No one moved.
Konan's gaze held steady on Itachi, even as she spared a flicker of attention for the other Uchiha—face-down in the dirt before her. Tobi—Madara, whatever name he chose to wear—was unpredictable, a true enigma, even among the most eccentric of shinobi. His choice to stay neutral in this standoff with a known traitor felt like a riddle with no answer. Had he known all along about Itachi's connection to Konoha? Was there betrayal within betrayal here? What were his true intentions? She couldn't tell.
Paper wings unfurled from her back in a whisper of movement as Itachi’s chakra stirred. He vanished, flickering away, and instinct drove her arm up, launching a barrage of paper shurikens at his retreating figure, each one slicing through the air with lethal precision. In front of her, Tobi sank into the earth—ghostlike—reappearing some distance away, distancing himself from the battle as if to underline his indifference. Nagato’s Animal Path sprang after Itachi, its hands weaving the seals of a summoning jutsu in blurring motion. White smoke erupted, and from the cloud, a mass of monstrous centipedes poured forth, twisting and writhing towards the younger Uchiha.
The paper shuriken reached Itachi first, enveloping him in a lethal net. Konan’s eyes narrowed as Itachi’s form ruptured, crows bursting forth in a wild flurry, wings thrumming as they dissolved into the dark woods. A clone. Of course. She hadn’t imagined for a moment that the Uchiha would be so easily dealt with, but still—how had he slipped from her perception, and when?
Her frown deepened as her eyes swept across the battlefield, searching. The centipedes Nagato had summoned tore through the forest, uprooting trees, their sinuous bodies writhing in search of their prey. A second plume of white smoke blossomed behind her, and a winged, five-meter-tall hound appeared, its fur red-brown, a cruel black chakra receiver thrust through its skull.
Tobi, for his part, stood unmoving, perched in the boughs of a large tree, watching the chaos unfold without a flicker of interest. True to his word, he seemed content to let the scene play out.
A rush of heat met Konan from behind. Instinct pushed her into a dive, wings snapping her out of the path of a fireball. She spun in midair, sending another volley of shurikens after Itachi, even as the great fireball forced the Animal Path to abandon its summoning. The Uchiha moved again, evading, his steps as fluid as ever. Nagato’s summoned hound charged, relentless, its form bounding after him, while three more of the Paths emerged from white smoke—Deva, Asura, and Preta.
Itachi’s hands blurred, and a stream of fiery projectiles erupted from his mouth, aimed with deadly intent at the hound. The beast's path was thrown awry by the explosions that tore into its torso, the massive form crumpling into the ground before dissolving in a cloud of white smoke.
Konan moved upwards, wings carrying her above the battlefield as another fireball exploded beneath her, the heat pressing at her. She banked, high above the smoke, then dropped, spinning into a dive, explosive paper fluttering in her wake. The forest erupted beneath her, a path of detonation opening up as she strafed overhead, each blast rippling through the woods in quick succession.
Below, the Paths stood motionless as the summoned beasts moved between the flames, their purpose singular—to drive the Uchiha from whatever dark corner he had found to hide in. Konan hovered, her wings holding her aloft as she scanned the ground for any sign of Itachi’s presence. Below, the fire raged, thick columns of black smoke spiralling upwards—the scene one of pure, unbridled wrath.
Surely, she thought, surely this was enough.
"Yasaka Magatama!"
The call came as a flaming projectile tore through the smoke towards her, and she tucked her wings tight, dropping out of its path, the blast rocking her, hurling her earthward. She struck the ground hard, a tumble of limbs and wings before she pulled herself upright, three powerful beats of her wings propelling her skyward once more. Her eyes narrowed, and she banked away, hugging the treetops as she prepared for whatever next would come.
Nagato acted then—the Deva Path, its hands raised, pushing the smoke and flame aside, revealing the battlefield below, empty of cover. Konan twisted her body, evading another flaming projectile that whistled past her, its path ending in an eruption of rock and flame against a cliffside. She rose again, looking down at the battle below: Itachi standing amidst the flames, a spectral avatar towering above him, seven meters of chakra, the humanoid figure holding a strange, fiery blade in one hand, an ethereal shield in the other, fending off Nagato’s attack.
Konan dipped left, altering her course, watching for an opening as the Animal Path fell, skewered by the burning blade the Uchiha wielded. The weapon seemed to pulse, to ripple with heat before sucking the Animal Path’s body into its gourd hilt. The summons disappeared—vanishing with their fallen master.
The other Paths hesitated, retreating a few cautious steps, the moment thick with a shared uncertainty. Silence held—briefly, tentatively.
It shattered as the Asura Path launched its attack, arms transforming into a barrage of missiles. Itachi answered, black flames streaking out, even as the Susanoo shield came up to block the missiles. The Preta Path moved in tandem, absorbing the black flames as they sparked into being.
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Konan scanned the chaos, searching for the Deva Path—and found nothing. An unease began to rise within her, unspoken. Her earpiece crackled, Nagato’s voice rumbled then.
"Leave the battlefield."
"Why?" she demanded, bewildered.
"This is getting messy," came his reply, words flat, emotionless. "I’m ending this. Now."
