Chapter 58: Twisted Schemes and Battle of Brothers

Somewhere beneath the roots of a twisted, charred tree on the outskirts of Konoha, a silent shadow stirred.

It bled out of the bark like an inkblot stretching across the surface of the world—Black Zetsu, the living will of Kaguya, merged partially with the earth, only its one malevolent eye visible in the cracks of the wood.

It had watched everything.

The arrival of Might Guy.

The resurrection.

Gaara's control of Nagato.

And then… the theft.

The sand brat had taken the Rinnegan.

A low, furious vibration ran through Black Zetsu's form. If it had teeth, they would have been bared.

"This wasn't supposed to happen."

The pieces had been arranged carefully. Nagato had served his purpose. His pain. His despair. All of it had been part of the grand design. The cycle of hatred would turn, the Rinnegan would be passed along to Obito, and the plan would continue toward the Eye of the Moon.

Towards Mother.

But this?

This was interference.

Zetsu's single eye followed Gaara as he disappeared into the distance. The boy had not only stolen the Rinnegan—he had destroyed Nagato's body before anyone could stop him. Cold, clinical, dangerously decisive.

"He knew exactly what he was doing…" Zetsu murmured to itself, voice like rotting silk. "That wasn't improvisation. That was intent."

And intent was dangerous.

Zetsu's mind raced. It had been working to quietly manipulate events for decades. But now… Gaara had thrown a blade into its perfect machinery.

Worse still, this change hadn't come from Madara's hand. Nor Obito's. Nor even Nagato's misguided heart.

No. This new variable had slipped in without any of them knowing.

And now it held the Rinnegan.

"This cannot be allowed to continue…" Black Zetsu hissed as it slowly melted deeper into the ground. "I'll need to move the timetable up."

"We'll need to push Obito. Harder. Sooner."

"And if this Gaara wants to play the role of savior...then let's see how long he survives."

With that, the shadow vanished beneath the earth, leaving nothing behind but the faint trace of something ancient and watching—biding its time.

XXXXXXXXX

"Nicely done, Kabuto," Obito said coolly, his masked face unreadable as he emerged from the swirling vortex of Kamui, stepping into the dim cavern lit by flickering torches. At the center, the massive Gedo Statue loomed like a god of death, its arms crossed and motionless—its empty eyes ever watching.

In Obito's arms was the lifeless body of Konan, her pale skin flecked with dried blood and fragments of soggy paper. At the base of the statue, Kabuto Yakushi offered a small bow, surrounded by his collection of Reanimated shinobi—Deidara, Kakuzu, Sasori, and more.

Kabuto's smile was polite, but smug."All according to plan. A shame she had to Die, of course, but—"

A dark ripple cut through the conversation.

From the far side of the cave, emerging directly from the wall itself like shadow peeling away from stone, Black Zetsu manifested—slowly, silently, until one red-ringed eye stared out at them both.

Obito turned to him without concern. "You're late."

Zetsu's answer came in a low, venomous tone.

"You're going to want to sit down for this."

Obito's one visible eye narrowed. "I don't sit."

"Nagato's dead," Black Zetsu continued, ignoring the sarcasm. "And not in the way we planned. The Rinnegan… was taken."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Even Kabuto's expression lost a measure of its smugness.

"Taken?" Obito repeated slowly, the word feeling like poison in his mouth.

"Gaara," Zetsu said, stepping fully into the firelight now. "He used the Sharingan. Somehow, he gained enough control over Nagato to force him to use the Rinne Tensei. Then… he killed him. Took the eyes. Burned the body. Before I could intervene."

The masked man was silent for a long time.

Even Deidara seemed unnerved, glancing between them with a frown. "Tch… you let the tanuki brat get the Rinnegan? That's beyond a screw-up."

"I was watching. Waiting to collect the Rinnegan after Nagato's defeat" Zetsu said sharply. "But Gaara outplayed me. He was prepared. Almost like…"

Zetsu trailed off.

Obito took a step forward. "Almost like what?"

