dancing on the walls.
"When I claimed the sword, an instruction entered my mind. Kusanagi can not only inflict curses—it can remove them."
Hiruzen frowned but began unbuttoning his hospital shirt.
A monstrous wound marred his body, black veins branching from it like spider legs burrowing deep into his flesh.
Mikoto stepped forward without hesitation and touched the edge of the blade to the wound.
Kusanagi flared with a pale blue light. From Hiruzen's body rose a thin wisp of black smoke—almost invisible. It writhed like a snake… and was instantly sucked back into the blade.
The old man jolted as if struck by lightning. For a moment, his face twisted—not in pain, but in relief. He exhaled sharply, like his lungs had filled with air for the first time in days.
The black veins on his body began to fade. Color returned to his skin. Hiruzen's eyes cleared.
"It's done," Mikoto said calmly and slid the sword smoothly back into its sheath.
"Step aside!" Tsunade barked, pushing forward. She placed her hands on Hiruzen's chest, pale green diagnostic chakra flaring from her fingertips. "Incredible..." she whispered in disbelief. "The curse is gone. Not even a trace remains..."
"Looks like I'll live a little longer," Hiruzen rasped as he rose from the bed. He stood on his feet, swaying slightly like an old tree in the wind, but his gaze was sharp. "I never dreamed I'd live to see my grandchildren become adults..."
"Lie down!" Tsunade snapped, burying any sentiment under sheer authority. She shoved him back into bed. "Don't play the hero. You nearly died! You're not leaving this hospital yet. We need a full examination... And you two!" She whirled on the Uchihas, pointing at them like a sword. "Out of my hospital!"
Fugaku and Mikoto didn't even blink. They left with the kind of poise that made it obvious they were the reason the Hokage was still breathing. Which, frankly, they were.
"We'll talk later," Fugaku said as they reached the door.
Hiruzen nodded, watching them go.
///
They walked through the streets of Konoha under the warm sun. The village was lively. Passersby cast curious glances at Mikoto's sword, but no one asked questions. Not yet. Once the Hokage announced that she had killed Orochimaru, those looks would change. Her name would be remembered.
"Why did you go after Tsunade?" Fugaku asked without stopping.
"I didn't go after her," Mikoto corrected him, a hint of satisfaction in her voice. "I put her in her place. Long overdue, really."
A small smirk appeared on her lips, a mix of memory and steel-hard resolve.
"I knew her when we were young," she continued. "Tsunade always flaunted her heritage—Hashirama's granddaughter, entitled to everything. Once, she even beat up Kushina—just because she was in a bad mood. Did the same to me, too."
For a brief moment, Mikoto's expression darkened, a flicker of old resentment in her voice.
"Actually," she turned her head toward her husband, "I learned how to deal with people like her from you, darling."
Fugaku raised a brow slightly.
"When they snarl at you—bite their throat," she explained with tender cruelty. "Remember the Raikage? He threatened, stomped, barked like a rabid dog. And you walked into his house and broke his spine. Kumo hasn't made a sound since."
Fugaku nodded curtly. He took no pride in violence, but he appreciated clarity—and results.
"And you also taught me not to leave things to chance," Mikoto added. "Now our son works in that hospital. And after today, that rabid cow will think twice before yelling at Itachi."
A faint, approving smile tugged at Fugaku's lips. He liked this version of Mikoto—strong, confident, decisive. Much more than the woman who used to live in his shadow.
///
Home greeted them with the aroma of stewed meat, fresh rice, and vanilla cookies. It was warm. Lived-in.
"Welcome home, honored owners," said elderly Uruchi with a bow at the door. Behind her, her husband could be seen in the kitchen, fixing the sink.
After the last family council, it had been unanimously decided: Mikoto no longer handled the household. From now on, Uruchi and her husband—trusted, seasoned members of the clan—took care of domestic affairs.
"Mom! Dad!" came the thundering footsteps and joyful voices. Sasuke, Itachi, and Shisui burst into the hallway, nearly bumping into each other.
"How did it go?" Shisui was the first to speak, eyes sparkling. "Did the Hokage see you?"
"Everyone knows the old man has a soft spot for pretty women," Mikoto spun playfully in place, her skirt lifting slightly with the motion. "How could he say no to someone like me?"
She now spoke to the children with ease, no longer bound by rigid clan formality. Her voice was light, self-assured. There was no longer a trace of stiffness—just a real woman in the room.
"I got the reward. Mission was confirmed as S-rank," she added more calmly.
Shisui laughed and they slapped palms.
"You didn't run into Tsunade, did you?" Itachi asked, eyes narrowing.
"Oh, we crossed paths. She even tried to take a swing at me," Mikoto admitted offhandedly.
