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Batman in Konoha. Chapter 28. Scrolls and scalpels
🕑 Added 2025-06-20 17:15:30 +0000 UTC"Fish with rice today," Mikoto said calmly as she set the plates on the table. "Again."
Fugaku was already seated, eyeing the neatly arranged slices of fish with a faint trace of approval in his gaze. Not because of the food — but because of who had prepared it. Not Mikoto. His eldest son.
Itachi had taken a serious interest in medicine. And, in typical Itachi fashion, he pursued it with obsessive precision. Hospital practice wasn’t enough for him. Every morning, he walked to the Naka River and caught fresh specimens for training.
Fish resuscitation — the fundamental exercise in mastering medical ninjutsu.
Regardless of the outcome, every “patient” met the same end — a cutting board. Mikoto, of course, wasn’t thrilled about gutting fish every day, but she didn’t interfere. Especially when it came to such a noble craft. She actually seemed pleased that Itachi had chosen the path of a doctor.
Fugaku observed from a distance. Sometimes with interest. Sometimes with something close to envy. He had been a doctor once. In another life. But here, in a world where anatomy obeyed not just science but chakra, he felt obsolete. Bandages and ointments couldn’t compete with pinpoint healing jutsu. An MRI could be replaced by a fuinjutsu scroll and a bit of sensory refinement.
He was especially struck by techniques that allowed internal procedures without ever cutting into the body. Water-style chakra could pass through pores and dissolve foreign objects. But those required more than talent — they demanded perfect control. The kind only acknowledged prodigies could dream of. The kind Itachi possessed.
Fugaku was different. His chakra was dense, raw — like steel. There was too much of it. Controlling that mass was like holding back a wild beast. That’s why he never became a medic. He could’ve been a combat field doctor — doing rough splints, setting bones, stopping bleeding — but never micro-surgical operations. Itachi, though—he could.
Sometimes Fugaku would step into his son’s room. He didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt — just stood silently in the doorway and watched. The quiet, focused atmosphere, the faint smell of antiseptic and parchment. In those moments, he felt as if he were back in an operating room. Only not in Gotham General, but in some strange blend of shinobi and surgical worlds.
Today was one of those days.
Itachi sat cross-legged on the floor before a wide scroll covered in fuinjutsu seals. The markings glowed faintly, transmitting the subject’s vital signs. On the scroll, held in place by tiny clamps, lay a frog — sedated beforehand. Its chest rose and fell with shallow rhythm.
"I fed it a broken needle," Itachi said without turning, sensing his father’s presence. "The metal's lodged in the intestines. Simulated internal trauma."
Fugaku nodded. He wasn’t surprised. Not by the method. Not by the composure.
"I want to find my limits."
Fugaku didn’t respond. He quietly activated a stopwatch.
Itachi had already begun. His eyes flared red — the Sharingan. Not for battle techniques, but for precision. To track the tiniest muscle twitches, fluctuations in pulse. Even the flicker of an eyelash wouldn’t escape him now.
He coated the nail of his index finger with a thin layer of blue chakra, shaping it into the sharpness of a scalpel. Then, with swift confidence, he traced a line along the frog’s abdomen — the incision no more than a millimeter. Not a drop of blood. Not a single vessel nicked. The precision of a surgeon, the focus of a warrior.
Next — chakra threads. They extended from his fingers like hair-thin strands, barely visible in the air. Not puppetry — surgery. The threads slipped into the body, gliding over tissue as if mapping the anatomy from within. Itachi’s face was unreadable. Total concentration. The shadows under his eyes, the faint tremble of his fingers — he wasn’t just training. He was learning how to live in this new role.
"Found it," he whispered. As if to himself.
One movement. Barely a twitch. And then — the metallic shard, thin as a hair, was drawn out. With a soft clang, it dropped into a metal dish.
Immediately, the chakra threads shifted color — a green glow of healing. First the internal incision, then the outer one. Both vanished without a trace, as if they had never existed. The frog remained asleep, but its vitals — steady, stable.
"One minute, forty-seven seconds," Fugaku said, deactivating the stopwatch. His voice was firm, without praise, but laced with respect. "An impressive result. And perfect composure. You were made for surgery."
Itachi didn’t turn. He slowly wiped his hands with a towel, then finally spoke, his eyes fixed on the window.
"That doesn’t mean I can do it in battle," he said quietly. "On the field. When everything’s exploding. When the wounded are screaming. When someone’s dying behind your back."
"Have you already practiced on people?" Fugaku asked, watching as Itachi cleaned up his instruments. His voice remained calm, but beneath the even tone lay a current of interest. And concern.
Itachi didn’t answer right away. He placed the fine needles back in their case, carefully wiped his hands again, and then replied flatly:
"Constantly."
Fugaku raised an eyebrow.
"In ANBU, it's not unusual," Itachi explained, just as calmly, nearly emotionless. "We frequently deal with spies, enemy saboteurs. People marked for quiet disposal. Nonō-sensei gives them to me for medical practice."
