Chapter 9. Something White

"We're here," Fugaku said, snapping the map shut. Kakashi had handed it to him before the mission, marked with precise coordinates. Fortunately, by then he already had the Sharingan—not only did he memorize the spot, he imprinted it in his mind like a photograph: the slope of the hill, elevation, direction, even the geological structure.

The sun struck his eyes, reflected from a pile of rocks—once the entrance to a cave. Now, just a collapsed mound that looked like a grave.

"We have the body's coordinates," Fugaku said, pulling out a black notebook. Inside were equations, trajectory calculations, rock density, blast resistance formulas. "The explosive tags need to be placed exactly according to this schematic. That way we'll only remove the excess layer without disturbing the rest."

He took a long ribbon of tags from his pack. Each one was neatly marked, labeled, and numbered.

"Why so complicated?" Shisui raised an eyebrow skeptically. "I've nearly mastered Earth Release. A couple of jutsu and this whole pile's gone over the horizon."

"Don't waste your chakra," Fugaku said curtly. "Experience says we'll need it before the day's over."

Shisui shrugged. Smart enough not to argue.

When the tags detonated and the blast shook the forest, birds shot into the sky and rocks exploded outward. Fugaku and Shisui stayed behind the hill for cover. Once the dust cloud settled, they descended into the crater.

"Looks like your calculations were off," Shisui said, running a hand along an untouched wall of stone. "Still a thick layer left."

Fugaku immediately activated his Sharingan. The red tomoe spun in his eyes, measuring depth like a rangefinder: one hundred and thirty-three meters to the target.

That wasn't right.

He ran a hand over the scorched wall, where the blast had charred the rock dark gray. Smooth to the touch, but with a telltale flaking under his fingers. Then Fugaku's lips curved in a faint smile.

"This isn't just rock," he said. "It's mica schist."

"What?"

"Brush up on your geology," Fugaku huffed. "One of the best materials for construction. Doesn't bend. Doesn't crack from temperature shifts. Nearly immune to destruction techniques. No wonder the tags didn't do much."

He fell silent for a moment—calculations already spinning in his mind. If modified concrete with schist was possible… if synthesized under lab conditions...

"We're taking it with us," he said firmly.

"Why?" Shisui looked genuinely surprised.

"It'll be the foundation for my lab," Fugaku explained calmly. "The one in the police headquarters is nothing more than a glorified classroom. That won't do."

"Oh… didn't take you for a science guy," Shisui grinned. "You should talk to the Hokage's student—Orochimaru. He's into that stuff too. In his… unique way."

"I'll remember the name."

In sync, they formed hand seals. The ground beneath them gurgled, became viscous like a flowing river. The schist slowly, almost reluctantly, rose to the surface. Two hundred kilograms of heavy, dense rock emerged from the earth.

And then they saw what Kakashi had warned them about.

Two stones pressed together like jaws. And between them—a crushed body. Only half. The rest had either disintegrated or remained under the debris. Flesh partially decayed, clothes hanging in tatters from bones. White maggots squirmed out of the eye socket, burrowing into the skull.

"We should recover the body," Shisui whispered. "At least bury it properly."

"Don't move," Fugaku's voice turned to steel. He grabbed Shisui's shoulder sharply. His Sharingan flared, tomoe spinning fast. "It's a fake."

Shisui activated his own Sharingan and took a closer look. A long stare, sharp and scanning—reading chakra traces and cell structure.

"This is Obito's body," Shisui objected. "His chakra's still in the tissues. Even an old fracture—Obito fell from a tree once, I saw it myself."

Fugaku's grip on his shoulder tightened.

"It's a fake," he repeated, eyes locked on the corpse. "Whoever made this knew shinobi anatomy. But they didn't know entomology. Look—at the eye socket. See those maggots?"

Shisui strained his vision, focusing on the worms writhing in the hollow of the skull.

"White, thick... So what?"

"Erebia microfauna," Fugaku's voice was distant, almost detached. "Strict detritivores. Their presence here makes sense—they inhabit this forest, we saw them in that dead crow. But they never lay eggs on decomposing flesh."

The "Obito" corpse twitched with a sharp, almost grotesque snap—skin, bones, clothing—all dissolved. The flesh turned into a viscous white substance, like melted wax, and oozed down the stones, splashing into a pool of organic sludge. Seconds later, something rose from it—a humanoid silhouette, pure white, with a head twisted in a spiral like a seashell.

"Such a perfect trap… ruined!" it rasped in a low, wooden voice. "Just a few more meters and I would've skewered you!"

Sharingans flared at once. Kunai flashed into the Uchiha's hands like extensions of their own limbs.

"Who are you?" Fugaku asked evenly, not blinking. He stared directly into the center of that spiral head, where an eye might have been.

"What does it matter?" the creature's voice dripped with mocking glee. "You're going to die anyway!"

It stepped forward—and the earth exploded with roots.

They shot out from beneath the rocks like spears: thick, bark-covered, saturated with chakra. They lunged at the shinobi as if they had will of their own. Mokuton. The First Hokage's bloodline.

Fugaku and Shisui wasted no time. Their Sharingan eyes let them predict the roots' paths by fractions of a second—enough to dodge. Weaving between attacks, they launched fireballs, but the flames only licked the bark in vain: it soaked up chakra like a sponge. Even the synchronized strikes of two Uchiha left no mark on the wood.

"Genjutsu?" Shisui guessed, but quickly realized it was pointless. The creature had no eyes. No ears. Not even a face. If it had a brain, it clearly wasn't where it should've been.

