Tobirama inhaled deeply, steadying himself, before raising his hands and weaving a rapid, precise sequence of hand seals.
As his fingers blurred through the intricate motions, the air itself seemed to harden, as though reality were holding its breath. Layers of chakra barriers bloomed into existence, one after another, encasing the room in a lattice of glowing seals. The faint hum of their energy reverberated in the enclosed space, a low and steady thrum that carried a promise of defense—and danger.
The two clan heads immediately followed suit.
"Byakugan… activate!"
With a soft hiss of breath, the veins around Hiashi's eyes bulged, his milky-white irises sharpening with eerie clarity. His gaze cut through the layers of chakra around them like sunlight piercing mist, revealing unseen flows of energy swirling beneath the surface.
On the other side, the Kurama Clan Head closed his eyes briefly, then began forming his own hand seals with measured precision. Ancient chants whispered from his lips, syllables steeped in the Kurama clan's storied genjutsu lineage. A faint purple light shimmered around him, ribbons of mental energy swirling like ghostly silk, winding their way toward the preserved Sharingan lining the walls.
The trio worked in seamless silence, united by the gravity of their task. Every gesture, every flicker of chakra carried weight—they were delving into something that no ordinary shinobi dared to touch: the dark legacy of Uchiha Gen.
But as their jutsu penetrated deeper, the atmosphere began to shift.
The Sharingan—those crimson orbs suspended in glass containers—no longer seemed like lifeless remnants of a slaughtered clan. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they stirred. A faint, almost inaudible pulse of malice rolled off them like a cold draft, prickling at the skin.
The once-quiet room now seemed to breathe, its shadows trembling.
Scarlet pupils gleamed brighter, as if awakening from a long slumber, and a mist-like aura of blood-red resentment began to seep from each eye. It coiled upward like smoke, thickening, filling the room with a killing intent so dense it clawed at the lungs.
Tobirama's gaze narrowed, his expression as cold and unreadable as stone. He had grown used to the lingering hatred of the dead—the Uchiha's bitterness was nothing new. For shinobi, death was rarely peaceful. For a clan annihilated so brutally, their resentment was expected… inevitable.
But Hiashi's Byakugan revealed something far worse. His brow furrowed deeply, and a flicker of alarm passed through his normally composed demeanor.
"No… this isn't just residual hatred," Hiashi murmured, voice low and tense. "These eyes… they're connected. I can see it—a network of chakra threads linking them all together!"
Tobirama's head snapped toward him, his sharp features tightening. His instincts screamed danger.
The Uchiha clan…
Even in death, they had birthed something twisted beyond imagination.
Hiashi's gaze darted rapidly as his Byakugan pierced deeper into the phenomenon. "The chakra threads are… dense, tangled. They weave a net around the entire chamber. It's like a web. A curse spreading between them… feeding something."
The image was horrifying: a vast, interlaced chakra web stretching across the room, writhing like a living thing. Malice seemed to ooze from every thread, tainting the air with an oppressive heaviness.
Tobirama's hand twitched toward a seal tag, his instincts urging caution. He turned sharply to the Kurama Clan Head.
"Delve deeper," Tobirama ordered, his voice crisp. "Follow those threads to their source. I need to know what we're truly dealing with."
The Kurama Clan Head hesitated for only a heartbeat before nodding. Closing his eyes once more, he pressed his palms together, letting his consciousness flow outward. His mental energy shimmered faintly, forming a delicate thread of purple light as it slipped along the web of chakra lines, seeking their origin.
Then… everything changed.
The room, already heavy with dread, grew colder still, as though they had stepped into the shadow of something immense and ancient. The Kurama Clan Head's breathing quickened. Behind his closed eyes, he felt himself pulled somewhere deeper, somewhere wrong.
And then he saw it.
One of the Sharingan—the one at the far end, resting alone upon its pedestal—blinked.
A single, slow, deliberate blink.
His heart lurched violently. His breath hitched in his throat, but no sound came. He tried to speak, to warn the others, but his voice wouldn't obey. His lips barely parted, yet nothing emerged.
Panic surged in him like ice water.
From the outside, his body remained perfectly still, hands steady, chakra flowing smoothly. To Tobirama and Hiashi, he was merely continuing his genjutsu probe.
But inside, he was drowning.
The Sharingan's crimson glow deepened, burning like a blood moon, and an unfathomable pressure bore down on his mind.
The Kurama Clan Head's consciousness was yanked violently inward, dragged into the web of chakra lines. Suddenly, he was no longer standing in the archive room but plummeting through a suffocating void. From the shadows, twisted human faces emerged, writhing and distorted, their mouths stretched into silent screams of hatred.
Each face seemed to whisper curses in an ancient, unknowable tongue.
Invisible hands clawed at his spirit, pulling, binding, tearing pieces of him away.
He struggled, thrashing with every ounce of his willpower, but the sensation of his body was slipping away—he could no longer feel his limbs, his heartbeat, his breath. His mind was being consumed, thread by thread, woven into the same network he had tried to analyze.
And still, on the outside, Tobirama and Hiashi remained unaware.
