Konoha's underground prison stood on the village's farthest edge, like a scar people preferred to forget. The facility was buried beneath the surface—not just by architectural design, but as a symbol. Here, prisoners were stripped of everything, even the sky. All that remained was eternal twilight, the stench of iron and damp stone.
Today, gray skies loomed above this corner of the village. Thick clouds gathered slowly, as if nature itself understood that something was about to unfold—something that deserved the silent blessing of rain.
Fugaku stood at the entrance—a massive wound in the earth, black stone steps descending like a subway tunnel from another life.
Behind him stood three others—his family. Fully armed. Black armor hugged their bodies without restricting movement. Heavy cloaks hung from their shoulders. At first glance, they looked like a squad of shadows. United. But each one was distinct.
Mikoto wore the Kusanagi sword at her hip. She stood tall, her gaze calm, face emotionless—but Fugaku knew the calculating engine inside her was already in motion. Ever since Orochimaru, she no longer hesitated. She knew what she was walking into. And who she was ready to kill.
Shisui had fastened dozens of empty scrolls to his belt and carefully arranged his brushes, ink, and seals. His chakra pulsed like a living organism—he was ready to improvise, to create in the middle of battle. A slight smirk played on his lips, but his eyes were sharp and tense.
Itachi stood a little apart. A medical kit hung at his waist, filled not just with tools to save a life, but to perform surgery if needed—even without an operating room or time. Silent as always, yet Fugaku could feel it: his son was ready. His hands didn't tremble. His mind was sharp as a scalpel. He had grown. Become someone you'd rather have with you in hell than leave behind on the surface.
Fugaku glanced at them all and said, almost casually:
"We don't know what we'll face inside."
He wasn't speaking as a father, but as a commander. A man who understood that what lay ahead could be worse than death.
"What we see may haunt our dreams. Some of us may not come out the same as we entered." He paused. "But there's no turning back. The barrier is sealed."
At that very moment, four bats streaked through the air and took position in the corners around them. A square dome of energy formed between them, slowly flaring to life with a crimson glow. It solidified, shimmering with dense chakra.
"No one escapes. No reinforcements arrive. Space-time techniques are blocked. We're inside—and we don't leave until we get answers."
He looked at them again. Calm, direct, no grand speech:
"Each of you is worth a hundred shinobi. I know that. But what matters more—so long as we cover each other, we are unstoppable."
Mikoto allowed herself a faint smile. Not warm, but respectful. Praise from Fugaku was rare. And if it came, it meant you earned it.
Itachi gave a small nod. No words. But from the slight movement of his lips, Fugaku knew: his son understood. And accepted it.
And Shisui—true to form—broke the tension in his own way.
"Beautifully said!" He flashed a thumbs-up. "And I'll add: 'Smile into the dark—and you'll always find the path to the light.'"
Fugaku didn't reply. But perhaps the corner of his mouth twitched for a split second.
He was the first to step down onto the stone stairs. His cloak followed in a silent wave behind him. Each footfall echoed dully, as if the prison already sensed their approach. Already felt the air shifting. A powerful foreign will cutting through the underground stillness.
In the darkness, Fugaku thought of Hikari and Sasuke. They were with Bat-Kage now, completely safe. Far from this gloom. He knew Danzo would strike back—and strike where it hurt. But no one would take his children. Not ever.
On the first level, past an old corridor armored in steel, began the main checkpoint. At the desk sat a middle-aged shinobi with a vacant expression. He rose lazily when he saw the group—then tensed at the sight of them. His hand reached for his baton.
"Visits to prisoners are forbidden," he recited in a trained voice. "New directive from Danzo. Unauthorized personnel—"
Fugaku was already there.
Their eyes met. That was enough. Chakra surged through Fugaku's gaze and slammed into the guard's mind. The man collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
Without a word, Fugaku picked up the ring of keys.
They moved forward.
A massive door stood ahead, covered in sealing tags, but the key slid easily into the lock. With a dull click, the fuin responded. And then—everything broke loose.
Screams.
Muffled, piercing, feral. Screams of pain breaking into rasps, then back into howls. A wave of stench—blood, rot, something chemical and caustic—burst outward like a curse freed from its cage.
Behind the door was not just a room. It was a nightmare frozen in reality.
