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Batman in Konoha. Chapter 63
🕑 Added 2025-08-06 16:53:53 +0000 UTCFugaku slowly opened the massive iron door to the prisoner's cell.
The sealing tags on the floor glimmered with a faint blue light. In the corner stood a metal cot, and on it lay Obito Uchiha—gaunt, one-armed, his torso wrapped in bandages. He was reading a battered book. Likely something Shisui had brought him recently—a gesture of sympathy, unauthorized but understandable.
Hearing familiar footsteps, Obito sprang up with a liveliness that seemed out of place for a prisoner. The book thudded onto the blanket.
“You came!” he exclaimed, almost ecstatic. “Finally! Did you check everything? Can I leave now?”
He didn’t look like a criminal. He looked like a puppy reunited with a long-lost master. His eyes shone, and his voice trembled with anticipation.
“It’s dinnertime,” Fugaku said curtly, not stepping any closer.
“Oh, well… sure…” Obito’s tone fell flat, and he slumped slightly. “Down here, without a clock, you can’t tell if it’s day or night… By the way, where’s the plate?”
Fugaku tilted his chin slightly. His voice remained colorless.
“Renovation’s finished. The staff is gone. No witnesses. You’re dining with us tonight.”
Obito’s eyes lit up. He almost lunged for the door, but Fugaku raised a sharp hand, stopping him in his tracks.
“It’s just dinner,” he said firmly. “Don’t get any illusions.”
“Still… thanks,” Obito muttered. He didn’t sound offended. After ten years of isolation, even a cold voice felt almost gentle—and a seat at the family table, a true celebration.
Fugaku turned and walked down the corridor. Obito limped after him without complaint. The bandages showed stark white beneath his robe, and sealing tattoos on his neck glowed faintly. Each step came with a soft grunt of pain, but he said nothing.
When they emerged from the underground and entered the main wing of the house, Obito blinked at the sudden light and stopped for a moment. The air was fresh, laced with the aromas of dinner—roasted meat, greens, sweets. For a second, he felt like a teenager again, a student of Minato, returning home from a mission.
But reality returned swiftly.
The dining room was lit by warm lamp light. A long lacquered table, set for eight, was already overflowing with food: juicy steaks, fresh vegetables, fluffy rolls, sliced fruit for dessert, and a carafe of juice. A spare chair and full place setting had been prepared—everything thought through.
The family was already seated. Sasuke looked wary but clearly intrigued. Shisui had that look he always wore before trying a risky joke. Hikari, as always, was silent but attentive. Little Reibi sat on a high chair, her beady eyes blinking, sniffing the air like she could sense the Mangekyō’s scent.
Mikoto and Itachi, however, didn’t bother hiding their feelings. Their gazes were ice-cold, sharp as needles. Mikoto sat with a perfect spine, lips pressed into a thin line. Itachi looked calm, but dangerous—like a scalpel honed to perfection.
Fugaku led Obito to a chair and sat down first. Obito lowered himself into his seat with effort, as if afraid the moment would vanish if he blinked.
Silence fell. Only the clink of forks and soft breathing filled the space.
“Could someone… pour me some juice?” Obito asked, trying for a light tone. He raised the stump of his arm and shrugged. “Kind of tricky with just one hand.”
Without a word, Hikari stood. She picked up the carafe, poured juice into a tall glass, and gently set it in front of him.
“Thank you,” Obito said sincerely, watching her. “By the way… who are you? I knew everyone in the clan, but you—it's like you came out of nowhere.”
“She’s Mikoto’s and my daughter,” Fugaku replied, eyes still on his plate.
Obito leaned back in his chair.
“I see…” he murmured. “Born outside the village, then? Left with friends and brought back later… Makes sense. Back then, Konoha was… too hot to be safe.”
“Because of you,” Mikoto snapped, staring straight into his eyes. “That night, many good people died. Kushina died because of you. And now you sit here, spewing nonsense like nothing ever happened.”
Obito’s face twisted. He clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing. His gaze turned sharp—almost feral.
