41: The Invitation

Itachi had no rebuttal. His thoughts were a tangle of wire, pulling tighter with every word.

“Some people are blinded by the truth. The village feeds ordinary citizens a beautiful lie—peace, prosperity, harmony—and those people give everything they have in return. Their lives. Their children.”

“Others accept the lie willingly. The great clans and the Hokage reach their compromises, carve up their shares—and these people are nothing more than well-fed livestock, content so long as their own bellies are full.”

“And when someone stands up to expose the truth? They’re crushed. Collectively. Without mercy. Because the truth threatens everyone’s interests. If ordinary people learned the reality, the leaders would fall. The clans would have to surrender what they’ve hoarded.”

“So those in power will never allow it. They’ll do anything to prevent it. They’ll manufacture lies and spread them until the person who sought the truth becomes the enemy of all.”

Fugaku spoke evenly, but contempt bled through every syllable, and that cold, knowing smile never left his face.

“And so the Uchiha became the arrogant clan that doesn’t know its place. And I became the root of the problem.”

Itachi stared down at his own hands, lost somewhere far away.

“Itachi.”

He looked up. Fugaku’s expression had changed. The contempt was gone. What remained was something quieter—still, and steady.

“I’ve never been afraid to make enemies. And I’ve never cared who those enemies might be.”

Even if one of them is me?

Itachi’s fists clenched beneath the fabric of his sleeves.

Shisui became your casualty. If I’m in the way one day, will it be the same?

“But, Itachi—”

Fugaku spoke again, and this time the edge was gone entirely.

Itachi looked into his father’s eyes and saw something he almost didn’t recognize.

Sincerity.

“Who would choose to stand alone? You’re my son. I’ve always wanted you beside me.”

Itachi went very still.

“I was proud of you. Your talent—I was proud of it from the beginning. And I hoped, more than anything, that one day you’d take my place.”

Silence.

Fugaku’s words carried a weight that was unmistakable—raw, genuine, stripped of every defense he normally wore. Itachi felt it in his chest, in his hands, which had begun to tremble and would not stop.

“You’ve been more mature than your peers since you were small. You can think about the village. You can think about the Hokage. Why is it that you can’t understand how I feel?”

Father, I—

The thought broke apart as a searing pain tore through both of Itachi’s eyes.

He doubled over, hands flying to his face, a strangled sound caught in his throat. The pain was blinding—as if something were driving white-hot needles through his pupils and into the center of his skull. Chakra surged through his body, wild and uncontrolled, flooding toward his eyes of its own accord.

Behind his pressed palms, his irises shifted. The black of his pupils bled outward, and the familiar three-tomoe pattern dissolved, replaced by something new—three thin crescents, curving like young moons, arranged in a slowly rotating ring.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The pain had stolen his voice.

“Itachi.” Fugaku’s brow furrowed. He could feel the disturbance in Itachi’s chakra—erratic, spiking, like the signature of someone caught in a genjutsu.

But it wasn’t quite that. His own eyes shifted to the crimson three-tomoe Sharingan, and through them he could see the truth: Itachi’s chakra was turbulent, yes, but not random. It was flowing in a pattern—converging on his eyes.

“The Mangekyō—?!”

Fugaku rose slowly and moved toward his son, one hand extended.

“Father.”

Itachi spoke just before Fugaku’s fingers reached him. His hands dropped from his face. He raised his head. His eyes were black again—ordinary, unremarkable.

“I’m fine.” Barely above a whisper.

Fugaku stood over him for a long moment, then withdrew his hand. His Sharingan faded.

Itachi rose to his feet. He took two steps back, then bowed deeply.

“Forgive me, Father. I’ll return to my room.”

He turned and walked to the door without waiting for a response.

Fugaku stayed where he was, watching Itachi’s retreating back disappear down the hallway. His brow never smoothed.

---

Evening. Itachi stepped out of his room and sat down in the corridor that ran along the back of the house.

Out in the training ground, Sasuke was still at it—firing off Great Fireballs without rest. Probably headed straight there the moment school let out.

Itachi watched in silence. He didn’t call out, didn’t interrupt. Sometimes he envied his little brother. Sasuke didn’t have to think about anything complicated. Didn’t have to weigh things that had no good answer.

All Sasuke probably thought about was how to earn their father’s approval. How to catch up to his older brother. How to surpass Shin.

Simple things.

But that simplicity was exactly what made it different.

