The hunger for survival had returned. Not the hunger of food, nor the thirst for recognition, but the simple, practical reality: money. Resources were the lifeblood of power in this world. Weapons, safe houses, information—none came free.
Itachi walked through the crime-stained alleys of Gotham, the Mangekyō hidden beneath a hood. His presence was quiet, unassuming, yet lethal. His sharp eyes tracked the faintest movement, and soon, they settled on a large warehouse at the edge of the docks. Inside, the muffled laughter of men mixed with the clinking of bottles and the rhythmic counting of bills.
A mafia den.
He didn't bother with stealth. The steel doors creaked open, and in stepped the boy with porcelain skin and crimson eyes. Dozens of gangsters turned, startled, their hands scrambling for guns.
Too late.
Itachi's blade was already drawn. His swordsmanship was a dance of perfection—every swing fluid, every strike inevitable. A gun barrel barely lifted before it was cleaved in half, its wielder following a heartbeat later. In one smooth motion, he spun, the crimson flash of steel carving three men down at once.
Bullets screamed through the air. He didn't even waste chakra—his body moved faster than their eyes could follow, weaving through their fire as if guided by instinct itself. Each step brought death. A slash at the throat, a thrust through the heart, a precise flick of the wrist to disarm and dismember in the same breath.
Their screams echoed briefly, but in less than three minutes, silence reclaimed the warehouse. Blood pooled on the concrete floor, reflecting the boy who stood untouched, his sword dripping red. His chest rose and fell calmly, as if nothing more than training had taken place.
He wiped the blade clean with a fallen jacket, then turned to the stacks of cash piled high on tables and crates. Tens of millions in dirty money, earned through crime, now lay unguarded.
Itachi pulled a sealing scroll from his cloak and, with a few swift hand seals, the money vanished into storage. His crimson eyes glowed faintly as he whispered to himself:
"This world has given me power… and now it gives me resources. Everything I need to build my path forward."
The warehouse, once alive with noise and corruption, was now a graveyard. He left without a trace, the faint scent of blood carried away on the Gotham wind.