A year had passed, but Fugaku’s thoughts often returned to that night. It was then he first suspected his son, Itachi, was not like other children. The boy had been born under a moonless sky, his small, delicate face stained with the crimson glow of the clan’s sacred gift, the Sharingan, even before he had drawn his first breath. Fugaku had stood beside the bed, awe-stricken. A newborn bearing the eyes of their forefathers, eyes that bled with power—he could hardly believe it.
But Itachi was born blind. Sightless. The glow of the Sharingan meant nothing then, only a terrible omen. The absence of the moon itself felt like a curse hanging over the birth of his firstborn. Mikoto had cried endlessly that night, fearing what it meant for their child, and soon the clan elders arrived, muttering and whispering. Some proclaimed the boy to be the reincarnation of Indra himself, while others turned away, their eyes dark with disapproval. Once Fugaku had believed himself reasonably prepared for the burdens of parenthood, but Itachi’s arrival fully disillusioned him of that notion.
It was only hours later that the medics offered a faint hope—Itachi’s blindness wasn’t permanent. His body was simply too fragile, too small to bear the weight of the Sharingan’s power so soon. They told him the boy would recover his sight in time, and nine long months passed before Itachi’s eyes finally opened to the world.
But from the beginning, Itachi was different. Fugaku had been a young father then, unaccustomed to the strange, unsettling quiet that followed his son’s cries. The boy wept constantly, so much that his first months felt like a blur of sleepless nights. Itachi was afraid of the world. He flinched at every shadow, cowered at every noise. Fugaku had worried. He wondered if it was a sign of weakness, if maybe those elders were right to doubt. But then, almost without warning, something shifted. The boy’s tears dried up, and with them, so did his fear.
Itachi grew hard, unnervingly so. His silence became his armour, his expression unreadable. He spoke little, even when spoken to. Where once Fugaku had been concerned by the child’s timidity, he now found himself troubled by an unnatural stillness. He had no desire for friends, for play. The other children avoided him. Alas, there was hope. With Sasuke’s birth, Itachi softened, if only a little. He smiled more, spoke more, and Fugaku dared to hope. Yet there was something else there too, something darker. The boy never seemed content maintaining even a modicum of normalcy.
It was a sunny day now, the sky unbroken and clear, but the forest beneath was thick with shadows. Fugaku stood on a wide branch, watching his son crouched far ahead, back against a tree trunk, gazing lazily into the distance. Itachi appeared at ease, but Fugaku had come to learn that nothing about his son’s stillness was ever what it seemed. He waited patiently, as always, as the hours slipped by. The forest was alive around them—small animals scurrying, birds singing—but neither father nor son moved.
Then, the wind shifted. Fugaku caught it first—the faint scent of something foreign, something unnatural. Human. He knew Itachi sensed it too, the boy’s head turning unnervingly toward the source, eyes narrowing. Without a word, Itachi dropped silently from his perch, his feet barely making a sound as he landed. His form shifted from the dull Umber that matched the tree trunks above, his skin and clothes taking on a speckled Walnut and Hunter-green palette.
Fugaku followed, keeping to the shadows, curious as always about what Itachi would do next. The trail they found was fresh, the signs of movement unmistakable. A snapped branch here, a scuffed patch of earth there. Itachi paused, studying the scene. Fugaku’s mind filtered through profiles—an intruder? An adult male. Between eighty to ninety kilos. Most likely a taijutsu specialist, as apparent from their gait. Gentle Fist—Hyuga. Chunin.
Fugaku’s instincts told him it wasn’t his son’s quarry.
Itachi seemed to agree, and they moved again. The boy’s movements were graceful, precise, a study in silent efficiency. Fugaku could only watch in mild curiosity, letting his son take the lead, unwilling to interfere. Hours passed like this, days, in quiet pursuit. Fugaku was never entirely sure what his son was after, but he didn’t interrupt.
Finally, twelve days later, Itachi stopped. They were deep in the forest now, the air thick with the scent of leaves and soil. Itachi crouched low in the brush, his eyes sharp, his breath steady. Ahead, a figure sat motionless in a tree, barely visible through the thick canopy. Itachi paused, then tensed, his hands moving swiftly through the seals. Fugaku sensed the brief flash of killing intent in his son’s aura, the chakra building in his hand, forming into lightning.
Chidori crackled to life, and before Fugaku could blink, Itachi surged forward. The lightning crashed against the figure’s chest, but even as Fugaku’s eyes registered the strike, he knew his son had erred.
A moment later, the counterattack came, faster than even Fugaku’s Sharingan could follow. The blast tore through the forest, carving a path through trees and earth alike. Itachi’s form vanished in a cloud of smoke—just a shadow clone. Fugaku’s heart thudded as he watched Itachi’s second clone, hidden in the underbrush, retrieve his opponent’s discarded supplies before disappearing into the forest.
Fugaku sighed, a mix of pride and exasperation washing over him. His son’s training seemed to be effective, but there were times like these when he questioned the methods. A Shadow Clone Deathmatch. Who trained by killing themselves? It was madness, and yet—it worked.
