Over a week later.
Growing up is when one realises Konohagakure is a truly evil, deeply flawed place.
Some might argue that the universe Kishimoto created was a cruel and barbaric one. They might say that the system the world ran on was an inherently flawed one. They might then go on to claim it is unfair to single out Konoha, insisting that all shinobi factions are equally horrible.
"That's just the way things are," die-hard fans would claim—pointing out that the other major villages aren't saints either—as they typed furiously on their flashy RGB keyboards in sheltered, complacent abodes.
However, consider—for a moment—this:
What if it didn’t matter? Do we justify the existence of a bad actor with the existence of a whole cohort of bad actors? Just because others are just as bad doesn’t make the Leaf somehow good.
Deluded, small-minded, or incompetent leaders…
Inane policies…
Darwinian customs and values…
Weaponised propaganda…
A history of warmongering, systematic genocide, and human experimentation.
If one observed from a purely academic standpoint, without any prior bias, the Village Hidden in the Leaf bore all the hallmark signs of a truly dystopian, antagonistic faction.
How many world-destroying villains existed in the fictional series this existence seemed to spawn from? Count them: Sasuke, the Akatsuki, Nagato, Itachi, Obito, Madara, Kabuto, Orochimaru, Danzo. Of all these entities, how many can be asserted to not—in some convoluted way or the other—bear some defining connections to the Leaf?
Under that flimsy facade of wholesomeness and nostalgic beauty, Konohagakure remains a dirty, corrupt place with little regard for any that does not serve its core purpose. There is simply no denying it; those who do deny it, do so because that is simply easier to do than to grow a pair and confront the uncomfortable reality that is the Narutoverse.
“Itachi, best husbando!” Ugh! These memories felt even more unnerving now that I was the one those miscreants all seemed to lust after. My predecessor would have gone on to genocide his family and entire clan had I not replaced him. Yet, somehow, an entire, nation-sized population of netizens adore him.
It is understandable, then, the simmering irritation that coalesced in my chest as I approached the village’s main entrance. The gate loomed ahead in all its rustic grandiosity. As always, the hiragana あん—meaning “peaceful hermitage”—remained proudly emblazoned on both halves of the towering oaken barrier. The markings caught the light of the setting sun, glimmering in a dull, crimson hue.
A humourless smile creased the corners of my lips. I chuckled.
Lies, told, literally, right out of the gate.
To proclaim such a horrible place a hermitage was misleading, to say the least; to call it peaceful was just outright deceitful.
Years ago, when I was younger, the urge to flee Konoha had been overwhelming. I wanted nothing to do with its twisted games, its endless cycles of violence. Heroism didn’t appeal to me. Dying for a cause I didn’t believe in held no allure. Selfishness had always seemed a far better path—caring only for a select few and letting the world burn for all I cared.
But attachment had a way of creeping in. Slowly, the idea of disappearing, of abandoning everything, grew less viable. If I had been stronger, I might have simply taken my family and fled. Somewhere. Anywhere. It didn’t matter where, so long as it was far from Konoha. But I wasn’t strong enough. Not yet. Kidnapping my father? Impossible. My mother? Just as unlikely. Even if I had tried to leave with just Sasuke, Fugaku would have hunted us down long before we reached the nearest border.
So I compromised. Again and again, I compromised.
The guards at the gate greeted us as we passed. I ignored them, though the others in my squad did not. Behind me, they exchanged pleasantries, cracked jokes, and laughed. But I wasn’t listening. My mind was elsewhere, caught in the endless loop of compromise. Always giving in, always bending to the “Plot’s” will. A pattern had emerged, and it was one I could no longer ignore.
Something had to change.
Thirty minutes later, I parted ways with the rest of Team Nine. As I walked toward the Uchiha district, I could feel the presence of the ROOT agent trailing behind me. My irritation flared, mingling with the ever-present sense of unease. On my face I donned the mask I had perfected over the years once more; crescent eyes and soft wrinkles at the corners of my lips—a smile. It was a smile that said I was content, that I belonged. A lie, like so many others.
