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Batman in Konoha. Chapter 46
🕑 Added 2025-07-13 17:01:54 +0000 UTCOnly two days had passed since construction began on the new Uchiha mansion, yet the work was already in full swing. Laborers toiled from dawn till dusk, occasionally casting wary glances at Fugaku’s shadow clone, who oversaw every step of the process.
The real Fugaku was sitting in the study of their temporary home. In front of him lay invoices, estimates, supply chain plans — everything required for the project's logistics. But the numbers blurred before his eyes, refusing to form coherent lines. He kept rereading the same sentence five times, only for his thoughts to veer off, over and over again, to the same place.
To Mikoto.
Everything he’d tried — hadn’t helped. Playing with Sasuke, her favorite music, her old photos. Shisui had tried talking to her about mutual acquaintances. She listened, tilting her head, and then began throwing out caustic remarks, full of contempt for anything human.
Nostalgia therapy — had failed.
He recalled what they used to say back in Arkham: “No patient heals unless they want to be healed.”
Fugaku frowned, catching something in the air. A faint, nearly imperceptible trace of smoke. Most wouldn't have noticed — maybe assumed it was just the lingering scent of dinner. But his senses were different: enhanced, precise, animalistic. And this smoke didn’t belong.
He shot up from the desk, the chair crashing to the floor behind him. A heartbeat later, he was sprinting down the stairs toward the basement — toward Mikoto.
The gate was open.
The fūinjutsu, woven from chakra with a fire nature, had been partially burned. Scorched pages from books — the very ones he had brought her — lay scattered across the floor. And he understood: she had used fire to overload the seal. Smart. Very snake-like.
But where was she?
He activated his Sharingan instantly. The world sharpened, colors deepened. His brain absorbed and processed the new data in a flash. He saw it — a faint, smeared trail on the carpet.
He burst into the kitchen — and froze for a heartbeat in surprise.
Mikoto stood by the stove, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet as if waiting for him. Her cheeks were puffed out like a hamster hiding nuts. She looked at him, eyes bright and mocking.
And before he could say a word, she struck a match, brought it to her lips — and spat out the hidden mixture from her mouth.
Flames erupted like a dragon’s tongue, scorching the air.
Fugaku instinctively shielded himself with his fireproof cloak. The fabric closed around him like a bat’s wings, protecting him from the inferno. The flare roared, flooding the kitchen with light.
It was a diversion.
She knew the trick would only buy her five seconds. But for her plan, five seconds were enough.
He was already about to pursue her when he heard:
“People! Help! I’m being held captive! Please, someone save me!”
He dashed outside in response.
Mikoto stood in the middle of the street, hair disheveled, nightgown half undone. Her face bore a look of genuine terror — perfectly performed. She raised her arms like she expected someone to burst out of the windows to protect a poor, helpless woman.
But no one did.
The night was deep. Still. People had long since gone to sleep. The area was secured, isolated from onlookers, closed off by Fugaku’s orders. No one would come.
The triumphant expression on her face faded, replaced by caution. She turned her head — and immediately felt hands grabbing her from behind.
Fugaku tackled her to the ground, driving a knee into her back and pinning her arms to the earth.
“Nice try,” he whispered, cold and calm. “But I was ready. I distorted your sense of time. The genjutsu hit before you even made your move.”
“That’s not fair,” she muttered, pouting. “I have a Sharingan too, you know! But you won’t let me use it.”
He pulled her to her feet. She didn’t resist — just huffed like a cat being lifted by the scruff of its neck. He marched her back toward the house, gripping her tightly, like a ticking bomb.
Waiting at the door were Shisui, Itachi, and Sasuke — all three soaked, the smell of smoke and water heavy in the air. They had put out the fire: Shisui had used a water stream jutsu in the kitchen, Itachi had checked the basement seals, and Sasuke had drenched the rest of the house — with enthusiastic glee, as if it were a training exercise and not a real emergency.
“My bed is soaked,” Mikoto moaned, suddenly slipping into a petulant tone and pressing up against Fugaku. Her hands were light and slender—but cold, like a corpse's. “Darling, maybe I could sleep in your bed again?”
“You’ll sleep in the basement,” he snapped, shoving her back inside like he was locking up a venomous creature. “Snakes are used to damp places.”