"Almost like… he knew what was coming. As if he's seen this before. His control, his timing… he wasn't improvising. He was executing."

Obito clenched a fist."Then I assume capturing him is off the table right now?"

"Highly unlikely," Zetsu said with a growl. "Not without serious risk. He's gained power and insight we don't yet understand. 

Kabuto raised a brow. "A new variable, then. How exciting."

Obito ignored him. "So we're down to two Jinchūriki… and one of them has the Rinnegan."

His tone grew darker.

Obito stood in silent contemplation before the Gedo Statue, its still presence now seeming more ominous under the weight of recent failure. Behind him, torches guttered against the cave's damp air, casting the faces of the Reanimated shinobi in flickering, morbid relief.

Black Zetsu slowly emerged from the wall behind him once again, fully materialized this time, like a shadow given voice.

Obito's voice was low, strained—a thread of frustration buried beneath his usual calm.

"Will we need to reanimate Madara…?"

It was not a question he asked lightly. The silence that followed weighed like a tombstone.

Zetsu's lone yellow eye glinted.

"No. Not yet at least."

Obito turned halfway toward him, the question still lingering.

Zetsu stepped closer.

"Gaara isn't that strong. Not yet. His technique is precise, his understanding is advanced… but power? He's no Madara. Not yet."

Obito's masked face tilted slightly. "Then what do you suggest?"

Zetsu's answer came without hesitation.

"We adapt. We take more drastic action."

He paused for effect before continuing.

"You underestimate him, Obito. Gaara isn't just some clever sand brat anymore. He possesses Kakashi's Sharingan. And with it, he's learned how to use Kamui. Poorly… but well enough to threaten you directly in battle."

Obito's lone eye narrowed behind the mask.

"...Kamui."

Zetsu nodded slowly, his voice dropping into a whisper.

"If he perfects it—even marginally—he could drag you into your own dimension with him. Strip you from the battlefield in an instant. You know what that means."

Obito clenched his hand into a fist, veins pulsing."I am Kamui. That eye is mine."

"And he's learning to use it."

A thick silence hung between them before Zetsu made his final point.

"If you want to maintain the edge… you'll need a second Mangekyō Sharingan."

Obito didn't reply immediately.

Zetsu tilted his head.

"With both eyes, you'd gain access to another Mangekyo Ability—your Offensive arsenal is going to need refinement. And more importantly… the Susanoo. You need another layer of defense. One that even Kamui can't undermine."

Obito's breath was measured now. His voice, quieter but firmer."I never wanted to rely on that power. Not unless there was no other path."

"There isn't," Zetsu hissed. "Gaara has changed everything. The balance is off. We were controlling the board—now we have a rogue piece with your eye and Nagato's power."

Obito turned back toward the Gedo Statue, his thoughts deep and unreadable. After a moment, he reached up and touched his remaining eye socket, then let his hand drop to his side.

"...Very well."

The flickering torchlight cast shifting shadows across Obito's mask as he slowly turned to face Black Zetsu once more. His voice was like ice sliding against stone.

"And where is Itachi?"

Zetsu chuckled faintly, the sound low and slippery like oil in water.

"Ah… now that's where things get interesting."

He leaned closer, yellow eye glowing faintly.

"Itachi… has moved Sasuke out of Konoha. During the chaos of Nagato's assault, he slipped in—undetected—and retrieved his brother. Not much confrontation. No fanfare. Just vanished."

Obito's eye flared with a gleam of suspicion.

"To where?"

Zetsu grinned, teeth gleaming.

"An old Uchiha stronghold. Hidden in the deep forests of the Land of Fire. One of their first clan compounds—forgotten by most, remembered by too few."

He tapped a finger against the rock wall beside him.

"He challenged Sasuke to a duel, apparently. A fight to settle everything. Itachi doesn't plan to live much longer, you know. That sickness of his—he's running out of time."

Obito's gaze lowered, expression unreadable.

"That fool still clings to honor. Even now."His hand curled into a tight fist."Then I'll be the one to end his story."

He turned toward the center of the room. Kabuto, silent until now, looked up from Konan's corpse and the other reanimated shinobi.