I bought a serving of oyakodon and turned north, towards home. The sun was dipping low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the village. As I entered the Uchiha district, I waved at Uruchi-Obasan, nodded to the Shinobi at the gate. The ROOT agent trailing me kept a safe distance, careful to avoid detection. But I knew he was there. He always was.
I took a turn, then another, leading him deeper into the district. The streets were quiet, the air still.
I took a turn at an intersection, then another—and then another—using the terrain to break the agent’s line of sight for a single, solitary moment. Just long enough to slip out of sight.
Tora.
“Kage Bunshin no Jutsu!”
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Awareness came like a breath of fresh air as I, the shadow clone, split from the original to merge with the shadows of a nearby telephone pole. I watched as my true self walked away, his form vanishing down the street, bound for home—an alibi, crafted with care, should the worst come to pass.
Time slipped by in the growing dark. The air turned colder, the shadows thickening as night took hold. I waited, motionless, while my pursuer remained oblivious, his attention diverted. Distracted.
When the moment came, I moved, swift and silent. The village blurred past in a rush of rooftops and alleyways. Minutes later, the Intelligence Division building loomed ahead of me, a stark silhouette against the fading light, not far from the Hokage Monument.
I knew better than to attempt a direct infiltration—such arrogance would only invite ruin. I had no illusions about my capabilities. The years of experience and defences layered into Konoha’s heart were beyond me, at least for now. Humility was a shield, a necessary guard against reckless overconfidence. Someday, perhaps, but not today.
Still, no system is flawless. Even Konoha’s intricate web of defences had its weak points. And the weak point, as always, was the people. People tend to be forgetful. Negligent. Incompetent. That was where I would strike.
I waited. Days passed as I watched, patient and silent, until I found my opportunity. He was a Jonin, an ordinary one by all appearances—scarred from battles, his movements reflexive, the war inside him never quite stilled. I called him "squid-eater." Every morning, he arrived at the same time. His routine was unbroken—he would spend his day at the Intelligence Division, then stop to buy a skewer of roasted squid on his way home, always within the same dozen minutes. A creature of habit, unaware of how habit blinds a man.
Familiarity breeds danger; the routine is a trap laid by those who watch — Introduction to Spycraft, p. 112, Chapter 5: The Perils of Predictability, by Guran Gurīn.
Sedately, I emerged from the shadows, my steps measured as I stalked him through the quiet streets. The evening had fully settled over the village by the time we reached a modest apartment in the heart of the Nara district. The place was still, save for the faint breathing carried on the night breeze, a sound so soft it was nearly lost in the ambient hum of the sleeping village.
Inside, in the dim glow of the living room, a boy no older than myself lay sprawled on a couch, a large parchment scroll draped carelessly across his chest. His breathing was steady, the rhythm of deep sleep. The Jonin paused, a sigh of quiet exasperation escaping him as he gently moved the child to a bedroom. I watched, detached, as he settled in for the night, his weariness palpable in the slow, deliberate movements of a man who had carried too much for too long.
When his eyelids finally slid shut, I slipped from the darkness. My arm moved in silence, snake-like, wrapping around his throat before he even had a chance to stir. His eyes flew open, his body reacting on instinct as he struck out with a taijutsu blow aimed at my chest. It was a lethal strike, quick and practised—but too late.
Expressionless, I parried his attack with ease. My other hand tightened around his neck as I sent my chakra surging into his network, bypassing his defences. My intent crept through him like a cold current, slithering up his spine, spreading into his brain, and smothering his consciousness. Within moments, the Jonin’s body went limp.
For a few more seconds, I held the stream of chakra, ensuring he was subdued before releasing his windpipe and letting the air return to his lungs. There was barely a struggle—only the faintest sign of life as his chest heaved for breath. A bruise was already forming on his neck. Too much force, I noted, scolding myself. But it was a fleeting thought, dismissed as quickly as it came. There was no use in dwelling on mistakes now.
Placing my hand on his forehead, I formed a one-handed hand sign.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Hebi.
