Outside the Uchiha clan head's crib, the first piss-weak rays of dawn were clawing through a fog so thick you could chew it. Everything felt like a storm was about to drop the hammer—cold, heavy, ready to snap.
A single Sharingan flared in the gloom. Three tomoe spun lazy but lethal, like a red-hot ocean ready to drown the world. The air warped under invisible pressure; even the breeze hit the brakes.
Uchiha Fugaku stood on the doorstep, face whiter than a crackhead after a three-day bender. His sleeves hid fingers twitching like they were jonesing for a fight. He swallowed the nausea clawing up his throat, forced his busted body to play tough, and spoke—voice low, but with that "don't test me" steel.
"Great Elder, you sure you wanna roll the dice like this?"
His eyes swept the mob—every face twisted with rage, Sharingan glowing like demon headlights. He kept going.
"Throw the whole clan at Kumogakure? Forget whether we even get Makoto back—what the hell do you think the village brass will do? They'll brand us traitors faster than you can say 'genocide.'"
"We just put the Third War in the ground. One spark from us and boom—war's back, baby. Only this time, we ain't Konoha's Uchiha. We're the village's goddamn scapegoats."
One hawk elder lost his shit, stomping forward, glaring into Fugaku's ghost-pale, unfocused eyes like he wanted to set them on fire.
"Fugaku, you're a disgrace to that seat."
"Forget that Makoto's your kid—he's the once-in-a-millennium freak genius every Uchiha's betting the farm on. He's our ticket to dragging the clan out of the gutter and back to the top of the food chain!"
His voice cracked like a whip, pure Uchiha arrogance on steroids.
"Since the Warring States, we've owned battlefields. When the hell did we start pissing our pants over a fight? If we can't even protect our own blood, what right do we have to call ourselves Uchiha? What honor is left?"
Fugaku hacked a cough that damn near folded him in half. He caught the doorframe, legs shaking like a drunk on ice, but straightened up like a middle finger to gravity.
"No. Makoto's coming back on his own. I'd bet my life on it. Go home. Cool your jets."
"Fugaku, you'll choke on this cowardice one day!" the hawk snarled.
"I'm still the goddamn clan head!" Fugaku sucked in air, spine ramrod straight, trying to crush the dissent under pure authority.
But the chalk-white face and glassy stare? Yeah, that "authority" looked about as solid as wet toilet paper.
Deadlock. Air so tight you could bounce a kunai off it.
The Great Elder—quiet till now—scanned Fugaku's face like a hawk eyeing roadkill. His gaze snagged on those struggling, unfocused pupils. A flicker of shock, then… something clicked. His eyes lit up with a crazy mix of dread and jackpot.
He buried it deep, raised one hand, and shut down the growling hawks behind him. Voice dropped, but it hit like a gut punch.
"Fugaku… you positive Makoto walks back solo?"
"Dead positive," Fugaku growled through clenched teeth. "Swear it on my life and every drop of Uchiha pride."
The Elder locked eyes, silence stretching like a wire about to snap. Finally: "Fine."
He spun to the mob, calm but ironclad. "We're out."
Cue mass confusion. Every hawk looked like someone kicked their dog. Sharingan blazing with "WTF," but the Elder's rep was law—they obeyed on reflex.
Crimson eyes winked out one by one. The murder-vibe faded like a bad hangover. The elite Uchiha hawks slunk off after their boss, black tide vanishing into the fog.
Itachi stood alone, staring at the retreating backs, then at the doorway.
Fugaku clung to the frame, looking like death warmed over—one stiff breeze from eating dirt.
Itachi's fists clenched so hard his nails drew blood. Bullshit. Kumogakure's a meat grinder. No way Makoto just waltzes out.
Deep breath. Eyes hardened. Fine. Solo mission it is. He'd drag Makoto's ass home even if he had to burn Kumo to the ground.
…
Great Elder's pad.
The same loudmouth hawk from earlier couldn't sit still. "Boss, why the hell did we bail? We just gonna leave our golden boy to rot?"
Elder waved off the guards, kept only the inner circle. He drifted to the window, staring at the sky finally shaking off the dark. Long, heavy sigh.
"Y'all still blind?"
"Fugaku… that kid doesn't trust us old bastards anymore."
"His state? Ain't normal. Zero combat logs lately, chakra in the toilet, eyesight tanking but he's faking fine. That's not burnout."
He turned, eyes blazing with hype and dread.
"If I'm right… Fugaku's unlocked those legendary eyes."
"Wha— you mean the Kaleido—" Another elder started, but a death-glare shut him up.
Slow nod. "Exactly. That's why he's so damn sure Makoto comes home."
"Every Kaleidoscope's unique—some batshit broken jutsu. Maybe… Fugaku saw the future we can't."
Beat of silence. Then decision, fast and cold.
"We play it Fugaku's way—for now. Kid's young, freak-level talent. Kumo's more likely to try collaring him than killing him. We got time."