Obito spoke with finality.

"His eyes… Itachi's Mangekyō… would be ideal." A pause, then—"Sasuke is an obstacle. He'll likely be influenced by whatever truth Itachi intends to share. That makes them both liabilities."

Black Zetsu gave a slow, approving nod.

"Two wild cards. Two potential threats. Easier to remove them both at once."

Obito raised his hand, the swirling vortex of Kamui beginning to spin from his palm, space bending unnaturally around it.

"Come, Kabuto. We're going to the Land of Fire."A pause—then, quieter, darker—"Itachi's end will be my beginning."

Kabuto adjusted his hood, a subtle grin spreading across his face as he followed.

"This should be… interesting, I'd like to study the Sharingan in more detail."

Just as the spiraling Kamui portal began to form, Black Zetsu shifted slightly in the shadows.

"Obito… I would advise you not to underestimate Itachi. You've seen it before—he plans farther than any of us. He calculates everything. Even his death."

Obito paused, the distortion of space beginning to recede.

"I know." His voice was quiet. Flat. But underneath it simmered the heat of grudging respect—and cold intention.

"That's why I won't face him head-on. I'm going to shatter the last pieces of his calm. Strip away his control. If he's going to play with emotions—" he turned to Kabuto, eyes gleaming beneath the mask,"—then so will I."

Kabuto raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"You have someone in mind to Reanimate?"

Obito gave a nod.

"Three, actually." He held up fingers slowly."Fugaku Uchiha. Mikoto Uchiha. And… Izumi."

Kabuto's grin widened.

"His parents and the girl he loved. You really don't hold back."

"It'll take some time, but I can do it. I've already got viable samples for Fugaku and Mikoto. Izumi… may take more effort to acquire that."

Black Zetsu then chuckled darkly.

"Itachi won't expect this. For all his cold exterior, he never quite fully let go of his humanity. We can weaponize that."

Obito turned again, Kamui warping the space around him.

The spiral expanded, swallowing the two figures whole as they disappeared from the cave—vanishing into the growing storm on the horizon.

XXXXXXXXXX- Land Of Fire-Hidden uchiha stronghold

There are countless ways to enter a room.

Some entrances are calculated to inspire awe—designed to draw eyes and hold them. Others exist to provoke fear, commanding distance and deference. It would be near impossible to catalogue them all.

But there are three that tend to leave the deepest impressions.

The first—and perhaps most common—is the careless drift. The kind of entrance made by someone pretending not to care, though they almost always do. It's a fluid, boneless walk, hands in pockets, shoulders low, gaze distant. A casual saunter that appears spontaneous, directionless even—until you realize the wanderer has arrived exactly where they meant to be.

To the casual observer, it's forgettable. But to the trained eye, it's suspicious. No one moves that loosely without intent. It's a carefully manufactured indifference.

Sometimes it hides insecurity. A self-consciousness about being seen, being judged. But every now and then, it masks something far more dangerous.

The second entrance is loud. Unapologetic. The favored method of the extroverted, the exuberant, the dominant. These are the ones who burst into the room with crackling energy—voices raised, arms wide, commanding attention whether it's offered or not.

They hijack every conversation, reset every mood, and bend the room's gravity toward themselves. For some, it's rude. For others, intoxicating.

And then there's the third.

The stalk.

This is the entrance of the storm cloud. One who barrels in, dragging the weight of their fury behind them. It is a presence that infects the atmosphere, electric and suffocating. Their stride is heavy—too heavy—like the floor itself struggles beneath them. Every glare is a challenge, every breath thick with unspoken rage.

It prompts silence. Retreat. The subtle shift of bodies trying to pretend they haven't noticed the ticking time bomb, hoping someone else will.

This is the walk of someone spoiling for a fight.

Sasuke Uchiha, genius that he was, managed something few could: he combined all three.

When he entered the stone bunker that day, his very stride proclaimed purpose. Every eye in the chamber turned to him—no hesitation, no ambiguity. His presence filled the room like smoke: silent, clinging, inescapable.

