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Batman in Konoha. Chapter 41
🕑 Added 2025-07-07 16:37:38 +0000 UTCThe morning streets of Konoha still slumbered. Shadows cast by low buildings lay in sharp lines across the stone pavement, and the cool air was in no hurry to give way to the midday heat. The village seemed to be holding its breath before waking—shops were locked, signs swayed gently in the breeze, and only a few early birds chirped above the tiled rooftops. Even the smell of fresh morning bread had yet to appear—the bakers were only just preparing to light their ovens.
Fugaku Uchiha walked the empty street like a ghost. His steps were soundless, his face contemplative. He wasn’t in a hurry. It was easier to think in the quiet. No children screaming, no merchants shouting, no prying eyes. Just him and the cold morning stones underfoot.
Another set of footsteps broke the silence—too sudden to be an accident. Fugaku didn’t turn. He merely slowed his pace slightly, and within seconds, Shisui was walking beside him. The young man was just as silent. His eyes looked tired, but the same fire still burned within them. It was just a little dimmer now.
“Did the bats find anything overnight?” Shisui asked quietly, as if afraid to wake the sleeping city.
Fugaku didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened, and his gaze grew heavy.
“No,” he said at last. “No trace of snakes. No labs. No scent, no chakra trail. Orochimaru won’t repeat his old mistakes. He learns.”
“Sad, but not surprising,” Shisui muttered, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I’ve got nothing either. The crime scene’s been scrubbed clean. Not a single thing left behind. No chakra traces at all. Fire and explosion—pure chemistry. A perfect crime.”
Fugaku gave a grim nod. It only confirmed his suspicions.
“Even Kage leave something behind,” Shisui continued. “A stray fingerprint. A careless footprint. Especially when in a hurry. That heist took sixty seconds. But this? Nothing. I’ve only seen something like this once before—from a shinobi who could see every move before it happened.”
“Sharingan,” Fugaku said quietly. “Only it can allow for such precision. Orochimaru’s a genius, but to rush through all the traps and calculate the perfect blast force on the first try? Only a Uchiha eye could do that.”
Shisui frowned.
“But that’s impossible. Our clan controls every Sharingan.”
Fugaku looked at him, and for a moment, a shadow of irony flickered in his eyes.
“Just like we ‘control’ Obito’s eye?” he asked with a cold smirk. “We’ve fought through three wars, Shisui. In that time, we’ve lost dozens of eyes. And they keep surfacing on the black market. I buy them up whenever I find one. But sometimes... I’m too late.”
“You never told me that…”
“Because it’s not your burden,” Fugaku cut him off, and there was that raspy, unyielding strength in his voice—the force that made him a leader. “It’s the weight a clan head carries. No one else.”
They passed a wooden bridge, under which light morning mist swirled. Willows grew along the water, and in that shifting haze, they both seemed like shadows of their own thoughts.
“But if a Sharingan can be bought on the black market,” Shisui said quietly, “then why have I never seen anyone outside the clan use one—besides Kakashi?”
Fugaku held his breath for a fraction of a second.
“Anyone who dares wear a clan relic without permission…” He clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white. “They will pay for it. This isn’t just an eye. It’s Uchiha blood. Memory and honor. No one has the right to rip it out and use it like a tool.”
“So… you’re sure it’s Orochimaru?” Shisui asked cautiously. “Yesterday, you said it might be an imitator. That you didn’t believe he was back.”
Fugaku didn’t answer immediately. His eyes turned cold again, his gaze heavy. They walked in silence, only their footsteps echoing from stone to stone.
“To understand a criminal,” he said at last, “you have to understand his motive. Yesterday, I thought the motive was theft. That the real crime was elsewhere. But now… after Mitokado and Utatane’s deaths… it’s different. This was personal.”
“But why?” Shisui frowned. “Why would Orochimaru take revenge on the council?”
Fugaku stopped and looked toward the horizon. The sky above the rooftops was beginning to turn gold.
“It’s simpler than it seems,” he said quietly. “Money. After Danzō was exiled, his allies cut off Orochimaru’s funding. And knowing those old men, they probably took something valuable with them. Something that didn’t belong to them.”