“You think I’m happy with how it turned out?” he rasped. “I was counting on something else. Sensei knew fūinjutsu. He could’ve undone the seal on my heart. I planned it all so Minato would recognize me—to stop me, to unmask me… But his fatherly instincts kicked in. He abandoned me, beaten and broken, for his son. He even sealed the Kyūbi into his child instead of restoring it to his wife. If he had, Kushina would still be alive. Naruto would’ve had a mother.”
Mikoto said nothing. There was no pity in her eyes.
“You talk as if you were the victim,” she said, her voice especially cold.
“Who else would I be?!” Obito snapped. “I spent ten damn years trying to get someone’s attention! Betting on one genius after another… All of them—brilliant idiots! Take the Mizukage, for example. He had a technique to copy his enemy. One fight, and he’d have a clone of me with all my knowledge. He could’ve figured it out. That would’ve been the end of Madara. I deliberately sabotaged Kiri, hoping someone would piece it together. But… it was all for nothing.”
Silence fell again. Sasuke set down his fork. Shisui crossed his arms. Hikari raised a brow. Even Reibi, sensing the shift in atmosphere, ducked under the table, only her ears peeking out.
“You could’ve taken a softer approach,” Itachi said suddenly. His tone was calm, but not neutral—it carried a quiet, icy resentment. “Why orchestrate a massacre during the Chūnin Exams? A little chaos in Konoha, and you would’ve had all the attention from Father you wanted.”
Obito stared at him, a mixture of shock and bitterness on his face, as if Itachi had just suggested solving a nuclear crisis with a hug.
“You think if it were that easy, I wouldn’t have tried?!” he shouted, jumping to his feet, only to collapse back down, gasping. His voice was not only furious—it was cracked, pained, almost feral. “Black Zetsu controlled me every single day. He decided who I could talk to. He decided when I could move. The only thing left to me was negotiating with murderers right before I killed them myself.”
Obito was breathing hard, gripping the edge of the table with one hand. His eyes were wide, pupils narrowed. He looked on the edge of a breakdown—not from fear, but from exhaustion. That suffocating, syrupy fatigue when the world presses down on your chest, and you can’t even scream.
“And when he did let me act—it was always through pain. Through blood, screams, destruction. I tore down villages, I killed, I hunted for a reaction… But no one! No one even tried to connect the dots!” He slammed his fist on the table, making the juice glass jump. “I got to the point where I was seriously considering starting a global shinobi war. Just so someone… anyone… would finally realize I was still alive.”
His voice broke into a hoarse whisper. He wasn’t yelling anymore—the strength was draining out of him like water through fingers. A mask of resignation spread across his face. The rage faded, giving way to something far heavier—burned-out emptiness.
“I was so desperate I actually started thinking about completing Madara’s plan,” he muttered, staring into his plate like he was ashamed of himself. “Gathering all the bijū, bringing back the Ten-Tails… And then whatever happens, happens. Madara’s victory, or the end of the world. What does it matter, if no one hears you anyway?”
The room grew even quieter, as if the air itself had thickened. Even Reibi, who had been chewing on a pineapple slice, froze mid-bite, her ears drooping.
Obito wiped his forehead and glanced around.
“Is it safe for us to talk like this?” he asked cautiously, in a whisper. “Zetsu’s undetectable by any sensory jutsu. He could be right here. He could be listening.”
Fugaku didn’t answer immediately. He set his knife down, dabbed his lips with a napkin, and fixed Obito with a long, weighty stare.
“He’s not here,” he said firmly. His voice was calm, but there was iron beneath it. “But you’re right: I’m very interested in this Zetsu. You said he was the embodiment of Madara’s will.”
“That’s what he called himself,” Obito replied with a shrug.
Fugaku frowned, fingers tapping faintly on the table. He leaned back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling as if working through a mental equation.