And yet… there was a looseness to him. A subtle sway in his steps. Arms dangling freely, cloak fluttering at his sides, he moved like a shadow rolling across glass. Effortless. Casual. Deadly.

His face, bandaged and serene, bore no emotion. His black eyes did not wander—they stayed fixed, locked ahead with quiet intensity. Still, the room felt as though it had been cast in ice. His shoulders, beneath his cloak, were drawn tight like strung wire. His chakra pulsed faintly, but the intent behind it… that was unmistakable.

It wasn't anger.

It wasn't hate.

It was death.

The silent kind. The kind that comes between one breath and the next, with no scream, no blood. Just the smell of smoke, the sting of regret, and the silence that follows finality.

The entrance was, in a word, commanding.

Pity for Sasuke, then, that his older brother had never been impressed by theatrics.

Itachi Uchiha sat at the far end of the chamber like a wraith carved into stone. Elevated slightly above the floor on a crude, throne-like seat—plain, but unmistakably a position of power—he had chosen his angle well.

Because just as there are ways to enter a room, there are ways to greet an entrance. And those, too, matter.

Itachi sprawled in his seat with the poise of a ruler and the composure of a corpse. One leg lazily crossed over the other. One hand buried within his cloak. The other draped idly over the armrest, fingers curled as if in sleep. His spine was ramrod straight, yet he looked… comfortable. Relaxed. Like nothing about Sasuke's entrance warranted even the mildest tension.

There was a difference, though. Where Sasuke's control was tight, bristling—Itachi's was effortless. Natural.

A lion resting in the sun.

Sasuke's expression, though composed, still betrayed something to the trained eye. A tension in the brow. A faint, telltale downturn of the lips. Emotion, suppressed but flickering beneath the surface.

Itachi's? Nothing.

His face might as well have been carved from marble. No disdain. No amusement. No warmth. Not even the pretense of anger.

Just eyes—those eyes—dark and fathomless. Watching. Measuring. Waiting.

The worst part, for Sasuke, had always been the eyes.

If Sasuke was a storm trying not to fall apart—then Itachi was the stillness at its center.

And the stillness was never safe.

So now, after a few long years, the brothers stood under the same roof once more. One, a weapon forged by fire and vengeance. The other, the shadow that had haunted every step of the former.

And between them, nothing but silence—and the promise of blood.

The battle began before Sasuke even realized it.

Itachi's Sharingan had already ensnared him the moment he stepped into the room—the tomoe spinning with eerie precision. But even within the illusion, Sasuke was far from helpless. His own Sharingan burned with greater power than it had ever held, the cold chakra it wove weaving counter-webs even as his vision blurred.

In the real world, only a minute had passed. But for the Uchiha brothers, it felt like ten.

"That Sharingan…" Itachi's voice was calm, almost nostalgic. Familiar enough to make Sasuke's long-burning hatred flare. "How much do you truly see with it, I wonder?"

Sasuke smirked, his steps slow, deliberate.

"How much do I see?" he echoed, then tilted his head slightly. "I see your death, Itachi."

Itachi shifted on his throne. The movement was almost imperceptible, but Sasuke caught it. His brother's lips curled upward—an expression that might have been a smile.

"My death?" Itachi's voice held a trace of amusement as he slowly rose. "Very well then, Sasuke… show it to me."

Sasuke smiled.

And then Itachi vanished.

Faster than conscious thought, the older Uchiha appeared behind him. Sasuke swung, reflexes honed over years—aiming directly for Itachi's head. A move he would've never caught before. Not three years ago.

But Itachi blocked it effortlessly.

Sasuke had expected that. Counted on it. His katana whipped overhead, slicing toward his brother's shoulder.

Itachi caught his wrist mid-arc.

Again, Sasuke was frozen mid-attack.

So he brought up his knee.

Itachi intercepted it with his own, the clash sending a sharp jolt up Sasuke's shin. A kunai dropped into Itachi's free hand, and he stabbed for Sasuke's face.

Steel rang as Sasuke shifted his katana to block it. Sparks erupted between them.

