Mikami's thoughts swirled. Recalling the legendary, almost mythical feats of the real Uchiha Itachi, he could only concede inwardly that the man had been a monster, a prodigy beyond compare. Set against that standard, his own self-esteem felt battered, his recent efforts suddenly seeming insignificant.
"Every user's Susano'o is unique," the spirit's voice chimed in, having resumed its normal, ethereal form. Its tone was faint, carrying a thread of what might have been pity. "While yours may indeed be far inferior to Itachi's, there's no need for despair. Even if your future Susano'o turns out to be little more than scrap metal… a hatchet, properly wielded, can still battle a tailed beast."
Pfft—!
Mikami let out a short, sharp laugh—not of joy, but of sheer, irritated disbelief. He knew the spirit was attempting comfort, but its words were more cutting than a direct insult.
"Hah! Fine. Even if my Susano'o ends up a hatchet," he retorted, rolling his eyes at the spirit's impassive face, "I'll still find a way to surpass Uchiha Itachi."
A confident arc lifted the corner of his mouth. "I am, after all, a 'system user.' With the advantage of foreknowledge, if I can't even overcome Itachi, I might as well lie down and wait for death—wash my neck clean and save him the trouble later when he comes to wipe out the clan."
"A fair point."
The spirit gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod of its pale chin. As a transmigrator with a system, if Mikami couldn't eventually defeat the key obstacles in his path, then his entire existence was pointless. Its dark, pearl-like eyes then studied Mikami with renewed interest, a flicker of genuine admiration passing through their depths.
"But, putting that aside… it truly did surprise me that you were able to comprehend and execute 'Yata no Yasaka.' Your capacity for mimicry is exceptional."
Its voice then dropped, taking on a more analytical tone. "You must have noticed its flaw, however. The technique blankets a vast area, but its power is consequently dispersed. It lacks the focused, single-point penetration needed for a decisive, high-damage strike."
"You're right."
Mikami nodded, conceding the point readily. He had realized it himself during the assault. 'Yata no Yasaka' was an overwhelming hailstorm, perfect for suppression and area denial, but its individual projectiles couldn't deliver a killing blow to a fortified target like a complete Susano'o. It sacrificed quality for immense quantity.
"Enough for today," the spirit's tone shifted abruptly. It frowned slightly, as if listening to a distant sound. "It seems you have a visitor. You should go."
Before Mikami could even form a question, the world around him dissolved, and he was ejected from the system's mental space.
A visitor? For me?
Back in the tangible reality of his secluded courtyard, Mikami's first reaction was disbelief. It had been five years since he was effectively exiled from the Uchiha clan's core circles. Five years of utter, isolating silence. After the… incident at age five, he had been branded, cast out. To the clan, he was a pariah, a walking bad omen to be avoided.
Have they finally lost their minds and come looking for me?
A cynical curiosity stirred within him, breaking the monotony of his solitude. He walked to the center of his austere courtyard and, with deliberate calm, brought out a simple chaise lounge.
Tea was a solace. Over the past years, Mikami had developed a deep appreciation for the ritual. The fragrance, the bitterness that blossomed into a lingering sweetness—it mirrored life itself. One must endure the bitter to appreciate the sweet; no rainbow without the storm. In a simple cup of tea lay endless philosophy.
"It seems the long winter of solitude is finally ending," he murmured to the sky, an unreadable gleam in his eyes. Then his senses prickled. His face, a moment ago contemplative, instantly frosted over, a cold smirk playing on his lips.
"The ninja of the Uchiha clan are truly extraordinary," he announced to the empty air, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "They preach the art of concealing one's presence, yet the three of you blunder in with a presence as subtle as a sumo wrestler in a china shop."
"What did you say?! Who are you calling a blundering oaf?! I'll tear you apart!"
As if on cue, three figures materialized in the courtyard with a poof of displaced air, their arrival lacking all finesse. They stood over Mikami, who lay reclined on his chaise, their shadows blocking the sun. The lead figure, a large man with a rough stubble, vibrated with immediate rage.
"The 'Young Master' is in a fine mood! Sunning himself on such a hot day. Aren't you afraid of burning your worthless hide?!" the stubbled man on the right barked, his contempt palpable. To him, Mikami was less than trash—a clan failure who couldn't even mold chakra. Such audacity to insult them!
"How… noisy."
Mikami languidly rubbed his eyes, then opened them. His gaze, sleepy and dismissive, settled on the loud-mouthed man. His handsome face was a mask of utter indifference. The look in his eyes was one of profound boredom, as if observing three particularly irritating insects he couldn't be bothered to swat.
"The clan elders taught you ninjutsu," Mikami said, his voice a flat monotone, "but apparently, they neglected to teach you anything of importance." He sighed, a breath of pure, unadulterated disappointment.
"You little—! Do you think being the clan head's son means I won't dare touch you?! I'll beat the shit out of you!"
The three Uchiha ninja swelled with indignation. The stubbled man's face flushed a deep crimson. With a growl, his powerful hand shot out to seize Mikami by the front of his robes.