The battlefield was heavy with silence, the air thick with despair and disbelief.
The dust had only just settled when Fugaku Uchiha collapsed to the ground, his body sprawled like a half-dead fish gasping for air.
His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, his breath ragged and shallow, every muscle trembling violently as though his body itself had given up on resisting.
His Mangekyō Sharingan techniques, once believed to be his hidden ace, had been completely crushed under Indra's overwhelming might.
Fragments of his Susanoo still lingered in the air before vanishing entirely, dissolving like mist at dawn.
The once-proud form had shattered into nothingness, leaving Fugaku stripped of every shred of dignity.
He could not even lift himself properly; he lay defeated, broken in both body and spirit.
Beside him, Mikoto's voice trembled as her tears fell freely. Her sobs echoed with the pain of a woman who had lost not just a husband's strength but also her faith in his pride.
She pressed her trembling hands against Fugaku's chest, shaking her head as though denying the reality before her eyes. Bitter tears flowed like rivers, her face wet and red, her heart breaking into countless shards.
Around them, the Uchiha clansmen stood in utter disbelief. Their clan leader, the man who was supposed to represent their pride, their honor, and their future, was lying in ruin before them.
Many could not meet each other's eyes. Some clenched their fists in anger at Fugaku's weakness, others shook their heads in disdain, and some wept quietly in sorrow.
Even his most loyal supporters now wavered, their faith shattered.
Indra stood tall and composed, his figure casting a long shadow under the moonlight.
His lips curled into a faint, mocking smile as though the sight of Fugaku broken was nothing more than a trivial entertainment.
His Mangekyō eyes gleamed with a chilling light, and his expression carried no mercy. He was calm, collected, terrifyingly dominant.
At that moment, Third Hokage Hiruzen's face twitched.
The wrinkles lining his old features deepened with frustration, his eyes narrowing as he realized the truth he had been avoiding.
His body trembled with the weight of his decision. It seems… my sacrifice is truly necessary, he thought, despair clinging to his heart.
He tightened his grip on his staff, his gaze fixed on Indra with a sharp determination that cut like steel.
The old Hokage could no longer rely on anyone else.
Fugaku was destroyed, the Uchiha divided, the Anbu doubtful. There was no one left but him.
With slow, deliberate steps, he moved forward, each stride echoing the sound of his resolve.
His eyes, dimmed by age yet still burning with willpower, locked firmly on Indra's figure.
This battle would be his final act as Hokage, his final duty to Konoha.
From the sidelines, Danzo watched closely. A faint sigh escaped his lips, though his single visible eye gleamed with cold ambition.
So, the time has come, Hiruzen, he thought silently. It seems today, my old friend, you are destined to die.
Yet rather than grief, a twisted sense of satisfaction filled Danzo's heart. His lips curled upward into a faint smirk. Don't worry, Hiruzen.
Once you are gone, I, Danzo, will assume your responsibility. I will become Hokage.
I will shape the village as it should be. I will rule, and I will protect Konoha in my own way.
The thought comforted him, filling his chest with a perverse sense of pride.
Hiruzen, meanwhile, forced his own lips to form a smile, though it was heavy and bitter. He looked at Indra, who stood calm and unbothered, and forced the expression of a man who had accepted his inevitable death.
His fingers twitched, forming the first movements of the hand signs. The deadly technique, Shiki Fujin, rested at the tip of his will.
But before he could proceed, Indra suddenly threw something in his direction.
A dull thud echoed as the object hit Hiruzen's palms. He instinctively caught it, his brow furrowing with confusion. It was a bag, rough and bloodstained, its weight unnerving.
The Anbu stiffened. The Uchiha narrowed their eyes. Even Danzo tilted his head with curiosity. Everyone's attention fixed upon the bag now held by the Hokage.
Hiruzen's hands trembled slightly as he opened it.
At that moment, Kurenai, standing among the others, instinctively turned her head away.
Her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, her hands clutched together nervously.
She could not bring herself to look at what might be inside. Something in her heart screamed that it was not meant for her eyes.
Then it happened.
The bag fell open.
The Third Hokage's face turned ghostly pale. His lips quivered, his eyes widened, and his body shook violently. Inside the bag… was the severed head of his son, Asuma Sarutobi.
"Asuma…" Hiruzen's voice cracked, and his knees weakened. His wrinkled hands clutched the head tightly, refusing to let it fall. Tears burst from his eyes as his heart shattered in an agony deeper than any wound.
His son's lifeless face stared back at him, empty sockets where his eyes had been ripped out.
The Anbu gasped collectively.
The Uchiha clansmen stiffened, their expressions darkening further at Indra's merciless display.
Even Danzo was momentarily stunned, his cold exterior breaking for a split second before returning to calm calculation.
Mikoto covered her mouth in shock. Fugaku, half-conscious, could not even react properly.
Indra stood with a smile—no, a grin—etched across his face, satisfied and almost joyful. His Mangekyō glowed with sinister brilliance as he took in the sight of the Hokage broken, crying, devastated.
He tilted his head slightly and chuckled. The sound was low, cold, and piercing.
Then, without warning, he pulled the Third Hokage into his genjutsu.
The world around Hiruzen shifted. His surroundings warped and dissolved, pulling him into the illusion. A new scene unfolded before his eyes, one so vivid it felt indistinguishable from reality.
