Chapter 6

The main square of Konoha, bathed in sunlight, buzzed with voices—as if the village itself were breathing, speaking, waiting.

Everyone had gathered.

Shinobi in their faded flak jackets, kunoichi with forehead protectors and watchful eyes, weary blacksmiths scrubbed clean of ash and soot, academy teachers hastily ushering students to the front rows. Ordinary villagers, unable to sense chakra but acutely aware of the tension in the air. And at the edges, in places of honor, stood the clan leaders with their escorts.

Everyone wanted the same thing: the truth. Answers.

A week had passed since that terrifying night when the Kyūbi engulfed Konoha. The destruction had been devastating—entire districts leveled, lives cut short like threads. The rubble had been cleared, but rebuilding new homes would take months, if not years.

A man in a white cloak with red flames along the hem stepped onto the top tier of the platform, recently erected for this very occasion—Hokage Sarutobi Hiruzen. Weariness showed in his posture, but so did unyielding resolve. Behind him stretched years of war, politics, and burdens that never truly left. Beside him stood Uchiha Fugaku, like a stone monolith—not just the head of his clan, but also the commander of the Military Police. His face, chiseled like granite, betrayed nothing but cold dignity.

Fugaku swept his gaze over the crowd, quickly finding his clan. The Uchiha stood in a tight, unified group, their dark hair forming a living wall. At the center stood Mikoto, holding a bundle wrapped around the newborn Naruto. Her face was pale and tired, but her eyes remained steady. Beside her stood little Itachi, his expression serious—almost frighteningly adult—as he cradled baby Sasuke, who slept peacefully, unaware he was part of a moment that would become history.

The murmurs, the whispering, the occasional bursts of children's laughter—all fell silent in an instant the moment the Hokage stepped forward. His chakra, subtly channeled, amplified his voice until it echoed across the square like rolling thunder.

"Citizens of Konoha," Hiruzen began, his words hanging in the air like a bell toll. "We have all endured a difficult, tragic time…"

He spoke calmly, with strength and conviction, weighing each word carefully. His voice, usually stern, now held a softness that even the children—normally restless—fell quiet to hear. In that moment, the old man was again the Hokage people loved and respected—not a bureaucrat, but the father of the village.

"The Hokage Administration," he continued, "in close cooperation with the Uchiha Clan Police Force…"

He nodded to Fugaku. The man gave a slight dip of his head in acknowledgment, no more.

"…has conducted a full investigation into the incident. And we have apprehended the one responsible."

Silence followed. Heavy. Ringing. It was as if the village itself had stopped breathing. Then—a subtle motion: Fugaku turned his head slightly and gave a nod.

From the shadows behind the platform emerged Uchiha Inabi. He led forward a figure in the gray robes of a prisoner. A sack without eyeholes covered the man's head. His hands were bound in metal shackles. The prisoner walked without resistance—but also without hesitation. As if he knew what awaited him. Inabi forced him to his knees beside a wooden execution block.

The silence stretched, tight as a drawn string, ready to snap.

"But before you learn who stands before you," Hiruzen continued, his voice now firm, "I want you to remember something. A name you all know. The name of a hero."

He paused. The crowd stood still.

"Uchiha Obito."

Instantly, like a stone dropped into still water, murmurs rippled across the square. Hiruzen raised his hand for silence and went on:

"He was a young shinobi. Ready to give everything for his comrades. His name is etched on the Hero Memorial. He gave his life for his team. His Sharingan… It was his eye we saw in the Kyūbi that night."

The unease swelled into a low, bitter murmur. Whispers, sharp and heavy, swept through the crowd like a wave:

"The Uchiha can't be trusted..." 

"Another one of them again..." 

"They're all the same…"

Somewhere in the crowd stood Kakashi. He said nothing. He simply raised a hand to his face and touched the headband covering his left eye. A gift from a friend. A memory. The final lesson.

"Uchiha Obito is a hero of Konoha," Hiruzen declared, his voice like a chisel on stone. "And shame on anyone who dares tarnish his name."

