The night air hung heavy over the battlefield. Shadows lingered across the broken ground, corpses of Root operatives scattered like discarded dolls, their blood soaking into the earth. The silence was not calm—it was suffocating, a silence born from slaughter, where only the faint rustle of leaves dared to move.
Danzo Shimura stood there, his chest heaving, his aged face twisted in fury and despair. His bandaged arm trembled, not from fear but from exhaustion and the oppressive weight of humiliation. He had once envisioned himself as the savior of Konoha, the man who would secure its safety through shadows and sacrifices. But here, standing before Indra Uchiha, he could see only the reflection of his failure.
His obsession boiled within him like molten steel poured into cracked stone. For years—decades—he had walked behind Hiruzen Sarutobi, watching his childhood rival ascend to the position he coveted most. The Third Hokage, the Professor, the man admired as the very pillar of the village. And Danzo, despite his efforts, was always the shadow beneath that light.
Even now, that gnawing envy twisted in his heart. Why him? Why Hiruzen, always Hiruzen?
He had carried the darkness of the village. He had raised the Root, sacrificed emotions, sacrificed humanity itself. He had borne every sin so that Hiruzen's hands could remain unstained. And yet, what did the world see? They saw Hiruzen's benevolence, his warmth, his compassion. They saw a leader loved by the people.
And what of Danzo? The whispers always followed him like knives at his back—coward, schemer, shadow. But it was he, not Hiruzen, who waded into the muck of necessity.
And now… now this boy—no, this man, Indra Uchiha—stood before him, sword gleaming under the pale moonlight, his eyes burning with a fire that mocked every ounce of Danzo's sacrifice.
"Why?" Danzo's voice cracked, hoarse with rage and weariness. His hand clenched tightly around his cane, but the weakness in his limbs betrayed him. "Why must it always be like this? The Uchiha… the arrogance… the rebellion. You think yourself above us, above this village? You dare stand before me, before the elder who has kept this village alive in darkness, and humiliate me?"
Indra's gaze was merciless, his expression carved from ice and disdain. The Kusanagi sword in his grip shimmered faintly, a deadly promise hanging in the air. He didn't answer Danzo's words. He didn't need to. His silence was an insult greater than any spoken reply.
Danzo roared, a sound more of desperation than strength, and charged forward, forcing his body into motion despite its cracks. His bandaged arm shifted, the cursed power of the forbidden jutsu surging to give him one more chance, one more illusion of strength.
The clash began again.
Steel met steel as Indra's sword cut through the space with elegance that mocked Danzo's crude aggression. Every movement of Indra's blade was calculated, refined, like the flowing calligraphy of a master's brushstroke. Danzo's strikes were desperate, heavy, and clumsy by comparison—driven by hatred, not by skill.
Their blades rang in the night, sparks erupting with every collision. Indra's eyes glowed with the crimson brilliance of the Sharingan, his vision dissecting every twitch of Danzo's muscle, every shift in his footing. To Indra, Danzo was laid bare—a book with pages too easy to read, too pitiful to respect.
Danzo's breath grew ragged. His strikes slowed. His body faltered.
Indra, however, moved like a predator savoring the hunt. He slashed across Danzo's shoulder, the cut spraying blood in an arc that glistened under the moon. He struck again, carving across Danzo's chest. With each blow, he tore away not only flesh but pride.
Danzo staggered back, his cane shattering under a parry. He fell to one knee, coughing blood, his bandages slipping to reveal the grotesque truth of his arm—an arm embedded with Sharingan eyes, each a testament to his twisted ambitions.
Indra's lips curled into a cold smile. "So this is the darkness of Konoha?" His voice dripped with scorn. "A wretched old dog who steals from the dead and calls it sacrifice?"
Danzo's face contorted. He tried to rise, but Indra's boot crashed against his chest, pinning him to the dirt. The ground cracked beneath the force, dust rising like a shroud around them.
Danzo's mind screamed with denial. No! I am the one who protects this village! I am the one who bears its sins! Without me, without my Root, without my sacrifices, Konoha would fall into ruin!
But the words never left his mouth. They remained in his chest as blood welled at the corners of his lips.
Indra raised the Kusanagi, its edge gleaming like the fangs of judgment. For Danzo, the world narrowed to that blade, to the inevitability of his end.
The once-feared leader of Root, the man who fancied himself the rightful Hokage, now lay defeated, broken, and utterly powerless.
Indra's eyes narrowed, his voice as sharp as the weapon he held. "Your era ends here."
He thrust the sword downward.
And at that exact moment—
A powerful gust of wind swept across the battlefield, chakra-charged and commanding. The sudden arrival of multiple figures shifted the very air. Shadows leapt from the treeline, cloaked in the dark armor of ANBU operatives, masks gleaming ominously under the pale moon. Their presence was sharp, disciplined, overwhelming.
