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Batman in Konoha. Chapter 6 and 7. Interrogation under duress
🕑 Added 2025-05-27 17:17:44 +0000 UTC4600 words.
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The main square of Konoha, bathed in sunlight, buzzed with voices—as if the village itself were breathing, speaking, waiting.
Everyone had gathered.
Shinobi in their faded flak jackets, kunoichi with forehead protectors and watchful eyes, weary blacksmiths scrubbed clean of ash and soot, academy teachers hastily ushering students to the front rows. Ordinary villagers, unable to sense chakra but acutely aware of the tension in the air. And at the edges, in places of honor, stood the clan leaders with their escorts.
Everyone wanted the same thing: the truth. Answers.
A week had passed since that terrifying night when the Kyūbi engulfed Konoha. The destruction had been devastating—entire districts leveled, lives cut short like threads. The rubble had been cleared, but rebuilding new homes would take months, if not years.
A man in a white cloak with red flames along the hem stepped onto the top tier of the platform, recently erected for this very occasion—Hokage Sarutobi Hiruzen. Weariness showed in his posture, but so did unyielding resolve. Behind him stretched years of war, politics, and burdens that never truly left. Beside him stood Uchiha Fugaku, like a stone monolith—not just the head of his clan, but also the commander of the Military Police. His face, chiseled like granite, betrayed nothing but cold dignity.
Fugaku swept his gaze over the crowd, quickly finding his clan. The Uchiha stood in a tight, unified group, their dark hair forming a living wall. At the center stood Mikoto, holding a bundle wrapped around the newborn Naruto. Her face was pale and tired, but her eyes remained steady. Beside her stood little Itachi, his expression serious—almost frighteningly adult—as he cradled baby Sasuke, who slept peacefully, unaware he was part of a moment that would become history.
The murmurs, the whispering, the occasional bursts of children’s laughter—all fell silent in an instant the moment the Hokage stepped forward. His chakra, subtly channeled, amplified his voice until it echoed across the square like rolling thunder.
“Citizens of Konoha,” Hiruzen began, his words hanging in the air like a bell toll. “We have all endured a difficult, tragic time…”
He spoke calmly, with strength and conviction, weighing each word carefully. His voice, usually stern, now held a softness that even the children—normally restless—fell quiet to hear. In that moment, the old man was again the Hokage people loved and respected—not a bureaucrat, but the father of the village.
“The Hokage Administration,” he continued, “in close cooperation with the Uchiha Clan Police Force…”
He nodded to Fugaku. The man gave a slight dip of his head in acknowledgment, no more.
“…has conducted a full investigation into the incident. And we have apprehended the one responsible.”
Silence followed. Heavy. Ringing. It was as if the village itself had stopped breathing. Then—a subtle motion: Fugaku turned his head slightly and gave a nod.
From the shadows behind the platform emerged Uchiha Inabi. He led forward a figure in the gray robes of a prisoner. A sack without eyeholes covered the man’s head. His hands were bound in metal shackles. The prisoner walked without resistance—but also without hesitation. As if he knew what awaited him. Inabi forced him to his knees beside a wooden execution block.
The silence stretched, tight as a drawn string, ready to snap.
“But before you learn who stands before you,” Hiruzen continued, his voice now firm, “I want you to remember something. A name you all know. The name of a hero.”
He paused. The crowd stood still.
“Uchiha Obito.”
Instantly, like a stone dropped into still water, murmurs rippled across the square. Hiruzen raised his hand for silence and went on:
“He was a young shinobi. Ready to give everything for his comrades. His name is etched on the Hero Memorial. He gave his life for his team. His Sharingan… It was his eye we saw in the Kyūbi that night.”
The unease swelled into a low, bitter murmur. Whispers, sharp and heavy, swept through the crowd like a wave:
“The Uchiha can’t be trusted...”
“Another one of them again...”
“They’re all the same…”
Somewhere in the crowd stood Kakashi. He said nothing. He simply raised a hand to his face and touched the headband covering his left eye. A gift from a friend. A memory. The final lesson.
“Uchiha Obito is a hero of Konoha,” Hiruzen declared, his voice like a chisel on stone. “And shame on anyone who dares tarnish his name.”
The words, sharp and firm, cut through the rumble of the crowd like a blade. The whispers died. Some looked ashamed, some lowered their eyes. Others clenched their jaws.
But the confusion lingered. People glanced at one another, unsure where the Hokage was leading them. A hero, a dead boy, a Sharingan, a demon… How did it all connect?
