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Batman in Konoha. Chapter 43. And they died on the same day
🕑 Added 2025-07-10 17:02:36 +0000 UTCFugaku raced through the night-soaked streets of Konoha, barely able to make out the road through the flickering bursts of lightning. The downpour was so heavy it felt like the village itself was drowning in a flood. Wind lashed his face, raindrops stinging through the thin fabric of his home shirt.
Somewhere ahead, in the darkness, Mikoto was laughing.
Not her usual laugh—the one she used to greet him with after missions, quiet, warm, alive. No. This laugh was ragged, chaotic, like the scream of a seagull caught in barbed wire.
Fugaku knew she was leading him into a trap. He knew she had a purpose: to rip out his eyes. But he ran anyway.
He had already lost his wife once. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
Not like last time. In that other world.
It all started with Bruce. Their son. When he died—Martha broke. Something inside her snapped. She became someone else. Called herself the Joker. Painted her lips with blood, carved a smile with a knife, and laughed—just like Mikoto laughed now. She said if the world took her child, she would take children from the world.
Fugaku closed his eyes for just a second—and saw that labyrinth of madness again. Twisting corridors, the scent of blood, Martha’s voice—“Darling, want to play a game?”—and ten dead children.
In the end, he looked into Martha’s eyes. Insane. Ravenous. Cruel. There was nothing left of Martha. Only the Joker.
Thomas snapped his wife’s neck.
And now—it was happening again.
“You’re cursed, Fugaku,” Mikoto had told him today, and the words echoed inside his skull like a Shinigami whispering in his ear.
He gritted his teeth, pushed harder. This would not happen again. He wouldn’t allow it. He had seen that same look in her eyes at dinner—madness, that twisted gleam. But when she cried… when for just a moment her face showed pain, uncertainty, something human—he knew. It wasn’t over yet.
He had made a promise to his sons.
He would bring their mother back.
The Forest of Death met him with darkness, animal growls, and rustling leaves. He vaulted over the mesh fence. Dodged the first trap—a carnivorous plant—sidestepped a darting boar, and batted away a giant spider mid-run.
He saw her back—Mikoto disappearing into a cave.
Fugaku stopped at the entrance. This was the trap. Maybe even his grave. He knew what waited ahead—death, or something worse.
Three tomoe spun in his eyes.
The cave swallowed him whole like a beast taking its prey.
Inside, it was larger than expected. The narrow tunnel opened into a chamber. Mold lined the walls, the air stank of rot and iron. Scrolls littered the ground, crates of weapons, jars filled with organs, tables buried under test tubes.
Another of Orochimaru’s hideouts.
A sharp hiss of air came from the left. He instinctively stepped aside—just in time. Mikoto slid from the ceiling like a droplet squeezing from stone. In her hands—Kusanagi, the blade already halfway to his throat.
He reached for his belt—but—
“Looking for this, darling?” Mikoto twirled his belt like a snake. Her eyes blazed, her lips twisted in a carnivorous grin. “I’ve wanted to play with it for so long.”
“Protocol: Iceberg.”
A sharp click. A rush of blue, freezing vapor burst from the belt—and in a heartbeat, the temperature plunged below freezing. Frost bloomed across the walls, droplets froze mid-air. A thunderous crack echoed from the side—the frozen air collapsing into a prison of ice.
Fugaku leapt back, feeling the cold bite through his clothes.
When the mist cleared, a block of ice loomed before him. Inside—his belt, Kusanagi… and Mikoto’s skin. An empty shell.
“You encoded a voice trigger into the fuinjutsu seal?” The real Mikoto stepped slowly from the shadows. Slime dripped from her body like a molting snake. “Clever. Very… arousing.”
Fugaku didn’t take his eyes off her, analyzing the chakra flow visible only to the Sharingan. The skin-shedding jutsu had drained a good chunk of her reserves—but still, her chakra surged like a storm. Even before fusing with Orochimaru, she had the deepest reserves in the family. But now… now she felt like a tailless bijuu.
“Well, since we’ve both lost our toys,” she stepped forward and theatrically spread her arms, letting a strip of slime slip off her shoulder, “why don’t we finish this the old-fashioned way?”
She smoothly shifted her stance, swaying on the balls of her feet as if dancing in midair. Her movements resembled capoeira, but there was something more — the fluidity of a serpent, the provocation of a madwoman, the instinct of a killer.
Fugaku clenched his fists and raised them like a boxer in the ring. His stance was purely practical — a clean kickboxing base, reinforced with military technique and street-fighting grit. Power. Control. Destruction.