Itachi paused, recalculating. That had been… impressive. Or lucky.

Either way, it was time to change tactics.

He let go of the katana.

Before Sasuke could react, Itachi grabbed him by the back of his cloak and yanked, throwing him off balance. Then, with graceful precision, Itachi leapt.

Sasuke swung wildly—but Itachi didn't care. He spun in midair, his heel connecting cleanly with Sasuke's face and sending him flying backward.

Sasuke's katana flew from his hand.

A follow-up kick from Itachi struck his chest, launching him clear across the room. Without pausing, Itachi completed a backflip, casually sending the discarded sword into the ceiling, where it embedded with a solid thunk.

He landed smoothly. His cloak billowed as he watched Sasuke bounce across the concrete floor like a discarded ragdoll.

Poorly.

But Sasuke was already rolling to his feet, sliding back into a familiar stance even as he skidded. His fingers flashed through hand signs—ones Itachi recognized instantly.

'Has he really not changed that much?' Itachi thought with a flicker of disappointment.

"Chidori!"

Lightning burst to life in Sasuke's hand, crackling with rage. He shot forward like a bolt from the storm.

Itachi sighed inwardly.

This was Sasuke's big move?

He vaulted upward, easily evading the one-shot attack.

But Sasuke was already there—on the ceiling, face twisted into a smile that could haunt dreams.

Itachi's eyes widened a fraction.

'Unexpected.'

Sasuke's katana—somehow retrieved—plunged into his chest with a sickening shlick.

It tore through rib, lung, heart—exiting in a spray of blood that misted the air.

Itachi gasped, and they fell.

Together.

The impact was final. Cold.

Sasuke remained atop him, blade still buried in his chest.

He wasn't taking any chances.

"I need answers," Sasuke growled. "Why was I the one you left alive? Why me?!"

Itachi didn't respond.

He only smiled.

"You've grown strong, Sasuke…"

His hand lifted weakly toward Sasuke's face—two fingers extended. The same familiar motion from their childhood.

Sasuke's breath hitched.

But the fingers didn't touch him. Instead, they pointed to the right.

Foolish little brother. Look over there.

Sasuke turned.

Itachi sat on his throne, eyes watching calmly.

His head whipped back.

The Itachi beneath him dissolved into a cloud of crimson-eyed ravens.

The blade hit the floor with a metallic clang.

Sasuke rose. Furious. Empty-handed.

Then—he met Itachi's eyes.

The world tilted.

Blood sprayed again, painting the throne in streaks of red as a katana punched through Itachi's chest from behind the throne.

'Again?'

Despite the wound, Itachi smiled—a real one, for the first time in a few years.

Now that… is much better.

Sasuke had tricked him. A genjutsu. Executed with such subtlety Itachi never saw it coming. It was masterful.

"Vital areas missed," Sasuke said from behind, voice trembling with emotion. "So you can talk. Tell me… why?! Why did you leave me alive?!"

Itachi gave no answer.

So Sasuke twisted the blade.

"Why?!"

Itachi didn't flinch. Instead, he let the illusion fade once more.

Sasuke sensed it immediately. The throne, the blood, the figure—it all collapsed into black feathers.

He spun, lightning already surging in his hand.

But it wasn't Chidori.

He pointed—not charged—and a beam of condensed lightning shot from his palm like a javelin.

Itachi shifted just enough for it to miss his face by inches. It obliterated the throne behind him in a flash.

He blinked once.

"I'm not the same child you humiliated, Itachi!" Sasuke shouted. "Not anymore!"

Pain flared in his body. Memories of battles past haunted his limbs—his broken wrist, the cursed mark, the failed attacks, the empty techniques.

Useless. All of them.

And then came the voice.

That voice.

"You don't have enough hate," Itachi murmured, close enough to feel his breath. "And you know what, Sasuke…?"

His lips brushed his brother's ear.

"You never will."

No.

That was wrong.

Sasuke had more than enough hate now.

He attacked.

Fists and feet blurred. A strike to the stone. A kick to the gut. Pain, but movement. Head smashed into Itachi's face, breaking his nose.

