The elder Masato's words hung in the clan hall like a shroud of cold, pragmatic smoke.
A low, rolling murmur of agreement built among the traditionalists and the cautious. Nods were exchanged, brows furrowed in solemn validation. The ideological fracture that had been a hairline crack moments before now yawned wide, threatening to split the room between the idealistic young who saw a champion and the weathered elders who saw a potential pawn in someone else's game.
Fugaku watched the division solidify from his dais. He let the murmurs build for a critical three seconds, letting the doubt reach its peak, before his voice cut through, not as a shout, but as a clear, commanding glacier.
"Enough."
The hall fell silent, all eyes snapping back to him. He did not address Masato's points directly. Instead, he executed a flawless pivot, placing the weight he had gathered squarely onto the shoulders of the one person who had yet to speak.
"We have heard concerns of identity, of loyalty, of political perception," Fugaku stated, "These are matters of the heart and of strategy. But they orbit a single individual. It is time," he declared, "for that individual to speak for himself. Let Renjiro explain to this clan why he deserves our support."
'There it is,'
Renjiro thought, a spark of cold clarity igniting in his mind. 'I knew he was up to something.'
Renjiro's internal calculations spun faster than any Sharingan. He could stand and deliver a logical argument. He could list his accomplishments, parrot platitudes about bridging the clan and village, and make hollow promises of influence.
It might sway some. But it would trap him. It would entangle him in the very ideological web the elders had woven—a debate about names, loyalty, and symbolic politics. He would be playing a game on their board, by their rules, and he would forever be justifying his existence to them.
He rejected the path of persuasion outright. He would not beg for their endorsement. He would not debate his right to be what he was.
He chose, instead, the path of irreversible proof. His goal was not to win them over. It was to force the entire clan, in one stunning, silent moment, to confront a truth they had been collectively avoiding: that the Sharingan, their sacred heritage, their claim to glory, was not owned by a name or a set of traditions. It was a curse of blood and trauma that chose its bearers without consulting clan councils.
Renjiro did not wait for a second summons. He stood. He did not bow toward the dais. He did not offer a formal address. He offered no deference, no opening platitude.
He merely stood, a solitary, dark-clad figure at the edge of the assembled mass, and turned his head to face them.
The effect was immediate and electric. The room grew so tense that the very lantern light seemed to harden. Elders like Kiyomori and Masato braced themselves, faces tightening, expecting a defensive justification or arrogant rebuttal.
The younger shinobi, like Sora, leaned forward, sensing a tectonic shift in the room's energy. The hardliners, like Raiko, narrowed their eyes, seeing only disrespect in the lack of ceremony.
Into that straining quiet, Renjiro spoke.
"My name is Renjiro Uzumaki."
No apology. No acknowledgement of the Uchiha name. It was a statement of fact, a line drawn in the sand of polished wood.
For a heartbeat, there was only stunned processing. Then, the reaction erupted.
"Insolence!" spat Elder Kiyomori, his parchment-dry voice cracking with outrage.
"Such arrogance disqualifies you outright!" another elder cried.
Raiko shot to his feet, his face flushed. "You see? He spits on our heritage even now!"
The hall buzzed with angry agreement. The traditionalists vibrated with indignation. Most of the room, even some pragmatists, believed Renjiro had just committed political suicide.
They had expected, at the very least, a performative compromise—'I am Uchiha in blood, Uzumaki in honour.'
He had given them nothing. Fugaku, watching from the dais, raised a single hand, his eyes fixed on Renjiro with intense focus. He, too, was waiting.
Renjiro ignored the outcry. He did not defend his statement. He did not elaborate. He simply closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, drawing a breath that was not for calm, but for focus.
Then, he opened them.
There was no dramatic flourish of chakra, no cry of power. It was a controlled, terrifyingly quiet manifestation. One moment, his eyes were their usual dark onyx. Next, they were transformed.
The Mangekyō Sharingan.
The effect was not a ripple; it was a crashing wave of silent shock that smothered all outrage.
The angry murmurs died in throats. Raiko's defiant posture faltered, his mouth hanging slightly open. Elder Kiyomori's outrage froze into a mask of stunned recognition. Masato's shrewd eyes widened a fraction, the political calculations in his mind screeching to a halt before this raw, undeniable fact.
