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Batman in Konoha. Chapter 23. The Secret of Lightning
🕑 Added 2025-06-13 17:12:11 +0000 UTCA few days had passed since the conversation with the Hokage in the park.
Shisui had just returned from a long ANBU mission. Most likely, Hiruzen had sent him to one of the neighboring countries to gather intelligence on Kumo’s recent affairs.
Naturally, he couldn’t hold back his questions. Eyes sparkling, hands gesturing animatedly, his excitement almost boyish:
“How did you pull it off?” he burst out the moment he stepped through the door.
Fugaku didn’t even look in his direction. He slowly raised his gaze from the documents.
“If you’ve got the energy to chatter,” he said curtly, “you’ve got enough for a spar. Outside.”
The backyard was bathed in soft gray light. A heavy cloud covered the sky, as if nature itself was preparing to observe their duel without the sun’s interference. The grass beneath their feet bounced with springy resilience, and the air carried the faint scent of rain.
“Let’s assume this is a fight in an urban environment,” said Fugaku, removing his cloak. “Minimum destruction. Not a single building or civilian should be harmed. Large-scale jutsu are forbidden.”
“Are shadow clones allowed?” Shisui asked, twirling a kunai between his fingers.
“Only if you don’t rain them down like a storm,” Fugaku replied. “No mass bombardments.”
Their eyes locked.
The Sharingan activated in perfect unison—crimson light flaring, dark tomoe spinning like ink in water. For a heartbeat, everything slowed. The first exchange was almost polite—testing, probing. A series of strikes, blocks, sidesteps, and retreats. Not too forceful, but precise and observant.
They threw their kunai at the same time. The blades clashed midair, sparking, and veered off just two centimeters from the house’s window.
Fugaku felt the echo of another life bleed into his movements. Once, he had watched scenes like this unfold on a screen: a hero racing through a city, dodging bullets, disarming enemies, stopping a bomb’s timer with a fraction of a second to spare.
In the movies, those scenes took dozens of takes. Actors made mistakes. Stuntmen tripped. Timing failed. Even when he had been Batman—a master of discipline and tactics—he’d made errors.
But not now. Not with the Sharingan.
The Sharingan was a built-in analyst. A biocomputer. It saw trajectories before they became real. It predicted every move, every threat. There were no missteps. Only precision. And speed.
So to beat a Sharingan user…
You had to surprise him.
Fugaku blinked—and five Shisuis appeared around him. He struck the nearest one instantly—it vanished like smoke.
“Interesting,” Fugaku murmured. He focused on chakra—but felt nothing. It wasn’t an illusion. And it wasn’t chakra clones. His Sharingan couldn’t distinguish them.
The next strike came from behind. Sudden. Sharp. The real Shisui had gotten behind him. But it wasn’t the real Fugaku—it vanished in a puff of smoke.
Then—Fugaku was behind Shisui. He grabbed his arm, twisted it, and brought him down with effortless fluidity.
“Genjutsu?!” Shisui exclaimed, cheek pressed into the cool grass. “But… how? The Sharingan’s supposed to be immune to genjutsu!”
Fugaku released him and stood up.
“Is it really?” he said calmly. “And yet your ‘clones’ fooled my Sharingan. So who’s fooling whom?”
Shisui laughed, rubbing the back of his head and brushing grass from his shoulders.
“It’s not genjutsu. It’s not even chakra,” he said with a smug grin. “I’ve just pushed the body flicker technique to the limit. I move so fast I leave residual afterimages. You didn’t see clones—you saw the echoes of my speed.”
Fugaku gave a slow, thoughtful nod.
“Then the title of Konoha’s fastest shinobi now belongs to you.”
Shisui shrugged.
“Only when I use the technique. Without it, you’re still the champion, Fugaku. Fair and square. No tricks.”
“One day, you’ll surpass me,” Fugaku said quietly, lowering himself onto the porch steps.
Shisui sat down beside him.
He was still slightly out of breath from the sparring match, but his face was glowing with satisfaction.
“I'm still a long way from catching up to you,” he said. Then, turning his head with genuine curiosity, he added, “But how did you even trap me in genjutsu? I had my Sharingan active the whole time. I didn’t feel a thing.”
Fugaku looked at him directly. In the shinobi world, questions like that weren’t usually asked. And if they were—honest answers were rarely given. Techniques were guarded, hidden, protected as fiercely as the village gates.
But Shisui wasn’t just a student to him. Not just a subordinate or a fellow Uchiha.
He was a son. Not by blood, perhaps—but definitely by heart.
“Catch,” Fugaku said and handed him a small dark vial rimmed in silver.
The liquid inside shimmered with a soft emerald hue that shifted into a pinkish tint, like a poisonous flower dissolved in mercury. The vial itself was thin, tightly sealed, and wrapped in dark fabric that dimmed its glow.
A pheromone compound—courtesy of Poison Ivy.
“This is a rare substance,” Fugaku explained. “When paired with genjutsu, it amplifies its effects several times over. Even the Sharingan struggles to detect the trap right away. Hopefully, one day, it’ll save your life.”
Shisui’s eyes widened.
“Whoa…” He took the vial carefully with both hands, as if holding treasure. “Thanks, Fugaku!”
Fugaku said nothing. He just inclined his head slightly, allowing himself a faint, barely-there smile. But inside, there was warmth.
Shisui’s joy—genuine, youthful, real—was like a ray of sunlight breaking through the storm clouds of his inner darkness.