The words, sharp and firm, cut through the rumble of the crowd like a blade. The whispers died. Some looked ashamed, some lowered their eyes. Others clenched their jaws.

But the confusion lingered. People glanced at one another, unsure where the Hokage was leading them. A hero, a dead boy, a Sharingan, a demon… How did it all connect?

Hiruzen didn't let the crowd drown in speculation. His expression darkened. With a sudden, decisive motion, he stepped toward the prisoner and yanked the coarse sack from his head.

"His body was desecrated. His eye—stolen," he said, pointing to the prisoner's exposed face. "By this man!"

A gasp rippled through the crowd—someone screamed. All eyes locked on the face beneath the sack: deep-set wrinkles, a tangled beard, a gaze heavy and unreadable. A tight gag kept him silent. His left eye blazed—a bright, sinister glow from a slowly turning Sharingan.

Many had seen that eye the night the Kyūbi struck.

To the crowd, he was a stranger. But not to Fugaku. The head of the Uchiha clan studied him coldly, intently. He knew that face. Once, this man had been a petty criminal—a horse thief caught in the Land of Fire. Sentenced to a "quiet" execution by the Daimyō's decree—erased without a trace, without a name, without a grave. And now he stood here—a scarecrow.

His face had been altered by Hiruzen's techniques. His mind—rewritten by Fugaku's genjutsu. He had become a living shield. A sacrifice. A pawn.

Hiruzen raised his hand, gesturing to the man.

"His name is Satori Keita," he said loudly, so all could hear. "A member of the underground terrorist group known as Akatsuki. Their goal is to destroy the world as we know it. To erase the Hidden Villages. To annihilate everything generations have built."

The crowd stirred. Somewhere, a child's frightened voice cried out. Adults began whispering. The name "Akatsuki" was unfamiliar to most—but it rang with menace. Like the hiss of a poisonous spider.

"They seek not peace," said Hiruzen, shaking his head. "They seek chaos. Destruction. Betrayal. They want us to believe our friends are enemies. To spill blood not only from without—but from within."

He pointed at the burning Sharingan in the prisoner's eye socket.

"They steal more than eyes. They steal memory. Legends. The names of heroes."

Hiruzen fell silent for a moment, then spoke with cold clarity:

"The punishment for attacking this village is one. Death."

The crowd didn't just erupt—it exploded in a frenzy. Someone shouted, "Execute him!" Others began chanting. People who had lost loved ones screamed themselves hoarse. Rage and grief fused into one mad chorus. Some wept. Some laughed nervously. But all cried out for the same thing—retribution.

Then the Hokage raised his hand, and slowly, like a wave receding from shore, the crowd began to quiet.

"Before the execution," he said calmly, "by decision of a closed council session, the condemned is granted a final statement."

Fugaku nodded. Inabi stepped forward without hesitation and, with a swift, practiced motion, yanked the gag free. The man coughed, gasping, then spat toward the crowd. His eyes—especially the one bearing the Sharingan—blazed with madness.

Then he screamed—not in fear, but with the fanaticism of a man drowning in his own twisted truth.

"The shinobi system is rotten!" he shouted, sucking in breath. "All of you! You're part of the lie! Slaves serving war gods! Only through suffering will you be cleansed! Only pain can open your eyes!"

The crowd roared. They weren't just angry anymore—they were ready to surge forward and tear him apart with their bare hands. The guards around the perimeter held the line with everything they had. One of the spectators hurled a stone—a heavy chunk from a ruined house.

It flew straight for the prisoner's face… but stopped. Suspended in the air—just inches from his head. Irresistibly, caught by a hand. Fugaku's hand. The stone crumbled into dust. Shards pattered to the ground.

Silence fell, absolute and immediate.

Fugaku stepped forward, and his voice rang out—sharp, deep, commanding:

"I understand your hatred."

His words pierced the silence like an arrow.

"You want revenge. You want to rip him apart—piece by piece—for everyone we lost that night. For the children. For the parents. For the friends. You want him to suffer. To endure years of agony. To feel what you felt."

He paused. His eyes swept over the crowd, searching for the reflection of those emotions. He found them—easily. Rage. Pain. The hunger for justice.

