Chapter 2: World of Heroes
The Uchiha Compound was an island of tranquility in the heart of the sprawling, hero-saturated city. Traditional wooden homes with elegant tiled roofs were connected by manicured gardens and serene koi ponds. High walls, marked with the family's crest—a red and white fan, the uchiwa—separated it from the modern metropolis. It was a place of discipline, tradition, and crushing expectation.
Their home was no different. Sasuke would often watch his father, Fugaku Uchiha, train in the central dojo. His father was a formidable Pro Hero, known to the public as "Raven." His Quirk, "Total Insight," was a passive ocular ability that granted him near-perfect clarity of perception, allowing him to see in minute detail, analyze structural weaknesses, and predict the trajectory of attacks with terrifying accuracy. It made him a master strategist and a fearsome hand-to-hand combatant.
Fugaku was a man carved from stone, his face a permanent mask of stern authority. After the doctor's diagnosis, a subtle but distinct wall had risen between him and his youngest son. His disappointment was a palpable presence, a chill in the air whenever Sasuke entered a room. All of his fatherly pride was now a laser-focused beam directed at Sasuke's older brother, Itachi.
Itachi was perfect.
At seventeen, he was already a celebrated sidekick at a top-tier hero agency. His Quirk was a genius-level evolution of their bloodline: "Kagutsuchi's Eye," which not only gave him his father's predictive insight but also allowed him to project momentary, hyper-realistic illusions into a target's mind. He was powerful, intelligent, graceful, and, worst of all, he was kind.
It was Itachi who found Sasuke struggling in the training yard, trying to throw a blunted training kunai at a wooden target. Sasuke's throws were weak, wobbling through the air and clattering uselessly to the ground. He could feel his father's gaze on him from the dojo porch, cold and unimpressed.
A warm hand landed on his shoulder. "You're holding it too tightly," Itachi said, his voice a calm counterpoint to Sasuke's frustration. "You're trying to force it with your arm. The power comes from your wrist, your hips. Like this."
Itachi took a kunai, his movements a fluid dance of effortless precision. With a flick of his wrist, the metal tool shot through the air, a silver blur that embedded itself dead-center in the target with a satisfying thwump.
He spent the next hour with Sasuke, patiently adjusting his grip, correcting his stance, ignoring the disapproving stare from their father. Itachi was the only one who didn't seem to care that Sasuke was "latent."
"A Quirk is just a tool, little brother," Itachi said, ruffling Sasuke's hair. "A powerful tool, yes, but still just a tool. A sharp mind and a strong will can overcome any opponent. Never forget that."
These moments were Sasuke's sanctuary. But they were fleeting. Most of his time was spent alone, observing. He watched news reports of All Might, the towering Symbol of Peace, saving people with a thunderous laugh and a city-block-leveling punch. Other children his age would mimic the hero, shouting "I am here!" But Sasuke would watch with a detached, analytical gaze. He saw the collateral damage. He saw the reliance on overwhelming, brute force.
He was more drawn to the rare footage of underground heroes, figures like the enigmatic Eraser Head. Heroes who fought in the shadows, relying on skill, strategy, and pure physical prowess. Their victories were quiet, efficient, and clean. That, to Sasuke, was true strength. Not a smile and a punch, but a perfect, silent execution of a plan.
One afternoon, he was attempting to climb the ancient cherry tree in the center of the garden, a tree Itachi could scale in seconds. He was halfway up when his foot slipped on a patch of moss. He cried out, his hands grasping at the smooth bark, his fingers finding no purchase. For a split second, as the sickening feeling of falling washed over him, he felt a strange, adhesive pull from his palm and the sole of his foot. It stuck to the bark for just an instant—a fraction of a second—long enough for him to swing his other leg around and regain his balance.
He clung to the tree, heart pounding, breathing heavily. He looked at his hand, then at the bark. It must have been luck. A fluke. He dismissed it, his rational mind refusing to accept what it couldn't explain. But deep within, in that silent, coiled lake of energy, a single, imperceptible ripple had just disturbed the water's surface.