The Third Shinobi World War raged along the borders of the Land of Fire.
A fifty-man elite unit from the Hidden Stone had successfully encircled Konoha's border defense force. Faulty intelligence early in the operation had led the Leaf shinobi straight into a killing field. The result was catastrophic. Every elite jōnin assigned to the defense had fallen, and the remaining chūnin were nearly wiped out. Of a force that once numbered close to a hundred, barely a dozen remained.
The Stone shinobi advanced with ruthless precision. Even with victory all but assured, their commander—Dō Shiren—refused to take risks. Explosive tags were deployed in waves, detonating traps and tearing apart the terrain ahead before his troops moved forward. No openings were left. No chances given.
Inside the final defensive position, the surviving Konoha shinobi exchanged hollow glances. Their faces were pale, their hands trembling. The air itself felt suffocating, as if death had already wrapped its fingers around their throats.
"Damn it!" Mimura Hakumaki snarled, eyes bloodshot as his teeth ground together. "If ANBU hadn't fed us bad intel, we never would've walked into this trap."
"It's over," Nagasaki Junji muttered dully. His grip loosened, and the kunai slipped from his hand. "Blaming them won't change anything now."
Nearly a hundred elite defenders had been erased. Even Konoha could not absorb losses like this—especially not while fighting multiple villages at once.
"This is my fault…" Mimura whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. "I failed the Fourth Hokage."
In his mind, he already saw it: enemy shinobi pouring into the village, homes burning, streets flooded with blood—all because of his command.
"Kill them," Dō Shiren ordered coldly. "Then march straight into Konoha."
Hundreds of kunai tore through the air like a steel downpour.
The remaining Leaf shinobi closed their eyes.
And waited.
The explosion came instead.
A thunderous blast ripped across the battlefield. A shockwave roared outward, hurling the incoming weapons aside as smoke and debris swallowed the ground.
From within the rolling dust, a pressure descended—heavy, absolute, wrong.
Dō Shiren's heart clenched. "Who's there?!"
A voice answered him, deep and commanding.
"So while I was gone, you thought you could trespass on Konoha's borders?"
Dō Shiren's pupils shrank to pinpoints. Terror surged through him. "No way…"
Mimura looked up through the smoke, eyes wide with awe.
A man stood there, cloaked in white robes trimmed with flame patterns. Long black hair flowed freely behind him. And emblazoned across his back was the red-and-white fan.
"Uchiha Fugaku."
The name alone froze the battlefield.
Dō Shiren's face drained of color. "Why is the Fourth Hokage here?!"
"I—" Mimura started desperately. "I'm sorry—"
"This isn't your burden," Fugaku said calmly. His eyes sharpened, the tomoe within them spinning until they merged. "Leave the rest to me."
"Retreat!" Dō Shiren screamed. "Everyone, pull back now!"
Too late.
Fugaku's gaze turned glacial. His fist tightened.
"Those who spill Konoha's blood," he said quietly, "will be hunted—no matter how far they run."
Power erupted from him like a storm. The ground cracked and splintered outward, unable to bear the weight of his presence.
"Amaterasu."
Black flames swallowed the battlefield in an instant, surging like a tidal wave. Screams vanished into the inferno.
"Remember this name," Fugaku declared, standing amid the devastation. "As long as I live, Konoha will never fall to you."
Cheers erupted behind him.
"The Fourth Hokage!"
"The Fourth Hokage!"
"The Fourth Hokage!"
Fugaku allowed himself a smile. In that moment, he felt invincible—greater than any predecessor, the greatest Uchiha to ever live.
"Thank you for your business. That will be fifty thousand."
The voice yanked him back to reality.
Fugaku blinked, momentarily disoriented, before focusing on the boy seated across from him.
He was young—around fifteen. Black hair fell loosely around a composed face. He wore thick, dark-framed glasses, his demeanor gentle and refined. Yet his eyes were unmistakable: three tomoe in each, turning slowly, drawing the gaze whether one wanted to look or not.
"That's it?" Fugaku stared. "It's over? What happens next?"
"That's all," the boy said mildly. "That was the trial session."
Uchiha Munetsuki spread his hands. "Full treatment costs extra."
"How much?"
Fugaku hesitated. That dream had been intoxicating.
"One hundred thousand per session."
Fugaku sucked in a sharp breath. "That's robbery."
For all his authority, he had a household to survive—and a wife who noticed missing funds. At best, he could afford a few more sessions. And every one of them would hurt.
"…Next time," he said reluctantly, closing his eyes.
Even knowing it was artificial, the dream had felt too real. Too perfect. No wonder people kept coming back to Munetsuki's unique brand of therapy.
But Fugaku was still clan head. He steadied himself and looked at the boy seriously.
"I didn't come just for that," he said. "The Hokage intends to transfer you to ANBU."
Munetsuki listened without expression.
"If you refuse," Fugaku continued, "you could instead join the Uchiha Police Force."
Munetsuki considered it briefly, then shook his head. "No need. Refusing the Hokage would only make things harder for the clan."
Fugaku studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "I'll inform him."
As he stood to leave, he paused. "No matter where you go, remember this—you are Uchiha."
Munetsuki watched him leave, his gaze lingering on the empty space long after the door closed.
He was considered an oddity within the clan. A prodigy with a fully awakened Sharingan who preferred healing and psychological treatment over combat. A boy who healed minds instead of breaking bodies.
And that was because Uchiha Munetsuki carried memories no one else could see.