“How cruel, my love,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder with a cryptic half-smile. “Next time I escape, my goal will be to kill you.”
Fugaku slammed the door shut without a word and activated new seals.
He knew she wasn’t bluffing.
They used to say in Arkham: “If a patient doesn’t want to heal willingly—then you treat them by force.”
///
Fugaku returned to the basement only the following evening. He had spent hours running every possible scenario through his mind—each with its own risks. The final method was kept in reserve, a last resort. It couldn’t be used twice. And if it failed to work as intended… the consequences could be catastrophic.
But there were no options left.
Mikoto was lying on her side on the damp cot, like a snake that had taken the shape of a woman. She muttered to herself under her breath, playing with a strand of hair between her fingers. When she heard footsteps, she lifted her head and bared her teeth in a grin, like a cat woken from a pleasant dream.
“Oh, you finally came down, darling,” she purred. “Missed me?”
“Get ready,” Fugaku said coldly, tossing a dark hooded cloak onto the bed.
She perked up immediately. Her pajamas were neat—as if even in captivity she maintained appearances, like the whole thing was a performance, and there was an audience just beyond the walls.
“Don’t tell me… you’re finally taking me on a date?” Mikoto teased playfully, slipping the cloak on over her pajamas. “What wine are we having tonight? Or do you prefer blood?”
Fugaku didn’t respond. He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out metal handcuffs.
“Hold out your hands,” he ordered curtly.
“Oh, moving so fast,” Mikoto pressed her palms to her chest, feigning shyness with theatrical flair. “Dinner first, then a bit of romance… then the handcuffs. You know nothing about seduction.”
He began forming hand seals slowly—for a punishment technique.
She rolled her eyes. The act dropped from her face.
“No sense of romance,” she sighed, reluctantly holding out her hands. “Everything with you is so… mechanical.”
The cuffs locked around her wrists with a sharp click.
“And one more thing,” Fugaku said, taking out a gag. It had a thick strap and a solid insert—designed to prevent even a single word from slipping through.
“Oooh, if I didn’t know you,” Mikoto smirked, “I’d think you were finally learning how to have fun. I wonder what the kids would say if they saw you gagging their mother?”
Fugaku silently strapped it in place, buckling it tight behind her head. Her eyes flashed with brief irritation, then returned to their usual mischievous gleam.
The night was cool. Heavy clouds obscured what few stars dotted the sky, and the streets of Konoha were draped in half-darkness. Only a few streetlamps—left on overnight—cast long, uneasy shadows. Mikoto walked beside Fugaku like a prisoner. She couldn’t see the road—her hood was pulled low, cutting off her vision completely. All she could do was feel where he was leading her: left, right, down a slope, through grass... Sometimes, dry leaves crackled beneath her feet.
She didn’t resist. Not yet.
Finally, they stopped.
Fugaku pulled back Mikoto’s hood, and she squinted, blinking in the sudden glare of a flashlight in his hand.
In front of her—was a gravestone.
Uzumaki Kushina.
Mikoto’s head jerked up. She looked at Fugaku—and even with the gag, her eyes radiated mocking amusement.
Fugaku removed the insert from her mouth.
“You brought me to Kushina’s grave?” Mikoto hissed, licking her dry lips. “You think this will stir sentimentality in me? Tug at my heart so I’ll cry over my best friend’s grave? I don’t care about Kushina. That’s ancient history.”
Fugaku slowly stepped behind her. His hands settled on her shoulders. But it wasn’t a gesture of comfort.
“Is that so?” His voice turned cold, level, emotionless. “Because you’re the reason she’s dead.”
Mikoto flinched. At first, her face twisted into a confused smirk—but it quickly faded.
“What nonsense are you spouting?”
He suddenly grabbed her by the nape of the neck and forced her head down, making her stare straight at the inscription on the stone.
“Kushina died because of you,” he said darkly. “Not because of the village. Not because of the attacker. Because of you.”
“Stop it!” she hissed, struggling. But the handcuffs and Fugaku’s grip gave her no chance to break free.
“You knew a jinchūriki’s seal weakens during childbirth. You knew it’s a critically dangerous moment. She was attacked by a Uchiha. If you had been there—with your Sharingan—you could’ve repelled it. But where were you, Mikoto? Where?”
