Vetrax
patreon
Batman in Konoha. Chapter 62
🕑 Added 2025-08-04 16:15:03 +0000 UTCThe Uchiha mansion buzzed like a disturbed beehive. The air was filled with the hum of tools, the thud of lumber, and the scent of dust and fresh cement. The workers moved in sync like ants, sealing breaches in the walls, patching cracks in the floor, reinforcing beams, and replacing shattered window frames. The traces of the recent Akatsuki incursion were vanishing one by one. But the tension still lingered in the air.
Fugaku stood in the entrance hall, hands clasped behind his back like a general during field drills. His sharp gaze swept over the noisy yet organized chaos. In just a few days, the house had once again come to resemble a fortress—not the kind that had stood for centuries, but the kind that had survived a siege and risen with renewed resolve.
He turned toward the foreman—a short man with calloused hands and a weary face streaked with plaster.
“How much longer?” Fugaku asked curtly, without raising his voice. Yet even that was enough to dampen the noise for a couple of seconds.
The foreman removed his helmet, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and glanced at the workers scurrying around.
“If nothing unexpected happens…” He paused, clearly weighing the risks in his mind. “I’d say two days. We’re working nonstop, just like you asked.”
Fugaku gave a slow nod.
“Acceptable. I’ll be in the basement. If needed, knock on the hatch.”
“Of course,” the foreman replied quickly, a hint of relief in his voice. “We fixed the basement first, just like you ordered.”
He was about to turn back to his crew, but something held him in place. He hesitated, as if battling with himself, then finally spoke.
“Forgive me, Fugaku-sama… The damage to the mansion… it looks like after a full-scale battle. I don’t mean to pry, but… what exactly happened here?”
Fugaku turned his head. His eyes were as cold as the winter sky over Konoha.
“You a detective?” he snapped.
“N-no,” the foreman stammered, shrinking under that gaze. “I… I’m not even a shinobi. Just a builder.”
“Then do your job. Leave the questions to those who understand the answers.”
He turned and walked away without looking back.
The foreman swallowed and let out a slow breath.
Above the staircase to the second floor, perched on a beam, stood Teyaki. His Sharingan glowed in the dim light like fire in the night. He watched every worker in silence, reading their intentions before they had time to form them. Some of the men avoided looking in his direction entirely. Others kept glancing over their shoulders, afraid of being caught doing something they hadn’t even considered yet.
Control had to be absolute. Only then would people do things right.
Fugaku opened the hatch and descended the stairs. He closed it behind him, clicked the lock shut, and walked forward.
After the repairs, the space didn’t just look clean—it looked immaculate. The stone tiles of the floor were polished to a gleam, the walls were smooth, and the lighting worked perfectly. It was hard to believe that just a few days ago, a battle had raged here. The Akatsuki had left behind chaos... but the Uchiha had answered with order.
In the center of the room, on the smooth surface of the training floor, Mikoto moved with cold grace. In one hand was Kusanagi, gleaming under the lights like a drop of mercury. Her steps were soft but precise, her breathing steady. She moved in slow, fluid arcs, transitioning from stance to stance like she was dancing with the blade.
By the wall stood a reinforced aquarium encased in sealing jutsu. Inside—Samehada. The living sword thrashed against the glass, trying to get closer to Mikoto, sensing her chakra like a predator smells blood. But the barrier held firm. All it could do was slap uselessly against the boundary, like a large fish trapped in a tank.
“Are you teasing it?” Fugaku asked, stopping by the wall.
Mikoto finished her final strike and lowered the sword. The blade slid smoothly back into its sheath.
“Helping it slim down,” she replied with a faint smirk.
Fugaku squinted and stepped closer to the tank.
“Slim down? A sword?”
“Samehada isn’t just a sword,” she corrected, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “It’s a living organism. It has blood, nerves, instincts… and apparently some bad eating habits.”
Fugaku watched as Samehada pressed its snout against the glass, trying to swim after her chakra like it was mesmerized.
“Kirigakure found it… and glued on a hilt,” Mikoto explained, nodding toward a wooden box where a skull-decorated handle lay on a velvet cloth. “Turned a living creature into a weapon. I had to ask Shisui—he helped remove the sealing tag. Nasty thing had grown in deep.”