"You’ve been working hard under this Nonō," Fugaku said after a pause. "I see the results. But you’ve never told me about her. Who is she?"
"You never asked," Itachi replied dryly, still not looking up. "Yakushi Nonō. Former field infiltrator. Made a name for herself during the war. She’d disguise herself as a nurse and single-handedly eliminate entire hospitals full of enemy wounded. Not with explosions — with medical techniques. People died as if from improperly cleaned wounds or unsterilized instruments. Her work was invisible. And lethal."
Fugaku gave a short hum of acknowledgement. A picture of Nonō was beginning to form in his mind. This woman wasn’t a healer in the traditional sense. She didn’t mend — she destroyed from within.
"I see," he said slowly. "Now I understand what you meant by ‘combat medicine.’ I thought you were aiming for something like Tsunade’s approach. She’s the only S-rank medical ninja, after all."
Itachi looked up sharply, and for the briefest moment, a spark of irritation flashed in his eyes.
"Only because she’s Hashirama’s granddaughter," he shot back. "Her strength is impressive, sure. Her regeneration technique — also. But her combat style..." — he frowned in distaste — "It’s not medicine. It’s barroom brawling. A surgeon doesn’t smash bones with his fists. A surgeon works with precision."
He raised his hand. At his fingertip, a small blue flame of chakra ignited with a faint hiss — the chakra scalpel. Almost instantly, his Sharingan flared to life, locking onto empty space with chilling focus.
"One precise touch," Itachi said, "just three millimeters below the temporal lobe — and a person will never move again. Never speak. Never blink. But they'll understand everything. Everything done to them. Everything said. They’ll be trapped inside their own body. Forever."
He spoke calmly. No threat, no theatrics. Like a professor delivering an anatomy lecture.
Fugaku tensed despite himself. The word butcher flickered through his mind — a new nickname for Itachi. No. Itachi wasn’t a butcher. A butcher was crude. Bloody. Chaotic. But Itachi...
Itachi was a surgeon.
And that was far more terrifying.
"This is your path to power?" Fugaku asked, his voice now harder. "This is your ideal?"
Itachi didn’t flinch.
"This is my path as a healer," he said coldly. "To save those I care about — I have to survive. And to survive — I have to be dangerous. People should fear me before the battle even begins. I need to break their will… just like you."
He extinguished the chakra scalpel. His eyes returned to normal. The threat vanished — now just a teenager again, posture perfect, gaze ice-cold with conviction.
Fugaku stared at him for a long moment. The room had grown tense, the air heavier somehow.
"You’ve learned my lesson," he said at last.
Then he turned and walked away, leaving Itachi alone amid the scrolls and scalpels.
///
From his office window, Fugaku watched as Hatake Kakashi strolled unhurriedly into the Uchiha compound’s inner courtyard. He was, as usual, carelessly disheveled — white hair sticking out in all directions, forehead protector askew, shirt wrinkled like he’d just peeled off a flak vest. And yet, beneath that lazy exterior was a man who had spent more time in battle than at home.
So different — on missions and within the safe walls of Konoha. His record was flawless. Not a single failed operation. And still… in peaceful settings, he often looked like he’d forgotten who he was.
Mikoto opened the door first. As always, she was immaculate. She smiled just a little softer than custom demanded and gave a polite bow — the poised gesture of a clan leader’s wife.
"Good afternoon, Kakashi," she said warmly. "Come in. I baked fruit cookies. Last time you nearly devoured the whole tray at Kushina’s, remember?"
Kakashi froze, scratched the back of his head, clearly uncertain what to do with himself.
"Ah... that was ages ago," he muttered with a sheepish smile. "We’d just formed our team back then. I was… well, a kid."
"Still, Kushina remembered the preferences of a grumpy little boy," Mikoto said with a teasing glint in her eye, pointing to a cloth-wrapped bundle. "And I remembered the recipe. My Sharingan isn’t only for combat."
He took the cookies, still slightly embarrassed. Even in ANBU, even after all he’d seen — Mikoto Uchiha had a unique way of knocking people off balance. Gently. Without pressure. But right on target.
At that moment, a shriek rang through the house.
"Give it back! That’s MY couch!" Sasuke howled.
"Go to the corner! I was here first!" Naruto shouted back.
Two childish voices clashed and echoed throughout the residence. Something thudded — an armrest? — followed by a pillow slap and the clink of a vase.
Kakashi smiled slightly, hugging the cookie bundle to his chest.
"They’ve bonded," he noted.
Mikoto nodded, clearly pleased.
"It wasn’t easy. But sometimes friendship starts with a fight over territory."
At first, Sasuke had met Naruto’s friendship with irritation. He wasn’t used to constant noise. But over time… he’d adjusted. Maybe even more than that — started looking forward to these visits. Because unlike Itachi, who could sit in perfect silence for hours, or his father, who preferred business over small talk, Sasuke needed someone to talk to.