A brief silence fell. Sasuke froze with his mouth open.
"You seriously think," Mikoto continued, "that a drunk with fifteen years of experience could be any match for me?"
She scoffed, clearly pleased with herself.
"Right now, Tsunade's probably sulking in a storage closet, washing down her defeat with sake," she finished with a smirk.
Itachi allowed himself a faint smile. He liked this version of his mother—strong, fierce, confident. A mother no one would dare to insult. A mother who could stand up not just for herself, but for all of them.
"And what about you, young man?" Mikoto narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms, looking at Sasuke. "Did you practice the flute like I asked?"
"I'm not interested in that, Mom," Sasuke groaned dramatically and rolled his eyes. "I want to be a shinobi, not a musician."
Mikoto crouched down in front of him, placed her hands on his shoulders, and looked him straight in the eye. Her voice was gentle but firm.
"Music is part of your full development. And besides—musical notes are used in auditory genjutsu. It's not a toy, it's a tool."
Sasuke frowned, but a spark of curiosity lit up in his eyes like a struck match.
"Really?" He straightened up. "Then I'll start practicing after lunch!"
Fugaku watched silently. He wasn't exactly a fan of mandatory musical training, but he had no objections—especially now that Mikoto had taken charge of some of the parenting with confidence. She used to defer to him on everything, treating his word as final. Now, she made her own decisions.
"Food's ready!" Uruchi called from the kitchen.
Everyone drifted toward the table. The meal wasn't just delicious—it was homely in the warmest sense of the word. The aroma of steamed rice, braised vegetables with meat, and a light broth filled the air. Uruchi's hands were skilled—and truth be told, her cooking was on par with Mikoto's. The best part? Mikoto now sat at the table not as a tired housewife, but as an equal. As someone free.
///
A few days later, Fugaku went to the hospital alone. He made his way to the inner courtyard, where the soft sun gilded the gravel and the breeze rustled gently through the leaves.
Hiruzen sat on a bench under a tree, leaning on a cane. His face looked tired, but at peace.
"My body hasn't fully recovered," he said calmly, without looking at Fugaku. "Tsunade says if I were younger… Well, don't expect any more monkey-style acrobatics from me."
He chuckled—not bitterly. This was a man who had long accepted his old age and needed no sympathy.
"But I'm grateful to your wife," he added after a pause. "She gave me a few more years—to see my grandchildren grow. That's far more than I deserve."
He leaned back on the bench, looked up at the sky, and fell silent for a moment.
"Well, enough of an old man's rambling. You didn't come here just to listen. What did you want to talk about, Fugaku?"
Fugaku quietly sat down beside him. He waited a few seconds before speaking, his tone calm, without drama.
"I want to apologize for hitting you."
Hiruzen slowly turned his head and stared at him like Fugaku had suddenly grown a boar's snout instead of a face.
"You let Orochimaru go because you believed you could bring back his humanity," Fugaku continued, not meeting the old man's gaze. "You believed that until the very end. That was a weakness. A foolish, selfish weakness. If you truly wanted to save him, you would've locked him up, watched him, worked with him—hours, days… But instead, you let him go."
Fugaku clenched his hands.
"But I understand. Killing someone you love… it's almost impossible. I should've accounted for that. I should've never let you be alone with Orochimaru. And then… you wouldn't need a cane now."
He stood up. He didn't want to sit any longer. Everything that needed to be said had already been said.
"Wait," Hiruzen's voice stopped him.
The old man slowly rose to his feet, leaning on his cane. His movements were careful, but the light in his eyes burned bright again.
"Now listen to me. Do you know why Tobirama chose me?"
Fugaku waited in silence.
"Because I was willing to sacrifice myself. Because I wasn't afraid. Because I loved Konoha more than I loved myself." He stood tall. "And now… I choose you. Because you're carved from stone. But there's still a man alive inside that stone."
He smiled — an old, wise, slightly melancholy smile.
"Six years ago, I had doubts. I saw a warrior, a strategist, a leader — but not a protector. But since then, you've helped Naruto, Might Duy, you fund genin missions every single day, and you didn't let me die, even with everything between us. I see now you're not only someone who swings a sword, but someone who can stand as a shield. You can be Hokage."
"Are you sure?" Fugaku asked softly, but firmly.
"Absolutely," Hiruzen placed a hand on his shoulder. "I don't know if Konoha will love you or fear you. But I know this — you're the one who walks in darkness and still brings forth light. Maybe… you'll be the best of us."
They stood in the warm sunlight, like two figures from different eras. One stepping away, the other stepping forward. An old leader passing the torch — not by protocol, not by order, but by faith.
/////
Author notes:
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