"It was the man who handled the Amegakure spies on the street some time ago. You told us to keep an eye on him," a Root operative reminded at the right moment.
"Oh. I remember now."
Danzo narrowed his eyes like a venomous snake sizing up its prey.
As Konoha's Assistant Hokage—the shadow second-in-command—he had a hand in almost every major and minor incident in the village. Naturally, he'd read Uchiha Duan's name in a recent incident report.
This one…
A hidden powerhouse, by all accounts. But his temperament? Unorthodox, irreverent, and dangerously unpredictable.
That alone piqued Danzo's interest.
"Bring Itachi to see me," he ordered after a brief pause.
"Yes," the two Root operatives replied, retreating into the dark.
Itachi had graduated early from the Ninja Academy despite the Sandaime's reservations. It was Danzo who saw potential in him and insisted on pushing the decision through.
Later, when Itachi entered Anbu, the move had also been greased by Danzo's influence—of course, not without strings attached.
Somewhere along the way, a bargain had been struck between the manipulative elder and the prodigy.
"Ryoma, follow and observe. When the opportunity comes, bring that other Uchiha in as well," Danzo said, referring to Duan without directly naming him.
"Yes, Danzo-sama," came the whisper from the shadows.
"It's time to take a walk… and bask in the sun."
He looked down at the fresh bandages wrapping his right arm. The ache from surgery lingered, but with it came a new, unfamiliar strength.
Leaning on his cane, Danzo left the frigid darkness of the Root base and stepped into the light.
---
Evening, at the gym.
"Itachi, you're here again," Samui greeted, spotting Uchiha Itachi stepping inside.
"Hello," he replied with his usual polite bow before following her to the backyard.
There, Duan—uncharacteristically relaxed—stood tall, watering flowers with deliberate care.
Itachi hesitated, then said:
"Uncle, I've caused you trouble these past two days. If you don't want to see me, I won't come again… but please, don't tell my father."
He knew his uncle had never cared for him. Even if it meant defying Fugaku's orders, even if it meant failing the surveillance task assigned by the Sandaime, he'd rather walk away than linger unwanted.
He bowed and began to turn—
"Why would you think that?"
Duan's voice cut in, calm but heavy. He set the watering can aside, washed his hands, and faced his nephew.
"I promised my brother-in-law I'd take good care of you. From today, you'll follow me to train—body and illusion only. I don't do ninjutsu."
"…Yes."
Itachi was caught off guard but agreed, his expression betraying his confusion.
Duan had been reevaluating his nephew lately. Yes, Itachi might have been born with a cold, clinical mind—but his upbringing had twisted it further.
A father who dragged him to the battlefield at four, incapable of understanding his son's thoughts.
A mentor like Shisui—idealistic, stubborn, and bound to the Will of Fire—shaping his moral compass.
A manipulator like Danzo—turning mentorship into brainwashing.
And now, this youth was a double agent, bearing the crushing weight of clan and village alike.
No wonder his mind was cracking.
But now… there were still over two years before the clan massacre. There was still a sliver of hope.
Duan hadn't interfered before, believing his "body transformation" incomplete, his strength insufficient.
Now, things had changed.
Uchiha Mikoto was his only truly precious family member. If her son ever turned a blade on her, Duan would kill the boy without hesitation—no matter the grief it brought her.
Better to fix him now.
---
"Let's start. Show me what you've got," Duan said, beckoning him forward.
Uncle knows genjutsu? Itachi blinked. He'd assumed Duan was pure taijutsu, but then again—what Uchiha couldn't weave illusions?
"Please advise."
Scarlet tomoe spun to life. In an instant, his Sharingan locked onto Duan's eyes, and a genjutsu laced with killing intent surged forward.
His uncle's image shattered into a cloud of crows, wings slashing at his vision—
"ROAR!"
The bellow hit like a shockwave, shattering the illusion. The crows screamed and vanished, and suddenly Duan was right in front of him.
They clashed—fist, kick, parry—in a flurry of afterimages. Itachi's Sharingan tracked every movement, searching for an opening… and found dozens.
Too many.
His strikes landed—thigh, chest, back—only for the truth to dawn: these "openings" were bait. Duan's flesh was like steel; Itachi's blows hurt his own hands more than his uncle's body.
The difference in raw strength was obscene.
Then Duan inhaled deeply—
WHOOM!
A single exhale turned into a hurricane, flinging Itachi backwards. He countered mid-air, forming seals.
Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu!
The great fireball roared down—only for Duan to stride into it, split it with a hand strike, and keep coming.
Shuriken swarmed next, ricocheting with perfect angles and timing.
"Not bad," Duan admitted—before simply tensing his muscles and letting every blade ping harmlessly off.
"Why avoid my weak points? The eyes, the groin—what's the matter? Looking down on me?"
"I—"
Seven meters closed in an instant. Duan's fist warped and swelled in Itachi's perception until it was a mountain pressing down. A genjutsu—his uncle's.
Breaking free just in time, he still couldn't avoid the final palm strike.
CRACK.
The blow sent him spinning into a wooden pillar, vision blacking out.
Samui rushed over, finding him bloodied, missing teeth, half his face already swelling.
Duan just folded his arms. "Personality Correction Palm. Easier than preaching."
Samui held up the teeth questioningly.
"It's fine. Probably baby teeth."
"…They weren't," Itachi thought bitterly, too dazed to speak.