"But what do we become if we do that?"

There was no anger in his voice. No soothing tone, no lofty speech. Only cold logic, and a bitter, hard-earned truth.

"We become avengers—not keepers of order. We become monsters. Demons. Just like the one we curse. Like the Kyūbi."

Someone in the crowd sobbed.

"We are not demons. We are human," Fugaku said firmly. "And that is why the execution will be swift. One strike. No torture. No malice."

He looked out over the crowd, as if daring them to challenge him:

"Not out of mercy. But because this is what it means to be human."

Fugaku slowly approached the prisoner. Not with hatred. Not with triumph. Simply—like a coroner approaching a corpse.

He knelt and, without breaking eye contact with the swirling Sharingan, reached out. With a clean motion, using a simple medical technique, he removed the eye.

The Sharingan's flame flickered in his palm like a dying star.

He rose, turned without a word, and left the platform. The crowd parted for him like a tide around an executioner. He didn't glance to either side—he knew all eyes were on him.

Behind him, the executioner stepped forward with precise, rehearsed movements. The ANBU mask hid his face, but the air around him radiated resolve and ruthlessness. He said nothing.

The blade flashed in the sun—and fell.

One motion. Just as Fugaku had promised.

The head tumbled across the platform, leaving a crimson arc behind it. Someone cried out—but no one moved. Not a shout of triumph. Not a thrown stone. Not a single spit.

Fugaku's words had branded their conscience—and now no one wanted to be the Kyūbi.

///

Immediately after the execution, Fugaku walked slowly across the square, as if wading through thick air. People stepped aside to let him pass, avoiding his gaze. As if afraid he might read their thoughts.

The Uchiha compound buzzed like a disturbed wasp's nest. The air thrummed with energy—pride, excitement, fear, argument. But the moment he came near, it all fell silent.

"I didn't expect that turn of events," Uchiha Sasami said first, breaking the quiet. Her voice trembled with restrained emotion. "Was it really our reports that led to identifying the criminal?"

"Yes," Fugaku replied coldly.

The police officers exchanged glances. A flicker of pride crossed their faces—but it didn't have time to bloom. Because Fugaku continued, his tone sharp:

"If you had always worked this diligently… the tragedy might have been avoided."

The silence that followed was almost physical. People lowered their heads, as if struck. His gaze moved over them—heavy, measuring, unforgiving. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

He was speaking the truth. And everyone felt it in their gut.

"Akatsuki's plans have been exposed," he continued, his voice like steel, "but the war isn't over. The enemy hasn't vanished. They're watching. Waiting. And they will strike the moment you let your guard down."

He took a step forward, commanding the entire formation with his presence.

"That's why patrols will continue. No skipped shifts. No complaints. I want a full report on my desk every day. I'm counting on you. Konoha is counting on you."

"Yes, Captain!" they answered in unison. It wasn't a sharp military shout—it sounded more like they were clinging to his strength, to the chance of becoming part of order again.

Fugaku gave a nod. Then turned away.

Mikoto stood slightly off to the side, silent and composed. Her face wore a polite, perfectly measured smile. In her arms—a carefully wrapped bundle with a baby inside.

"You looked good up there," she said quietly when he approached. Her words were soft, like silk. "Impressive. Come home, I made lunch…"

"I won't be eating," he interrupted, his expression unchanged. Cold. Even. Like a blade cutting through flesh. "Give me Naruto."

He held out his arms.

For one brief, barely noticeable moment, something flickered in her eyes—pain? Worry? Doubt? She held the bundle closer, as if the child in her arms were her own, and in danger.

But it lasted only a heartbeat.

"Of course, dear," she replied with flawless, almost mechanical grace. And placed the infant into her husband's hands.

She was the perfect wife. The kind who asked no questions. Who didn't argue. Who never demanded explanations.

Even when her husband took away her best friend's child—and said nothing about why.

/////

Author notes:

If you've made it this far, you're already a hero.

Be a legend — leave a comment and power stone.

Your thoughts, theories, reactions — even a single emoji — are fuel that keeps me writing.