The Uchiha household glowed that evening with red and white lanterns. Mikoto had prepared everything with care: rice with vegetables, sweet bean cakes, and a table crowned by a fruit-covered cake.
For Itachi, who had spent months between training, studies, and funerals, it was strange to see his home so alive. Younger cousins ran across the garden, aunts chatted in the kitchen, and several clan members had come to offer their greetings.
—"Itachi," Mikoto said, gently stroking his hair, "today I don't want you thinking about battles or training. Just about smiling."
The boy nodded, though his gaze still carried that depth which set him apart.
Fugaku arrived later, still in his jōnin uniform. He looked weary, but when he saw his son surrounded by cousins, a genuine smile crossed his face. He approached, placed a firm hand on Itachi's shoulder, and said:—"Today you are not a prodigy, not a shinobi… today you are simply my son."
As the evening unfolded, more guests arrived. Kakashi appeared quietly at the door, his silver hair impossible to hide even beneath a hood. Though aloof, he handed Itachi a small book on tactics—his way of offering respect. Renji followed close behind, carrying a carefully chosen wildflower, shyly pressing it into Itachi's hands with a nervous smile.
Among the guests, a girl from the clan, only a year older than Itachi, lingered nearby. She blushed whenever their eyes met, stealing glances from behind the crowd of children. Itachi, still too young to fully understand, only tilted his head in mild curiosity, though Mikoto noticed her bashfulness with a knowing smile.
Before serving the cake, Mikoto asked:—"Itachi, you still haven't told us what gift you'd like. What do you wish for your fourth birthday?"
The boy thought for a moment, observing the lights, the games, the joy of his family gathered together. Finally, he answered:—"I want… everyone here to still be together next year. That no one is missing."
Silence fell immediately. Mikoto smiled tenderly and kissed his forehead, but Fugaku lowered his gaze, fully aware of what those words meant in times of war.
The celebration carried on with laughter, songs, and games. Later, Shisui arrived, carrying a small gift wrapped in cloth: a special kunai of polished steel, engraved with a seal to improve its aerodynamics.—"It's nothing much," he said, scratching the back of his head, "but I thought you'd like it."
Itachi accepted it with gratitude. It was more than a weapon; it was the symbol of a bond that grew stronger with every passing day.
That night, when everyone had gone and silence filled the house, Fugaku stood watching his son sleep. For a moment, the clan leader thought not of rebellions or strategies, but only of protecting this fleeting peace. Deep down, though, he knew Itachi's calm could not last forever.
The gathering at the Uchiha house was over, leaving only Fugaku and Itachi in the dimly lit room. Outside, the crickets sang, but inside, the air was heavy with conspiracy.
Fugaku spoke in a grave voice:—"The pressure on the clan is mounting. Every casualty at the front is turned into blame against us. And Danzō… that man never stops poisoning the Hokage with suspicion."
Itachi listened in silence, with that unsettling calm his father was beginning to recognize as dangerous. Finally, the boy spoke:—"Father, if the eyes of Konoha look at our clan with distrust, then we must redirect their gaze toward another target."
—"What do you mean?" Fugaku asked, tilting his head.
—"If Danzō is the root of the problem… then we cut the root. Not head-on, not yet. First, we must corrode his image."
Fugaku arched a brow.—"And how does a ten-year-old plan to damage a Konoha advisor?"
Itachi held his gaze without hesitation:—"With rumors. Stories whispered from mouth to mouth until no one can tell what is truth and what is lie."
The father said nothing, so the son continued:—"We can begin with Root operatives who work alone. If one disappears on a mission, no one will dig too deep. And every loss creates space for doubt—that Danzō sacrifices his own, that he deals with spies from other villages, that he even orchestrated Hatake Sakumo's downfall."
Fugaku tensed.—"That last one is dangerous. Sakumo was a hero to many."
—"Which is precisely why," Itachi replied. "If we spread the word that Danzō manipulated his mission, or ordered his disgrace to eliminate a rival, the grief of his comrades will become fuel. Truth doesn't matter. What matters is that it seems possible."
Fugaku rose, pacing with a furrowed brow.—"You're talking about psychological warfare, son… sowing doubt within our own village."
—"Does Danzō not do the same to us?" Itachi answered firmly. "Every suspicion against the clan begins with whispers, not proof. I'm only turning his own weapon back on him."
The clan leader studied his son for a long moment, until a flicker of pride crossed his weary face.—"You are far more dangerous than you appear, Itachi."
The boy lowered his gaze, unsmiling.—"I don't seek to be dangerous. I only seek for the clan to survive."
At that moment, Mikoto slid the door open softly, carrying tea. The tension in the room was so dense she paused on the threshold. Fugaku gave her a quiet word of thanks and waited for her to leave before continuing.
—"We'll make a trial run," he said at last. "We'll choose a target—a Root operative who can vanish without a trace. You'll help me set the stage, but you will not deliver the final blow."
Itachi did not object. He simply nodded.
Fugaku watched him with a mixture of pride and fear. That night he understood his son was no longer just a prodigy of battle. He was learning to fight on a far more dangerous field: the war of shadows and whispers.