The battlefield was heavy with silence, broken only by faint crackles of flame and the scattered echoes of distant screams.
Izumi lay collapsed, her breathing uneven, her body battered and drenched in blood.
Her Mangekyō Sharingan—those mysterious eyes capable of bending even the natural flow of time—dimmed faintly as exhaustion pressed against her soul.
She had given everything in her fight, even though defeat had finally embraced her.
The ground beneath her palms felt unbearably cold, like an endless void trying to pull her under.
She coughed, crimson staining her lips, her chest rising and falling in a fragile rhythm.
Yet even in this broken state, the faint glow of her Mangekyō still flickered weakly, proof of her willpower and her terrifying gift.
Not far away, Itachi stood hunched, his body trembling from injuries sustained in their clash.
Though victorious, he too was in no condition to fight again.
The edges of his cloak were shredded, his skin marred with cuts and bruises, and blood seeped slowly from his lips.
He staggered forward a step, his eyes flickering dangerously as the toll of battle consumed him.
But before either sibling could gather their thoughts, before Izumi's eyes could even close from fatigue, a new shadow descended upon the battlefield.
From the veil of swirling distortion, a figure emerged, his movements unnaturally smooth as though reality itself bent to accommodate his existence.
The mask he wore reflected the faint firelight, its lone eyehole glowing with a sinister intensity.
The masked man—Obito Uchiha—had been watching all along. His expression, though hidden, carried a weight of twisted calculation.
His gaze locked immediately onto Izumi's half-conscious form, particularly her Mangekyō Sharingan.
That power… he thought to himself, his single Sharingan spinning lazily as though savoring the sight.
The ability to halt time itself. What a bizarre, terrifying gift… A power unmatched, a weapon even Madara himself would covet.
Combined with my Kamui, the offense, the control, the sheer dominance I could wield would make me invincible. With her eyes, I would surpass all limits…
The thought burned deeply into him. In that very moment, Obito convinced himself that her eyes were not just rare—they were the strongest ability.
Stronger than Amaterasu's flames, stronger than Tsukuyomi's illusions, stronger even than his Kamui.
The potential combination sent shivers of hunger down his spine. With Kamui and Izumi's time-stopping Mangekyō, who could oppose him? Perhaps not even the entire shinobi world united.
Obito's breath grew heavier beneath his mask as he advanced toward the fallen girl. His hand rose, ready to claim what he desired most.
His fingers curled into the shape of a claw, prepared to rip the prize from her sockets.
Izumi struggled faintly, her body trembling as she tried to lift an arm, but she had no strength left. Fear flashed in her eyes as she realized the masked man's intent.
Her voice, weak and barely audible, whispered to herself:
"No… not… my eyes…"
Her chest tightened with helplessness. A kunoichi of the Uchiha, a wielder of such a cursed and blessed gift, was now powerless to stop the theft of her very identity.
The Mangekyō was her pride, her curse, her hope—yet in this moment, it seemed destined to be stripped away.
Obito stepped closer, his distorted space flickering faintly as though preparing to drag her into another dimension if necessary.
His hand stretched outward, fingers nearly touching her bloodied face.
But then—
A sudden shift of air. A new presence.
From the corner of her fading vision, Izumi noticed it—someone stepping between her and the masked predator.
A figure whose arrival felt like a blazing light cutting through suffocating darkness.
The masked man halted abruptly, his eye narrowing sharply.
Izumi's gaze fluttered open with effort, her vision hazy, but she could still make out the face.
The person who had appeared… was Indra Uchiha.
He stood tall and unshaken, his dark eyes glowing with unyielding resolve.
The faint firelight illuminated his sharp features, the faint smirk tugging at his lips as though he had anticipated this encounter.
His presence was calm yet overwhelming, a force that seemed to command the very battlefield around him.
Indra bent down, sliding an arm beneath Izumi's knees and another around her shoulders. With a fluid motion, he lifted her into a princess carry.
Her body, weakened and drenched in blood, felt weightless in his strong hold.
For the first time that night, Izumi's cheeks burned red. Her heart skipped despite the pain in her chest.
She, who had faced death and darkness, now found herself blushing like a girl seeing light for the first time.
But she did not resist.
Her head leaned faintly against his chest, her lips parting slightly in disbelief. She heard his steady heartbeat, a stark contrast to the chaos around them.
