The tension inside the Uchiha district had changed.
It was not louder.
It was tighter.
Conversations ended when footsteps approached. Training sessions ran longer than necessary. Elders spoke behind closed doors more frequently, and younger clan members were told less than usual.
Uncertainty breeds curiosity.
Curiosity seeks stability.
And stability often forms around whoever appears most composed.
He did not call meetings.
He did not gather followers deliberately.
He simply trained.
Consistently.
At dusk, the smaller training grounds near the riverbank filled with younger Uchiha—genin and lower-ranked members who felt the shift but did not yet understand its shape.
He sparred without theatrics.
He corrected posture when asked.
He did not offer ideology.
He offered control.
One evening, a younger member named Ren approached after training had ended.
"Is it true," Ren asked quietly, "that Root believes we are planning something?"
He did not answer immediately.
He adjusted the binding on his forearm and considered the wording.
"What do you believe?" he asked instead.
Ren hesitated.
"They watch us more. Missions are reassigned. Even my father says the air feels wrong."
The air feels wrong.
That was accurate.
"Fear spreads faster than truth," he said calmly. "But fear usually begins somewhere intentional."
Ren frowned slightly. "Intentional?"
"Yes."
He met the boy's gaze evenly.
"When pressure increases, people react. When people react, justification forms. Once justification forms, action becomes inevitable."
Ren absorbed the words slowly.
"You mean they want us to react?"
"I mean," he said quietly, "someone benefits if we lose control first."
That was not accusation.
That was structure.
Over the next week, similar conversations happened naturally.
Small.
Private.
Never in groups large enough to alarm elders.
He did not encourage rebellion.
He encouraged observation.
"Count patrol routes."
"Notice which missions are denied."
"Track who is reassigned."
Information is stabilizing.
Emotion is destabilizing.
The younger Uchiha began doing exactly that.
Patterns emerged quickly.
Root operatives near border districts.
Delayed mission approvals.
Increased surveillance around clan entrances.
And something else.
Small provocations.
Anonymous insults.
False accusations.
Civilian complaints exaggerated.
Engineered friction.
The clan elders interpreted it as growing hostility from the village.
The younger members began seeing something more precise.
Manipulation.
He never once said Danzō's name.
He didn't need to.
Understanding spreads quietly when people discover it themselves.
Across the district, whispers began changing tone.
Not anger.
Analysis.
That shift mattered.
On a rooftop overlooking the training grounds, Itachi watched.
He did not interrupt.
He did not descend.
He simply observed how the younger clan members gravitated subtly toward him—not because he demanded loyalty, but because he remained steady while others reacted.
Itachi noticed something else.
The atmosphere around him felt slightly denser.
Not chakra fluctuation.
Something quieter.
Contained.
When their eyes met briefly across distance, neither spoke.
But both understood something fundamental.
The timeline was accelerating.
And neither of them intended to be swept blindly by it.