Hiruzen didn’t let the crowd drown in speculation. His expression darkened. With a sudden, decisive motion, he stepped toward the prisoner and yanked the coarse sack from his head.
“His body was desecrated. His eye—stolen,” he said, pointing to the prisoner’s exposed face. “By this man!”
A gasp rippled through the crowd—someone screamed. All eyes locked on the face beneath the sack: deep-set wrinkles, a tangled beard, a gaze heavy and unreadable. A tight gag kept him silent. His left eye blazed—a bright, sinister glow from a slowly turning Sharingan.
Many had seen that eye the night the Kyūbi struck.
To the crowd, he was a stranger. But not to Fugaku. The head of the Uchiha clan studied him coldly, intently. He knew that face. Once, this man had been a petty criminal—a horse thief caught in the Land of Fire. Sentenced to a “quiet” execution by the Daimyō’s decree—erased without a trace, without a name, without a grave. And now he stood here—a scarecrow.
His face had been altered by Hiruzen’s techniques. His mind—rewritten by Fugaku’s genjutsu. He had become a living shield. A sacrifice. A pawn.
Hiruzen raised his hand, gesturing to the man.
“His name is Satori Keita,” he said loudly, so all could hear. “A member of the underground terrorist group known as Akatsuki. Their goal is to destroy the world as we know it. To erase the Hidden Villages. To annihilate everything generations have built.”
The crowd stirred. Somewhere, a child’s frightened voice cried out. Adults began whispering. The name “Akatsuki” was unfamiliar to most—but it rang with menace. Like the hiss of a poisonous spider.
“They seek not peace,” said Hiruzen, shaking his head. “They seek chaos. Destruction. Betrayal. They want us to believe our friends are enemies. To spill blood not only from without—but from within.”
He pointed at the burning Sharingan in the prisoner’s eye socket.
“They steal more than eyes. They steal memory. Legends. The names of heroes.”
Hiruzen fell silent for a moment, then spoke with cold clarity:
“The punishment for attacking this village is one. Death.”
The crowd didn’t just erupt—it exploded in a frenzy. Someone shouted, “Execute him!” Others began chanting. People who had lost loved ones screamed themselves hoarse. Rage and grief fused into one mad chorus. Some wept. Some laughed nervously. But all cried out for the same thing—retribution.
Then the Hokage raised his hand, and slowly, like a wave receding from shore, the crowd began to quiet.
“Before the execution,” he said calmly, “by decision of a closed council session, the condemned is granted a final statement.”
Fugaku nodded. Inabi stepped forward without hesitation and, with a swift, practiced motion, yanked the gag free. The man coughed, gasping, then spat toward the crowd. His eyes—especially the one bearing the Sharingan—blazed with madness.
Then he screamed—not in fear, but with the fanaticism of a man drowning in his own twisted truth.
“The shinobi system is rotten!” he shouted, sucking in breath. “All of you! You’re part of the lie! Slaves serving war gods! Only through suffering will you be cleansed! Only pain can open your eyes!”
The crowd roared. They weren’t just angry anymore—they were ready to surge forward and tear him apart with their bare hands. The guards around the perimeter held the line with everything they had. One of the spectators hurled a stone—a heavy chunk from a ruined house.
It flew straight for the prisoner’s face… but stopped. Suspended in the air—just inches from his head. Irresistibly, caught by a hand. Fugaku’s hand. The stone crumbled into dust. Shards pattered to the ground.
Silence fell, absolute and immediate.
Fugaku stepped forward, and his voice rang out—sharp, deep, commanding:
“I understand your hatred.”
His words pierced the silence like an arrow.
“You want revenge. You want to rip him apart—piece by piece—for everyone we lost that night. For the children. For the parents. For the friends. You want him to suffer. To endure years of agony. To feel what you felt.”
He paused. His eyes swept over the crowd, searching for the reflection of those emotions. He found them—easily. Rage. Pain. The hunger for justice.
“But what do we become if we do that?”
There was no anger in his voice. No soothing tone, no lofty speech. Only cold logic, and a bitter, hard-earned truth.
“We become avengers—not keepers of order. We become monsters. Demons. Just like the one we curse. Like the Kyūbi.”
Someone in the crowd sobbed.
“We are not demons. We are human,” Fugaku said firmly. “And that is why the execution will be swift. One strike. No torture. No malice.”
He looked out over the crowd, as if daring them to challenge him:
“Not out of mercy. But because this is what it means to be human.”