Indra looked down at her, his smirk softening into a smile.
His voice was calm, deep, yet reassuring:
"You are truly strong. Don't worry, Izumi. I will avenge you."
Those words struck her heart more than any blade. Her lips trembled as a strange happiness welled up inside.
In her fragile state, she wondered: Why… why did I never realize before? Why did I never see him for what he truly was?
She had admired others, followed other paths, but now—this man, holding her so gently, speaking with such certainty—felt like someone she could have entrusted her heart to.
If I had realized sooner… she thought regretfully, her eyes softening even as tears threatened to fall.
If I had known what kind of man Indra truly was, I would have chosen him without hesitation… I would have definitely dated him…
Her voice, weak yet hopeful, escaped her lips:
"My… my mother… What about her…?"
Indra's gaze hardened slightly, but his smile remained. He spoke firmly, his words carrying both comfort and command:
"We will take care of it."
With those words, he turned toward the surviving Uchiha nearby. His eyes scanned the crowd before finally fixing upon one individual.
"You," Indra ordered sharply, his tone brooking no refusal. His finger pointed at a female Uchiha member standing amidst the shaken clan survivors. "Take Izumi and her mother. Protect them. See them to safety."
The woman, though trembling, immediately nodded. "Y-Yes, Indra-sama."
Indra's order was not random. It was deliberate, rooted in a conviction he held deep within. He had already decided something within his heart.
Indra's mind whispered silently: Izumi… she is mine. I have already determined it. I will never let another man come near her, never let another man approach what I claim as my woman.
His possessiveness was quiet yet absolute, masked behind his calm demeanor. Only he knew the depth of it, and only he would ensure it became reality.
Izumi, though weakened, caught fragments of his determination.
Though she could not fully grasp the layers of his thoughts, she felt oddly secure—secure in the fact that he had chosen her, that he would not allow her to fall into despair again.
The female Uchiha quickly approached, bowing before Indra before carefully preparing to carry Izumi's mother's lifeless form.
The sight made Izumi's chest ache, but her blurred eyes softened slightly, knowing her mother would not be abandoned.
Indra adjusted his grip, lowering Izumi gently into the care of the female Uchiha, though his gaze lingered upon her with a promise unspoken.
Izumi, still faintly blushing, looked back at him, her lips parting as though she wanted to say something more—but exhaustion overtook her, and her eyes closed slowly, trusting him completely.
The battlefield once again fell into silence, though beneath that silence, storm clouds brewed.
Because now, with Izumi secured, Indra finally turned his gaze toward the other threats—the wounded Itachi, and the ever-cautious masked man.
The battlefield was heavy with smoke and the stench of blood, the ruined grounds of the Uchiha clan echoing faintly with the cries of the injured.
Indra Uchiha stood calmly amidst it all, holding the weight of a man who had just made a choice that could shape destiny.
Izumi had been taken away safely, her unconscious body guarded by a trusted female member of the clan, and now all eyes rested on the confrontation that remained.
Indra's gaze shifted slowly, first to the struggling figure of Itachi Uchiha. The boy, younger in age but deadly in talent, pushed himself off the ground, his breath uneven, his Sharingan spinning weakly.
The wounds he carried were deep, both physical and emotional, yet the determination in his eyes was unshaken. But for Indra, there was no hesitation.
When Itachi suddenly lashed out, trying to strike him, Indra did not even blink.
His fist moved with the speed of a thunderclap, landing on Itachi's chest with such precise force that the younger Uchiha crumpled instantly.
The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and before Itachi even registered the pain, darkness consumed his vision. He fell unconscious at Indra's feet, powerless to resist.
Indra did not spare him another glance. To him, Itachi's role in this moment was over. His attention was fixed on the true threat before him—the masked man who had been waiting for the right chance to strike.
The figure cloaked in shadows, wearing the swirling orange mask with a single eyehole, stood across from Indra.
His presence was both heavy and unsettling, like a predator hiding in plain sight.
For a moment, his chest rose and fell in what seemed like relief. The reason was simple: though he wore the mask and maintained a false identity, somewhere deep in his heart, he feared this boy named Indra.
There was something in Indra's demeanor, the way he carried himself, as if he could see through the façade, as if no secret could truly hide from his eyes.