“So you plan to keep it,” Fugaku said evenly. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be wasting your time.”
“It’s my trophy,” she replied calmly. “And I know how to handle it.”
Fugaku nodded, but his gaze darkened.
“Samehada is considered a relic of Kirigakure. The Hokage’s wife using it... The Mizukage might see that as grounds for conflict.”
“I’ve already thought of that,” Mikoto snapped, crossing her arms beneath her chest and giving a sharp shake of her head. “First of all, they’re in the middle of a civil war. Militants, traitors, famine, clan purges. They’re in no position to challenge Konoha.”
Fugaku exhaled. He knew how quickly civil wars ended… and how often they left behind a fury in need of a target.
“And second…” Mikoto turned back to the tank, watching Samehada thrash irritably inside the fūinjutsu field. “Once it slims down, no one will recognize it. The excess mass will shed, the spikes will dull, the flesh will settle. It’ll make an excellent sheath—for Kusanagi.”
Fugaku narrowed his eyes doubtfully. He looked at the bulky creature writhing in the water, acting more like a rabid beast than anything resembling a functional tool.
“Suppose so,” he said slowly. “Though I have a hard time imagining that getting slimmer. But if you think you can tame it—I believe you.”
“This isn’t just taming,” Mikoto smirked. “It’s discipline. Even living weapons respect it.”
Fugaku nodded, shifting his gaze from Samehada to his wife.
“Still… why keep it if its main value lies in absorbing chakra and breaking techniques? Isn’t that what makes it dangerous?”
“You’re right,” Mikoto admitted, running her hand thoughtfully along the glass, as if trying to find the right words. “But there’s a detail. Samehada has a chakra core embedded inside. Just by carrying it, I get an additional reserve—comparable to a Kage-level pool.”
She turned and walked to a nearby workbench, where scrolls were spread out beside calculations, notes, and schematics for new facilities.
“I need more shadow clones,” she continued. “We’re expanding the network. New trade routes, contacts, control over distribution lines. Too many things that need hands-on oversight.”
Fugaku nodded. That argument carried more weight than “a sheath.” He knew Mikoto—she wasn’t just a kunoichi, but a strategist. She wouldn’t drag around a living creature just to be eccentric.
“And besides…” Mikoto turned to him with a narrowed, half-smile laced with danger. “I don’t plan to carry Samehada like some backup battery. A sword should be used. I’m updating my combat style. I’ll incorporate sheath strikes.”
She gestured toward another scroll.
“I already sent an eagle to Mifune,” she added. “His kenjutsu school is one of the few that teaches sheath techniques as offensive moves. I want his recommendations—maybe even a technique exchange.”
Fugaku’s expression darkened briefly. He liked that Mikoto was strong. But he didn’t like that she was preparing for battle again. His gaze dropped to her stomach—still flat, but he knew life was already stirring there.
“Don’t overdo it,” he said quietly. “I want our child to be born healthy.”
Mikoto paused. Her eyes softened. She looked at her husband, then gently ran her hand over her belly, as if sensing something still invisible.
“I think about him every minute,” she said. “I won’t endanger him. I promise.”
Fugaku nodded. That ended the conversation. He cast one last glance at Samehada, now floating still in the water as if it, too, had heard, then turned toward the massive steel door leading deeper into the basement.
He opened it, disengaging several fūinjutsu locks, and stepped inside the laboratory.
The air inside was cold. Dry, sterile, heavy with the scent of antiseptics and blood. The lighting was harsh—like in an operating room. This was Itachi’s domain.
Fugaku found his son mid-autopsy. Hovering over the surgical table were three Itachis—the original and two shadow clones, perfectly synchronized and silent. One was dissecting Deidara’s chest cavity with steady precision, the second studied the mouth embedded in his hand, and the third recorded observations. The scalpels gleamed under the bright lamps. Their hands moved with quiet efficiency.
Fugaku approached without hurry. One of the clones noticed him, stepped away from the table, carefully discarded a pair of bloodied gloves into the disposal unit, and turned to face him.
“You need something?” he asked calmly, without a hint of irritation. His voice was level and cold, as always.
“A report,” Fugaku replied. “Full. Everything you’ve learned.”
