On the outskirts of Konoha, the wind carried a faint chill. The breeze was neither strong nor violent, but heavy, as if it carried with it the grief of countless silent voices. The night pressed down upon the land, smothering the village in a suffocating stillness.
From the crest of a high hill, Uchiha Obito stood, cloak rustling in the wind. Beneath the spiral mask, his lone Sharingan glowed faintly as he stared down at Konoha. The village was gradually sinking into silence; the warm flickers of lanterns and hearth-fires were vanishing one by one, like fragile stars being swallowed by an endless void.
The sight should have filled him with grim satisfaction—this was, after all, a night that would be remembered as the Uchiha Clan's annihilation. Yet his chest felt heavy, his thoughts restless.
Why… why can I not shake off this unease?
It gnawed at him, like a shadow clinging stubbornly to his soul. No matter how he tried to suppress it, the feeling only grew stronger. Something about stealing Uchiha Gen's eyes—those ominous Mangekyō Sharingan—had left a mark deeper than he wanted to admit. It felt less like victory and more like… a curse.
Just then, the shadows stirred behind him. A figure emerged slowly, as if reluctant to step into the cold moonlight.
Uchiha Itachi.
His steps were steady yet weighted, his shoulders sagging as though burdened by more than fatigue. The moonlight outlined his pale face, revealing the exhaustion etched into his features. His eyes, though calm, carried a profound gloom—a darkness that seemed to swallow even the night.
Obito turned slightly, his gaze narrowing. His voice carried both mockery and scorn.
"You're late."
Itachi lowered his gaze, expression unreadable, and answered quietly.
"Apologies. Things were… more complicated than expected."
Obito's frown deepened. "And? Was everything handled?"
There was a pause, brief yet suffocating. Then Itachi gave a small nod. His voice was soft, detached, like the rustle of leaves in the wind.
"It's done."
A silence fell between them, so heavy it seemed to smother the very air.
Obito's gaze lingered on Itachi's stoic face, but his mind was far from the present. Uchiha Gen's pale, eerie visage rose unbidden from his memory, haunting him. The man had been insignificant in reputation, yet his last moments burned vividly in Obito's thoughts.
Finally, Obito asked, his tone deceptively casual:
"Do you know someone named Uchiha Gen?"
The question caught Itachi slightly off guard. His brow twitched, his gaze distant as he thought. After a moment, he shook his head slowly, voice flat.
"I recall there was such a man in the clan. He was assigned to clerical duties in the Military Police Force. They said he had never even awakened his Sharingan."
Obito let out a sharp laugh, laced with disdain.
"Never awakened his eyes?"
Reaching into his cloak, he withdrew a slender glass bottle. Within it floated a pair of eyes—Mangekyō Sharingan, their pattern grotesque and alien. Suspended in liquid, they gleamed faintly under the red moonlight, radiating a sinister aura.
"And yet you expect me to believe that he never awakened them?"
For the first time that night, Itachi's calm façade cracked. His eyes widened slightly as he stared at the cursed relic within the bottle. His voice, though quiet, trembled with something uncharacteristic—shock.
"…These are his Mangekyō?"
"Yes," Obito spat, his tone harsh, as if the very fact offended him. "A mere clerk, hiding in the Military Police, carrying such power. Who would have thought?"
Itachi fell silent. His eyes lingered on the bottle, his thoughts sinking inward. Memories stirred—his father's strange demeanor before death, whispers of unease among the clan. Threads he had never grasped now tangled before him, forming a pattern he could not yet see.
But he asked nothing.
Obito, too, withheld the truth. To maintain the guise of Uchiha Madara, he could not admit how close he himself had come to death when seizing those eyes. Even now, he felt phantom tremors in his chest when recalling the apocalyptic power Uchiha Gen unleashed in his final breath.
Nonchalantly, he toyed with the bottle, letting the liquid slosh softly. His words were dismissive, but forced.
"He awakened them, yes. But in the end, he was nothing special. I dealt with him easily."
Itachi said nothing. He knew the words were embellished—too much bravado, too much emphasis. But he did not call him out. Silence was safer.
At length, Itachi asked the one question that truly mattered.
"What ability did his Mangekyō possess?"
Obito froze. Then a low, unsettling laugh slipped through his mask. He turned, fixing his gaze on Itachi, and his voice dripped with mockery.
"Itachi, what is your wish? To see Sasuke become a proud shinobi of Konoha?"
The name struck like a blade. Itachi's silence deepened, his face expressionless, but within him, something twisted. His wish… his only wish…
Obito waited, but no answer came. Beneath the mask, his smile grew thin and cold.
"So you will not say. Very well. Your wish means nothing to me."
Itachi remained unmoving, yet his heart was no longer calm. The moment Obito posed that question, a wave of dread surged within him.
The eyes in the bottle… they were staring. Not lifeless remnants, but watching, aware. They pulsed with malevolence, as though reaching from beyond death to drag them both into an abyss.
Itachi felt the chill in his bones. Instinctively, his gaze lifted skyward. The crimson moon loomed above, swollen and ominous, casting its eerie glow across the night.
Obito gave a dismissive snort and turned away, unwilling to linger. The wind howled across the wasteland, carrying the weight of unsaid fears. Two Uchiha stood in silence, each drowning in their own thoughts.
By the time dawn broke, the Uchiha Clan would be no more.
---
Obito led Itachi to the Akatsuki's hidden base in the Land of Rain. Their journey was wordless, but within Obito's mind, unease gnawed relentlessly. The memory of Gen's words, the vision of worlds crumbling, would not leave him.
At the entrance, Obito gestured.
"Itachi, this is the Akatsuki base. Go."
Cold, abrupt, he dismissed him. As Itachi's figure disappeared into the shadows, Obito hurried through the underground passages until he found Black Zetsu.
The inky figure emerged from the earth, eyes gleaming.
"Obito. What troubles you? Was tonight's mission not the Uchiha massacre?"
Obito's voice was sharp, restless.
"Something has gone terribly wrong. At the Military Police headquarters, I met a man—Uchiha Gen. Before he died, he unleashed a jutsu… one that threatens the entire Ninja World!"
Zetsu tilted his head, skeptical.
"A jutsu to destroy the world? Nonsense."
But Obito revealed the bottle, the Mangekyō gleaming with their unnatural pattern. He described what he had seen—the fall of planets, the collapse of the heavens, the end of all things.
For once, Black Zetsu's smirk faded. His expression turned grave.
If this was true, then the situation was dire. As the living will of Kaguya, Zetsu possessed knowledge stretching back to ancient times. Among those secrets were whispers of celestial calamities, of the Ōtsutsuki Clan on the Moon.
Without hesitation, Zetsu sank into the earth, following chakra traces toward the heavens.
---
The barren surface of the Moon was silent, lifeless. Jagged craters stretched endlessly beneath a sky filled with stars. Black Zetsu emerged, moving swiftly to an ancient observation point built by the Ōtsutsuki long ago.
He raised his gaze to the cosmos.
And his breath caught.
There—looming at the edge of sight—was a massive planet. Wreathed in unnatural flames, it radiated death. Its aura pressed down even across the void, a suffocating promise of annihilation.
Its path was unmistakable. It was hurtling toward the world of shinobi.
Zetsu's voice was a whisper, trembling with rare fear.
"Damn it… it's real. There really is a planet."
On its surface, strange flames danced endlessly, burning like omens of judgment. They writhed and spread, consuming the void itself as the planet advanced, unstoppable.
By his estimation, the collision would come within one month.
One month before the end of the world.
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