But the masked man—Obito Uchiha—refused to allow his doubts to surface. Instead, he straightened his posture and let his arrogance replace the momentary unease.
Indra's voice was steady, calm, but it carried the weight of authority when he finally addressed him. "Who are you?" His tone was not one of curiosity but of demand, sharp enough to cut through the silence. "Why are you attacking my clan? What purpose drives you here?"
The masked man tilted his head slightly, and though his expression was hidden, the faint sound of his exhale revealed the tension he sought to suppress.
Still, he donned his pretentious mask of arrogance.
His voice, deep and deliberate, echoed with false grandeur as he replied, "How rude of you, boy, to forget your senior. Do you not recognize me? I am the strongest existence in the world."
The words lingered in the air, heavy and dramatic, but Indra only blinked once. There was no ripple of emotion on his face, no gasp of recognition, no reaction to feed the masked man's self-proclaimed superiority.
Instead, Indra answered with chilling honesty. "Sorry, senior. I don't know you. My Uchiha clan has many seniors, and all of them claim themselves to be the strongest in the world."
His words cut like blades, cold and merciless in their simplicity.
The masked man's lips twitched beneath his mask. He understood clearly the meaning buried within Indra's statement.
The boy was mocking him, pointing out the arrogance of those who lived in the shadows of the clan, always boasting, always proclaiming their strength without proof.
Suppressing his growing irritation, Obito steadied his voice and replied in a tone filled with pretension, "Boy, I am the ghost of the Uchiha.
The Shura of this world. I am Madara Uchiha." His declaration rang out with false pride, designed to instill fear, to force recognition.
Yet Indra's face remained blank, utterly expressionless, betraying no acknowledgment.
Deep within his mind, however, disgust swelled. To say such lines… to claim the name of Madara so brazenly… even Madara himself would never utter something so laughably cliché. Indra's thoughts were sharp and cutting.
He knew the truth. He knew the man behind the mask.
It was Obito, the one who would someday orchestrate the Fourth Great Ninja War. He, Indra, who once lived in a world where Naruto's story was told, could never mistake the identity of the man responsible for so much chaos.
But outwardly, Indra revealed nothing. He had his own purposes, his own intentions, and revealing Obito's identity now would serve him no benefit.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the distant crackle of flames consuming the remains of the Uchiha district
The masked man's single Sharingan eye locked on Indra, watching him closely, seeking any trace of weakness or hesitation. But Indra's golden gaze—cold, calculating, and unwavering—met it with equal force.
From the corner, the remaining Uchiha members stood with visible tension.
They had witnessed the exchange of words, the arrogance of the masked man, and the calm defiance of Indra.
Among them, Toru, one of the loyal subordinates who had always respected Indra's decisions, stepped forward slightly as though to offer aid.
Yet before he could act, Indra lifted a hand in silent command.
His voice was firm, decisive, leaving no room for argument. "Go. All of you. Leave this place. I will handle this."
The members hesitated for a moment, their loyalty urging them to stay, but the authority in Indra's words silenced any thought of resistance.
They nodded, one after another, their eyes filled with trust and confidence in their leader.
Without question, they withdrew, carrying with them the weight of their faith in Indra's strength.
Now, only two remained in the heart of the ruined compound—the masked man and Indra. The air between them crackled with unspoken hostility, an invisible tension that threatened to erupt at any moment.
The masked man adjusted his stance, his eye narrowing behind the mask. For the first time, he recognized that this confrontation was unlike any he had faced before.
The boy before him was not ordinary. His aura radiated dominance, his confidence unshakable, and his knowledge of the world seemed deeper than any boy his age should possess.
Indra, on the other hand, allowed a faint smile to grace his lips. It was not the smile of kindness or humor but of certainty. He knew exactly who stood before him.
He knew the truth buried beneath the mask, the lies woven into every word. And now, he would face the man not as an ignorant child but as someone who understood the weight of the future.
The night air grew colder, the moonlight reflecting against the debris-strewn ground. The silence ended as both figures straightened, their bodies tense, their wills clashing even before their fists did.
It was no longer a matter of words.
The battle was about to begin.
And in that moment, with the unconscious Itachi lying at his feet and the faith of his clan behind him, Indra Uchiha prepared himself to confront the so-called "ghost of the Uchiha."
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End of Chapter
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