Yin Release: Mind Parasitism Jutsu (陰遁・思用寄生の術, Inton: Shiyō Kisei no Jutsu).
The jutsu took hold, draining my reserves as my chakra body dissipated. But unlike a typical shadow clone, I did not return to the Original. Instead, my consciousness reformed, slipping into the Jonin’s mind like a shadow burrowing into the cracks of a fortress. Shinichi Nara, my chosen host, resisted instinctively. But I overpowered him, my will flooding his subconscious with ease.
Entering another’s mind was always an eerie sensation, a plunge into something both familiar and alien. Each mind had its own texture, its own rhythm. Merging with Shinichi felt like sinking into warm, pine-scented oil—his memories trickled through me, thick and slow, like syrup through a sieve. I absorbed them as one might inhale a familiar scent.
When I opened Shinichi’s eyes, the world looked different. The sharp clarity I was accustomed to had softened into a muted haze. Everything appeared blurred at the edges, as though seen through fogged glass. Objects that had once stood out with crystalline precision now seemed veiled, their outlines dissolving into the air. His vision wasn’t poor—it was simply… ordinary. I blinked, a futile gesture to restore the sharpness of the Sharingan, but nothing changed. The world remained hazy, inviting a slower, more deliberate observation.
Sighing softly, I allowed his body to sink back into sleep, content with my hold over him. Inside his mind, his consciousness stirred uneasily.
"Who are you?" Shinichi’s voice echoed through the haze, his gaze wary, his stance braced for an attack. "What do you want?"
I regarded him for a long moment, the weight of his questions hanging in the stillness. "It doesn’t matter," I finally said. "You won’t remember any of this. So why bother?"
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The pale light of dawn filtered softly through the paper screens, painting delicate patterns on the tatami floor. Shinichi stirred under the thin blanket, his body attuned to the early hour, rising in silence as if it were a ritual he had repeated a thousand times over. The weight of the coming day, like many before it, already settled lightly on his shoulders. As he stood, the familiar chill of the floor beneath his feet welcomed him. A moment passed as he stretched, his awareness expanding outward, listening not to the quiet of his apartment but to the world beyond its walls. There was nothing.
In the small kitchen, he went through his paces—measuring rice, setting it to cook, and slicing vegetables with clean, unhurried strokes. The pot of miso soup simmered gently on the stove, releasing a faint, comforting scent that filled the room with warmth. As the steam rose, he wiped his hands on a cloth and made his way to his son's room.
Kneeling beside the futon, Shinichi placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. "Yuki," he murmured, his voice quiet, yet firm. "It’s time."
Yuki stirred, his eyes still heavy with sleep, and sat up slowly. "Morning, Father," he whispered, rubbing at his face, his voice soft, as if the day hadn't quite found him yet.
Shinichi smiled faintly, smoothing down his son’s tousled hair. "Breakfast is ready. Also, I hope you did not forget to study for your test today?"
Yuki shook his head. "I studied," he said,
"Good," Shinichi replied. "You’ll do well. Go wash up."
While Yuki got ready, Shinichi returned to the kitchen and laid out bowls of steaming rice, miso soup, pickled vegetables, and grilled fish on the table. As Yuki emerged from his bedroom, freshly washed and dressed, they sat down to eat. They ate in comfortable silence, the only sounds being the clink of chopsticks and the occasional slurp of soup. Shinichi glanced out the window at the rising sun outside; it was almost time for him to leave.
"Are you done?" he asked, minutes later after tidying the place.
Yuki nodded, slipping his scrolls and notebooks into his backpack. "In a moment, Dad!”
"I'll be leaving for work soon. Remember to lock the door. And take care."
The boy smiled. "You too, Dad."
As Shinichi slipped on his flak jacket, tightening the straps with deliberate care, he caught his reflection in the mirror. He paused to adjust the forehead protector wrapped neatly around his arm. His eyes lingered on his own image for a moment, tracing the lines of his face, before he turned and moved to the door.
But before he left, he looked back. Yuki stood in the doorway, a small wave sent after him. Shinichi felt a small smile grace his lips. Turning away, he waved back as he departed.