Fugaku slowly approached the prisoner. Not with hatred. Not with triumph. Simply—like a coroner approaching a corpse.
He knelt and, without breaking eye contact with the swirling Sharingan, reached out. With a clean motion, using a simple medical technique, he removed the eye.
The Sharingan’s flame flickered in his palm like a dying star.
He rose, turned without a word, and left the platform. The crowd parted for him like a tide around an executioner. He didn’t glance to either side—he knew all eyes were on him.
Behind him, the executioner stepped forward with precise, rehearsed movements. The ANBU mask hid his face, but the air around him radiated resolve and ruthlessness. He said nothing.
The blade flashed in the sun—and fell.
One motion. Just as Fugaku had promised.
The head tumbled across the platform, leaving a crimson arc behind it. Someone cried out—but no one moved. Not a shout of triumph. Not a thrown stone. Not a single spit.
Fugaku’s words had branded their conscience—and now no one wanted to be the Kyūbi.
///
Immediately after the execution, Fugaku walked slowly across the square, as if wading through thick air. People stepped aside to let him pass, avoiding his gaze. As if afraid he might read their thoughts.
The Uchiha compound buzzed like a disturbed wasp’s nest. The air thrummed with energy—pride, excitement, fear, argument. But the moment he came near, it all fell silent.
“I didn’t expect that turn of events,” Uchiha Sasami said first, breaking the quiet. Her voice trembled with restrained emotion. “Was it really our reports that led to identifying the criminal?”
“Yes,” Fugaku replied coldly.
The police officers exchanged glances. A flicker of pride crossed their faces—but it didn’t have time to bloom. Because Fugaku continued, his tone sharp:
“If you had always worked this diligently… the tragedy might have been avoided.”
The silence that followed was almost physical. People lowered their heads, as if struck. His gaze moved over them—heavy, measuring, unforgiving. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
He was speaking the truth. And everyone felt it in their gut.
“Akatsuki’s plans have been exposed,” he continued, his voice like steel, “but the war isn’t over. The enemy hasn’t vanished. They’re watching. Waiting. And they will strike the moment you let your guard down.”
He took a step forward, commanding the entire formation with his presence.
“That’s why patrols will continue. No skipped shifts. No complaints. I want a full report on my desk every day. I’m counting on you. Konoha is counting on you.”
“Yes, Captain!” they answered in unison. It wasn’t a sharp military shout—it sounded more like they were clinging to his strength, to the chance of becoming part of order again.
Fugaku gave a nod. Then turned away.
Mikoto stood slightly off to the side, silent and composed. Her face wore a polite, perfectly measured smile. In her arms—a carefully wrapped bundle with a baby inside.
“You looked good up there,” she said quietly when he approached. Her words were soft, like silk. “Impressive. Come home, I made lunch…”
“I won’t be eating,” he interrupted, his expression unchanged. Cold. Even. Like a blade cutting through flesh. “Give me Naruto.”
He held out his arms.
For one brief, barely noticeable moment, something flickered in her eyes—pain? Worry? Doubt? She held the bundle closer, as if the child in her arms were her own, and in danger.
But it lasted only a heartbeat.
“Of course, dear,” she replied with flawless, almost mechanical grace. And placed the infant into her husband’s hands.
She was the perfect wife. The kind who asked no questions. Who didn’t argue. Who never demanded explanations.
Even when her husband took away her best friend’s child—and said nothing about why.
///
Meanwhile, the underground corridors of Konoha breathed darkness. These tunnels had been built long ago, based on the designs of the Second Hokage—obsessed with protection and secrecy. Few even knew they existed. Fewer still used them.
The torch in Hiruzen’s hand cast flickering shadows on the stone walls.
Fugaku walked beside him, cradling the baby tightly against his chest. The child slept peacefully, warm and defenseless, unaware that his life had already become part of something far greater.
Everything above was now behind them. The village. The crowd. The executioner. The blood on the platform.
Down here—another level of the game was beginning.
“You handled the crowd well,” Hiruzen said quietly, with a note of approval. Their footsteps echoed hollowly off the walls. The old man’s voice held a contemplative tone. “If I’d known you had such rhetorical skill during the war, I might’ve put you on stage in front of our armies, to lift morale.”
Fugaku didn’t even glance at him. He just gave a short huff, brushing aside the compliment like a stray leaf:
“The Hokage leads the people. The police captain leads his officers. Or are you suggesting I trade in my flak jacket for your hat?”
