Uchiha Makoto stood silently, the lamplight flickering across his features. His expression was heavy with regret, his posture weighed down as though the future of the Uchiha itself rested on his shoulders. He exhaled a long, sorrowful sigh, his eyes shadowed with concern.
It was no act.
Or rather, it was a carefully cultivated mask that had become indistinguishable from sincerity. Makoto had worked tirelessly to craft the image of a man who placed the Uchiha above all else—a loyal son of the clan, one willing to sacrifice everything for its survival. If he wore the mask long enough, it would become reality in the eyes of others.
Such a persona was not only a shield; it was a weapon. Later, when the time came to recruit from among Konoha's ranks, when discontented ninja and opportunists looked for a leader to follow, they would remember the Uchiha who lived and breathed for his people. They would rally to him.
The Daimyo of the Land of Fire, seated upon his cushioned throne, studied Makoto quietly. His gaze lingered on the young man's downcast expression. What he saw seemed utterly genuine. The sorrow, the conviction—Makoto truly looked like a man who foresaw the Uchiha's doom and carried the burden alone.
The Daimyo's lips curled faintly. "This one…" he thought. "This one is dangerous. He believes what he says."
In the depths of the Daimyo's heart, a chilling thought took root. If the world truly followed the course of destiny—as some whispered seers claimed—then perhaps the Uchiha really would meet destruction. He had heard rumors, fragments of stories carried on the wind of fate, about a future massacre. A single night of blood. A slaughter carried out by one of their own: Uchiha Itachi.
Every man, woman, and child of the Uchiha cut down. Only one survivor—Uchiha Sasuke, the younger brother.
The Daimyo's fingers tapped idly against the armrest. The image lingered in his mind. The tragedy of an ancient bloodline reduced to a single branch. Could such a thing truly come to pass?
Makoto, meanwhile, continued his internal tirade. His mind raced through images of the "original timeline."
Yes. The Uchiha had perished once before. And what became of their so-called avenger? Uchiha Sasuke, last scion of the clan, carried the heavy dream of revival—yet what did he accomplish?
Instead of restoring the clan through strength, through legacy, through children, he shackled himself to a single woman. One wife. One child. A single daughter, Sarada.
Makoto sneered inwardly. A clan cannot be rebuilt with one daughter. A single sapling cannot become a forest.
Not only had Sasuke failed to gather followers or create alliances, but he had failed at the simplest duty of a bloodline clan: to pass on the bloodline itself. He did not even seek concubines, or a harem to rebuild numbers. He wandered the ninja world like a ghost, chasing shadows of revenge while his clan's future rotted.
And when he finally fathered a child, it was a daughter. A daughter who would, in time, marry and take another name—very likely into the Uzumaki bloodline. Thus, even the next generation bore not the proud Uchiha name but that of another.
The so-called revival of the Uchiha… was a cruel joke.
But Sasuke was not the true villain. No, Makoto's anger was reserved for another.
Uchiha Itachi—the executioner of his own clan.
That weasel had raised his blade not against his enemies, but against his parents, his kin, his people. Had he no understanding of family? Of loyalty? Did he know nothing of blood and duty?
Makoto thought back bitterly to Itachi's upbringing. As a child, he had been thrust onto the battlefield at the age of four, forced to wade through corpses and death. His father, Uchiha Fugaku, had paraded him onto the front lines, hoping to forge him into steel. And when Itachi awakened his Sharingan through the trauma of watching comrades die, his father had praised him instead of comforting him.
There had been no guidance, no wisdom, no hand to lead him away from despair. Only manipulation. Only the weight of expectations, and the whispers of outsiders like Sarutobi Hiruzen, who praised him as having "the mind of a Hokage" at an age when he should have been playing in the fields.
The seeds of betrayal were sown early. By the time Itachi came of age, his loyalty was not to the clan but to the village. His ideals were twisted, his allegiances broken.
Thus, the Uchiha massacre was born.
Makoto clenched his fist, a shadow passing over his face. All tragedies of the clan… trace back to this moment, this era. And to one man above all: Senju Tobirama.
If Madara and Hashirama had dreamed of peace, Tobirama had ensured it would never come. From the very founding of Konoha, he had created policies, laws, and suspicions aimed directly at the Uchiha.
The Daimyo's voice broke through Makoto's thoughts, calm yet faintly patronizing.
"Makoto, you must not be so tense. The Uchiha are not so easily erased. You are a bloodline clan, a name that has endured for a thousand years. If you abandon illusions and face reality, if you are willing to fight for your survival, then not even the Senju can extinguish you."
The words, meant as comfort, instead fanned the flames within Makoto. His eyes lifted, sharp and burning.
"Yes, fight…" he murmured. "That is all we have ever known."
The Daimyo, oblivious to Makoto's inner fury, continued to reason aloud.
"Consider Uchiha Madara. He may not defeat Hashirama outright, but he is more than capable of crushing the rest of the Senju. If the two clans reached an understanding—perhaps to restrain their leaders, to forbid Hashirama from fighting Madara—then the balance could be preserved. Tobirama alone is not enough to tip the scales. The Uchiha would not only survive; you might even thrive."
Makoto's gaze darkened, but he listened.
The Daimyo pressed on, voice rising with enthusiasm. "And remember—the Uchiha possess powers unlike any other. The Sharingan blossoms in the crucible of suffering. The harsher the conflict, the stronger you become. The Senju cannot match that. And with the Three Tomoe eyes, your clan holds the keys to forbidden powers—jutsu that can bend reality itself!"
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming as he recited the knowledge he had gathered.
"Izanagi—the ability to deny death itself, to rewrite the outcome of battle, even to cheat fate. A revival coin, they call it. And Izanami—an eternal prison of illusion, where your foe relives their mistakes until they break, or perish. Two techniques that make mockery of life and death. With such powers, how could the Uchiha possibly fall?"
Makoto did not answer, but the flicker in his eyes betrayed his thoughts.
Yes, the Daimyo's words were encouragement, but they were also poison. Beneath the surface, the nobleman desired only one outcome: war.
He wanted to see Uchiha Madara and Senju Hashirama clash again and again. He wanted their feud to spill blood across the land, ensuring neither side could ever unite long enough to threaten his rule.
For only in endless conflict could the Daimyo sleep soundly, secure in the knowledge that the ninja destroyed one another while he remained the eternal beneficiary.
Makoto bowed his head, his voice low and steady.
"Then perhaps, Your Highness, the answer is simple. We must resist. We must condemn every act of discrimination, every whisper of suspicion. We must name this disease for what it is: anti-Uchihaism. And we must never allow it to spread unchecked."
The Daimyo's eyes glittered. He smiled, nodding gravely, though his heart leapt with excitement.
"Yes. Resist. Condemn. Fight."
Yes, he thought. Bleed. Struggle. Tear each other apart. For as long as you do, my throne will remain untouched.
And so, in that opulent chamber lit by golden lamps, the seeds of further discord were sown. One man dreamed of saving his clan. Another dreamed of preserving his power. And both spoke the same words, cloaked in conviction but fueled by different fires.
The night deepened. The flickering lamps cast long shadows across the floor. And above them all loomed the specter of a future soaked in blood.