“I…” she faltered. “They didn’t call me…”
“Excuses,” he hissed into her ear. “If you truly cared about her, you would’ve come anyway. Broken down the doors if you had to. Challenged the Hokage if needed. But you were resting. You chose comfort over friendship.”
He forced her to look at the date of death.
“Kushina was twenty. Just twenty years old. She dreamed of watching her son grow up, become a shinobi, make friends. But she’ll never hold Naruto again. Never tell him how much she loves him.”
Tears slipped from Mikoto’s eyes. They fell silently onto the earth, onto the grass, onto the stone. Soundless, helpless, meaningless. And yet—they were real.
“I…” she whispered. “I didn’t know… I thought… I really thought everything was under control…”
“But you were wrong,” Fugaku said. “And that mistake is what killed Kushina.”
He released her, and she slowly sank to her knees in front of the grave, trembling, now crying openly.
It was cruel. Merciless.
But it was the only way to reach what was left of the real Mikoto—the woman who used to laugh with Kushina, argue over clothes, gift her hair ribbons, and protect her on missions. Only pain could cut through the venom.
Now came the second phase of the plan.
Fugaku silently touched the center of her back, letting a thin stream of chakra run along the pattern of the seal—and the chakra lock dissolved. He felt it the moment her energy howled like a beast finally freed from long captivity.
Her eyes flickered—and the Sharingan burst to full force. Three tomoe spun, then fractured like cracked glass. The lines spread farther, and her iris twisted into a distorted shape, glowing like a shattered red mirror.
An incomplete evolution.
Fugaku recognized it. The ancient clan scrolls spoke of this form—a transitional, unstable state that occurred only under unbearable emotional overload. Not from the death of a loved one—something worse. It happened when the soul cracked under the weight of personal collapse. Clearly, the fusion with Orochimaru had left deep, unhealed scars in Mikoto’s psyche.
He had done what needed to be done: made her feel guilt again. Grief. Responsibility. He hadn’t destroyed her—he had lanced the wound. And now the pain had reflected in her eyes… and pushed them to the next stage.
Mangekyō Sharingan.
Fugaku gave a slight nod. Everything was going according to plan.
Without hesitation, Mikoto closed her eyes—and her chakra shifted abruptly. She cast Tsukuyomi—on herself.
“Smart girl,” Fugaku thought, and instantly activated his own Mangekyō. His pupil twisted—and in the next instant, he entered her inner world.
He found himself inside a realm of pulsing, wet flesh. The ground was sticky, like he was walking across entrails. The walls breathed. The air vibrated with a low hum, as if he stood inside some giant beast. At the very center stood a cocoon, heart-like, wrapped in veins and mucus. Inside, entwined like snakes, were Mikoto and Orochimaru—their forms merged, battling for dominance.
Then Mikoto’s eyes snapped open.
They blazed with the Sharingan. Red, all-seeing, merciless. Now she had a weapon.
The world began to change. The sky filled with thick clouds, crimson as blood. The fleshy walls erupted in black flames—Amaterasu. The cursed fire burned away the filth, freeing its mistress.
Fugaku stood in the shadows, unmoving. He had come for a battle—but she was handling it just fine.
Orochimaru tumbled from the cocoon. He looked as he always had: pale skin, long black hair, snake-like eyes. He didn’t look afraid—only irritated.
“Unpleasant experience,” he muttered, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “When I designed this technique, I didn’t account for… the overwhelming influence of the Sharingan. I’ll have to rewrite the formulas.”
"Still not done playing your games?" Mikoto asked coldly, slowly rising to her feet. "Or did you enjoy losing yourself?"
"I'm not here to fight," Orochimaru said, spreading his arms. "Two Mangekyōs? That's too much. I underestimated you. I admit defeat. I no longer desire your body, Mikoto. I'll simply create a new one and leave."
"You're not going anywhere," she replied, her voice hoarse like someone who had walked through fire. "You know too much. You're too dangerous—to me and my family."
She glanced at Fugaku. He nodded. She didn’t need support—but it was there. And that gave her strength.
"I’ll never let things spiral out of control again," Mikoto promised.