They lunged at each other simultaneously.
The music of flesh and bone began to play.
Strike — block — grapple — pivot — elbow — leap — kick — roll. Stones cracked under the pressure. Fugaku hit hard, precise, like a hammer to an anvil. Every punch could shatter concrete. But Mikoto — she, too, had surpassed shinobi limits. Her body bent at impossible angles, joints rotating backward like a puppet's, and her movements were erratic.
Sharingan eyes burned scarlet on both sides. They analyzed, calculated trajectories, predicted blows — but each next move defied sense. Mikoto moved irrationally, not like a shinobi, not even like a fighter — like a demonic performer. It wasn't Orochimaru's style, nor was it the old Mikoto. It was something new. Their hybrid.
Fugaku took a blow to the temple, then the liver, then again to the jaw — a heel strike. He staggered. Blood trickled from his mouth. His tongue found a loose tooth.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mikoto sang, spinning on her hands like a top, slipping just out of reach of a straight punch. “Is it me? Or is it him? Mikoto or Orochimaru?”
She pushed off the ground, twisted through the air like she was made of ball joints, and landed a spinning heel kick straight into his jaw. A perfect hit. A sharp crack. Fugaku reeled, blood splattered the floor. He felt the joint shift — one more hit and it would dislocate.
“You’d know the answer,” she taunted, flipping backward with a triple handspring, “if you’d ever invited me to your boys-only training sessions. But of course — you were too busy. The boys’ club. Shisui, Itachi… you. Without me.”
“You could’ve just asked,” Fugaku muttered, wiping blood from his lip. “Even Sasuke — a six-year-old — figured it out.”
“Oh, so you could dismiss me again?! Like always?!” Her voice cracked, her face twisted in rage. “Every ‘no’ from you felt like a slap in the face!”
“Mikoto—”
“DIE!”
She began forming hand seals. But Fugaku was already reading her.
Both inhaled at the same time — and exhaled fire. The Uchiha clan’s signature jutsu. Great Fireball Technique.
The cave erupted in flame, like the maw of a volcano. Two chakra streams clashed midair, spiraling into a massive fireball suspended between them. The stone beneath their feet boiled, the cave howled from the heat. The ceiling began to melt, the archways cracked. The walls blackened.
Fugaku fed the fire thinly, shaping it with precision, adding pressure. Mikoto poured in chakra wildly, recklessly. He held her back. But he knew — not for long.
Through the flames, he saw her face.
And in that moment, everything became clear.
It was time.
His eyes changed. The three tomoe vanished, replaced by the mesmerizing pattern of the Mangekyō Sharingan. The world froze for a heartbeat. He spoke a single word — silently, but in Mikoto’s mind, it echoed like a divine command.
Tsukuyomi.
Reality bent, pulling them both into a world of illusion. The fire vanished. The cave’s ceiling became a blood-red sky.
Her eyes flared in response. The red Sharingan… began to crack. It wasn’t a pattern. It wasn’t geometry. It was a shard — shattered glass, red as blood.
Fugaku’s genjutsu crumbled like sand in his grip. The illusion warped, distorted, and shattered back into reality. He lost control. Mikoto’s flame surged toward him. He had just enough time to leap, latching onto the ceiling with chakra.
The firestorm passed inches below his feet, incinerating the stone floor.
“I knew it!” she shrieked, triumphant. Her voice rang with elation, reverence, and the thirst to kill, all at once. “You really do have the Mangekyō!”
He wiped his brow, the sweat evaporating instantly. His breath had grown heavy.
“So do you,” he said quietly.
“No idea what you’re talking about.” Mikoto tilted her head, the grin stretching unnaturally. She licked her lips — tongue long and wet, like a snake’s. “Why don’t you come down and kiss your wife goodnight?”
Fugaku formed hand seals in a blur — and from a cloud of smoke burst a torrent of shadows. Hundreds of bats, screeching and snapping tiny jaws, their eyes glowing crimson, surged forward like an inky storm. The air trembled with their ultrasound.
Mikoto laughed — short and stuttering, like the crackle of torn film. And in the next instant, she dropped flat, face-first into the dusty cave floor. Her ribcage swelled, split apart. Her mouth opened wider than a human's — wider than bone should allow — but her body no longer obeyed anatomy.
Snakes poured from her throat. Hundreds. Green, venom-dripping, coiling around each other to form a living shield.
The bats collided.
Fangs met scales. Claws slashed through venomous flesh. Bones in wings snapped under serpent coils. Predator talons ripped open bellies. The stench of torn creatures filled the cave. This wasn’t a battle — it was a slaughter.