Itachi nodded, wiped his hands with a towel, and walked to the cooled chamber. He opened it with a soft click and rolled out a body on a stretcher.
“Hidan,” Fugaku noted, frowning slightly. “Is he dead? For good?”
“Yes,” Itachi answered. “I used a concentrated fear gas on him. It triggered a severe neuropsychic response—he lost control and talked. Said he’d made a pact with someone called Jashin—a god of pain, death, and blood. In exchange for one sacrificial offering a week, Jashin granted him immortality.”
“It’s been a week without a kill, apparently,” Fugaku snorted. “Did their god get offended?”
“Exactly. Jashin withdrew his blessing,” Itachi nodded toward the body. “Now it’s just a corpse. Average chakra levels, no signs of regeneration.”
“Good. I want a full report on this cult. Who Jashin is, where he’s found, how contact is made. If this ‘deity’ is real—I want to know how to destroy it.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“And chain the body. Just in case. Gods tend to hold grudges.”
Itachi gave a nod and walked to a distant shelf, retrieving a black tube, smooth and sealed with red fūinjutsu script. He placed it gently on the table.
“As you can see, there’s no flesh here,” he said calmly. “Not my specialty. But according to Shisui, the soul of Sasori is sealed inside. He’s studying the tag. He’ll send you the full breakdown later.”
“Good,” Fugaku said shortly.
They both moved to the next table, where Itachi’s clones were still working meticulously on Deidara’s body. Tools clinked, blood dripped—but the whole scene resembled engineering more than brutality.
“There’s not enough data yet,” Itachi said, glancing at the clones at the operating table. One of them gave the faintest shake of his head. “From the interrogation, we learned that Deidara underwent surgical modification in Iwa. The goal was to create a living bomb. He can’t describe the procedure—he was under anesthesia, and some memories appear to have been wiped. We’re currently analyzing the traces.”
Fugaku gave a barely perceptible nod, signaling that he was listening, waiting for more.
“According to Tsuchikage’s plan,” Itachi continued, “Deidara was meant to be a new kind of weapon. A jinchūriki replacement. A self-sustaining destroyer. The mouth on his chest is a channel through which he can detonate a blast comparable to leveling an entire village. A final strike that would cost him his life… and everyone else far more.”
Fugaku exhaled slowly, his expression darkening.
“Deidara didn’t like being prepped as a kamikaze,” Itachi added. “He defected before they could activate him. As strange as it sounds—his self-preservation instinct outweighed the brainwashing.”
Fugaku closed his eyes briefly. A new branch of strategic thinking was taking form in his mind—not just threats, but systemic vulnerabilities. Deidara was a failed prototype, but what if Iwa continued development? Dropping one of these suicide bombs onto every hidden village would put Iwa at the top of the world.
Silently, he made a mental note: Urgent. Update Konoha’s fūin-identification protocols. New signature: multiple mouths. Immediate disintegration upon detection.
While he considered implementation, Itachi walked over to another section of the lab—to a sealed capsule. Inside, suspended in clear fluid, floated Konan. The paper petals that had once been her weapons drifted around her like forgotten letters.
“I’ve taken samples,” Itachi began, voice clinical and emotionless. “She has a rare paper-based genome. With Hiruko’s technique, it could be transplanted, but offers little practical value. No hidden surprises in the body either.”
He paused, then looked his father in the eye.
“Of all the subjects—she’s the only one still alive. What do you plan to do with her?”
Fugaku didn’t hesitate. He stared through the capsule at Konan.
“She’s a terrorist and a murderer,” he said, voice cold as frozen steel. “That means she belongs with the others—locked in prison.”
Itachi gave a slight nod. He wasn’t surprised. The answer was logical. In that, he and his father were alike—no sentimentality. Only systemic order.
Fugaku walked past Konan and stopped by another door.
“How’s our special guest?”
Itachi gave a calm shake of his head.
“Surgery went well. Obito will live. I amputated the Zetsu limbs and replaced his heart—with that of a recently deceased genin.”
“That will weaken him?”
“Significantly,” Itachi confirmed. “Without his original heart and without First Hokage cells… he’ll have to start from scratch. His chakra levels are now below average. Even basic jutsu will have to be relearned.”