“Orochimaru’s toys,” Shisui added grimly. “Scientific journals, samples, scrolls. Anything they could carry.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Fugaku said. “They knew he was no longer Hiruzen’s favorite. And with Danzō gone, there was no one left to protect him. They thought he was no longer a threat.”
“Mistake,” Shisui muttered. “A fatal one.”
“Now Orochimaru’s hunting his former sensei,” Fugaku said without turning. “An attempt on the Hokage’s life is no petty grudge. That’s a strike at the village’s heart.”
“You really think he’ll go that far?” Shisui walked beside him, but his eyes darted around like an animal sensing a trap. “Attack the Hokage himself?”
“I think he’s already planning it,” Fugaku replied. “Maybe he already has.”
“You mean… poison?” Shisui slowed his pace. “Like with the councilors?”
Fugaku paused for a moment, as if running through probabilities in his mind again. Then he nodded—but added:
“No poison was found in the Hokage’s body. Tsunade confirmed it herself. Sarutobi’s monkeys found the slugs, and they summoned her almost immediately after the threat. Twenty minutes—and the world’s best medic was already at his side. If Orochimaru meant to poison him, he was too late. Or he’s changed the plan.”
He gave a humorless smile.
“Murder may not even be the goal. He might try to steal something again during the chaos—just like last time.”
“Mm.” Shisui grunted and handed over a scroll. “Hiruzen gave me this list. Orochimaru’s wish list. Everything from Sharingan and Byakugan to ancient artifacts and forbidden jutsu scrolls. That psycho lights up at the sight of a mummified finger if it’s got rare chakra.”
“Don’t forget his true goal,” Fugaku reminded him. “He doesn’t chase power for its own sake. Everything he does is for immortality.”
“If only we knew which of those things could actually grant it,” Shisui yawned, struggling to suppress his fatigue. “I’ve been up all night—reading reports, questioning witnesses, trying to think like a killer… And you’ve been living like this for six years. What’s the secret?”
Fugaku gave the faintest hint of a smile.
“Black coffee. Double. No sugar. Bitter as reality.”
“You’re a poet, Fugaku,” Shisui chuckled. He was exhausted, but even through the weariness, a note of respect rang in his voice.
So they walked through the still-half-sleeping city, talking quietly. The sun was just beginning to peek between the rooftops, casting the streets in cold gold. The village was slowly waking—shops were opening, children heading out with backpacks—but near the morgue, silence still reigned.
The building was plain, with rain-washed gray walls. No sign, no guards. Just a metal door leading down into a basement where coolness, darkness, and the scent of death awaited.
Itachi was already waiting for them inside.
He wore a white medical coat that looked more like a combat surgeon’s battle robe than a healer’s uniform. His face was grim, eyes focused. He stood tall, but the weariness in his gaze betrayed a sleepless night. On the metal tables lay the bodies of Mitokado and Utatane, covered in cloth.
“What have you found?” Shisui asked, lowering his voice. He instantly grew serious upon crossing the threshold.
Itachi didn’t waste time.
“Poisoned. Jade viper venom. Very rare. Native only to oases in the Land of Wind,” he said evenly, as if reciting a report. “Entered the body forty-nine hours ago. Traces are faint, but I was able to isolate residual toxins using the Sharingan. The poison was ingested orally. Through tea.”
Shisui raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“Don’t tell me you know exactly where they drank it too?”
“Teahouse on Third Street,” Itachi answered without a hint of irony. “Sinthian tea. The only establishment in Konoha that serves it. I confirmed it by tracing the aroma particles in the mouth tissues and mucous membranes. A rare blend was needed to mask the poison’s taste. Sinthian tea is ideal.”
Shisui exhaled through his teeth.
“Well, it’s something to go on. I’ll question the staff.”
Fugaku, who had been silently standing by the entrance all this time, finally spoke:
“Be careful. Orochimaru is somewhere here. Hiding in his tunnels, sewers, catacombs. And the closer you get to his lair—the more dangerous you become to him. He won’t forgive interference.”