The first level of the prison had been transformed into a torture chamber. Dozens—no, hundreds—of tables. People bound, mutilated, barely alive. Beside each one stood an executioner in a dark uniform, wearing a gas mask and headphones to block out the screams. Their hands moved with mechanical precision—thin hooks, needles, blades. Not to kill. Not to break. But to torture. To the last breath. To unconsciousness. And then—wake them again.
Fugaku stopped. His face remained unchanged. But inside, something heavy tightened.
"Hell," Shisui whispered, stepping closer. "Just without demons. Or maybe… with them. Someone once said demons are born from humans."
Mikoto looked around the room and said dryly:
"This isn't random torture. It's a system. They do this around the clock."
Fugaku stepped forward. His voice rang with steel:
"Seal the entrance behind us. We're here to end this."
He formed hand seals. Chakra surged through his veins, rising to his eyes—his Sharingan ignited in crimson light. A genjutsu fell over the level like a blanket—and with it, silence.
A total illusion of sleep—simple, but effective. Especially when the victims had no chakra. And here, in this dark dungeon, not a single soul resisted. One by one, the sounds faded: screams, sobs, rustling. Only footsteps remained, and the thud of beating hearts.
"What the hell is this…?" Shisui muttered, wincing as he walked past the tables where now only the quiet breath of broken bodies remained. He moved slowly, scanning their faces, sinking deeper into confusion. "I don't recognize a single one of them. Not one. These… these aren't ours. These aren't people from Konoha."
Fugaku stood in the center of the corridor, eyes narrowed. The Sharingan found no trace of chakra in their systems. No familiar energy—only foreign, shattered minds and mangled bodies. He murmured:
"We'll find out. Search the floor. But don't go down until I give the signal."
Mikoto nodded and moved along the walls, checking the side halls. Itachi headed in the opposite direction without a word. Shisui was already unrolling a scroll—sealing the faces, rapidly recording their features for later comparison in the archives.
Fugaku opened a heavy steel door and stepped through.
The room they called a "cell" looked more like a livestock pen. More precisely—a massive pigsty. The stench was unbearable: a blend of sweat, blood, feces, rot. The air was thick and clinging, refusing to leave the lungs.
On the filthy stone floor, hundreds of men, women—even children—lay in piles. All barefoot, half-naked, with crusted blood on their skin. Many had broken bones, wounds, burns. Some were missing fingers, others teeth. Faces sunken. Eyes closed. The genjutsu had worked perfectly, plunging them into an uneasy, artificial sleep.
Fugaku walked among the bodies like across a field of the dead. No sound. Just his footsteps, and the low hum of chakra in his veins.
At last, he found one. A young man, maybe twenty, emaciated—but his hands were intact, his face untouched. Recently brought in, likely not yet tortured. His mind would still be stable. He could talk.
Fugaku crouched beside him, touched his forehead with two fingers, and gently sent a pulse of chakra. The genjutsu dissolved. The young man shuddered, jerked, inhaled sharply—panic rising.
His eyes darted wildly. He was about to scream—but Fugaku caught his gaze and activated a new technique—sedative suppression. A deep, hypnotic layer of the Sharingan. The man froze, like he'd inhaled something heavy and calming.
"Easy," Fugaku said quietly. "You're safe now. I need answers."
The young man gave a dazed smile, like he wasn't in a prison but lying on a sunny riverbank.
"Who are you? How did you get here?"
"I'm Uryu," he breathed. "A farmer… I was. We milked cattle, harvested rice… Then someone hit me on the head. I woke up here."
"What's happening in this prison?"
"I don't know. No one knows. They bring people in every day. All kinds. Farmers, herders, wanderers. They don't ask questions. Just bind them. Torture them. For no reason. And then… they kill them. When they stop feeling pain and start laughing without end."
Fugaku was silent.
A piece of the puzzle clicked into place. But the picture was too horrific to make sense of.
"Thank you. Sleep." He reactivated the genjutsu, and Uryu slipped back into unconsciousness, his breathing even.
Fugaku stood, brushed off his hands, and sent a brief message through the ring:
"We're going deeper."
When he returned to the corridor, they were already waiting for him.