“Tempting offer,” Hiruzen chuckled, though his voice carried a faint weariness—like a man who had returned to the same burden too many times. “But I’ll pass. Right now, Konoha needs stability. I’ll resume the post of Third until the wound from losing Minato starts to close.”
Fugaku didn’t reply, but his silence held approval. A wise decision. Time heals, but it doesn’t tolerate sudden change. Minato hadn’t just been a Hokage—he was a symbol, a legend, the golden boy whose kindness, genius, and courage had stunned the world. His death had been a punch to the gut—turning him, in an instant, from man to martyr.
Fugaku understood that. Too well. In his past life, it had been the same with Kennedy. Young, charming, charismatic. And assassinated without warning. When a symbol dies, the crowd doesn’t look for a new one—they cling to the ghost of the one they lost like a lifeline. Whoever comes next won’t be forgiven—no matter who they are.
Fugaku had learned that lesson. He wasn’t about to repeat it.
“Today’s spectacle stopped a tsunami,” Hiruzen went on. “But the waves will keep pounding the shore. The common shinobi—they’ll believe. But the clan heads… they’re not so naive. They have archives, records, generational memory. They remember the time before Konoha. You can’t sell them a fairy tale that a boy like Obito awakened the Mangekyō.”
“Rubbish,” Fugaku cut in sharply. “Even the Uchiha themselves don’t know how the Mangekyō is awakened. Just rumors, assumptions, and ritual fairy tales. That ridiculous theory is still floating around—that you have to kill your best friend.”
He grimaced, as if he’d tasted something bitter.
“You’d think we live in a civilized world. But the thinking is still that of savages in the woods. Blood, sacrifice, curses… We are not shamans. We are shinobi. Legends like these won’t take us far.”
Hiruzen chuckled—not mockingly, but with a touch of relief.
“I’m glad to hear that from the leader of the Uchiha clan,” he said, glancing sideways to catch his companion’s gaze.
Fugaku met his eyes with cold severity. The look said neither “thank you” nor “I’m honored.” It was a warning: Don’t test my patience.
“I mean,” Hiruzen corrected himself gently, “I trust you’ll pass that rational thinking on to the rest of your clan.”
At that moment, the corridor ended.
They emerged before a massive, grim-looking door set directly into the stone. Intricate fūinjutsu script coiled over it—like living silver, flowing through ancient grooves. The symbols pulsed with a soft glow.
In theory, the chamber beyond could hold the Kyūbi. For a minute, maybe less.
“I hope you understand I can’t let you interrogate the Kyūbi alone,” Hiruzen said calmly, reaching for the seal. His fingers brushed across the complex weave, and the glowing symbols began to dim, one by one.
“You don’t trust me,” Fugaku said. Not accusingly—just stating a fact.
“I’m being cautious,” Hiruzen clarified. “Who knows what the Kyūbi might say.”
“Or what I might not report back to you,” Fugaku snorted. “So who’s coming with me? Kakashi?”
A faint smirk tugged at Hiruzen’s lips.
“I must admit, I was surprised you let him keep the Sharingan. I thought you were against giving away clan gifts to outsiders.”
“Only when they annoy me,” Fugaku said coldly.
“You used to be more restrained,” Hiruzen offered with mild reproach.
“We rarely spoke,” Fugaku replied, pinning him with a hard stare. “I’m a fighter. I always know when it’s time to strike.”
Hiruzen sighed—heavy, weary, like someone who felt the age of the entire village on his shoulders.
“So many people in Konoha… and so little time to truly know them all.”
He paused for a moment, then continued, more to the point:
“No, it won’t be Kakashi. He has only one Sharingan—and I’m not sure that’s enough to penetrate the seal’s layers. For this task, we need a real Uchiha.”
Fugaku sneered faintly, turned, and looked into the shadow beyond the bend.
“Then show your trusted face. Stop hiding. Come out. I spotted you back at the last corner.”
A boy stepped forward from the shadows, seemingly reluctant. Lean, sharp-featured, dressed in black shorts and a simple T-shirt bearing the Uchiha crest. His dark hair was pulled back loosely with a Konoha forehead protector. His face was serious, as if he wore responsibility like a second skin.
“What gave me away, Fugaku-sama?” he asked politely, but with spark.
“You’re still too young to understand how real shadows behave,” Fugaku replied with a casual glance. Then he looked at Hiruzen—hard, disapproving. “He’s a child. What is he—six?”
