--
Time did not wait.
Months passed, and with them, Kirito's thirteenth birthday came quietly. No celebration, no friends, no gifts. Only training, research, and shadows.
The lab was alive now. His clones rotated daily—experimenting, recording, failing, retrying. On the surface, he remained a diligent yet unremarkable genin, carrying out meaningless D-rank chores. But beneath, he was building knowledge no child his age should possess.
Still, one truth weighed on him like a blade at his throat:
The Uchiha clan's days were numbered.
He remembered Itachi's cold eyes, the whispers of Root's movements, the shifting tension in the air. He knew the clan's execution was not a matter of if—but when.
And when that day came, he intended to be ready.
---
So he began to watch.
A single shadow clone was assigned to Sasuke daily. Always hidden, always cloaked in concealment jutsu, following the boy through his academy classes, his training sessions, his walks home. Another clone stalked the Uchiha compound itself, slinking across rooftops, blending into shadows, recording conversations and movements.
The information flowed back to him like streams into a river.
He knew who left late at night, who carried scrolls, who argued with whom, which rooms were sealed. He learned their patrol patterns, their weaknesses, their wealth, their secrets.
The Uchiha thought themselves proud and unshakable.
To Kirito, they were inventory.
---
Then came the change.
At first subtle—different chakra signatures watching the Uchiha compound. Not the familiar watch of ANBU, but colder, heavier. Root. Danzo's men had begun their silent encirclement.
Kirito's heart quickened. So it begins.
That night, beneath the pale light of the moon, he sat alone in his apartment, scrolls scattered around him. His hand brushed across sealing paper, brushes dripping with ink. He worked tirelessly, preparing storage scrolls to preserve eyes, organs, even whole bodies. Jars filled with stabilizing chemicals lined his desk. Uniforms resembling Root shinobi were folded neatly, disguises ready.
Every move was meticulous.
Every breath measured.
Every decision sharpened by the knowledge that soon, the clan would fall—and he would harvest what remained.
---
Days stretched into weeks. The tension in the village thickened, though no one dared speak of it aloud. Kirito's clones maintained their missions, his lab expanded, his preparations completed.
And then, one evening, the signal arrived.
A clone watching Sasuke dispelled suddenly, its final memory flashing before Kirito's eyes: The boy's class was dismissed late, and he was walking home in the dark.
Kirito froze. He felt it in his bones—the storm had broken.
---
He dispelled every training clone instantly, conserving his chakra. His body trembled, not with fear, but anticipation. This was the moment he had waited for—the night the proud Uchiha would fall, and from their ashes, his new empire of knowledge would rise.
Without hesitation, he moved.
Earth Style swallowed him, carrying him beneath the village, until he emerged near the quiet rippling waters of Naka River. The air smelled of blood already, faint and sharp.
Steeling himself, he wove hand seals.
"Shadow Clone Jutsu."
Forty clones burst into existence, their orders precise: collect eyes, harvest bodies, move silently, leave no trace.
Fifty more clones followed, each armed with storage scrolls, tasked with plundering the wealth and jutsu archives of the clan.
He watched them vanish into the night, shadows within shadows.
And then, alone, he slipped into Fugaku's house, his chakra muted, his breath steady.
The massacre had begun.
---