---
The Uchiha district was silent.
Too silent.
The lamps that usually flickered outside the homes of proud shinobi were dark. The streets lay empty, but the stillness was broken by faint cries—quick, sharp, cut off too soon. Blood already stained the cobblestones, though most of the clan had yet to realize the horror crawling toward them.
Kirito crouched low in the shadows of Fugaku's house. His body was still, but his heart pounded like a war drum. Every second, clones were at work across the district: sealing away eyes, siphoning bloodlines, emptying homes of scrolls and riches. Silent theft under the cover of slaughter.
But here—here he would witness history.
---
The sliding door creaked.
Itachi Uchiha entered, his expression carved from stone. Behind his calm gaze, something darker lingered—a storm of pain, duty, and iron resolve. His parents, Fugaku and Mikoto, sat waiting for him.
No words were exchanged at first. Just silence.
Then, Fugaku rose. His face bore neither anger nor fear, but weary pride.
"I see… so it's tonight."
Mikoto's smile was gentle, unbearably so. "Take care of Sasuke," she whispered.
Itachi's lips trembled. His hands shook as he drew his blade. And then, steel flashed.
Kirito did not flinch when their bodies fell. He had steeled himself for this, but still… he found himself studying the tears streaking down Itachi's face. Was it real grief, or another mask for his mission?
---
The silence shattered.
The front door banged open. Sasuke's voice echoed through the house, desperate, terrified. "Father! Mother!"
The boy froze in the doorway, his eyes wide in horror as he saw the scene before him—his beloved brother standing over the corpses of their parents.
Itachi turned, Mangekyō Sharingan blazing like twin crimson suns. Sasuke screamed, denial spilling from his throat, but there was no mercy. The genjutsu struck, and in an instant, the boy was dragged into a hell of endless repetition—his parents' deaths, again and again, each moment replayed until his mind nearly shattered.
Kirito, hidden in the shadows, clenched his fists. The raw cruelty of it was beyond comprehension. To mold his own brother through pain… how far will Itachi fall?
And then, just as quickly as he had come, Itachi vanished into the night.
Sasuke stumbled after him, his sobs echoing through the district until distance swallowed them whole.
---
Now.
Kirito moved.
He stepped from the darkness and stood over the still-warm bodies of Fugaku and Mikoto. Without hesitation, he summoned sealing scrolls and chemical jars. His hands worked swiftly, clinically—eyes first, then the entire corpses, stored within specialized seals for later study.
He moved deeper into the house, where seals protected the clan head's archives. Normally, such barriers would have cost him hours of work or specialized skill—but their owner lay dead, and the locks were nothing before his chakra. One by one, scrolls vanished into storage. Fire style secrets, genjutsu manuals, advanced fuinjutsu texts—each a priceless treasure that would never again see the light of day in the Uchiha clan.
He also collected some samples from Sasuke who was unconscious.
---
Across the district, his clones worked tirelessly.
Sharingan, pried from fallen warriors, sealed in stasis.
Bodies of select shinobi collected for dissection.
Treasure, heirlooms, and money sealed away.
The air grew thick with blood and silence.
By the time his clones regrouped, Kirito had harvested what no one else in the village could even dream of—knowledge, power, and wealth beyond comprehension.
And yet, as he stood in the ruined district, the metallic scent of blood clawing at his nose, he felt no triumph. Only a cold, gnawing awareness:
This was not victory. This was survival.
And from survival, he would forge something greater.
---
Before dawn, he vanished into the Forest of Death, his path winding, doubling back, his scent scrubbed away, chakra suppressed. At last, he slipped into his hidden lab.
One by one, the spoils were laid out.
Jars of eyes glistened in pale light. Scrolls stacked high. Sealed bodies arranged for research.
He dismissed his clones. Memories flooded back—hours of screams, theft, silent killings. But he felt no crushing headache now. His body had adapted.
When morning came, Kirito emerged once more in the village, just another orphan genin walking the streets. But around him, chaos stirred—screams of mourning, whispers of betrayal, the great Uchiha clan reduced to nothing overnight.
Kirito did not look back.
The world had changed.
And he was ready to change with it.
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