"I always try to understand how a criminal thinks," Itachi said quietly. He was staring off to the side, eyes thoughtful, but his voice carried unease. "Even the most depraved ones. But here… there's no logic. Only madness. Why would Danzo do this to civilians?"
"Danzo isn't prone to irrationality," Fugaku replied, looking at his son. "He builds systems. And systems without a goal aren't his style. We don't have enough data yet."
"I checked the executioners' bodies," Shisui said as he approached. "Not a single familiar face. And none of them had chakra. They're not shinobi. Just butchers. Danzo could've brought them from anywhere—the mainland, criminal slums, underground arenas. But one of them had this."
He extended his hand and revealed a large, worn key.
Fugaku took it, turned it between his fingers, then nodded.
"Let's go."
The door to the lower level creaked open. The next floor was cleaner—less filth, less stench.
And the air… was different. Cooler. Sharper. There were no torture chambers here. Only cold steel.
This level resembled a real prison. Cells with bars, long hallways, gray walls. Inside—prisoners. Many of them familiar.
"Fugaku-sama!" a voice pierced the silence. A blonde-haired woman rushed to the bars of her cell, clutching them with trembling fingers. "Is that you? Is it really you?! My name is Haruno Mebuki! My daughter—Sakura—she's friends with your son! Please… please get us out of here! Something horrible is happening!"
Fugaku studied her carefully. There was fear and hysteria in Mebuki's eyes, but not madness.
He scanned the hallway. The cells stretched deep like the ribs of a monster. Each designed for two, now held five, sometimes six. The faces—frightened. But alive.
And then—the shouting began. One, then another, then more. The prisoners rushed to the bars, pleading, screaming, some simply repeating the same lines over and over. Panic spread like an avalanche. And with it—attention.
From the far end of the corridor came a scraping sound.
Heavy. Wet. Fleshy.
And then the creature stepped out of the dark.
At first, it was unclear what was approaching. But then… it became visible. A being as tall as the doorway, dense like a hill. Where a normal human's navel would be, there were three fused torsos. Six arms, each ending not in hands—but axes. Their blades slick with old blood and rust.
Worst of all—the faces. Three human faces floated across its chest like shadows under water. They laughed. Cried. Screamed. Or whispered unintelligibly.
"This thing… it has three chakra cores," Shisui muttered tensely, squinting. His Sharingan flared, pushing itself to the limit to reveal the creature's structure. "Genjutsu doesn't work. Neural activity is unstable. All three chakra flows—different. They're… fighting each other. This is a puppet made of flesh. That means we're down to taijutsu and ninjutsu."
Fugaku leaned slightly forward, eyes glowing red.
"No. Don't destroy it. I recognized one of those faces." His voice was firm and clear. "That man… I arrested him two years ago. Drunken brawl. He wasn't a killer. These bodies—they're victims. We don't have the right to finish them off."
He didn't waste time explaining. It was time to act.
From his belt, he pulled a small capsule—a modified Hashirama seed. Its bark was dark green, and within it was a drop of concentrated serum developed from Poison Ivy's notes. A weapon that absorbed chakra.
Fugaku hurled it straight at the creature's chest.
The explosion wasn't loud, but sharp. From the center, vines began to unwind—thin as grape tendrils at first, but within a second they swelled, like rabid ivy. They lashed around limbs, crawled over shoulders, coiled around the neck, merging into a knotted mass. The creature roared—all three faces in unison—and tried to break free, but its chakra was already being drained into the greedy roots. Soon, the monster collapsed, chakra depleted.
"Nice use of leftover golem of wood," Shisui muttered. "How many of those seeds could you make out of a ton of timber? A million?"
But then came new sounds from the adjacent corridors. Thudding. Scraping. Claws on stone. And in the next breath—more monsters.
They burst from the shadows like a horde of the possessed, their movements erratic, twitching. Mutants. Once human—now deranged, deformed. Their mouths sewn shut with wire, yet their teeth still gnashed. Their arms ended in weapons: axes, blades, spears. They didn't speak. They didn't think. They only attacked anything that moved.
Fugaku turned to his team:
"Engage."
Mikoto stepped forward without hesitation and struck with a blinding, precise blow using the flat of Kusanagi. The sword whistled through the air and hit the mutant—not fatally, but with enough force to drop it instantly, like a light switched off.
