Konoha Year 56. July. Night.
At some unknown point, the chorus of summer insects had completely fallen silent.
Within the shadows, two figures stood without a sound.
The man wearing a single-eyed mask marked by a spiral pattern let out a low, muffled chuckle.
"Then it's settled. According to the plan, the elite of the Police Force are mine. As for the inside of the Uchiha compound…"
He paused, his tone turning cold.
"You'll personally clean it out."
Itachi Uchiha did not reply. He did not even look at the masked man—only gave a slight nod.
The masked man vanished.
Itachi's gaze drifted toward several indistinct silhouettes lurking beneath distant eaves.
They were Danzō's Root.
Silent, methodical, they had already sealed off the area, ensuring that not a single member of the Uchiha clan would escape.
Itachi sighed inwardly. A ripple of emotion—so faint it was almost imperceptible—spread through his heart.
Sasuke… I'm sorry. I won't be able to celebrate your eighth birthday with you.
He had prepared a new set of shuriken, imagining the bright, slightly proud smile his little brother would wear upon receiving them.
But now—
Every trace of softness was stripped away and frozen solid in an instant.
When Itachi raised his head again, the pitch-black of his eyes had turned crimson.
Three tomoe spun slowly within his Sharingan, cold and devoid of human emotion.
"Let's begin."
Before the words fully faded, his figure dissolved into the deeper darkness like a specter.
Inside the clan compound, the silence was shattered by the first disturbance.
A middle-aged man, still half-asleep, slid open his door and stepped outside, rubbing his eyes.
"What's all this noi—"
The complaint died in his throat.
Beneath the moonlight, he saw a lone figure standing in the center of the courtyard.
The man relaxed slightly, confusion flickering across his face.
"Young Clan Head? At this hour… what are you—"
In the next instant, a cold flash of steel.
He never even saw how the short blade appeared. Only a sudden chill at his throat.
Staggering back, he clutched at the warm liquid gushing between his fingers, staring in disbelief at the person he had once respected and followed.
As his vision blurred, he forced out a few broken syllables through a blood-filled throat:
"Why… w-why…?"
Itachi watched the body collapse. His eyes were colder than ancient ice, his voice terrifyingly calm.
"A clan blinded by arrogance has no right to exist."
The slaughter had officially begun.
Screams. Shouts. The clash of weapons.
Lights flared on one after another—only to be extinguished in moments.
"Enemy attack! We're under attack!"
"No—wait… it's Itachi! Itachi Uchiha!"
"Why?! The young clan head has gone mad! He killed Kenta!"
"Stop him! Someone alert the Police Force!"
Amid the chaos, people tried desperately to organize a defense.
But every route leading outside—every path toward the areas guarded by the clan's elite—had been completely sealed off by the elusive masked man.
Obito Uchiha's form flickered within swirling space-time distortions.
Even the Uchiha elites, their Sharingan active, couldn't so much as touch the hem of his cloak before being dragged screaming into another dimension—or twisted and torn apart outright.
As for those who remained—
Their resistance before Itachi was pitifully futile.
His movements were concise and efficient, like a perfectly calibrated killing machine.
Shuriken. Kunai. Genjutsu.
Every technique the Uchiha once took pride in became, in his hands, a blade of extermination.
Each strike was lethal. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
A young mother knelt in a pool of blood, clutching her swaddled infant.
She slammed her forehead into the ground again and again before the approaching figure of death, tears streaming down her face.
"Itachi! Young Clan Head! Please—please! The child is innocent! Let him live! Kill me instead! I beg you!"
Itachi did not slow even for a heartbeat.
A flash of cold steel.
The mother's pleas and the infant's cries ended together.
He could not stop. There could be no exceptions.
Danzō and Root were watching.
The masked man was watching.
Any survivor would become a blade hanging over Sasuke's future.
For Sasuke to live—
For him to live on as a survivor, as an avenger—
Itachi had to play this role to its very end, paving his brother's path with the blood of the entire clan.
He moved through the familiar streets.
Blade rising. Blade falling.
The clamor of the compound slowly faded into absolute silence.
Now, it was time to complete—
The final, and most difficult, task.
"You're back, Itachi."
Fugaku's voice was unnervingly calm. He did not turn around.
Mikoto lifted her head, her gaze filled with indescribable pain as she looked at her son.
Itachi stopped at the doorway.
Blood was still dripping from the kunai in his hand.
The stench of death flooded the room.
"Where is Sasuke?" Fugaku asked.
"At the Academy… He won't be coming home tonight."
Itachi's voice was hoarse and dry.
"…I see. That's good."
Slowly, Fugaku turned to face him.
He did not activate his Sharingan.
He simply looked at his eldest son with eyes that saw through everything.
There were no accusations.
No anger.
No resistance.
The air was suffocatingly heavy.
"Itachi," Fugaku said quietly,
"from the day you chose to become a double agent—bearing the burden of both the village and the clan—I knew you would one day face an unbearably cruel decision."
He paused, then spoke the truth plainly.
"And now, you've chosen the village."
It was not a question.
It was a statement.
A father acknowledging his son's final choice.
Itachi's body trembled almost imperceptibly.
He gripped the kunai so tightly his knuckles turned white.
He couldn't meet his father's calm gaze.
He couldn't bear his mother's silent grief.
Fugaku watched him, then slowly closed his eyes.
There was no hatred on his face.
Only… acceptance. And release.
"So this is the path you've chosen."
"Then our positions are clear."
"Itachi, promise me one last thing."
Itachi raised his head.
Tears finally overflowed from his crimson Sharingan, sliding down his blood-stained cheeks.
Fugaku's voice carried a gentle resolve.
"Do not harm Sasuke. That is our only condition—and the final mission you must fulfill."
At that moment, every last fragment of strength collapsed.
Itachi's tears poured forth uncontrollably.
He understood then—
His father had seen through everything from the very beginning.
Mikoto looked at her son tenderly, tears falling as well.
"Itachi… from now on… you'll be alone… Please… take care of yourself…"
There was no resistance.
No resentment.
Uchiha Fugaku and Uchiha Mikoto—the clan head and his wife—calmly and willingly awaited their predetermined fate.
They offered their lives as the final price to protect their youngest son and uphold their eldest son's conviction.
Itachi raised the kunai in his hand.
Under the warm glow of the lamplight—
A single flash of cold steel passed through the air.