With a weary sigh, Hiruzen Sarutobi shifted his gaze to the two masked Anbu who now stood silently at his side.
Behind those porcelain masks were not strangers, but his own blood—his eldest son, Sarutobi Shinnosuke, and his daughter-in-law. Both were fully armed, every line of their posture radiating readiness.
"Get ready." His voice was calm, almost detached, but the command carried the weight of finality.
This mission—the eradication of the Uchiha—was the most closely guarded secret in the village, entrusted only to Hiruzen's most loyal confidants. He had handpicked a team he believed could execute it with precision and absolute discretion. He himself could not act openly; any hint of his direct involvement would stir dangerous suspicion.
Still, the thought of the massacre haunted him. Each life to be taken weighed heavily, and he knew this would tear an irreparable wound through Konoha's heart. Yet sentiment had no place here—not when the village's safety was at stake. If ensuring Konoha's security meant eliminating every last remnant of the Uchiha clan, then so be it.
No one could be allowed to escape.
The Uchiha were proud, resourceful, and fiercely united. Should even one survivor slip away, vengeance would be inevitable. Worse, the Sharingan—coveted across the shinobi world—was a prize rival nations would seize without hesitation. Any surviving Uchiha would be welcomed into foreign ranks, their bloodline preserved, their power turned against Konoha.
Hiruzen would not allow it. He had witnessed firsthand the destruction that unchecked ambition could unleash.
Madara Uchiha was proof enough. Once celebrated as one of the village's founders, his hunger for power had driven him to treachery—wielding the full might of the Sharingan to bend the Nine-Tails to his will, bringing chaos and ruin in his wake. The battle had claimed countless lives, leaving scars that had taken years to mend. Even now, the memory of Madara's betrayal lingered like a shadow over the village's heart.
"Lord Hokage, shall we proceed?" The voice of Shinnosuke cut through Hiruzen's thoughts.
"Yes," Hiruzen replied simply.
Without further words, Shinnosuke and his squad of Anbu vanished into the night.
---
Uchiha Itachi stood atop a lone electric pole, the night wind teasing the hem of his cloak. From his vantage point, the Uchiha compound lay sprawled beneath him.
His gaze swept over the homes below, the moonlight catching the crimson gleam of his Three Tomoe Sharingan. That glint was cold—like the icy bite of a winter's night.
I am killing my own kin.
Once, such a thought would have filled him with hesitation. Now, it only solidified his resolve. If the Uchiha rose in rebellion, they would be annihilated—taking the village down with them in a civil war that would shatter Konoha's defenses and invite enemy nations to strike.
If left unchecked, the conflict could spread beyond the Land of Fire, shattering the delicate balance between the Five Great Nations and plunging the world into yet another war.
Itachi had seen enough of war. As a child soldier in the last shinobi conflict, he had watched comrades cut each other down, and witnessed entire squads erased in moments. He carried those sights with him always.
The Uchiha are finished, he thought. Now, I'm the only one who can save them—from themselves and from destroying everything.
Over the past year, the clan had been unraveling. Disputes grew sharper, whispers turned poisonous, and mistrust corroded the bonds between moderates and radicals. The death of Uchiha Shisui had been the breaking point—a sudden blow that sent shockwaves through the compound. Rumors spread like wildfire, each one more damning than the last.
When fingers pointed at him for Shisui's death, Itachi's patience fractured. His clan's inability to see beyond their pride, their reckless coup plan, their blindness to the consequences—all of it fueled a cold, simmering hatred.
With the coup confirmed, every Uchiha had been marked for execution. Itachi had little leverage left, save for one demand: that Sasuke be spared. In a meeting with Danzo and the Third Hokage, he extracted that promise—his younger brother would live, protected by the village Itachi himself would betray tonight.
But even with his skill, he could not face the entire clan alone.
That was when he appeared.
Flashback begins
Itachi leaned against the rough bark of a tree, the night still around him. Then the air distorted, rippling like disturbed water, and a figure stepped out from the void.
A man in a swirling orange mask.
Itachi's Sharingan spun to life as he regarded him coldly. "Are you the one behind the unrest in the Uchiha clan?"
He and Shisui had investigated the rising tensions and found evidence of a hidden hand fanning the flames. Now, that hand had revealed itself.
The masked man chuckled. "Hehe… I merely taught them a little something about their clan." His tone was casual, unbothered, as if the truth were of no consequence.