"I’ve just witnessed personal growth," Orochimaru said with mock applause—then suddenly went still, serious. "You plan to keep me here like a jinchūriki keeps their bijū? That’s foolish. I’m far more intelligent than any tailed battery. I’ll find a way to—"
He stopped. His voice trembled. His speech broke into disjointed sounds.
“Ahb... ganng... nnngh…”
“Look into my eyes,” she said, stepping closer. “This is the Mangekyō Sharingan. A power that can tame a bijū. Your pitiful, rotting soul is nothing compared to it.”
The living flesh on the walls had all burned away. Mikoto’s world now held only the bloody clouds of Tsukuyomi, the black fire of Amaterasu, and the massive hands of Susanoo, which seized Orochimaru’s soul.
“I’m not rejecting your power,” she whispered. “But I don’t need your personality. I’m erasing it. Erasing your emotions. Your desires. Your sadism and hatred. You no longer exist.”
And he vanished. His face blurred. His hair faded, as if erased by an unseen hand. What remained was only an amorphous shape—the shining core of his soul.
A source of power for the new Mikoto.
In the sky of her mental world, a moon ignited. Crimson, with black tomoe. A symbol of complete dominion.
Fugaku closed his eyes—and the world dissolved.
He was back in the cemetery. Under the cold sky. The earth damp, the air silent. Beside him stood Mikoto, her eyes now free of madness.
It was his Mikoto again.
“Your eyes…” Fugaku whispered, staring at her intently.
Her Mangekyō was stabilizing, forming something clear and logical. But at its center was a narrow vertical slit—serpentine.
“That’s not from Orochimaru,” she said, wiping the last of her tears. “It’s a reminder of Kushina.”
Fugaku frowned slightly but didn’t interrupt.
“When she lost control,” Mikoto continued, “her eyes turned red, with vertical slits too. I was the only one who could stop her. Help her. Save her from the Kyuubi’s rage.”
Fugaku nodded slowly.
“Never relax. Always stay in control,” he said, voicing the creed carved from decades of pain. “It’s the only way to protect what matters.”
Mikoto looked at him closely, as if seeing him for the first time.
“Have you fully dealt with Orochimaru?” he asked more quietly, already knowing the answer—but wanting to hear it from her.
“Almost,” she said, a faint, predatory smile curving her lips. “His personality is gone. But the memories remain. I copied them. I’ll sort through them eventually. Keep what’s useful. The rest—trash.”
She shook her cuffed wrists.
“By the way. Mind taking these off?”
“Of course.”
They slowly began walking toward the house. The wind was warm, quiet, enveloping—like even the night had decided to calm down.
“Thank you for saving me,” she said suddenly, almost in a whisper. “And… I’m sorry. For everything I said. That… wasn’t me.”
“I know,” Fugaku replied.
“But… some of what I said was partly true.”
“I know that too,” he nodded. “I’m not a perfect husband. But I try. Speak—and I’ll listen. I’ll think about what you say.”
Mikoto fell silent for a moment, as if gathering strength. Finally, she exhaled:
“What if I told you I don’t want to be a housewife anymore?”
He turned to her. Not surprised. Not hurt.
“Then I’d say—it’s long overdue,” he said firmly. “Mikoto, you are, without a doubt, the most talented kunoichi I’ve ever met. It physically pains me to watch you waste your strength, your mind, your talent… on laundry and housework. It’s wrong. It’s counterproductive.”
He paused, looking her directly in the eyes.
“Our clan has plenty of retirees. They’d gladly do that kind of work for pay—every day, like a D-rank mission. Pennies. You could earn a hundred times more. Value your time.”
Mikoto stopped abruptly, as if his words had pierced through her.
“So… I didn’t want to be a housewife,” she said slowly, “and you never wanted that life for me…”
She frowned, staring at the ground, as if only now seeing the paradox clearly.
“Then why were we silent for so many years?”
Fugaku kept walking. The answer didn’t come right away.
“Maybe… because we respected each other too much,” he said at last. “We were both willing to endure things for the other’s sake. And that… was our weakness.”
He glanced back over his shoulder:
“But we still have time to talk. To fix things. Right now—let’s go home. The boys have missed their mom.”
Mikoto slowly followed him, without a word. But there was no more pain in her eyes.
Only strength.
And freedom.
Comments
Phantom knight who can’t think of a better nicknam
Yay the waifu is now evolving