And in that chaos, Mikoto vanished.
“You know, darling,” her voice echoed from everywhere at once, “none of this had to happen.”
Fugaku dropped from the ceiling. His boots hit the stone with weight. He listened — but couldn’t place her. The hissing of snakes, the bats’ shrieks, the drip of blood — all melted into one cacophony.
“It started that night…” she whispered right behind him — but when he turned, no one was there. “When you attacked Orochimaru. You thought you’d won. But he came to me afterward. At the cemetery. When I was crying on Kushina’s grave.”
A drop. Then another. Something shifted in the dark.
“He attacked. And where were you? In your office. You didn’t come. You didn’t look. You didn’t speak. Everything happening now — it’s not his fault. It’s you, Fugaku. Only you.”
Then came a whistle. The crackle of birds. Thousands of birds’ voices singing in unison.
Raikiri.
Fugaku barely turned his head.
Flash. Impact. One instant.
A lightning-charged hand pierced his chest like paper. Blood burst from his mouth, spilling over his chin and shirt. Mikoto’s fingers, sunk into his heart, trembled from the force. His legs gave out. His chakra unraveled. The world blurred.
“Let me guess what you're wondering,” Mikoto whispered into his ear. “How your sweet little housewife got her hands on Hatake Kakashi’s signature technique?”
She didn’t pull her hand out. She held it there, savoring the moment, slowly tearing muscle, stroking his ribs from the inside.
“It’s simple. All you had to do was ask: ‘How was your day, dear?’” She giggled. “I would’ve told you I was with Kushina. That I saw Kakashi training with Minato. That I copied a few tricks... But you never asked, did you? Not even a ‘how are you?’ Too much effort for you.”
His body convulsed. Muscles bulged. Bone spikes tore out from his shoulders — then leathery wings erupted from his back. A clawed hand slashed upward — severing Mikoto’s arm at the elbow. It spun away, painting the air in a red arc.
And in the next moment, he was no longer human.
A monster.
A bat-like creature. His skin thickened into armor. Fangs extended. His eyes blazed with fury. He caught her severed arm mid-air — and began to drink.
Blood poured across his face, and he drank like a starved beast. It wasn’t enough. He dropped to the ground, scooping up blood from bats and snakes — and drank again, with a predator’s hunger. His wounds sealed before her eyes. The hole in his chest closed, as if time rewound.
Mikoto watched in astonishment.
She had already shed her skin and emerged anew — smooth, whole, like a freshly-molded doll.
“Holy hell,” she breathed. “Real vampirism? Like one of the Seven Swords of the Mist?”
Fugaku rose slowly. When he spoke, his voice was more growl than speech.
“You would’ve known… if you’d asked.”
“As if you’d ever answer,” she hissed. “You always kept secrets. Especially from me.”
He flexed his wings. He hadn’t wanted to use this form. This form wasn’t for combat. It was for killing.
Mikoto began to spin, humming like a deranged doll in a nursery rhyme:
“There’s a monster in Konoha… A monster in Konoha…”
Then she stopped. Eyes cold.
“But who said… he’s the only one?”
Her body rippled, like a sack full of worms. Her skin turned pale, coated in hardened scales. Her legs fused and stretched, transforming into one massive serpent’s tail.
She no longer walked — she slithered.
She lunged at him.
Too fast.
Fugaku shot into the air, dodging — his wings beat with a loud clap, stirring up dust and shattered stone.
And the fight began anew.
Her lightning struck the ceiling, the walls, his wings. His wind sliced like blades, cutting through rock, severing snakes, tearing chunks of flesh from her body. Sharingans sparked. Fireballs clashed midair, exploding like meteors. The cave cracked and rumbled, stones crashing from above. The world shook.
But neither of them stopped.
Because there were no longer a husband and wife in that cave.
Only two monsters.
“Well, since we’re having a night of confessions,” Mikoto rasped with a crooked grin, dodging a falling boulder, “I never loved you.”
She didn’t scream. Didn’t shout. She said it calmly — with that icy clarity that cuts deeper than a blade. In the next moment, a bolt of lightning flew from her hand, lighting up the cave like a cruel joke.
“This marriage was forced by the clan,” she went on, as if confessing something intimate. “You were always just a mission to me. A sperm donor for future clan warriors. You were cold and grim, like a machine. And every time I visited Kushina, I couldn’t help but envy her. She had a fairytale. Her husband still took her on dates after they were married… And us? Not even once. Not even to a stupid restaurant.”