At their head strode a man draped in flowing robes, the emblem of the Hokage blazing across his chest. Hiruzen Sarutobi, the Third Hokage, appeared with authority that shook the ground itself. His aged face was hardened by fury, his staff clenched tightly in his grip, eyes burning with restrained wrath.
"Enough!" Hiruzen's voice thundered like judgment itself.
Indra froze mid-strike, the Kusanagi mere inches from Danzo's throat. His eyes flickered, Sharingan spinning with curiosity and irritation.
The Root operatives' corpses littering the field caught the Hokage's gaze, and his heart clenched with rage. He saw the brutality, the mercilessness, the absolute slaughter. His eyes shifted, and there lay Itachi Uchiha—defeated, injured, bleeding in a state that spoke of utter humiliation. And before him, Danzo Shimura, battered and broken, barely clinging to life.
Hiruzen's chest tightened. Anger boiled beneath his calm facade.
Though his ideals and Danzo's clashed, though their philosophies diverged at every turn, they were still comrades of old, partners in guiding Konoha through the decades. Without Danzo's shadows, his own light would not have endured. And now, to see Danzo reduced to this wretched state… it twisted his very core.
Among the ANBU, one figure drew immediate attention—a silver-haired shinobi whose lazy, deadpan gaze was unmistakable. His single visible eye, calm yet sharp, surveyed the battlefield with practiced detachment.
Kakashi Hatake.
The Copy Ninja.
The future Sixth Hokage.
The disciple of the Fourth Hokage.
Even among the ANBU masks, his presence was undeniable, a beacon of cold composure in the chaos.
Indra's eyes lingered on him briefly, a flicker of intrigue sparking in his crimson gaze. So this is the one they call Copy Ninja…
But before his thoughts could drift further, Hiruzen's voice cut through the night like a blade.
"Indra Uchiha!" The Hokage's tone was thunderous, filled with suppressed fury. "What in the name of Konoha do you think you are doing? Are you planning to betray the village by attacking its advisors?"
The demand echoed across the battlefield, forcing even the ANBU to shift uneasily. The air trembled with the weight of accusation.
Indra's gaze snapped back to Hiruzen, the Sharingan blazing brighter than ever.
The air was suffocating.
Tension hung like a thick fog, choking every shinobi present in that blood-soaked clearing. Root corpses lay mangled in grotesque forms, their lives extinguished by merciless precision. The smell of iron and ash clung stubbornly to the battlefield, mixing with the faint whistling of the wind that cut across the trees.
Hiruzen Sarutobi's face darkened, his eyes narrowing into a storm of rage and restraint. The aged Third Hokage stood with his staff in hand, watching Indra Uchiha as if staring at a predator that had been hiding in plain sight within his village all along.
For all his decades of experience, for all the wars he had survived, Hiruzen could not deny the truth he had just witnessed. Root operatives—trained by Danzo himself, elite in stealth, assassination, and loyalty—had been shredded like paper. Itachi Uchiha, considered a genius of the clan, lay defeated, battered in a way that struck at the pride of even the most skilled shinobi. And Danzo Shimura, his lifelong partner in the shadows, was left humiliated, bloodied, and clinging to survival.
Indra Uchiha stood amidst it all, blade dripping crimson, eyes gleaming with the violent red glow of the Sharingan.
Hiruzen's voice thundered, breaking the suffocating silence.
"Indra Uchiha! What the hell are you doing? Are you planning to betray the village by attacking the village advisors?!"
His tone cracked like a whip, filled with disbelief yet underlined by command. To him, it was an act of treachery, an open assault on the fragile balance that held the Leaf together.
Indra's lips curled into a smirk of pure disdain. He spat on the bloodstained ground, his gesture sharp, deliberate, filled with disgust.
"Why the hell do you think I was betraying the village?" Indra's voice was like venom, dripping sarcasm with each word. "This old dog Danzo attacked me. So I fought back. Is self-defense now called betrayal, Hokage-sama?"
The way he uttered the title Hokage-sama was not with respect but with mockery, twisting the honorific into a blade of sarcasm.
Hiruzen frowned, his brows creasing deeper. His grip on the staff tightened, though his breathing remained measured. Even as anger boiled within him, he could not allow emotions to cloud his judgment.
Before Hiruzen could respond, an Anbu member stepped forward from the protective ring around the Hokage. His masked face betrayed no emotion, but his stance radiated indignation.
"You dare speak in such a way to the Hokage?!" The Anbu's voice was sharp, cutting through the heavy air. "Pay your respects or pay the price!"