Back in the present.
The village… the clan… shinobi…
Conflict was now inevitable.
Itachi's thoughts drifted to the faces of friends he once laughed with, to the peaceful afternoons when the village seemed untouchable.
Shisui's voice echoed in his mind, as vivid as the night he heard it:
"…You're the only one I can count on, my true best friend. Please… protect this village… and the Uchiha name… both."
His hands curled into fists. There was no more doubt. No more turning back.
In the next instant, he was gone from his perch, disappearing into the night like a shadow fleeing the moonlight.
Itachi slipped through the streets of the Uchiha district.
The first door gave way without resistance. Inside, his blade sang—a short, precise note of steel—and the room fell silent again.
One by one, homes became tombs.
The still night air began to carry the faint, metallic tang of blood.
Itachi stepped into the modest home of Izumi Uchiha. Her eyes widened the moment she saw him.
Her hand darted to her kunai, but she never had the chance to draw it fully. Itachi moved first, his form blurring into motion.
It was over in a heartbeat. Her body collapsed to the tatami floor, eyes still wide, lips parted as if to speak a final question she'd never have time to ask.
For a moment—just a moment—something heavy tugged at his chest. But he pushed it down. There was no room for hesitation.
Itachi stepped through the doorway of the next house, scanning. Then he heard it—a faint, uneven breath, the sound of stifled sobs.
His gaze turned to a closet.
He slid the door open.
A boy, no older than seven, crouched inside, trembling violently, his small hands clamped over his face. His parents had fallen before him, their last words urging him to hide here.
But nothing could hide from the gaze of the Sharingan.
Itachi reached in, grasping the boy by the leg, and dragged him into the open. The child's wails broke into the night, raw and terrified. He didn't look up; he couldn't bear to see the face of the one who had ended everything.
One stroke of steel silenced him forever.
---
Itachi stepped out into the night air, his mind already turning toward the inevitable final confrontation.
Fugaku Uchiha—his father, his clan's leader—was waiting. Itachi knew it would not be an easy fight.
The house was dim. Fugaku stood tall in the center of the room.
"Itachi," Fugaku's voice was low but laced with anguish. "How could you betray our clan?"
He took a step forward, his expression hardening. "I don't want to fight you. Stand down, son."
Itachi's grip on his blade tightened. "I'm sorry, Father… but there is no other way."
Steel whispered from its sheath. Fugaku mirrored the motion, and in the next breath, the clash began.
Blades collided with a ringing metallic cry, each strike sending sparks into the dim light.
Their movements were a dance of speed and precision—father and son, warrior against warrior. For a moment, they were equals, Fugaku's seasoned skill matching Itachi's youthful ferocity.
Then Itachi's eyes shifted, the Mangekyō Sharingan blooming into its fearsome pattern. Fugaku's gaze faltered for the briefest instant—he had only ever awakened the three tomoe.
He recovered quickly, pressing forward, his strikes still sharp and deliberate. But Itachi's power tilted the balance. With a subtle shift, he wove an illusion into the fight—a momentary trap that froze Fugaku in place.
The opening was enough.
Itachi's blade sank into his father's chest. Fugaku's eyes widened. His breath came shallow.
"No… way… those eyes… they really exist…"
His voice faded, and his body went slack, falling limp in Itachi's grasp.
Mikoto stood behind him, her expression a mix of heartbreak and acceptance. She drew her weapon, but with a single swift motion, she too fell.
---
Outside, the moon bathed Konoha in cold silver light.
On the cobblestone road, Sasuke ran—his lungs burning, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He burst through the doorway, his breath ragged, and froze.
His parents lay motionless on the floor, their blood pooling beneath them. His mind struggled to comprehend, shock freezing him in place.
Then his eyes found Itachi. His older brother stood beside the bodies. Blood streaked his cheek and jaw, but his gaze was unshaken.
Sasuke's voice trembled. "Why…? Why did you do this?"
Itachi's answer was calm. "To test the limits of my ability."
Sasuke's disbelief turned to rage. "To test your ability? That's your reason?!"
"Yes." Itachi's tone did not waver.
He stepped closer, his Sharingan flaring. "Sasuke… if you wish to kill me one day… then hate me. Despise me. Cling to your anger."
The crimson tomoe spun, pulling Sasuke into an unbreakable genjutsu.
Over and over, the moment replayed—the sight of his parents dying before him.