Shisui was already moving—his brush swept across a scroll, ink forming vibrant, living lines. He finished the last stroke, and from the paper burst a tiger. It roared, pounced on the nearest monster—and dragged it back into the scroll from which it had come.
Itachi was silent and methodical. His hands glowed with blue chakra—the chakra scalpel technique. He dashed low, sliding beneath a leaping mutant, and in an instant sliced through the tendons in its legs. His other hand struck like lightning—a jolt of electrical chakra into its neural nodes. The monster shrieked, convulsed, then collapsed—paralyzed.
A few seconds—and the fight was over. Only groans and the tremble of stone beneath the monsters' fading breath remained.
"I told you!" screamed Haruno Mebuki, pressed against the bars of her cell. Her eyes were wide with horror, but her voice burned with anger. "They take three people every night! And then… those things come crawling down the halls! They're our people! They're… repurposing them! Fugaku-sama, let us out before they do the same to us!"
Fugaku stepped up to her door and examined the lock. His Sharingan had already seen the chakra suppression seal placed on each prisoner—a universal way to reduce even a jōnin to a helpless captive.
"You're all under chakra suppression," he said. "Removing it takes time. And we don't have time."
He gripped the lock with both hands, chakra surging into his fingers—and crushed the metal like it was foil. Mebuki gasped—whether in fear or relief, even she didn't know.
"All of you—out. Now." He turned to the other prisoners. "Head upstairs. It's safe there. But do not follow us—the next level will kill you."
Itachi and Shisui were already breaking the other locks, opening cell after cell. People poured out like a wave, stumbling and crying, sobbing, praying. Some dropped to their knees. Others bolted for the stairs. Some grabbed neighbors by the hand and dragged them to safety.
Fugaku didn't look back.
He was already moving toward the next door.
The descent into the basement was short—but felt endless. Every step down hummed with tension in the body. The air smelled of… formaldehyde, metal, and bleach.
They emerged into a wide chamber—and immediately knew: this wasn't just another prison level.
This was a laboratory.
Fully equipped. Horrific. Cold metal tables. Racks of test tubes. Transparent cylinders filled with suspended bodies.
At the center of the room, beneath a lamp-lit desk, stood Hiruko. His long fingers clicked over syringes and tools. In front of him lay three shinobi—all unconscious, their breathing shallow, clearly drugged. One had a tube stuck into his vein. Another's arm was flayed open. Nearby lay an axe—meant to replace the missing limb.
"Step away from them," said Fugaku. But it wasn't a command. It was a growl—his voice laced with something primal.
Hiruko flinched. Slowly turned. There was no fear in his eyes. Only exhaustion… and irritation. He blinked, as if just now remembering that other people existed.
"The Uchiha family…?" He raised a brow. "What are you doing here? This is my facility."
"I should be asking you that," Fugaku stepped forward. "What are you doing? What have you done?"
"Don't come closer!" Hiruko shouted, clenching his fists. "I can defend myself!"
He ripped the bandages from his face. Skin—pale, scarred. His smile stretched nearly to his ears. In place of teeth—shark-like fangs. Beneath his eyes—no skin, only pulsating scar tissue humming with chakra.
Itachi blinked. Shisui's expression darkened. Even Mikoto tensed slightly.
"If you thought one more freak would scare me..." Fugaku activated genjutsu, sending chakra straight into Hiruko's brain.
But it—fell through. Like dropping into a bottomless pit.
Hiruko smirked.
"Pointless," he said, lifting his hand. A swirling cloud of dark chakra writhed in his palm. "This is the Dark Genome. I absorb all hostile chakra. Genjutsu? Ninjutsu? Useless."
He took a step forward—and his skin hardened into metal, smooth and seamless like armor.
"This is the Steel Genome. You can't pierce me with a fist or a blade. Want taijutsu? Try it. I'm invulnerable."
He snapped his fingers—and vanished, reappearing at the far end of the room.
"Speed Genome! Unstoppable! Unbreakable! I am the pinnacle of evolution!"
He gleamed with self-satisfaction, striking poses as if performing on a stage.
Fugaku didn't move. He watched him in silence, and in his mind, the dissection had already begun. Analyzing movements. Chakra structure. Dozens of vulnerabilities forming, precise as a musical score.