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Ryota halted as the sharp intake of breath behind him reached his ears. His head turned, and the worry in his features deepened at the sight that greeted him.
"Uchiha-san?" he called softly, the concern lacing his voice. "What is it?" The boy stood rigid, his face flushed and his pupils wide, breath coming in ragged gasps. His knuckles were drained of colour, gripping a kunai tightly. Ryota’s body tensed instinctively, his eyes sweeping the classroom, searching for the source of the boy's terror. His senses strained, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary.
"What is it?" he asked again, this time more firmly, trying to reach through to the boy.
Itachi blinked. A long breath escaped him, and with it, his rigid stance eased. Slowly, he let his shoulders fall, the kunai lowering to his side.
"It’s nothing, Ryota-sensei," he said, the exhaustion in his voice unmistakable.
Ryota frowned, his eyes still lingering on his pupil, perplexed. After a few awkward beats of silence, all he could muster was a confused, “Huh.”
"My combat trigger is off-kilter," Itachi explained. “I felt something that set it off.”
Ryota let his guard drop. "I see. Well, perhaps it’s time to reduce the intensity of your training, Itachi. Pushing yourself to the point of false triggers isn’t going to help your progress.”
The boy sighed, accepting the advice with a quiet "Yes, Sensei."
Satisfied, Ryota turned back toward the blackboard as scattered whispers and snickers rippled through the classroom behind him. He raised his voice to silence the others. "Quiet down and pay attention. There will be a quiz after this."
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The gates to the Uchiha compound creaked softly as Fugaku pushed them open. Night had already fallen, casting the grounds in long shadows. The house was still, as it always was. From the far side of the compound, he could hear Sasuke’s gentle, rhythmic breathing, already deep in sleep. But Itachi remained awake. His eldest was assisting Mikoto set the table.
Inside, the smell of seasoned seafood hung heavy in the air, clinging to the warmth of the house. Fugaku slid open the shoji door. "I am back," he said, stepping inside.
"Welcome back, Father," Itachi responded, moving to help him with his flak jacket. Fugaku patted his son’s head before settling at the table. Mikoto placed a platter in front of him, and for a moment, they exchanged a brief, quiet smile before she returned to the stove, her focus on the broth.
"How was school today?" Fugaku asked as Itachi took his seat beside him.
"It was fine," the boy answered simply. "We had a pop quiz in cryptography. I aced it."
Fugaku nodded. "Your teacher mentioned you might be pushing yourself too hard, experiencing some combat fatigue. He suggested cutting back on your training."
"Yes, Father."
Fugaku studied his son. "That wasn’t an order," he said. A silence settled between them, weighty and deliberate. Mikoto chose that moment to bring in the broth. Steel ladle clinked against porcelain.
"Yakumi reported suspicious activity in Training Area Seventy-Two. Is there something you wish to tell me, son?"
Itachi’s hand paused over his bowl. His gaze lowered. "I have been training there," he admitted.
"For how long?"
"Nearly a year, sir."
Fugaku’s expression remained unreadable, his voice clipped. "And how many times have you died?"
Mikoto froze, her hand mid-motion, stern eyes darting toward her son.
"A hundred and sixteen," Itachi replied after a pause, his tone flat, as if the answer were an inconsequential fact.
Fugaku exhaled through his nose, a deep sigh. "Explain."
Itachi stared stubbornly at him for a long moment before visibly relenting. "I usually pit two of my shadow clones against one another. The first several dozen matches did not last more than a day or two due to chakra mismanagement and general recklessness on the agents' part. But once my chakra control was sufficiently advanced enough, the simulations eventually evolved into pitch battles with runtimes lasting, at minimum, a week. The goal of the exercise was to pit two slightly different versions of myself against the other until I am sufficiently punished for—and weaned off—whatever weaknesses or proclivities might eventually cost me my life against a near-peer adversary in future"
Fugaku listened carefully, letting the words settle. After a moment, he nodded. "It sounds... thorough."
"It is," Itachi agreed, lifting a piece of squid with his chopsticks, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. "Ryota-sensei’s concerns were exaggerated. One clone was dispelled at an inconvenient moment, that’s all. There’s nothing more to it."
Fugaku considered this. "How much longer do you intend to continue this... exercise?"
"I’m not sure," Itachi said with a sigh. "One of the more recent clones has been proving particularly hard to kill."
"Isn’t that a good thing?" Mikoto interjected, her soft voice breaking into the conversation for the first time.
"It is," Itachi agreed. "But no strategy is without its counters. I need to understand where it falls short. I could simply dispel the clone and retrieve the memories, but that would defeat the purpose of the experiment, hence not a solution I am willing to consider."
Fugaku’s gaze remained fixed on his son, a deep well of thoughts stirring behind his eyes. Before he could speak, Mikoto’s gentle hand came to rest on his wrist, her voice soft but firm.
"Your sashimi is getting soggy," she said, shooting him a pointed look.
With a resigned sigh, Fugaku complied, dropping the matter to focus on his meal.