Fugaku nodded, satisfied.
“Can he speak?”
“Yes. Recovery’s progressing fast. I’ll take you to him.”
They walked together down a narrow corridor lit by dim lamps. The walls were lined with sensory seals, each tracking chakra flow, heartbeats, and brain activity. At the end—a solitary cell. Inside: a bed, an IV drip, a table, and walls reinforced with suppression seals.
Itachi activated the unlocking fūinjutsu and stepped back.
“You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?” he asked quietly, without judgment.
Fugaku paused at the door. His hand rested on the cold surface of the metal.
“Maybe,” he admitted. “That depends on what he says.”
He stepped inside, and the door closed behind him with a soft click.
Obito lay on the bed, hooked up to an IV, dressed in a gray hospital gown. His face was pale. The right side of his body—flesh and bone—was covered in scars and bandages. The left side, once composed of Zetsu cells, was gone. It had been dissolved with a special herbicide, severing its link to the tree. Now, that entire half of his body was simply absent—replaced by a web of sealing scripts designed to stabilize his system and suppress chakra flow.
Across his chest was a grid seal, blocking internal chakra circulation. On his forehead—an inhibitor mark: any violation triggered immediate paralysis.
When Fugaku entered, Obito stirred weakly. His fingers curled faintly into a fist, his body trembled. With effort, he propped himself up on an elbow and finally sat upright, breathing hard. Pain twisted his features—but his eyes remained clear. Alive. Defiant.
“Fugaku-sama…” he rasped. “Or should I call you… Hokage now?”
“If you want to live, you’ll answer my questions, Obito,” Fugaku said, approaching slowly and taking the chair across from him, never breaking eye contact. His Sharingan flared to life, ready to read the microshifts in pupils, the flicker of lies and fear. “You said you wanted to tell your story. I’m listening.”
Obito gave a faint, bitter smile. There was no amusement in it—only weariness.
“An interrogation right from the start? Honestly, I’ve waited a long time for this.”
He drew a deep breath, as if preparing to dive into the mire he himself had dug. His eyes looked up to the ceiling, but his voice remained steady.
“After I was crushed… in that rockslide… I was saved by Uchiha Madara.”
“You mean the real Madara?” Fugaku’s voice sharpened slightly. “The one who died in battle with Hashirama?”
“Yes,” Obito turned his head toward him. “He faked his death. Hid underground for decades. Too old to fight… but still alive. He was the one who pulled me out. Rebuilt me.”
“And how exactly did he ‘rebuild’ you?” Fugaku leaned in slightly. The Sharingan detected no lies.
“White Zetsu. You already know about them,” Obito nodded. “Madara grew them from Hashirama’s cells. Thousands of them. I even stashed a small batch for myself. Sealed in a safe location. Maybe you’ll let me retrieve one later? Living without an arm is inconvenient.”
“Don’t start with requests. That depends on how true your story is.” Fugaku’s voice remained calm, but there was a cold weight behind it. “Keep talking. What was Madara’s goal?”
“A mission,” Obito scoffed. “He said he was too old to finish what he started, and I was to carry out his plan—as his successor.”
Fugaku didn’t respond, just watched. Obito went on:
“Before he died, Madara awakened the Rinnegan. With it, he deciphered the Rikudō tablet. It says that if you gather all the tailed beasts, you can awaken the Ten-Tails. And if you become its jinchūriki—you gain the power to cast the Infinite Tsukuyomi. A genjutsu over the entire world.”
Fugaku frowned darkly. He knew of the tablet—but not its hidden content. This wasn’t legend anymore. It was a blueprint.
“Infinite Tsukuyomi,” he repeated. “And why did Madara want that?”
“I don’t know,” Obito admitted. “He never shared his feelings. He just said the world was in pain, and that his method was the only path to ‘eternal peace.’ But it all sounded… fanatical.”
“So you just followed him? No doubts?”
“No,” Obito snapped. “I didn’t want to. He… built in a fail-safe. A seal on my heart. If I deviated from the plan—it would detonate. But even that wasn’t enough. He left someone to watch me—Black Zetsu. Said it was his will made manifest.”
“And you obeyed?”