Shisui nodded and, before leaving, raised his hand to show the ring on his finger.
“If it gets too hot—I’ll call you. Promise.”
Fugaku gave a short nod. That was enough.
Meanwhile, Itachi had returned to the table. He raised his hands, formed a sequence of seals, and his chakra ignited in a steady orange flame. The bodies of Mitokado and Utatane were enveloped in fire—but it didn’t burn like normal flames. It didn’t scorch clothing or blacken the air; it simply turned dead flesh into ash. Quickly, cleanly, leaving no trace.
The decision to cover up their deaths had been made at a council meeting. A panic in the village now would be more dangerous than the killer himself. Officially, both elders would “pass away” from old age. One—in six months. The other—a few months later. That was Hiruzen’s order. Fugaku approved. He knew how fear worked. How to control it.
The three Uchiha parted ways. Each following his own trail. Each carrying a burden on his shoulders.
Eighteen hours remained until the next murder.
///
But by midnight, they still hadn’t caught Orochimaru.
Time was melting like ice under the sun. Eleven o’clock. The silence in Konoha was unnaturally thick—as if the village itself were holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable.
Fugaku walked grimly through the darkened streets toward the Sarutobi clan estate. His movements were precise, unhurried, but tension coiled inside him. He knew this wasn’t some petty provocation. Tonight, there would be an actual assassination attempt.
Hiruzen had refused to hide, unlike the councilors. The old man had decided to face his former student head-on. To die—at home.
Shisui joined him. He emerged from an alley like a shadow, but moved slowly. His shoulders were slumped, his gaze—heavy.
“I questioned everyone at the teahouse,” he said quietly. “No one saw the poison being added to their cups. I watched their microexpressions with the Sharingan. They're all telling the truth. Another dead end.”
Fugaku didn’t answer right away. He just kept walking, listening to the night.
“Who else was in the teahouse with them?”
“They say a hundred people come through each day. No names taken. No faces remembered. Just a constant flow,” Shisui sighed. “Yamanaka specialists are scanning their memories now. But I doubt it’ll help. He’s too careful. It’s like he knows exactly how the Uchiha police work.”
“Gather everything you can,” Fugaku said quietly. “Even the smallest detail. Even things that seem meaningless. The answer will take shape later.”
“You mean intuition?”
“The first rule of a detective,” he replied. “Remember everything. Every twitch you didn’t understand. Every scent that seemed off. It could all matter.”
“I’ll remember,” Shisui nodded, but without conviction.
They stopped in front of the Sarutobi estate’s massive gates. The area was already secured. ANBU moved silently across rooftops. The air pulsed with uneasy chakra, like the calm before a storm.
“You sure you don’t need me in there?” Shisui asked, staring at the house as if expecting it to erupt in flames at any moment.
“You think you’ll handle what the Hokage and I can’t?” Fugaku replied calmly. “Keep investigating. On nights like this, everyone needs to be where they’re most useful.”
Shisui hesitated, then nodded and melted into the shadows.
Fugaku entered the house.
Despite the late hour, the mansion buzzed like a hive. ANBU shadows flitted through the halls, Sarutobi clan members whispered quietly, someone sharpened a kunai, another unrolled a scroll. Protective seals were already active, windows barricaded, barriers reinforced. The atmosphere wasn’t just tense—it vibrated with pressure, as if the whole place were bracing for a siege.
The central room was dimly lit. Tsunade sat against the wall, arms crossed. Jiraiya stood by the window, half-open, watching outside. The silence was almost ceremonial.
Hiruzen sat in the center, in his favorite chair, pipe in hand. His gaze was tired—but clear. His robes were neat, his hair carefully combed. He looked not like a man preparing for battle, but for the arrival of an old friend.
"I'm surprised you invited me," Fugaku said as he stepped closer. He didn’t lower his head. Didn’t show deference. Just met Hiruzen’s eyes with a steady, heavy gaze.
"Pure curiosity," Hiruzen replied, lighting his pipe. "I’m interested to see how my student tries to slip past your Sharingan. I know Orochimaru—he loves theatrics. This time, he’ll come in person. He’ll want to look me in the eye… right before they dim."