Blood poured.

Itachi struck back, palm slamming into Sasuke's chest and sending him crashing into the wall.

Still, Sasuke rose.

Glaring.

"You want to know the truth?" Itachi asked coldly. "You want to know why I spared you?"

Silence.

"I know you didn't do it alone," Sasuke said at last. "You mentioned another… someone with the Mangekyō. Who is he?"

Itachi studied him, unmoving.

Then spoke.

"His name… is Madara Uchiha."

Sasuke froze.

"Madara?"

Itachi nodded.

"The first to awaken the Mangekyō. The one who taught me what it truly meant. The one who believed our clan needed… cleansing."

Sasuke's stomach turned.

"I agreed," Itachi said quietly.

Sasuke's rage boiled—but the question still clawed at him.

"Then why spare me?!"

Itachi's eyes dimmed. His voice grew heavy.

"The Mangekyō is powerful… but it comes at a cost. The more you use it, the more you go blind."

He paused.

"I've nearly lost my sight."

Sasuke inhaled sharply.

"But Madara… found a solution," Itachi continued. "He took his brother's eyes. And in doing so, created something more."

A flicker of power surged.

Sasuke barely had time to brace before another illusion slammed into his mind.

And a vision began to unfold—

He saw it.

A room dimly lit by flickering candles, the scent of incense thick in the air. A man lay on a tatami mat, his chest barely rising with each breath. His eyes, once proud and sharp, were dull—hollow. Another figure knelt beside him, silent, deliberate. The elder's hand reached up, trembling, groping forward like a blind worm seeking purchase.

And then—fingers slipped beneath an eyelid.

Sasuke's breath hitched.

The kneeling figure plucked an eye free, crimson fluid trailing down his pale fingers. There was no hesitation, no remorse. Only necessity.

The younger man leaned back, and for a moment, Sasuke could make out his face—a ghost of something he'd seen in old clan portraits. Eyes dead with ambition. Madara Uchiha.

The scene vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving Sasuke swaying. Itachi's voice followed, cutting through the lingering haze of illusion.

"Madara's brother, Izuna, gave his eyes willingly before his death. Together, they birthed the Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan."

Itachi stepped closer, and now Sasuke could see the tremble in his limbs, the subtle strain in his eyes. His vision truly was fading. And yet… the pressure he radiated was more suffocating than ever.

"This is the true secret of the Uchiha. The final evolution of our cursed bloodline."

Sasuke's voice came hoarse, cracked. "You… want my eyes?"

Itachi paused for the briefest of moments.

"I have no need for them," he replied, softly. "But you… you'll need mine. Eventually."

His brother's words sent a chill down Sasuke's spine, more ominous than any threat he had faced. Because behind that calm declaration lay a truth even more terrifying: Itachi wasn't trying to defeat him.

He was preparing him.

For what?

The older Uchiha took one last step forward. "If you want answers, Sasuke… then you'll have to take them from me."

He dropped his cloak from his shoulders, revealing the lean, scarred frame beneath—muscles coiled like serpents, Sharingan gleaming like bloodied moons.

"Come."

Sasuke's hand tightened around his sword hilt, the weight of truth pressing down on him.

This wasn't just a battle.

It was a reckoning.

Itachi took a step forward. In response, Sasuke unsheathed his sword.

In the moment the blade cleared its scabbard, Itachi charged—one hand outstretched like a claw aimed for Sasuke's face, the other tucked behind his back, fingers steadily forming hand signs. He didn't want his younger brother seeing them.

Sasuke swung, the sword not yet fully free, and flung the scabbard forward—cloaked in lightning. Itachi weaved aside, but not enough. The projectile tore a substantial chunk from his sleeve, baring his left arm. As he moved, he surged forward, his right hand sweeping down.

Sasuke met him mid-dash, blocking high with his left hand and thrusting the katana forward with his right. It punched through Itachi's stomach, skewering him—only for the mass-murderer to dissolve into a flock of crows.