"Let me," Mikoto said softly, placing a gentle hand on Fugaku's shoulder. He turned his head slightly, met her eyes—and nodded.
She stepped forward, positioning herself between him and Hiruko. Her stride was slow, but there was something terrifying in it. Like a predator approaching prey it no longer considered dangerous.
"I've been wanting to try out a technique," Mikoto continued in a calm, almost polite tone. "One designed specifically for… overconfident shinobi."
"Nonsense!" Hiruko exploded, as if someone had yanked out the cord holding his self-control. His voice rang on the verge of hysteria. "I am invincible! My dark genome absorbs chakra, my steel genome makes me impervious, and my speed surpasses any shinobi! I will become even more perfect when I take your eyes, woman!"
Mikoto didn't respond. Her hand lowered slowly to the hilt of Kusanagi, eyes locked on Hiruko. Her stance shifted—now she stood the way Mifune once did, the legendary samurai of the Land of Iron. Spine straight, blade pointed down, her body angled ever so slightly, like a serpent before a strike. Utter focus.
"Are you just going to keep talking," she asked coldly, "or will you back those words up?"
Fugaku, Itachi, and Shisui had already stepped aside, giving her space. They knew—Mikoto was about to move. And they knew—her hand wouldn't tremble.
Hiruko gave a strangled snarl—and vanished. His body became a blur, like smeared film frames. Speed genome. He surged forward with hurricane force, counting on the first, devastating blow to take her down.
But Mikoto… didn't even flinch.
For the briefest moment, lightning sparked around her form. And in that instant, her blade ignited.
A samurai's signature technique.
One motion. Faster than thought. Arm, blade, step—merged into one. The sound of the strike hadn't even reached their ears before the result was clear.
"AAAAAAAH!" Hiruko bellowed as he collapsed to the floor with a wet, meaty thud. He fell to one side—blood gushed in fountains from the stumps where his legs had been. He writhed, eyes rolling, face contorted in agony and horror.
"How… HOW DID YOU HIT ME?!" he shrieked. "I'm the fastest shinobi alive! That's impossible! That defies all logic!"
"Speed is useless," Mikoto stood over him, sword still in hand, her Sharingan gleaming in the dim light, "when your attack trajectory can be read a second before you're even aware of it yourself… I simply struck first."
"But… but I'm made of steel!" Hiruko choked, staring at his mangled legs like a child looking at a broken toy. "I'm… invulnerable…"
"Kusanagi cuts steel like paper," she said calmly. And in the next breath, without hesitation, she swung again.
Hiruko's arms flew off.
He screamed so loud the walls trembled. A cry of pain, humiliation, and helplessness.
"Dark genome?" Mikoto knelt by him. "Now you can't even clench a fist. All your powers are dead weight. You spent forty years on self-perfection… only to fall to a basic samurai technique."
Hiruko, lying on the floor, limbless, his grotesque face splattered with blood, sobbed. He was no longer a monster. Just a pathetic, trembling body, reduced to a worm.
"Itachi," Fugaku said curtly.
Itachi was already at his side. Without a word, he knelt, formed seals, and activated medical chakra. His hands glowed green as he pressed them to the stumps of Hiruko's limbs, swiftly halting the bleeding. Then he pulled out a pill—stabilizing, meant for heavy trauma—and shoved it into Hiruko's mouth.
"He'll live," Itachi said, stepping back. "Even if he doesn't deserve to."
Fugaku crouched before the mutilated enemy. His eyes were cold steel. His movements slow, precise.
He took out a small vial filled with a clear liquid. Fear neurotoxin.
He sprayed it in Hiruko's face.
Hiruko screamed louder than he had when his limbs were severed. He choked on his panic, his eyes darting as if seeing something the others couldn't. His arms trembled—though they were gone. He tried to crawl away—anywhere.
There it was—another weakness of the "perfect" shinobi. No genome could protect from fear. From his own mind.
"Make it stop! PLEASE!" he gasped. "TAKE IT AWAY! THEY'RE HERE! I SEE THEM! I DON'T WANT TO GO BACK THERE!"
"You'll talk first," Fugaku's voice was cold as ice wrapping around the heart. He didn't raise his voice. Didn't threaten. But in his tone was something that made even strong men tremble. "What are you and Danzō planning?"
And Hiruko… began to talk.