“Something doesn’t add up,” he muttered. “I’ve gathered a lot of intel on Madara. Clan archives, elders’ stories, military transcripts. He was… hot-headed, yes. Power-hungry—no doubt. Loved to fight. He’d sabotage his own operation just for a good duel with Hashirama. But he wasn’t a maniac.”
Fugaku turned his gaze back to Obito, studying him closely.
“And your Zetsu sounds like a fanatic of total genocide. He hates chakra users. Wants them wiped out—all of them: Uchiha, Senju, Uzumaki. That’s not Madara. That’s something else.”
Obito nodded slowly, as if his own doubts were finally catching up with him.
“I felt that too,” he admitted. “But I thought… maybe Zetsu was just Madara’s buried desires. The ones he didn’t want to admit, even to himself. His dark side. It happens… Who really knows another person’s soul?”
“Maybe,” Fugaku didn’t argue. “But that doesn’t make him any less dangerous. He’s not a shadow clone. He’s something that survived its master’s death. That alone makes him unique.”
He fell silent, and everyone at the table watched him with rapt attention.
“So what are you going to do?” Obito finally asked. His voice had calmed, but the question hung in the air, and everyone—from Shisui to Reibi—tensed involuntarily, waiting for the answer.
“Given Zetsu’s nature,” Fugaku began, “I see two likely scenarios. In the first, he’ll try to eliminate us using others—hiding behind masks and puppets. He’ll weave conspiracies, as always. In the second, he’ll vanish into the shadows for decades, waiting until we lower our guard, then strike again. Neither option suits me.”
Fugaku placed his hand on the table, fingers slowly curling into a fist.
“That’s why I intend to destroy him. Completely. With no chance of return.”
“But how?!” Obito asked, genuinely surprised. “You don’t even know what he’s made of. He slips through everything—he can be in the stone, the walls, the ground! How do you plan to find him?”
Fugaku gave a faint smile. A shadow on his lips. Almost like Batman.
“I already have,” he said calmly. “And you helped me.”
“Me?..” Obito blinked, startled. “What did I do?”
Fugaku raised his left hand, revealing a metallic ring engraved with markings.
“You said Zetsu is will. I’ve studied that concept before… and based on it, I created a map. It doesn’t track chakra, or a body, or energy. It only tracks manifestations of will.”
He paused, scanning each face at the table.
“And in the entire world, there’s only one being that matches those parameters. I know where he is. Now it’s just a matter of reaching him.”
“So you’re going after him,” Shisui said, his eyes lighting up. “When?”
“Tomorrow. At dawn,” Fugaku replied. “You’re coming with me.”
Shisui smirked and nodded, as if he’d been waiting for that:
“No problem.”
“What about me?” Obito spoke up, barely audible, almost ashamed of his own question. “I could still be useful.”
Fugaku looked at him. Long and steady. Without contempt—but without warmth either. Only resolve.
“You’ve already provided crucial intel,” he said evenly. “That’s enough, soldier.”
The word “soldier” carried weight. Not an insult, but not praise either. Just fact—you completed the mission. And now…
“Your task is done. It’s time you thought about what you’ll do next. How you’ll live. How you’ll start making things right.”
Obito seemed to stumble on empty air. He opened his mouth, but said nothing. Just closed it again and lowered his eyes. Too many things flickered there—confusion, bitterness, a fleeting hope… and a trace of gratitude.
He did have a lot to think about.
///
The night sky above the Land of Mountains was cloudless, stitched with millions of cold stars. The wind howled in their ears as two shinobi soared atop a giant bat, black as shadow itself. Its leathery wings sliced the air with eerie smoothness. Below: winding plains, jagged cliffs, and scattered village lights—fireflies caught in the dark.
Fugaku was silent. He always preferred silence in flight. In silence, thoughts aligned like soldiers. He was a predator flying toward his prey.
But next to him sat Shisui.
“Why did you invite Obito to dinner?” he asked suddenly, still facing forward but clearly thinking back to that evening. “Mikoto and Itachi were barely holding it together.”
“Because…” Fugaku paused, “...there’s still a shred of mercy left in my heart.”