She frowned, but she obeyed, adjusting her flight path for separation. Behind her, a low hum began, swelling until the air itself seemed to vibrate. Then came a great rumbling, the earth itself pulled upwards—tons upon tons—ripped from its foundations and sucked toward a dark, small orb suspended above Itachi.
"Chibaku Tensei!"
Konan felt her wings strain, felt herself pulled faintly by the gravitational force, even from the distance she had gained. Itachi resisted, fought with everything at his disposal, but it was useless—he and the spectral avatar were sucked up. In moments, they vanished beneath the crushing mass of an artificial satellite.
And then—silence. The battle ground to a halt, the orb floating above them, solid earth wrapped around a gravity well.
"...Is it done?" Konan asked, her voice tight, as she glided to hover near the Deva Path. Tobi emerged nearby, slipping from nowhere, his gaze on the floating orb, his expression strangely pensive.
"Yes," Nagato replied, turning, his steps sure, final. Konan gave one last glance to Tobi—Madara—who watched, seemingly spell-bound, before he too turned away.
"Stubborn fool," she heard him murmur, almost to himself, a ghost of a chuckle in his words. And then he too was gone.
----------------------------------------
Itachi stood before the sink, staring into the haggard reflection that stared back at him from the glass. He coated his fingertip in chakra and, without ceremony, plucked the spent eye from his left socket. The ruined Sharingan dropped into his palm with a wet squelch, and he looked at it for a long while, disappointed. It was supposed to be a gift for his beloved child. Izanagi had claimed it instead.
He sighed, dropping it into a jar, sealing it away. What use was it now? He turned to the second scroll on the edge of the sink and unsealed it. A puff of white smoke, and a crow materialized on his outstretched arm, its left eye aglow with a malevolent red—a Sharingan, Shisui's. He extracted the precious kekkei genkai and inserted it into the empty socket. His vision swam, blurred, his chakra mingling with the organ until his body settled, made peace with the foreign intrusion.
Content, he left the bathroom, the storage scrolls clutched loosely in his hand, and dumped them on the table. The rest of his hoard lay scattered at his feet. He eased himself into a sitting position and picked up another scroll, unfurling it. It was a mundane thing, cheaply made, the script hastily written. He could see the flaws in its penmanship, the poor quality of the ink. But that was to be expected—he’d gathered them from the dregs, from low-rank missing-nin and mercenaries lurking in seedy alleyways.
His eyes scanned the words. Another sigh. Another discarded scroll. They all told the same story, no matter the discrepancies in detail. Konoha had slaughtered one of its founding clans. A secret once sealed, now trickling out, sold in backrooms and slums for a handful of ryō, a price even a child could afford. It was insidious. An ugly thing, this method of revealing the truth, but effective. Sasuke, sharp as he was, would surely have stumbled across it by now.
The boy never cared for the Leaf, that much was certain. From the moment the council had acknowledged him, Sasuke’s disdain had been clear—distrust, contempt. He spoke of them as if they were beneath him, Danzo and his ilk, the Hokage. Treason was a word he would have spat. And the boy had the Mangekyō—rare eyes, holding miracles within them. It was easy to see how those who hated Konoha might seek to twist his contempt into something more.
Itachi could imagine how it had happened. Danzo disregarding their agreement, placing a bounty on Sasuke’s head. The boy had come for him, last they met—he had come like a storm, full of wrath, relentless. If he had turned that fury toward Danzo, or worse, the Hokage...
But the bounty was proof enough that Sasuke lived, that he was out there somewhere. Itachi's poor child. Where had it gone wrong? His plan had been perfect. The hate should have made Sasuke strong—stronger than those soft children who knew nothing of the world. And Sasuke was strong. He was full of hate, and yet, he had gone astray.
Sasuke had always been a quiet child. He never cried for milk, never wailed. He would purse his lips, and Itachi would call for Mikoto. Sasuke the Ponderous, they had called him, watching the world with eyes too mature for his age. A gentle babe, beautiful, but beauty did not last in this world.
Itachi had stolen that innocence, shattered it to temper him, and Sasuke had grown—he had blossomed, violently. He grew too fast, disobedient, rebellious. Proud as Itachi was, he still feared for him. Sasuke was dangerous. Too dangerous. To himself. To Konoha.
But it wasn’t just family that bound Itachi. It was the village, the legacy of the Uchiha. The child was his blood, and Itachi would not let him forsake their legacy. No matter how far Sasuke strayed, no matter how he threw himself to the wolves, Itachi would be there, pulling him back, forcing him back to the noble path.
He feared what the boy would become—a harbinger of turmoil, a harbinger of discord. In his pursuit of vengeance, Sasuke risked more than his own life. He threatened the fragile peace their ancestors had bled for, the essence of Konoha. Itachi could not allow that. He would not allow it.
He snatched a scroll from the pile, his vision blurring red, bloodshot. He unsealed it, revealing two bandaged forms—Samehada and Kisame’s preserved corpse. The living sword squirmed, sensing Itachi's intent.
"I might need your help, old friend," he murmured, patting the forearm of Kisame’s corpse. "My brother grows wayward; it is my duty to set him straight."
He looked down, his voice a whisper.
"Sasuke... darling child... brother... please forgive me."