Sora drew a sharp, audible breath. Throughout the hall, every Uchiha who understood what they were seeing—the cost, the rarity, the mythic status of those eyes—felt a primal jolt that bypassed politics and struck directly at their core identity.
The Mangekyō forced a brutal, immediate recognition. This was not just a strong shinobi. This was a bearer of the ultimate Uchiha curse and blessing. He was, by the clan's own most sacred and terrible metric, elite.
The contradiction now sat in the room, visible to all, unavoidable. 'Uzumaki by name. Mangekyō-bearing Uchiha by blood and suffering.' The ideological argument about names and loyalty didn't just weaken; it collapsed into incoherent dust before the chilling reality of those spinning patterns.
Without a single word of explanation, Renjiro had communicated an unshakable message:
You do not get to vote on whether I belong.
The Sharingan itself has judged me. It found me worthy of this form. Your opinions are irrelevant to that verdict.
I exist, as I am, whether this council approves or not.
He had not claimed to be one of them; he had demonstrated he was something perhaps more than them, operating on a plane defined by personal catastrophe, not clan protocol.
The reactions crystallised along new fault lines. The hardliners like Raiko and Kiyomori now saw not just disrespect, but sacrilege—a dangerous precedent that detached their ultimate power from their cherished traditions.
The pragmatists, led by Masato, were forced to recalibrate. A Mangekyō wielder was a strategic asset of unimaginable value, too valuable to alienate, regardless of the political complications.
The younger shinobi, the Soras of the clan, felt a quiet, seismic shift. Their definition of "Uchiha" was being rewritten before them. It was no longer just about name and police duty; it was about this terrifying, silent power born of unbearable pain.
Renjiro held the gaze of the room for five endless seconds, letting the weight of his eyes settle into their souls. Then, he broke the connection. The crimson light and tri-wheel pattern vanished, receding as quietly as they had appeared. He simply turned and resumed his seat.
The power dynamic had subtly, irrevocably shifted. By refusing to explain, by offering the truth and then withdrawing, he had forced the elders to speak next. They now had to grapple with the fact he had introduced, not the argument they had prepared for.
Fugaku seized the moment. "It seems," he said, "that Renjiro's 'explanation' is… unambiguous. Does the council require further clarification, or is the point made?"
There were slow, reluctant nods from around the room. Not nods of agreement with Renjiro, but nods of acknowledgement of the Mangekyō. They were not swayed by affection; they were bound by a respect—and a fear—that was older than any of them.
As he sat, Renjiro dissected his own move, almost proud of it.
Debate would have trapped the clan in endless ideology. Silence, backed by an undeniable truth, forced immediate clarity. The Mangekyō was the ultimate trump card in any Uchiha discussion. By stating his name and revealing his eyes, he had ended the argument by presenting two conflicting, irrefutable facts and letting the tension between them paralyse his opposition.
He sought the candidacy, knowing the ultimate outcome: Minato Namikaze would be chosen as Jonin Commander. That was fine. That loss would keep him free of the bureaucratic shackles of village administration while the nomination itself granted him formal, recognised status. He would win by losing. His combat value would be acknowledged, but his political influence would be neatly contained.
Furthermore, the reveal was a magnificent piece of misdirection. He intended to pursue the Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan. By publicly revealing his base Mangekyō now, he allowed every enemy and observer—in this room and beyond—to believe he was bound by its terrible limits: blindness, strain, a finite lifespan of use.
They would plan for a weapon with a devastating but short-lived arc. They would build their strategies around a ceiling that, for him, would soon no longer exist. Let them fear the Mangekyō wielder. They would not even dream of the Eternal.
The meeting adjourned not with a unified purpose, but with a collective psychic tremor. Fugaku dismissed them, and the clan members streamed out into the night, their conversations animated, hushed, and heated. The words "Mangekyō," "Uzumaki," and "how?" were whispered on the wind. The clan's identity debate was no longer theoretical; it had a face, and that face held eyes that saw into their souls.
As the hall emptied, Fugaku approached Renjiro, who was the last to rise. The clan head's expression was unreadable, but his voice was low and direct.
"The village council meeting to discuss the Jonin Commander nomination is tomorrow at noon. Do not be late."
Renjiro met his gaze, the ordinary dark eyes giving no hint of the power they could wield. "I'll be there."
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