Three years ago, the claws and flames of the Nine-Tails tore through Konoha's heart, leaving its central district in smoldering ruins.
Yet in the aftermath of that devastation, opportunity emerged.
The old Konoha had been little more than a haphazard settlement, born when the Senju and Uchiha shook hands and carved out peace. The founders could never have imagined it swelling into the sprawling shinobi village of today, sheltering tens of thousands.
But the growth had been chaotic. Clan compounds of later-joined families sprouted in scattered clusters, jutting out like stubborn bone spurs, restricting the Village's development.
The Nine-Tails' attack—though a catastrophe—was like a brutal surgeon's cut. Those spurs were ripped away, giving Konoha's planners the freedom to reshape the Village with cold, rational precision.
Now, the Hokage Building stood as the unquestioned core, with new residential and commercial zones radiating outward in neat order. The clan districts were pushed to the outskirts—tidy, contained, easier to monitor.
And of all the clans, the Uchiha were sent farthest.
The official reasoning was lofty: proximity to the Police Force headquarters, efficiency in patrolling, maintaining public order.
But every shinobi who had lived through that night still remembered it vividly—the Nine-Tails, its eyes swirling with the crimson tomoe of the Sharingan. That image alone was damning.
The "exile" could not have been more blatant.
Uchiha Fugaku, the clan head, had swallowed it in silence. Rage and humiliation burned in his chest like molten iron, but he could do nothing.
At the entrance to the Uchiha district, a small figure already waited.
Uchiha Itachi. His clan uniform of deep blue bore the fan crest proudly on his back. His black eyes, calm and unreadable, turned toward Roshi.
"Roshi-senpai," he said with a polite bow, voice steady. "Father instructed me to wait here and escort you."
"Thank you, Itachi." Roshi inclined his head, studying the boy.
Today, Itachi's presence felt even calmer, more reserved than usual.
Now that Roshi had officially earned the rank of Special Jōnin, he was also stepping into his new role as captain. Itachi joining his squad was already decided—but sending an eight-year-old into missions ranked B and higher required one unavoidable formality: facing Uchiha Fugaku.
Roshi himself had gone to war at eleven. But in the shinobi world, eight and eleven were starkly different. One was still a child at the Academy; the other, already a soldier with blood on his blade.
"Senpai, this is your first time in the Uchiha district, isn't it?" Itachi asked as he led the way, his tone quiet but steady.
"Yes. I was stationed at the border for years," Roshi replied, his eyes following the boy while also scanning the surroundings with measured caution.
The Uchiha compound felt… enclosed. An invisible barrier seemed to separate it from the rest of Konoha.
Inside the entrance, the streets were immaculately kept, flanked by traditional wooden houses with tiled roofs. Small shops lined the lanes: tool vendors, modest eateries exuding savory aromas, even a refined dessert shop with delicate mochi displayed behind spotless glass.
Pedestrians were few—mostly Uchiha in their clan blues and blacks, nodding politely as they passed each other, forming the air of a self-contained, insular community. It was clean. Disciplined. Almost too perfect.
But Roshi noticed the eyes.
The civilians—women, elders, and children—looked at him with curiosity, tinged with unease. The shinobi, however, were different. Their gazes cut sharp as kunai, openly appraising him, weighing, measuring… and quietly rejecting.
The district itself seemed detached, a village within a village—watchful, walled-off, and quietly hostile.
Roshi's steps faltered for the briefest instant. It wasn't the stares. It was something else—an unseen gaze, distant yet unwavering, fixed on the main gate behind him.
"Brother! Brother!"
A high, innocent voice rang out, shattering the tension.
From a side alley, a tiny figure—barely three years old—came barreling forward in a blur of enthusiasm. Dressed in a miniature clan uniform, his little legs pumped furiously as he launched himself toward Itachi.
Uchiha Sasuke.
He ignored Roshi completely, eyes locked on his brother as he collided into him like a cannonball, clinging tightly to Itachi's leg. His wide, grape-black eyes sparkled with pure joy.
"Brother! Play shuriken with me! Right now!"
For the first time, Itachi's mask of calm cracked. His expression softened, melting in an instant.
Bending down, he ruffled Sasuke's soft black hair with infinite gentleness.