His voice was low, as if the words had to fight their way through armor. He didn’t like exposing his emotions.
“I can’t kill him,” he went on. “No matter how much harm Obito caused, he acted under pressure—under someone else’s control. It wasn’t really him. And not out of malice. He became a tool.”
“You know, I agree with that,” Shisui said. “So do Sasuke. And Hikari. But for us… he didn’t take anything. Mikoto and Itachi, though… they lost people. Obito’s world, to them, is corpses and fire. The martyr version of him—they can’t swallow that.”
Fugaku nodded.
“I’m not expecting them to forgive him. And I’m not asking them to. But I have to take responsibility. You saw it at dinner—Obito’s hanging on the edge of a psychotic break. A few more years like that, and he’d completely lose it. I can’t let him go right now. He needs rehabilitation.”
“You want me to talk to them?” Shisui guessed. His voice had its usual lightness, but his eyes were serious.
“I’d appreciate it,” Fugaku confirmed dryly, eyes scanning the constellations.
“So that’s why you brought me along,” Shisui chuckled. “To talk them out of roasting Obito alive.”
“Not only for that.” Fugaku turned to him. “Did you bring what I asked for?”
Shisui fell silent for a moment, then pulled a scroll from his pack. It was new, covered in unusual seals. The thick fabric trembled in the air from the power woven into it.
“Tsuchigumo Clan scroll. Unique fūinjutsu,” he said, carefully holding it out. “The explosion will be… epic. Not even molecules will survive. You sure about this?”
“Absolutely,” Fugaku said flatly. “Zetsu isn’t just an enemy. He’s a parasite—something that can merge with any surface, even with a human being. I dissected Nagato’s corpse. He slit his own throat and then tore out his Rinnegan… Zetsu crept up from behind, took the body, and seized complete control. Not even the power of god-like eyes let Nagato shake him off.”
“Wait, what?!” Shisui leaned forward. “Obito said he sometimes fused with White Zetsu. I thought that was a voluntary symbiosis.”
“So did I,” Fugaku nodded. “But the autopsy proved otherwise—it’s not symbiosis. It’s full assimilation. Zetsu is a top-tier parasite.”
Shisui’s eyes widened. He muttered a curse under his breath:
“Screw the Rinnegan. Let’s blow this freak to hell.”
“Exactly,” Fugaku said with restrained approval. “We’re not losing anything of value. Madara created the Rinnegan once. If needed—we’ll replicate his success.”
They flew in silence for a few more minutes, checking the map. The shimmering scroll in Fugaku’s hands pulsed with a faint light, tracking what normal sensors couldn’t—will. Pure, focused will.
At last, nestled among the cliffs, a dark recess came into view—a small cave cut deep into the rock.
“There it is,” said Fugaku.
The bat didn’t land. Zetsu could strike through stone. The creature circled overhead while Fugaku unfurled the Tsuchigumo scroll. Shisui watched in silence, ready for anything.
Fugaku channeled chakra. The scroll began to smolder at the edges—not burning, but humming, as if singing, activating the forbidden technique. Fugaku leveled his arm, aimed—his Sharingan flickering, calculating the arc down to the centimeter.
And threw.
The bomb arced through the air and vanished into the cave’s darkness.
On the will-map, the point marking Zetsu twitched—a sudden movement, like he’d tried to flee. But it was too late.
Flash.
First—silence. Then—a blast of blue light, blinding and all-consuming. The wave of energy roared across the cliffs, erasing everything—alive or dead. The cave vanished. The mountains shook. Nothing remained—not even ash. As if the land itself had been scrubbed clean.
Zetsu’s marker on the map blinked once—then disappeared. Completely.
Fugaku straightened. For a moment, fatigue flickered across his face—but so did satisfaction.
“One more enemy gone,” he said with a quiet grunt. “We’re going home.”
The bat banked and turned. Behind them, the last spark of a decade-long black conspiracy faded into nothing.
Comments
Great Ender
Zetsu's perspective of the end would be nice.