They continued their meticulous analysis, their focus consumed by deciphering the chakra patterns, oblivious to the fact that their ally was being silently devoured right beside them.
The candle flickered weakly, its glow shrinking as though suffocated by the growing malice.
The air grew dense and heavy, and the oppressive silence of the room seemed to mock them.
The Sharingan's glow brightened further, their crimson pupils gleaming with an intelligence both ancient and cruel. A mocking glint of amusement flickered within them, as if they were watching a game they had already won.
In the deepest recess of the secret room, the Sharingan belonging to Uchiha Gen's grandfather glimmered with a chilling, predatory scarlet light. Its gaze, though long severed from life, bore into the Kurama Clan Head like a hunter cornering its prey.
Darkness surged around him like a relentless tide, drowning his consciousness in an abyss of nightmares.
Then, without warning, two blurred figures emerged from the oppressive gloom. Their outlines writhed and warped, as if they could dissolve at any moment, yet an unnatural force anchored them firmly in place.
Before him, a young Uchiha Gen stood in a dimly lit, ancient house. The scent of old timber and dust lingered in the stagnant air.
Outside…
The sunlight was soft, golden rays filtering gently through the wooden shutters. But the warmth of the day felt hollow, almost mocking.
Uchiha Gen's voice, quiet yet sharp as a blade, pierced the silence.
"Bloodline… is nothing more than a convenient means of finding your first pawn," he said softly, his words dripping with disdain. "Those who rush to aid their kin are fools, believing that loyalty will be returned in kind…"
A cold smile curved his lips.
"But in truth… it is nothing but mutual exploitation. That… is what it means to be family."
The words struck like poison. The Kurama Clan Head's mind trembled violently, an icy dread gnawing at his chest. He tried to focus, to hear more, but his senses dulled as if thick fog clouded his perception. Gen's voice became distant, muffled, until it vanished completely, like sound swallowed by an abyss.
Suddenly, the scene before him was consumed by flames.
The air filled with the acrid stench of burning wood and blood.
Through the crackling blaze, the Kurama Clan Head's eyes widened in horror as the world shifted again.
Cold, eyeless figures emerged from the darkness—members of the Uchiha clan, once vibrant with life, now reduced to pale husks. Their faces were twisted with grief and hatred, their sockets hollow and bleeding, yet they stood arranged in eerie precision, as if in ritualistic mockery.
They stared at him with wordless accusations. Their mouths moved soundlessly, lips trembling with curses he could not hear.
Oppression suffocated him. His breathing grew shallow, his chest tightening under the weight of their resentment.
A chill more piercing than steel sank into his bones. His vision flickered—then twisted violently.
The night of the Uchiha clan's annihilation unfolded before him. The moon hung pale and distant in a sky that seemed to watch with indifference.
From the depths of that darkness, a pair of merciless eyes opened.
"Uchiha… Itachi…"
Those eyes—cold, calculating, unflinching—locked onto him with a predator's patience.
"No!"
The Kurama Clan Head tried to scream, tried to run, but his body betrayed him. He was frozen, trapped like prey before a striking serpent.
A kunai flashed—a streak of silver light slicing through the void.
Pain exploded in his throat. He clawed desperately at his neck, but the phantom wound could not be stopped. His vision dimmed, and in a rush of agony, he felt his eyes being wrenched from their sockets. The world collapsed into a sea of darkness.
Outside his mind, his body convulsed violently, a broken sound escaping his lips.
"Genjutsu backlash?!" Hiashi's voice rang out, sharp with alarm. In truth, only a single second had passed.
Yet Hiashi's own mind reeled. He had been momentarily distracted as well. The Byakugan had revealed something—a crucial truth buried within the curse—but that flicker of revelation had cost them.
And now, the Kurama Clan Head was paying the price.
The ten Sharingan on the walls flared with a malevolent crimson glow. Power surged violently, chakra threads converging like ravenous serpents, all funneling into the Kurama Clan Head.
His trembling hand moved instinctively, driven by sheer will. With great effort, he fumbled a scroll from his robes and pressed his bloodied palm against it. Blood and chakra mingled, ink forming itself into frantic, jagged patterns, etching the visions he had seen.
Blood poured steadily from his empty sockets, staining his face and soaking his robes. The air smelled of iron and death. Yet some primal instinct forced his fingers to continue their desperate work.
Hiashi and Tobirama rushed to him, but they froze mid-step as they witnessed his final act.
The Sharingan belonging to Uchiha Gen's grandfather wept.
Dark, viscous tears of blood rolled down its glass container, splattering against the stone floor with a sound like dripping ink. Ripples spread eerily where each drop landed, as if reality itself recoiled from the curse.
Then, slowly, the eye closed. Its scarlet glow dimmed, vanishing into an eternal darkness.
At that same moment, the Kurama Clan Head collapsed, his body limp and lifeless. But even in death, his fingers twitched faintly, completing the last strokes of his vision.
A final smear of blood marked the scroll. His arm fell with a dull thud.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Tobirama's face hardened as he stepped forward, his keen eyes scanning the scroll.
And for the first time in years, his expression faltered.