Fugaku hurled a kunai in a complex arc, embedding an explosive tag—but the white mass absorbed the blast without reaction.

"Notice it?" Fugaku asked calmly, dodging another root. "Its body is like Hashirama's trees. Same structure, same traits."

"And how does that help us?!" Shisui snapped, throwing another pack of explosives to hold it back. "That still doesn't tell me how to kill it!"

"Stall it. One minute."

Shisui nodded and spat a bright fireball—not destructive, but blinding.

Fugaku dashed for the exit. He leapt out with a springing motion and slid toward his pack, pulling out a gray, sealed pouch. A second later, he returned to the cave's edge—and hurled it inside.

The pouch struck the ground with a soft thud and burst, releasing a dense orange cloud that looked like chemical fire.

"What is that?!" Shisui shouted, running after him.

"Herbicide," Fugaku said shortly, yanking him out by the collar. "New formula. I prepared it in case we ran into Mokuton roots during the dig."

He didn't bother to explain that he'd recreated the compound from memory—memories of a different world, where he fought Pamela Isley, Poison Ivy.

The orange cloud hissed inside the cave like venom, seeping into every crack. Its sharp, acidic stench reached even the surface, and both men donned masks.

Fifteen minutes passed. No movement below. Not a sound.

"What if it's just waiting?" Shisui asked, eyes narrowed, watching the gaping mouth of the cave.

"This herbicide kills any organic matter," Fugaku said flatly. "Even if it's saturated with chakra. I tested it in the Forest of Death. Hashirama's century-old trees burned like kindling."

Still, to be sure, they sent shadow clones ahead.

When they descended, the enemy was gone. Only scorched, blackened roots lay collapsed like dead tentacles, and the white mass had cooled into a lump of congealed fat.

"He's dead," Shisui confirmed.

Fugaku said nothing. Wordlessly, he pulled out a container and began collecting the remnants. That substance was too valuable—and too dangerous—to leave behind.

They descended deeper into the cave, but there were no further signs of Obito. No body, no remains, no trace of life. If an underground base had existed, it had been meticulously scrubbed clean—every passage collapsed, every tunnel buried, as if the enemy hadn't just fled, but had tried to erase the very fact of their presence.

The mystery remained unanswered.

But they didn't leave empty-handed: they took all the mica slate, carefully cut and sealed in scrolls. The stone was far too precious to abandon.

On the way back, when the dust and tension of battle had finally begun to settle, Shisui spoke up.

"Fugaku, how did you know there'd be a trap down there?"

"Get used to playing the game," Fugaku grunted. "Make a move—expect a counter. Simple as that."

Shisui nodded. The silence stretched, footsteps crunching over gravel, until he asked again:

"What do we do now?"

Fugaku silently clenched the scroll containing fragments of the white mass. There was a stillness in him—like the calm before a storm. A wood-based genome. A disguise that deceived the Sharingan. A creature capable of mimicking a shinobi's body… This wasn't just alarming—it was a challenge.

"We study the enemy," he finally said. "Find its weakness. Understand who's behind this—and why."

"I'm no scientist, but I'm curious now. Honestly, that was the most enlightening mission I've ever had," Shisui admitted. "All my previous commanders were… grounded. There wasn't much to learn from them."

He said it sincerely, without resentment. But his voice held a quiet ache—one Fugaku recognized from his own youth. A genius, bored among mediocrity. And nothing is more precious than an adult who doesn't extinguish that fire—but directs it.

Fugaku stopped.

"Wanna live with me?" he asked, unexpectedly.

"…You serious?"

"Completely. You already know Itachi—he could use a friend. Mikoto could use some help around the house. And I could use an assistant in the lab. I'll find you a room. What do you say?"

Shisui smiled so broadly the sun itself seemed to shine brighter.

"I'd be honored, Fugaku."

///

Meanwhile, far on the other side of the world…

Deep underground, under the glow of artificial lamps, the base buzzed with activity. White Zetsu—dozens, hundreds—darted through the massive cavern, carrying crates, equipment, scrolls, and bundles. The new hideout was nearly complete. The walls gleamed from fresh work, the air smelled of soil and bleach.

From one wall, like a mushroom sprouting from earth, emerged a man-plant hybrid—a Zetsu, his face split into black and white halves.

"We lost one of ours," he grumbled in a low voice.

On a metal bridge, standing in the shadows, was Obito. His orange mask glinted as he turned his head.

"A small price to assess the enemy," he replied indifferently. "We got the information we needed."

"Fugaku ruins all our plans," Zetsu hissed. "How did he even guess that you and the Akatsuki were behind the attack on Konoha?"

"Fugaku doesn't know," Obito snapped. "If he did, my name would already be in the bingo book. I spoke with Danzō. The whole of Konoha believes the Akatsuki are to blame. It suits them. They need an external enemy."

"But Fugaku's still on the trail. Breathing down our necks."

Obito was silent for a moment, then replied sharply:

"We're not going to attack him directly."

"Why not?"

"Because he's the Uchiha leader. In that clan, only the strongest rules. And after the war, Fugaku changed. He didn't just become dangerous—he became calculating. Cunning. Intelligent. That kind of leap isn't from training. It's… transformation. And I know only one thing that can change a man that much."

His mask shifted. Behind it, the Mangekyō Sharingan flared—deep as a black hole.

"I'm almost certain Fugaku has a Mangekyō. And possibly an ability we can't even imagine. Think about it—no hand seals, no prep. One glance—and you're erased. You willing to risk that?"

Zetsu shook his head.

"Neither am I," Obito returned to the railing. "The plan stays in motion. But from now on, we move slower. Quieter."

/////

Author notes:

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