From the low-cast shadow beneath him, born of the bunker's dim lighting, another Itachi emerged.

Kunai in hand.

Sasuke blinked. He'd never seen someone conceal themselves within their own shadow. He hadn't even thought to track it with his Sharingan.

The lapse nearly cost him his arm. Itachi struck with the kunai, aiming for the joint in Sasuke's shoulder to disable the limb. Sasuke frantically parried, using his now-free left hand to knock the knife off course. He caught Itachi's wrist, twisted, and brought his blade down to try and sever the hand entirely.

Itachi dropped the kunai—and kicked it mid-fall.

It embedded itself in Sasuke's thigh.

He flinched. That was all Itachi needed. A sharp movement, and Sasuke's sword was knocked from his grip.

It clattered across the floor, flung deep into the bunker—well out of reach.

Itachi advanced, hands a blur. He moved to pummel his bladeless brother. Sasuke defended with grit and instinct, blocking or diverting most strikes, and landing a solid punch to Itachi's gut.

The elder Uchiha dropped to one knee, breath stolen. Sasuke raised a foot for an axe kick.

Itachi caught it with his right hand and launched upward, sending Sasuke cartwheeling across the room.

He spun away and, mid-motion, caught a flicker of hand signs.

A clone jutsu—he didn't need to see the whole thing to recognize it.

Sasuke landed in a roll. Both brothers paused, bruised and aching.

"Taijutsu is pointless, Sasuke. You won't beat me with it," Itachi said, composed despite his heaving breath.

"And I've neutralized your genjutsu, Itachi. Your greatest weapon is gone!" Sasuke shouted, yanking the kunai from his thigh. Blood spurted, but a burst of flame-infused chakra cauterized the wound.

"That, Sasuke," Itachi said from directly behind him, voice cool as ever, "is a foolish misconception."

Sasuke spun, his stolen kunai raised high—and decapitated his brother.

But as the body slumped, he saw it: the chakra wasn't right.

It melted into a puddle of water.

A water clone? Sasuke thought. Why not a shadow clone?

He turned back to face the real Itachi—but he was gone.

Where—?

His instincts screamed. He looked up.

Itachi hung from the ceiling, upside down, cloak draped like a grotesque flower.

There was no time to dodge.

The kunai came up.

Itachi dropped like a meteor, kicked the blade away, and smashed Sasuke to the floor—driving a knee into his chest and pinning him. Sasuke wheezed, helpless, locked beneath his brother's crushing weight.

Itachi leaned in, their faces nearly touching. His eyes spun—Mangekyō unleashed. The sickles whirled.

Sasuke's vision filled with red and black.

He was terrified—but not too terrified as he spat in his brother's face.

Itachi didn't flinch. "Enough of this," he said, his voice like a blade wrapped in bandages.

"Tsukuyomi."

Oh god not again. Ohnonononononooooooo—

Blood splattered across wooden floorboards. Permanent. Unforgiving. It would never come out, nevernevernever. He killed them. Killedthem. In the dark, in their beds. He dragged the bodies out into the entrance hall. Left them there. A gift for his foolish little brother.

He'd waited. Watched. Let the blood stay warm.

Then Sasuke came home.

He screamed.

And Itachi broke.

But the dream didn't stop.

The sky turned red. Trees of crows twisted from the ground, cawing and rotting. Worms and bones. The world cracked apart.

Not real.

Not real.

NOT REAL.

False.

Fake.

Lies.

Sasuke woke up.

The illusion shattered like glass.

A gust of wind blew through the shattered psyche of the genjutsu. Sasuke's hand shot forward, punching Itachi in the chest and launching him into the air.

Blood dripped from Itachi's left eye.

Crimson rain.

His chakra warped and pulsed, unstable. Sasuke's Sharingan caught every detail.

Itachi slammed into the ceiling—bounced—fell.

Before he hit the ground, Sasuke moved. No sword—so he used his leg.

A full-force kick to the chest sent Itachi flying.

He crashed into the old stone throne.

Dust billowed.