Family was always nearby — and yet distant.
Fugaku spent nearly all his time in the training hall or buried in paperwork. Mikoto — kind, warm, reliable — remained a mother, but not a friend. Being friends with your mom wasn’t "cool." Itachi spoiled him, but only occasionally, almost like it was scheduled. And Shisui… Shisui was perfect. The older brother who could defuse any situation, crack a joke, give advice. But missions often took him away for weeks, and without him the house felt... off. Too quiet. Too empty.
But Naruto — Naruto was full of life. He didn’t know how to be quiet. And Sasuke was glad for that.
"Ha!" Sasuke stood triumphantly on the couch like it was a podium. "Now I’m the Daimyō, and you’re my peasant!"
"Not for long!" Naruto growled from the floor, lifting a pillow like a weapon. "I’m starting a rebellion! You’ll be the first on the pitchforks!"
"Sounds like you’re having fun," came a lazy voice.
"Uncle Kakashi?!" Naruto jumped up like he’d been caught stealing. "What are you doing here?! I told you I’d come back on my own! I’m grown up now! I’m almost in the Academy!"
Kakashi gave the faintest smile. His hand ruffled the boy’s blond hair — the exact shade as Minato’s.
He remembered how Minato’s team had died. He had locked himself in silence, duty, and pain. But then Naruto appeared. And he had to wake up.
Hiruzen took care of the formalities. Jiraiya took the role of mentor. And Kakashi… Kakashi stayed close, as a protector.
"Well, since you’re already here," Naruto huffed, "show us something awesome! I know you’ve got a thousand jutsu!"
He turned to Sasuke with a sly grin.
"My uncle has a thousand jutsu! A thousand!"
Sasuke crossed his arms over his chest.
"Pft. Funny," he said with scorn. "He only has one Sharingan. Everyone in my family has two. Do the math."
He started counting on his fingers.
"Mom copied a thousand jutsu with her left eye and the same with her right — that’s two thousand already. Brother Shisui — another two. Brother Itachi — same. And my father — ten thousand."
"Hey!" Naruto protested. "Why does he get so many?!"
Sasuke straightened proudly.
"Because he’s the coolest Uchiha. So that’s ten thousand from my father, four from my brothers, and two more from Mom. That’s sixteen thousand jutsu. More than you."
Naruto paused for a second. Then his grin returned — even wider than before.
"My grandpa Hiruzen knows all of Konoha’s jutsu. From every villager. Including your clan!" He jabbed a finger into Sasuke’s chest. "So my jutsu include yours!"
Sasuke flushed. He opened his mouth to argue, but no good comeback came. His face turned red, eyes flashed. You could tell — the answer was forming, and when it landed, it would be either brilliant or at least loud.
In the hallway, Fugaku appeared. He paused, his gaze sweeping the room.
"Hey," Kakashi said with a nod, calm and reserved. "They said you wanted to see me."
"To my office," Fugaku said shortly, already turning away.
Naruto made a move to follow — clearly hoping to eavesdrop — but Sasuke instantly grabbed his wrist and shook his head. In the Uchiha household, there were rules. And Sasuke knew them by heart.
The door closed.
The office was spacious and austere. Wood and matte walls. The scent of parchment and steel. Curtains drawn halfway across the windows. Not a single unnecessary item.
Fugaku sat at his desk and laced his fingers together.
"Kakashi," he began, "I don’t like having my time wasted. And I don’t waste others’ either."
Kakashi gave a small nod. Simple. Calm. Accepting.
"Then I’ll be direct. Return the Sharingan."
No preamble. No soft phrasing.
Kakashi didn’t blink. He was a shinobi, used to orders. He understood this wasn’t a request. He knew what clan demands sounded like.
"May I ask why?" he said evenly. "I thought you had no objection to my use of… Obito’s gift."
Fugaku leaned forward. His face remained calm, but his voice turned harder:
"Nothing personal. This is a clan matter."
Those words cut like a blade across a tight string. The sound snapped. So did the conversation.
Kakashi stood silent for a few seconds. Then gave a short nod.
"I’ll sign up for surgery in the morning. By noon, the Sharingan will be on your desk."
Cold. Precise. Emotionless. He spoke like a soldier acknowledging a command. But in his eyes, behind the mask of composure, flickered disappointment. Real. Deep.
He turned and walked out.
Fugaku remained seated, unmoving. He knew Kakashi would keep his word. That he wouldn’t raise the issue again. That he would stay silent.
He also knew this would be one of Kakashi’s worst days.
Because to the Uchiha, the Sharingan was legacy. Flesh and blood of the clan. But for Kakashi — it was memory. Obito lived in that eye. In every battle. In every choice.
Fugaku understood: he hadn’t taken an eye.
He had taken the right to remember.
But sometimes, to protect Konoha, you had to tear away even what hurts others most.