He saw his son.
Asuma Sarutobi appeared in the vision, alive, vibrant, jogging leisurely through the streets of the Fire Nation. His face carried a relaxed smile, as though he was free of worry.
Hiruzen's heart clenched painfully, but he could not turn away.
The illusion had begun.
The moment Indra's genjutsu tightened, the world around the Third Hokage twisted like a paper lantern in fire.
His trembling hands still held the pale weight of Asuma's severed head, yet before his eyes the scene warped, cracked, and then reformed into a vision so vivid it almost masked the grief that crushed his chest.
He saw Asuma alive. Not only alive — but full of casual energy, the kind of careless vigor that mocked the truth Hiruzen had just touched with his own hands.
The illusion began on the long road outside Konoha's gates.
Dust rose beneath Asuma's sandals as he jogged, sweat gleaming along his jaw. He hummed to himself, untroubled, smiling with that slightly arrogant tilt that seemed to suggest the world would always be lenient with him.
Hiruzen's heart lurched. For a flickering second he wanted to believe this was real — that what lay heavy in his hands had been nothing more than a nightmare.
His throat tightened as he whispered his son's name under his breath.
But the genjutsu continued, inexorable.
Asuma slowed when a woman crossed his path — tall, with long hair that swayed as she walked, her features blurred but still carrying a beauty that instantly hooked his wandering eyes.
Without hesitation, without a thought for dignity, he trailed after her. His steps carried him into the shadowed doorway of a cheap motel, the kind of place that smelled of old tatami and perfume clinging to curtains. The door closed.
An hour later he emerged, his hair slightly disheveled, his collar askew, his lips curved into a satisfied smirk. His eyes half-lidded with indulgence, his shoulders loose, he stretched like a man whose appetite had been fed.
Hiruzen's eyes widened in silent horror. This was not the son he had tried to raise. Yet the illusion gave no pause, no mercy.
Asuma lit a cigarette and chuckled to himself, exhaling a lazy coil of smoke. His lips moved in self-justification, muttering that all of this — his wandering, his indulgences — were for Kurenai's sake. "I've got to keep my strength up… got to practice… even this is training," he rationalized shamelessly. The words dripped with delusion, every syllable a nail hammered deeper into Hiruzen's breaking heart.
Then the scene shifted again.
Asuma pushed open the polished door of a jeweller's shop. The interior gleamed with silver and gold, the counters bright with necklaces and rings.
His broad fingers tapped the glass as he leaned forward, eyes scanning the glittering pieces with an uncharacteristic excitement.
Drool almost gathered at the corner of his mouth as he finally chose a trinket — a ring with a delicate curve, something that would sit perfectly on Kurenai's finger.
He held it up to the light, grinning like a schoolboy, his cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips.
He whispered to himself about her figure, about her curves, about the heat that flushed his cheeks whenever she walked past.
He muttered how he could already see her wearing the jewel, already imagine her in his arms, already picture a life where she belonged to him.
The indulgent fantasy poured from his lips with no shame, each word a slap across Hiruzen's old face.
The Hokage's fingers dug into the skin of his palms. Wrinkles twitched, deepening with strain. The old man's eyes glistened with more than grief — they glistened with despair, humiliation, and rage all tangled into one storm.
But the genjutsu did not relent.
The illusion shifted once more, placing Asuma now in the quiet depths of a forest. Leaves rustled above, the light dim and green. And there, in the clearing, stood Kurenai.
Asuma's face lit up instantly, the drooling grin returning, his eyes wide with boyish glee. He rushed forward, his voice booming with excitement.
"Kurenai! You came here for me, didn't you? I knew it! You're in love with me, right?"
The words burst from him shamelessly, echoing in the silence of the forest like a drunk man shouting his fantasies in public.
He leaned toward her, grinning, his eyes filled with a delusional confidence that stripped away all dignity.
"What about dating now, Kurenai? Answer me — answer me now!"
His voice cracked with eagerness, desperation wrapped in arrogance. He was already imagining the life that would follow: evenings together, her body against his, the family that would grow from her beauty and his want.
His mind was filled with visions of her figure, hot and alluring, every curve an obsession. He was trembling with excitement just thinking about her, trembling with lust that he had the gall to paint as love.
Hiruzen, trapped in the genjutsu, felt his chest clench so tightly he could hardly breathe.
His son, once a proud shinobi of the Sarutobi clan, reduced to this — a man drooling over a woman who turned away in shame, a man begging for affection with the shamelessness of a fool.
Kurenai, watching from outside the illusion, felt heat rise to her face. Though she could not see the images, her heart twisted with shame and dread.
She had known Asuma's affection, but not this — not the depth of delusion Indra now painted for all to imagine.
She turned her head, unwilling to see the torment written across Hiruzen's face.
And then, in the heart of the illusion, Asuma froze.
For through the trees stepped Indra.
The figure was calm, his posture unshaken, his eyes glowing with the unearthly sheen of Mangekyō power.
His presence sucked the warmth from the clearing.
The cicadas fell silent. Even the leaves seemed to hesitate in their fall, as though the forest itself feared to breathe before him.
Asuma's grin faltered. His cigarette slipped from his lips. His eyes widened in stunned disbelief.
"W-Who… are you?" he stammered, the delusion cracking under the weight of Indra's reality.
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End of Chapter
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