Without waiting for Hiruzen's signal, the Anbu lunged forward, blade flashing.
Indra didn't even move.
He merely turned his head slightly, his eyes gleaming with the ominous glow of the Sharingan. A single glance—one effortless motion of his crimson gaze—was enough.
The Anbu froze mid-strike, his body trembling violently. Within seconds, his form went rigid, his eyes rolled back, and then he collapsed lifelessly onto the dirt. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth as silence swallowed the field.
One move. One glance. Death.
The surrounding Anbu stiffened in horror, their training screaming at them to act, but their hearts hesitating at the sight of such terrifying power.
Hiruzen's face grew even gloomier, his lips pressing into a thin line. He had not expected this. Not from an Uchiha child, not from someone hidden so deeply within the clan's folds.
"Such power…" Hiruzen thought, his chest heavy. "To kill one of my Anbu with nothing more than a glance… This ability… this bloodline… is far more dangerous than I anticipated."
Suppressing the fury rising in his heart, he spoke, his voice calm yet laced with warning.
"Indra Uchiha… there may have been misunderstandings in this matter. So, in the name of the Hokage, I order you—apologize to Danzo. Let this matter go."
The words carried weight, not merely as a request but as a decree. Yet in that moment, Indra only laughed under his breath, the sound low, cruel, almost pitying.
Nearby, Itachi stirred weakly, his body aching from his earlier defeat. His dark eyes turned toward Hiruzen, and for the first time since the battle began, his expression softened. Admiration flickered across his face.
"As expected of Hokage-sama…" Itachi thought, his vision blurring. "Even now, he seeks peace. Even after everything, he still extends mercy toward the Uchiha… Hokage-sama truly carries kindness beyond measure."
In his heart, Itachi's conviction strengthened. To him, Hiruzen's compassion was proof that the village could coexist with the Uchiha. Proof that loyalty to Konoha was worth more than loyalty to blood.
But Indra's gaze fell upon Itachi at that exact moment.
He saw the admiration in his eyes. The silent worship.
And he spat again.
The disdain in Indra's expression was sharper than any blade. He shook his head slowly, as though staring at something pitiful beyond saving.
"What a brainwashed fool…" Indra thought, his lips curling with contempt. "There is no hope for him. He kneels even as his clan is strangled. Truly worthless."
Turning his gaze back toward Hiruzen, Indra's smirk widened into something darker, more sinister. His aura thickened, suffocating.
"Hokage…" Indra's voice dripped arrogance, each word like the toll of a funeral bell. "No matter what happens today, tomorrow will be a new beginning for this damn village."
The declaration rang across the battlefield like a curse.
And then Indra moved.
In a blur of motion, his figure shot forward, blade in hand, eyes blazing like fire. His killing intent was palpable, crashing over the Hokage's guard like a tidal wave. His target was clear: Hiruzen Sarutobi himself.
Hiruzen's eyes widened. The staff in his grip shifted instantly into a defensive stance, but the strike was faster, sharper, more vicious than even his seasoned reflexes had anticipated.
At that critical moment, a new figure surged forward. Steel met steel with a resounding clang as a blade intercepted Indra's deadly strike.
A silver-haired shinobi stood before Hiruzen, one hand holding a sword that locked against Indra's Kusanagi. His visible eye, dark and deadpan, met Indra's crimson gaze without flinching.
The white hair, the calm, lazy look that belied the razor-sharp reflexes.
There was no mistaking him.
Kakashi Hatake—the Copy Ninja, student of the Fourth Hokage, and the man who would one day become the Sixth Hokage.
Indra's eyes sparkled with intrigue as his sword clashed with Kakashi's.
"Interesting…" Indra whispered under his breath, lips curling into a dangerous smile. "There's still time before sunrise. Let's see what you've got, Copy Ninja."
Danzo, meanwhile, coughed violently in the background, retreating as far as his battered body would allow. Blood seeped from wounds that refused to close quickly enough, his chakra almost depleted.
But even in his broken state, his mind was racing, weaving schemes as always.
"Yes…" Danzo thought bitterly, his single eye narrowing as he limped backward. "Let Hiruzen fight him. Let him take the brunt of Indra's rage. When both are weakened, then… then the true victor will emerge. My plan remains intact. This… this could yet be to my advantage."
As Indra pressed harder against Kakashi's blade, sparks flying from their clash, the battlefield once again drowned in chaos.
And so the night carried on, the air thick with blood, ambition, and betrayal.
The chapter ends with the battlefield at a boiling point—Indra locked in a deadly dance with Kakashi, Hiruzen caught between rage and restraint, and Danzo retreating into the shadows, still plotting.
Tomorrow, indeed, promised to be a new beginning.
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End of Chapter
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