When Itachi was Sasuke’s age, he’d already graduated. Already awakened his Sharingan. Already seen things his peers couldn’t begin to comprehend.

And now, strange thoughts had begun surfacing in his mind—thoughts he’d assumed he would reject. But he didn’t. Somewhere deep down, some part of him seemed to agree with them.

He knew the old version of himself would never have thought this way.

Something had changed. He couldn’t pin down what.

He watched Sasuke practice a while longer, then rose, changed into his gear, and left.

……

The lake.

“Fire Release: Great Fireball Jutsu!”

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Sasuke had lost count of how many times he’d formed the seals. The same motion, over and over.

He exhaled hard, pushed out a small fireball, and dropped to the ground, arms braced behind him, chest heaving.

He turned his head slightly, glancing toward the spot where Itachi had been sitting. Empty. But he could have sworn someone had been watching.

After a moment’s rest, he forced himself back to his feet. Steadied his breathing. His father’s face flashed through his mind. Then his brother’s. Then Shin’s.

His gaze hardened.

Hands together. Seals formed.

“Fire Release: Great Fireball Jutsu.”

---

The next morning, Sasuke was up early. Washed, dressed, walked into the living room—no sign of his brother. Only their father, sitting in his usual place.

On his way out, his mother rattled off her usual reminders. Then added one more: invite Shin Takami over after school.

“Why would I invite him?” Sasuke’s face scrunched.

He thought of the day before at the Academy—Shin grinning at the sight of the medicated patches on his cheeks. The memory made it worse.

“Isn’t Shin your good friend? What’s wrong with having a friend over?” Mikoto smiled warmly.

“He’s not my friend.” Sasuke looked away, lip curled.

Mikoto only smiled. She was his mother. She knew exactly what that expression meant.

“Where’s Nii-san?” Sasuke asked.

“He went out.” A brief pause before she answered.

“Nii-san and Dad… they haven’t been getting along lately, have they?” Sasuke ventured carefully.

Mikoto reached over and ruffled his hair, smiling. “Don’t worry about things like that. They’re fine.”

“I’m not a little kid anymore.” Sasuke pulled away, annoyed. He slipped on his shoes, grabbed his bento, and stood.

“I’m heading out.”

“Be careful!” Mikoto called, waving at his retreating back.

She watched until he disappeared from view, then let out a quiet, helpless laugh and turned back inside.

In Sasuke’s room, she tidied up—and found a box hidden under his pillow.

She opened it. Inside, row after row of white medicated patches.

“That boy…” she murmured, half scolding. “Training himself into the ground. He doesn’t even tell me when he’s hurt.”

She placed the box back and moved on to Itachi’s room.

It was sparser than Sasuke’s. A futon, neatly folded—Itachi had done that before he left. A few changes of clothes beside it. Several tantō propped against the wall, a couple of equipment pouches. The room felt vast and empty.

She picked up the folded blanket and something clattered to the floor.

A mask. His ANBU cat-face mask.

She stared at it.

Why was it in bed?

She glanced around. No ANBU uniform anywhere—he must have gone out in it.

Was he… holding it while he slept?

As the clan head’s wife, Mikoto understood perfectly well the position Itachi was in. The pressures closing around him. She’d never asked. She’d focused on being a mother—keeping the home together, keeping the warmth alive.

Itachi…

Her fingers tightened around the mask.

---

The Academy.

Sasuke walked into the classroom and immediately looked toward Shin’s seat. Already there—sitting with Kiba, chin propped on one hand, half-listening as Kiba held court with a cluster of boys.

Shin noticed Sasuke’s gaze and looked over. Smiled at him.

Sasuke raised an eyebrow, rolled his eyes, and walked to his own seat.

“Good morning, Sasuke!”

“Morning, Sasuke-kun.”

“Hey, Sasuke.”

Voices from every direction. He ignored all of them.

The bell rang. Iruka walked in and launched into the first period—history. The driest subject on the schedule.

Today’s topic: the founding of Konoha. The First Hokage and Madara Uchiha, joining forces to bring order to a world at war.

Half the class was dozing within minutes. Sasuke had zero interest either—chin on his palm, staring out the window, mind elsewhere.

He was Uchiha. He’d grown up on these stories. The clan’s own records were more detailed than anything Iruka had to offer.

His thoughts drifted to taijutsu strategies against Shin. To the Great Fireball he still couldn’t fully produce. To his brother. To his father.

“Sasuke!”