“I had no choice.” Obito pressed a hand to his chest, remembering the suffocating pressure. “According to the plan, I was to lead Akatsuki from the shadows. Gather all the tailed beasts. And then… convince Nagato to use the Resurrection Technique to bring Madara back.”
Fugaku was silent. His eyes stared unblinking into Obito’s face.
"You stalled," he said at last. "You had the resources to gather all the bijuu in a week. But you didn’t."
"Because I didn’t give a damn about that damn plan," Obito whispered with sudden fury. "The seal was simple — stay quiet about Madara, and I lived. But Zetsu… he demanded action. Constantly. The only thing he wouldn’t do was risk himself. He was paranoid to the extreme. And… he just hated shinobi. All of them."
"So that’s why you attacked Konoha?" Fugaku’s voice turned to steel.
"I was trying to find a way to stop Madara without raising Zetsu’s suspicion. I wanted someone to notice me. I thought Minato could..." his voice broke. "I hoped my sensei would stop me. But it… didn’t turn out that way."
Fugaku said nothing, watching him.
"Because of you, hundreds died. Including Minato. And Kushina."
"I know!" Obito’s voice cracked into a rasp. "I know. God damn it, I know. But if I had done nothing, Madara would’ve returned. The Ten-Tails would’ve awakened. And now… now at least you have a chance to stop it. At least someone knows."
Fugaku didn’t answer for a long time. Then he said, slowly, like passing a sentence:
"You killed the chuunin exam participants. Children."
"To get your attention!" Obito shouted, his body jerking — but the seals held his muscles in place. "I knew that in this world of fools, only you could stop me! Do you know what it’s like to be a ghost? To scream, and never be heard? I spent ten years in shadow. A slave. The only way I could be seen was through pain and blood. I started a civil war in Kiri. I wiped out clans. And no one saw the pattern! I… I just wanted someone to notice! If I had quietly gathered the bijuu, it would’ve all been over."
"You could’ve killed yourself. That would’ve saved lives."
"Then Madara would’ve won!" Obito’s voice was cracking. "Then you’d have never known the plan. Then Black Zetsu would’ve found someone else. I… I had to survive. I had to tell someone. Anyone."
Fugaku silently turned away, but Obito caught his gaze.
"You’ve figured it out by now. I didn’t come to your house by chance. I read that your son is the only medic who can perform a heart transplant without rejection. I came because I knew — if anyone could stop this madness, it’s you."
Fugaku deactivated his Sharingan and stood up. He had heard what he needed.
"Zetsu and Nagato are still out there," Obito added in a lower voice. "It’s not over yet."
"I see," Fugaku said shortly. "I’ll need to verify your claims."
He stepped toward the door and raised a hand toward the unlocking fūinjutsu.
"And what happens to me now?" Obito asked. Quietly, no longer defiant.
"We’ll see," Fugaku replied. "Time will show who you really are — a victim, or a criminal with a convincing story."
///
The rain hadn’t stopped. It fell relentlessly — cold and steady, like it was sweeping the streets clean of everything unnecessary. The Hidden Rain Village had never been known for hospitality, but today it felt especially dead.
Fugaku stood on one of its narrow streets, hidden beneath the shadow of his cloak.
He had long suspected that this was where Pain was hiding. Or rather, the puppet called Nagato — the red-haired cripple with stolen Rinnegan. A tool Madara. Again.
And now, after Obito’s confession, he had a precise location.
He descended into the sewers.
The chamber carved into the concrete was wide, cloaked in shadows and the sound of dripping water. Rusted pipes jutted from the walls like veins of a long-dead titan. At the center stood a towering construct — a metal monster on spider-like legs, with a narrow throne in the middle.
Nagato sat on the throne.
Emaciated beyond reason. His body looked too fragile, as if it could snap under a gust of wind. Greasy red hair hung down the sides of his gaunt face. His arms were fixed into sockets.
His head was slumped. Unnaturally. Too quiet. Too still.
Sharingan detected no chakra activity. No blood flow. No pulse.
Fugaku stopped in front of the machine. Nagato didn’t move.
He reached out, grabbed the man’s hair — and yanked his head upward into the light of the overhead lamp.
Empty. Darkness gaped from his eye sockets.
Black Zetsu had already been here — and taken the Rinnegan.