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As Shinichi neared the gates of his workplace, the Jonin guards were waiting. They stood like statues, impassive, their eyes following him as he approached. He greeted them with a small, respectful nod—nothing more was needed. They responded in kind, silently acknowledging his presence before one gestured for him to halt a few meters from the entrance, face impassive.
“Declare yourself,” the man intoned flatly, as if his voice, too, were part of the rigid machinery surrounding them. “Name, Rank, Department, and Purpose of Visit.”
“Nara Shinichi,” he replied, his voice calm, accustomed to the routine. “Jonin. Torture and Interrogation. Administrative Matters.”
The lead guard gave a slight nod, eyes narrowing as he inspected the identification badge Shinichi held out—a simple wooden token, marked with seals that attested to his rank and clearance. The guard glanced briefly at the other personnel, signalling the furthest to open the heavy steel door. It slid aside with a groaning sound, revealing the sterile interior of the building.
“Morning then, Nara-san,” the guard added, as the door parted. Shinichi offered no reply beyond a short grunt, stepping through into the lobby, where the industrial scanner loomed ahead of him. As he stepped onto the device, a faint warmth radiated through his body, the scanner's hum filling the air for a moment before it beeped in approval.
“Welcome,” a disembodied voice called from a speaker above, its tone mechanical, almost too pleasant for the surroundings. “You may proceed further. Have a productive day, Nara-san.”
“Same to you,” Shinichi said as he complied. The second reinforced door opened, revealing a narrow, brightly lit hallway. He passed through without hesitation, his mind already beginning to turn over the tasks of the day.
Inside, the office buzzed with quiet intensity. Rows of desks lined the room, each one cluttered with CRT monitors displaying mission reports, maps, and flickering surveillance feeds. On the walls, projections of strategic plans and intelligence summaries glowed faintly in the artificial light, constantly updating as new information filtered in. It was a hive of quiet activity, the undercurrent of Konoha's war machine at work.
Shinichi’s desk was as meticulously ordered as the rest of the room. A few files sat in neat piles alongside an old, weathered typewriter—a relic of a time before the age of digital records. The machine’s keys were worn, the letters half-faded from years of use, but it had always served him well.
“Good morning, Nara-san,” came a voice from behind.
Shinichi glanced up briefly, acknowledging the Chunin standing beside his desk. “Morning, Genki,” he replied, already reaching for the files stacked before him. “You have something for me?”
“Yes, sir.” The younger man’s voice was clipped, professional. “Hikaru Junto finally gave a confession early this morning. I have the transcript here if you'd like to review it.”
Shinichi frowned slightly, his fingers pausing over the file in front of him. “The spy from Kiri?” he asked. “He was only brought in yesterday. Even for a Genin, that seems fast. Are we sure it’s a valid confession?”
Genki hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes shifting before he answered. “Ibiki-sama was available last night, sir. He personally oversaw the interrogation. Four prisoners gave testimonies before he was called away.”
Shinichi sighed, leaning back in his chair. “You should have led with that.” He plucked the transcript from Genki’s hand, skimming its contents. “What about the one from Kumo? The prisoner we brought in two weeks ago—Akame?”
Genki’s face fell into a frown. “No progress, sir. The Analysis team’s last attempt yielded nothing new. His mental defences are still holding strong, even against Lord Inoichi’s jutsu. It may be a while before we get anything usable.”
Shinichi’s eyes narrowed as he thumbed through the report. “Any transcripts at all?”
“There are a few,” Genki said, a trace of uncertainty creeping into his voice. “Records have them, but they’re sparse, nothing substantial enough for a breakthrough. Should I retrieve them for you?”
“No need,” Shinichi said, standing abruptly. Something had stirred within him, whispering at the edges of his mind. “I’ll look into it myself.”
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The archives were cold, the sterile scent of paper and ink thick in the air. Rows of filing cabinets stretched out before him, each containing years of accumulated intelligence. Shinichi moved through them methodically, his eyes scanning the labels until he found what he sought: Kumogakure, inscribed in careful red ink on a yellowing strip of parchment. He reached for a scroll, its weight familiar in his hands, and unfurled it.