As if sensing the moment, Mikoto stepped out onto the terrace. She carried a tray with two glasses of lemonade, citrus slices and mint leaves floating inside.
“Refresh yourselves,” she said gently, placing the tray between them.
“Mmm… that’s amazing!” Shisui said after the first sip, beaming. “Mikoto, you’ve got golden hands! As always.”
Mikoto smiled in return. Something warm, almost maternal, flickered in her gaze. She gave them a nod and went back inside, leaving the men under the gray sky and the whisper of grass.
Fugaku noticed: Shisui made Mikoto smile more often than anyone else. Even more than Itachi or Sasuke.
Maybe because he carried more light. More ease.
“Well then,” Shisui said, taking another sip of lemonade. “I won’t ask how you managed to sneak into Kumo without being noticed. Though that still baffles me. But… I don’t believe for a second you walked away without pocketing a scroll or two with some secret techniques.”
Fugaku narrowed his eyes and gave him a half-smile.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because you’re the most greedy person I know,” Shisui replied with a completely serious expression—then grinned, slightly crooked, but kind.
Fugaku gave a short chuckle.
“Greed and knowing how to spot opportunity are two different things.”
“Right,” Shisui nodded like a sage. “So you just spotted an opportunity in the Raikage’s busted safe?”
Fugaku glanced at him sidelong, saying nothing. The answer was obvious.
“Don’t worry,” Shisui went on. “I get it. Safes usually hold boring stuff—contracts, finances, seals. But you still found a way to make that work for you, huh?”
Fugaku didn’t argue. In truth, he had already used some of the data from the safe to optimize logistics for his trade routes. A few clever loopholes in the Land of Lightning’s tax code had proven quite valuable.
“The truly powerful techniques,” Fugaku finally said aloud, “aren’t written down in scrolls. They’re passed on by word of mouth.”
“The Raikage whispered them in your ear?” Shisui scooted closer, curiosity in his voice. “I’ve seen how you interrogate people. You can drag out the truth—quickly, and… without much ceremony.”
Fugaku nodded, barely hiding a flicker of satisfaction.
“He whispered,” he confirmed. “In exchange for saving him from his own demons, he told me about his clan’s secret techniques—Lightning Armor and Black Lightning.”
Shisui’s eyes immediately lit up.
“I mean, not that I’m hinting at anything…” he said with mock seriousness. “But if I had armor made of black lightning, I’d look damn cool.”
“And die from your own overconfidence,” Fugaku replied, sipping his lemonade. “If it were that simple, we’d have copied those techniques back during the war. But they’re hiden jutsu—clan-specific and tied to unique physical traits. Mimicking the hand signs alone isn’t enough. Without a body and chakra system that can handle the strain, it’s suicide.”
“Name them all, please,” said Shisui with exaggerated politeness and an innocent smile. “Maybe I can tweak myself to match the requirements. I’d sign up for the gym if it meant S-rank jutsu. Minato ended a war with just one.”
Fugaku turned to him and gave a small shrug.
“All right. Listen. To use Lightning Armor, you need to meet two conditions. First—raw physical strength. The lightning courses through every cell in your body. Your muscles have to be strong enough not to tear themselves apart under the stress. Even Maito Gai, a taijutsu master, would burn out from the inside in minutes if he tried to activate it.”
Shisui looked down at his slender arms and dropped them onto his knees with a heavy sigh.
“Yeah, that’s a no for me. Even my Sharingan can’t turn me into a bodybuilder overnight.” He glanced at Fugaku. “But you fit that requirement. What’s holding you back?”
Fugaku’s expression darkened. A note of frustration crept into his voice, though it was clearly aimed at himself.
“The second requirement is chakra. A lot of it. No, not just a lot—an insane amount. The few people who can sustain Lightning Armor for more than a couple of minutes are called tailless Tailed Beasts.”
“Got it,” Shisui muttered, scratching his chin. “So we’ve got a jutsu that neither of us can use. Sounds like it was made for the Akimichi clan.” His eyes lit up as he raised a finger. “Big bodies? Check. Extra chakra from calories? Check. Train them in lightning release, and—”
He squinted theatrically:
“Just imagine: a dozen electrified death-balls rolling straight at Kumo shinobi!”
Fugaku raised an eyebrow and said dryly:
“Amusing.”
“You wouldn’t share the technique with the Akimichi anyway,” Shisui said, grinning slyly, as if he knew exactly how Fugaku thought. “They’ve got nothing you’d want in return. You’re not a philanthropist—you’re a strategist.”
Fugaku didn’t respond, but a certain look flickered in his eyes. The kind that meant: You’re not entirely wrong.
“All right, let’s talk about the fun stuff.” Shisui leaned in. “What about Black Lightning? They say it can cut through air itself—even other lightning. That true?”
“It’s true,” Fugaku nodded slightly. “But the requirements are the complete opposite of Lightning Armor. That’s why you’ll never see a Raikage covered in Black Lightning. To use it, you don’t need brute force—you need precision. Razor-sharp chakra control. The kind of control a surgeon has.”
“Well, that rules us out again,” Shisui said, patting Fugaku’s shoulder. “We could take medical training, but with our chakra pools, we’re never becoming surgeons.”
He paused for a second, then added with enthusiasm:
“But Itachi might have a shot. He doesn’t have much chakra, but his control is almost flawless. He tires quickly in fights with high-level techniques, so he calculates every ounce of chakra. After the academy, they even suggested he train as a medic. Can you believe that?”
Fugaku nodded, his voice thoughtful:
“A good idea. I’ll get him a gift when he makes chunin.”