Fugaku didn’t respond. He simply raised his hand — but didn’t finish the seal.
A massive rock fell from above.
He didn’t jump away — not in time. The weight crushed him, slamming him into the ground. Dust and rubble collapsed on top of him, swallowing his body.
Silence.
But it didn’t last.
The fallen stones began to shift, as if something alive throbbed beneath them. Fugaku pulled himself from the wreckage — covered in blood, clothes torn, hands trembling, legs unsteady. His human form had returned. His breathing was ragged, chakra nearly depleted, body barely responding.
“Hello again,” Mikoto slammed her foot into his jaw. The impact sounded like breaking furniture. Fugaku collapsed onto his back, unable to even resist. She’d taken human form again — pale, furious, beautiful.
Fugaku’s Sharingan dimmed. Hers too. Her chakra was gone as well.
Mikoto leaned in slowly, like a predator savoring the final moment of the hunt.
“You didn’t even give me a gift for bearing your sons,” her voice turned sweet in a sinister way. “Not one little present. But you know what I’ve decided?”
She straddled his stomach gently, like it was some romantic moment.
“I’m taking your eyes. One for Itachi. One for Sasuke. Fair trade, don’t you think?”
Her fingers reached for his face. Slowly. With pleasure.
Fugaku’s hand found something hot beside him — a stone. Still white-hot from a recent fire jutsu. Pain lanced through his palm, but he gripped it with a death hold — and struck.
The stone hissed as it seared into her cheek.
“You bastard! You motherfucker!!” she screamed, rolling away, clutching the scorched side of her face. “What the hell did you do to my face, asshole?!”
“How rude,” Fugaku rasped, barely lifting his head. “And with those filthy lips, you plan to kiss our kids goodnight?”
Mikoto let out a shriek, like a wounded snake:
“I’ll kill you!”
She lunged at him—but didn’t make it. With a deafening roar and a crack, a massive boulder came crashing down from above, slamming into her back. The sound of breaking vertebrae echoed through the cave. The ground shook.
The ceiling began to collapse. Stones rained down like hail. The air turned suffocating.
“To hell with this…” Mikoto rasped, dragging her body, crawling out from under the rubble. She slithered toward the exit, jerking like a snake. “I’m getting out… I’m not dying with you…”
“Not so fast, darling,” Fugaku dropped down on top of her, grabbing her arms. His face was gaunt, but his eyes blazed.
“What the hell are you doing, idiot?!” she screamed, choking on the dust. “We’re both gonna die here!”
He leaned in, his hot breath brushing her ear.
“Your words really touched me…” he whispered. “Made me realize our married life lacked romance.”
He gave a faint smile.
“Let me give you a fairytale.”
And he whispered, like an epitaph:
“And they died on the same day.”
The cave roof came crashing down.
///
Meanwhile, in Konoha.
A fiery glow spread across the night sky. The Uchiha compound was burning like a funeral pyre. The firefighting jutsu weren’t enough. The flames were too strong.
On the porch of a neighboring house, wrapped in a blanket, sat Shisui. He held Itachi and Sasuke tightly, clutching them like a shield.
Their home was ablaze.
But there was no fear in their eyes.
Only exhaustion.
“It’s all done,” Shisui murmured. His voice was hoarse, but steady. “The temple basement’s completely flooded with freezing liquid. Not a single explosive tag will go off. We got everything valuable out. Jiongu’s in the aquarium. The scrolls are safe.”
He gave a bitter, almost relieved smile.
“Now we can finally breathe.”
Sasuke stared into the flames. His voice was barely a whisper:
“Our home is gone.”
Itachi quietly squeezed his shoulder.
“Maybe that’s for the best,” he exhaled. “That house had too many wrong things in it. We’ll build a new one. With a better layout. And a better story.”
“When will Dad and…” Sasuke swallowed his tears, “and Mom come back?”
Shisui didn’t have time to answer.
Above them, the clock struck midnight.
Twelve chimes.
The exact hour Orochimaru had promised Fugaku would die.
Comments
J
Damn, when you said "Batman in Konoha" you really meant it. Great chapter!
apathy
Nice loved the climatic ending. Hopefully Mikoto comes back. You could make Orochimaru into a wandering wraith that can never truly die just possess people and become even more mad like with The Three Jokers. Make him a disease that affects people and turns them into jokers so that he's always an issue. I wonder though who other villains can serve as inspirations? Maybe riddler could be some demented missing A rank like Deidra with his explosives? Or penguin could be someone untouchable like the wind daily. Really enjoyed this thanks!