"You’re calm for a man who’s been sentenced to death," Fugaku noted.
"I’m not afraid to die," the old man said. His voice held no fear. Only weariness. And something else—something like regret. "I’ve lived a long life. Done many good things… and made even more mistakes. If tonight is the end for me, so be it."
He glanced at the fire flickering in the hearth.
"Only one thing matters to me now: that the chain of death ends here. That no one else dies by his hand. Not you. Not my grandson. Not Konoha."
Fugaku was silent for a moment. Then said, dryly:
"There’s only one way to make that happen. And you know what it is."
Hiruzen nodded. Very slowly. He didn’t argue. Just leaned back in his chair and exhaled smoke.
"Sometimes I wonder," he said hoarsely, "if Orochimaru became what he is because of my mistakes. That I gave him too much freedom. That I was weak when I should have been ruthless."
"You were soft," Fugaku said. "Softness isn’t a sin. But it doesn’t belong to a general."
Hiruzen nodded again—slowly, like he was saying goodbye to something deep inside himself. He looked at the clock in the corner of the room and wondered how life might’ve gone if, instead of becoming Hokage, he had followed his dream of teaching at the academy.
It was five minutes to midnight.
First came a faint click. Then a metallic scraping sound, like claws dragging across wood. Sharp and grating, it pierced the still night and sent a chill through the room.
ANBU burst in immediately—three of them from the shadows, blades drawn. Jiraiya stepped forward, a glowing, spinning Rasengan forming in his hand. Tsunade reacted instantly, clenching her fists so hard her knuckles cracked in the air.
But Hiruzen didn’t move. He just waved them off, tiredly.
"Stand down!" he barked. "It’s just a gear slipping in the clock. Happens sometimes. I’ll fix it."
He opened the front panel of the clock—
And collapsed.
Silently, as if struck by an invisible hand. No cry. Just the dull thud of a body hitting the floor.
Fugaku moved first. Then everyone else.
A thin blade, no bigger than a needle, protruded from Hiruzen’s abdomen. There was no blood. But a single touch had been enough to bring down a shinobi of Kage level.
"There was a mechanical trap inside the clock. Timed to the exact second," Fugaku breathed out, examining the murder weapon. "Why didn’t anyone check?"
"Orochimaru never used mechanical tricks before," Jiraiya muttered. "We scanned everything: the air’s chemical composition, any trace of fūinjutsu, chakra signatures. But the gears in the clock? Orochimaru’s outgrown his old style — fast.”
"Clear the room!" Tsunade shouted, dropping to her knees beside her sensei. Her palms flared with bright green chakra. She poured it into his body as if trying to fill a vessel that no longer had a bottom.
"It’s useless..." Hiruzen rasped. His lips had turned pale, and his eyes stared at the ceiling, as though searching for forgiveness. "It was... a shard of the Kusanagi Blade. Its wounds are fatal. Orochimaru didn’t even come… to look me in the eyes..."
"Don’t speak, sensei," Tsunade whispered, fighting tears. "Save your strength. I’ll heal you. I have to..."
But she was too late. The body resisted healing. The legendary, mythical poison was already spreading from the wound—like the blade itself had been soaked in a curse.
The room froze. Even the ANBU stepped back. The great Hokage was dying. And no one knew what to do.
"Hey, Uchiha," Jiraiya suddenly called. He stood at the open window, his face dark as a storm. "Come here. You need to see this."
Fugaku walked over silently. Cold night air hit his face. He looked out—and for a moment, his eyes flared with shock.
In the dark sky above Konoha, a fire was burning.
Thousands of fiery motes, like swarming fireflies, had formed into curved lines—together spelling out a single phrase:
"Uchiha Fugaku will die at midnight."
Fugaku said nothing.
He knew exactly what it meant. It was a challenge. Orochimaru was playing again. The next move had already been made.
And now, if Fugaku lost—there would be no one left to stop him.
Comments
Jan
This is just the beginning 😈
0_0
Damn Orochimaru is a menace