"Sasuke," he said softly, "I need to take Senpai to see Father first. I'll play with you later, alright?"
Sasuke's tiny mouth immediately pouted, his round face crumpling with grievance. His large eyes shimmered with unshed tears, yet despite his reluctance, he obediently nodded and let go of Itachi's hand.
Before retreating, he stole a curious glance at Roshi, then scampered back into the alley, glancing over his shoulder every few steps as though unwilling to leave his brother's side.
At some point, Fugaku had appeared at the entrance of the residence. He stood in silence, his expression unreadable. Only when Sasuke disappeared into the alley did his deep gaze shift to Roshi—an inscrutable glint flickering within it.
Itachi straightened, his composure returning instantly. He gave Roshi a small nod, signaling to continue forward. Soon, they arrived before an imposing residence.
Halting at the threshold, Itachi stepped aside with practiced respect.
"Senpai, Father is waiting for you inside."
Fugaku's eyes were already on Roshi.
Roshi offered a courteous nod, slipped off his sandals, and stepped into the entryway. Itachi remained in the shadow of the outer corridor, while Fugaku stood tall within the inner hall, his presence commanding.
The Uchiha patriarch was as rigid as a pine tree, dressed in dark clan robes, his face composed as still water. His gaze carried the weight of scrutiny, cool and assessing.
"Roshi, Special Jonin," Fugaku intoned, his voice deep and even, as though simply verifying facts. "I have long heard of your achievements at the border—and of your recent promotion to Special Jonin. Truly, a formidable young man."
"Clan Head Fugaku, you honor me," Roshi replied, bowing slightly, his tone measured and respectful. "I have only done my duty."
Fugaku inclined his head and gestured toward the interior. They moved into the reception room, kneeling opposite one another on the tatami mats.
Mikoto quietly entered, setting down steaming cups of green tea before excusing herself. The faint aroma lingered in the air, along with a subtle tension.
To Roshi's mild surprise, Fugaku did not begin with warnings about Itachi's safety or the risks of missions. Instead, he lifted his cup and asked in a calm tone:
"I hear you reside in the old estate on the western outskirts… raised and tutored by Lady Momoka herself?"
"Yes," Roshi answered evenly, raising his cup. "Grandmother has always looked after me."
Fugaku set his tea down with a faint clink against the low table.
"It is said your Ninjutsu is exceptional—mastering all five elements. War on the border truly forges talent."
"Only through necessity was I able to practice so widely," Roshi replied modestly.
Fugaku gave a small nod, then let the matter drop. His gaze drifted past the paper screen to the courtyard beyond.
"Roshi-kun, you entered with Itachi just now. What impression did our district leave upon you?"
Roshi paused, weighing his words carefully.
"It is tranquil, the clan members live orderly lives, and everything one needs is within reach. It seems… the Uchiha are very self-sufficient."
"Self-sufficient…" Fugaku repeated softly, the faintest curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. His gaze lingered on the quiet courtyard as his voice deepened. "Yes. We are peaceful and self-contained. But distance from the village center also means less… interaction."
He let the words hang briefly, then turned back to Roshi with the calm authority of a leader.
"From now on, when Itachi joins missions, I will entrust him to you. His talent is great, but his experience is shallow. He will need your guidance."
"It will be my responsibility, Clan Head Fugaku. You have my word."
A sharper gleam flickered in Fugaku's eyes for an instant, gone before Roshi could place it. Rising smoothly, the clan head ended the meeting.
"Itachi, see Roshi-kun out."
Both men stood. Fugaku accompanied Roshi to the entrance, but went no further.
Stepping outside, Roshi blinked against the bright afternoon sun. Itachi waited quietly beneath the veranda. When Roshi emerged, the boy moved ahead, guiding him wordlessly down the street.
Even as they walked away, Roshi could still feel Fugaku's gaze pressing against his back—a heavy weight of silent scrutiny that lingered until he turned the corner and it finally lifted.
The air within the clan district remained thick with detachment, the faint sweetness of mochi drifting from the small dessert shop nearby.
Itachi's steps were steady, but to Roshi's keen eyes, the boy's silence carried a subtle note of inner conflict.
'Senpai holds another identity Father is wary of,' Itachi thought. 'But the question… I cannot ask.'
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