Inside were maps, detailed and precise, charting the rugged terrain of Kumo. Another scroll held tactical analyses of their forces, and still another was filled with dossiers on key figures from the village—names, faces, abilities catalogued with cold efficiency. Each document represented years of covert work, the hidden gears of Konoha’s intelligence turning in the dark.
But one scroll, freshly marked and still crisp, caught his attention. It detailed diplomatic movements, meetings in secret, whispered alliances forming between Kumo and other villages. The implications were stark, and as he read, a growing unease settled in his chest.
Before he could dwell on it, he sensed a presence behind him.
“Why are you here?” came the voice of Lord Inoichi, his face unreadable in the dim light.
Shinichi turned slowly, nodding in greeting. “Sir,” he said, his voice calm. “I’m reviewing the Akame case. I had a hunch there’s something we might’ve overlooked.”
Inoichi studied him for a moment, his eyes piercing. “...A hunch?”
“Yes, sir.”
The silence stretched, heavy and thick, before Inoichi finally nodded. “Carry on,” he said quietly, stepping past Shinichi and into the sha—
Shinichi moved, his body a thing of its own, stepping sideways as a kunai streaked toward him. He twisted, parrying the projectile with a flick of his wrist, the steel edge scraping past his skin, close enough to burn. His eyes lifted to meet his adversary, as the shadowed figures of the ANBU operatives appeared from the gloom. They slid from the walls like phantoms, their masks hiding faces that had forgotten the need for mercy. Three of them now, hemming him in on all sides.
At the centre stood Lord Inoichi, hands poised to execute the Yamanaka clan’s signature jutsu.
Mind Body Disturbance Technique(心乱身の術 Shinranshin no Jutsu)
"Who are you?" the clan head’s voice came then. The question wasn’t so much a demand as it was a blade pressed gently against the throat of his thoughts.
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I narrowed my eyes at Inoichi. The irritation was mild, a small stone dropped into a much deeper well. I’d known my time was short, that the walls of this ruse would close in sooner or later. His presence here wasn’t a surprise, just an inevitability. One way or another, it would come to this.
Without another thought, I sterilized my host and began decoupling. The data, the knowledge I had gathered, I internalised. And then I left. Clean. Untraceable. Some people might stay, might spit out one last bitter retort or word of defiance. But I wasn’t some fool to be goaded into theatrics before a literal mind-reader. My consciousness unravelled itself from Shinichi’s, severing the tether in a blink. And in the next, I was whole again, consciousness slipping back into my original body like water pooling into its natural course.
The disorientation came, expected but brief. Days of memory folded into one, the pieces of another life falling into place as if they had always belonged there. A ripple through the mind, but nothing more. What mattered was the knowledge gleaned. The foray into Konoha’s archives had been worth it. But now I stood at a crossroads, my path forked with an uneasy decision.
"Itachi?" Yuna-sensei’s voice. A tether back to the present. I had stopped walking, my gaze turned upward toward the looming silhouette of the Hokage’s building. We were on our way there, to receive our second-ever C-rank mission. There was an excitement in the air, unspoken but palpable. It hummed beneath our feet. Exciting stuff, it seemed.
Her eyes narrowed in quiet concern. “Is anything the matter?”
I didn’t answer her question. Instead, I asked my own. “What would you not be willing to do for those you care about?” My words sought a touchstone upon which I might gauge what was left of my conscience. Beside me, Kaede and Tatsuya threw glances, their curiosity like whispers against the skin. But they weren’t the ones I needed to hear.
Yuna’s brow furrowed, but her gaze never wavered. The ninken, Hachi, watched me with an indiscernible expression in its gaze.
The silence stretched out between us like a blade waiting for the fall. And then she smiled, soft but unwavering. “Nothing,” she said. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for those I care about.”
A pause.
“Very well then,” I said eventually, the last flickers of doubt guttering out into the silence.
I started walking again. "I guess It just cannot be helped."