When it cleared, Itachi was sprawled in the chair—not like before, in command, cold and poised—but barely upright. He clutched his face, his left eye.

"Impossible," he hesitated. Sasuke had never heard his brother hesitate. "No one can break the Tsukuyomi…"

Sasuke smirked. "That's the power of the hate you gave me, Itachi. With it, nothing's impossible."

Itachi trembled… then slowly steadied himself.

The cold, imperious mask returned.

"Perhaps I underestimated you, little brother. To break the Tsukuyomi…"

He stood straighter, the blood still leaking from his hidden eye.

"…I'll have to end this quickly."

But Sasuke didn't miss it.

His posture might have recovered—but his chakra was still fractured, rippling with the backlash of a shattered genjutsu.

Sasuke grinned.

He's shaken. I have the advantage now.

But Itachi… Itachi was still Itachi.

The air itself grew heavy. Tense. The scent of finality on the wind.

His frown deepened.

His presence grew darker.

Sasuke raised his kunai, eyes wide.

The real fight was just beginning.

The silence that followed was thick—unnatural.

Sasuke stood with his chest heaving, sweat and blood running down his face, body trembling not from fear, but from the weight of everything he'd just endured. Before him, Itachi remained slumped in the ruined throne, unmoving. His lone visible eye, once cold and all-knowing, was now unfocused, dulled by exhaustion… or perhaps something more permanent.

Sasuke didn't dare approach.

The dust hadn't fully settled. It coiled around the remnants of the battle, rising in lazy spirals like spirits disturbed from their slumber. Every breath felt like inhaling ash.

And then—he felt it.

A flicker in the chakra around them. Subtle. Wrong.

The very air shifted. It wasn't chakra from Itachi.

A distorted ripple spread across the battlefield, warping the air with a sudden, nauseating pulse that sent a shiver down Sasuke's spine.

A swirl of space twisted open behind them with the mechanical screech of Kamui, followed by the grinding rumble of earth being torn apart.

Two figures emerged—Both from the vortex, one clad in a swirling orange mask with the same cloak as Itachi, the other pale, draped in a cloak sewn from countless dead snakes, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

Obito and Kabuto had arrived.

And neither of them was here for pleasantries.

Obito's single visible eye glinted, amused. "Touching battle, really. Almost brings a tear to my eye… if I still had one worth shedding."

Kabuto slithered into view, hood cast back, lips curled in a predatory grin. "Now, now, boys. As fun as it is watching old family grudges, I'm afraid this little playdate is over."

Itachi's eyes narrowed. "You dare interfere?"

Obito chuckled darkly. "Interfere? Please. You should thank me. I came bearing gifts."

Sasuke turned, blade angled low, his instincts already screaming at him to abandon everything and just run. "What do you want from us?"

Obito pretended to ponder in thought for a second before plainly stating. "Your eyes, Itachi. And perhaps a little closure for our dear Sasuke, too. He still has questions, doesn't he? Questions only the dead can answer…"

With a single hand seal from Kabuto, the ground cracked open—and three Edo Tensei coffins erupted from the soil, their lids sliding open with a groan that sounded far too human.

Pale smoke spilled out, revealing three silhouettes—uncertain, wavering.

"You'll have to go through them first, Itachi," Kabuto said, his grin widening as each of the coffins' occupants took an unsteady step forward, all looking around in confusion.

One of them, an older man with stressed crinkles below his onyx eyes, stared at Itachi in astonishment. "Itachi?" he asked, his voice hard. "Impossible. What's going on?"

Itachi saw red.

The second summon stared at Sasuke, her mouth falling open, her eyes—red irises stark against black sclera—filled with horror and recognition.

"Sasuke?" Mikoto Uchiha whispered, and Sasuke took a deep breath, his hands going white as they gripped his sword.

The third, a younger woman with long dark hair and soft features, blinked in disbelief as her eyes met Itachi's. Her voice trembled.

"...Itachi?"

Izumi Uchiha.

A stillness swept over the field like a funeral wind.

"Hey...Mom?" Sasuke choked out to his mother.

And Mikoto smiled.

(End of Chapter)