Chapter 62: Same Start, Different Ending

"Uchiha Kin."

At Gin's question, Uchiha Fuka's mind conjured a warm, gentle figure.

Curly hair, narrow phoenix eyes, always smiling—but compared to the Uchiha Gin before him, the vibe was worlds apart.

"I knew him," Fuka said, not hiding it. Those close to Uchiha Kin knew Gin's identity—no need for secrecy.

"What was he like?" Gin asked, curious about the father he barely knew.

"Not here. Let's find a place to talk," Fuka said, sighing, suppressing an odd distaste. He invited Gin to follow.

Gin had no objections. They entered a tavern, Fuka leading him to a private booth with ease, ordering sake and closing the door.

They sat cross-legged, sizing each other up.

When the sake arrived, Fuka poured two cups, drinking alone first.

"You look just like your father—same face, uncanny," Fuka said, his expression softening after a sip, staring at Gin.

"You knew my dad?" Gin pressed, sensing a deep connection from Fuka's tone.

"Knew? He was my captain, half my teacher," Fuka said, downing another cup, exhaling with nostalgia. "Kin-nii was the greatest genius, no contest. Opened his Sharingan at eight, mastered three-tomoe by twelve. Skilled in all five elemental releases, sealing jutsu… handled high-risk missions solo, racked up war feats."

Fuka rattled off Kin's exploits with fervor, but his face darkened mid-sentence. "Such a shame…"

"Shame about what?" Gin leaned in, hooked.

"Gone too soon. If he'd lived, the clan head seat might've been his," Fuka said, shaking his head regretfully.

My dad, almost clan head? Gin thought. Yao's dungeon boasts seemed like hot air, but maybe they were legit.

"Can you tell me more?" Gin asked, eager for the truth. Yao had one version of Kin's death—would Fuka's match?

Outside, Uchiha clansmen clinked cups, the tavern lively. Fuka's fingers traced his sake cup, his steady face showing rare fondness.

"Your parents, Tajima, and I were squadmates. Your father was our captain," Fuka said, shaking his empty cup. Gin refilled it. Fuka downed it, drowning sorrows.

"Our last mission together, prep was flawless. To cover for weaker me, Kin put me on lookout. It went smoothly—until the end, when it all went wrong."

Fuka's voice grew heavy, anguished. At "wrong," his grip on the cup tightened, veins bulging, his usual calm shattered, eyes wild with rage.

"A traitor! Someone leaked our route. Enemies, outnumbering us, ambushed us on the only path. Three squads, including ours, were wiped out. Your father fought to break us out."

"You were there?" Gin asked, noting Fuka's story aligned with Yao's.

"Of course. I saw your parents' sacrifice. I'm sorry—I was powerless," Fuka said, voice choking, eyes red with tears. "I was a coward. Captain ordered me to flee, and I did. I failed his years of care."

"Details," Gin pressed, catching a discrepancy. "What happened at the end?"

"Your parents, carrying a Tajima, fought to escape, but the enemy clung tight. I, the lookout, joined the fight but was useless—a burden," Fuka said, closing his eyes in pain, his words draining him.

"At the last moment, your father ordered me to take the injured, Tajima and retreat. They stayed to hold the line."

"Tajima was the whole time?" Gin asked, spotting a major difference from Yao's tale.

"Yes, gravely wounded. He woke days after treatment," Fuka confirmed.

"Did my parents leave any last words?" Gin asked, hoping for clues.

"No. It was chaos—no time for words," Fuka said, shaking his head, regretful.

"Thanks for telling me about them, Captain," Gin said, standing and bowing.

"I don't deserve it. I watched them die and did nothing. I owe you an apology," Fuka said, kneeling to bow.

"No, Captain. They chose this path, ready to give their lives," Gin said, helping him up, offering comfort.

Questions answered, Gin took his leave. Fuka stayed, drinking cup after cup.

As Gin left, he faintly heard Fuka's drunken murmur: "Why didn't you dodge that blade, Kin-nii…?"

Reeling from Fuka's truths about his parents' deaths, Gin's mind was too jumbled to hunt for a carpenter.

Mask slung on his head, clutching the Isobu plush, he reached his home.

The shop had delivered—stone table, recliner, training targets, and dummies now adorned the once-barren yard, giving it some class.

Patting a pristine training dummy, Gin nodded, pleased. Just needed a proper fence. Wood Release would've been handy—too bad.

Tidying the yard, Gin paused, a sly grin forming. Adjusting his creepy mask, he crept inside.

Senju Banma sat dazed on the couch, oblivious to the figure entering. Gin sneaked behind, placing a hand on his shoulder, masked face leaning close.

Banma, lost in thought, jolted as the hand landed. Turning, he met the terrifying mask.

"Ah! Ghost—!" Banma screamed, then foamed at the mouth, fainting.

"Tch, this kid's got no guts," Gin muttered, disappointed, removing the mask. He hadn't even started his act.

"Hey, wake up!" Gin crouched, slapping Banma's face. No response. His heart sank. "No way, dead from a scare? I'm screwed!"

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