“Nine,” Hiruzen corrected calmly. “Uchiha Shisui is already a chūnin. Trusted with leading a squad. Not many adult shinobi can say the same.”
Fugaku frowned. His fingers involuntarily tightened around Naruto’s tiny shoulder—just slightly more than necessary. Nine. Nine years old and already on the front lines. Already breathing death. Already being used in political games. And that was considered normal.
“An interrogation like this could bring up all kinds of truths,” Fugaku said, his words deliberately careful. “Shisui will learn the truth about the Kyūbi incident.”
“He already knows,” Hiruzen shot back, now with clear conviction in his voice. “He distinguished himself in the war. I’ve seen the fire of will in him—pure, bright, like in his ancestor, Uchiha Kagami.”
For a moment, the old man froze. Nostalgia flickered in his eyes—the shadow of another boy, from another time. Kagami, the only Uchiha Tobirama had ever trusted. Kagami, in whom Hiruzen had placed his own hopes.
Shisui took a step forward, about to speak—but catching Fugaku’s gaze, he wisely stayed silent. A child, but no fool.
“Tobirama trusted Kagami. I trust Shisui,” Hiruzen said with such force that the walls echoed his words. “In a few years, I intend to bring him into the ANBU. For now, he will be the bridge between us.”
Fugaku gave a slow nod. Not agreement. Not refusal. Just the kind of acceptance one gives to an unwanted gift that can’t be thrown away.
“As you wish,” he said, turning to the boy. “You’re coming with me. During the interrogation—you say nothing. Not a sound. Not a gesture. Not even a glance. Understood?”
“Yes, Fugaku-sama!” Shisui replied crisply.
There was no fear in his voice. Only respect. And a faint glimmer of defiance. A look that said: I can handle it. Even if you don’t believe in me.
With a deep, echoing rumble, the massive door opened. A wave of stale air rushed out. Beyond it lay a vast, damp chamber—stone walls slick with moisture. At the center stood an altar, smooth as glass. That’s where Naruto was placed.
Fugaku and Shisui took positions on either side. Their eyes flared to life—Sharingan spinning with synchronized tomoe. With a simultaneous burst of chakra, they pierced the infant’s protective seal—it offered no resistance. A moment later, their consciousness slipped inside.
They found themselves ankle-deep in murky water. The darkness was total, but the Sharingan could see. The air reeked of rot and damp rust. Around them stretched concrete walls, forming a maze with no end in sight. The Kyūbi’s seal space resembled a colossal sewer.
“Unexpected bath,” Shisui quipped, channeling chakra to his feet and stepping lightly onto the water’s surface. His sandals soaked immediately. “If I’d known we’d be walking on water, I would’ve worn boots. They needed a wash anyway.”
Fugaku cast a glance his way—heavy as a stone slab.
“You like to joke?” he asked coldly, stepping onto the water without leaving ripples.
“My mom says humor makes you live longer,” Shisui replied with exaggerated solemnity.
“Then she must be from the Uzumaki clan,” Fugaku muttered, moving forward.
“Fugaku-sama, do you know where you’re going?” Shisui asked, hurrying after him, careful not to splash.
“Mazes come in many forms,” he said, pressing a palm to the wall. “But each one has a rule. One side of the wall is colder—it means we’re closer to the center that way.”
He turned left without looking back.
“Wow,” Shisui breathed, unable to hide his childlike wonder. “Have you really been in a real maze before?”
The answer didn’t come right away. Fugaku paused. Memories flashed through his mind: fear-drenched corridors filled with Scarecrow’s toxins… frozen dead ends where Freeze had hidden… insane, twisted mirrors leading straight to the Joker.
“Something like that,” he muttered, not elaborating.
They moved through the darkness. Only their Sharingan—two crimson stars—lit the way. The water beneath them rippled with every step. Fugaku walked with purpose, guided by the faintest breath of wind. And soon—he found its source.
They entered an enormous chamber. High above, the ceiling disappeared into shadow. The entire front wall was a giant cage. Behind it—something breathed.
Claws, long as spears, gripped the bars. A massive snout covered in crimson fur exhaled gusts so strong that Shisui’s hair stirred.
“Right where he belongs,” Fugaku said with a smirk. “Behind bars.”
“Uchiha!” the demon roared, slamming its claws against the cage. “I HATE YOU!”
A cloud of steam poured through the bars—red as blood. It burned with chakra—wild, searing rage. That hatred held everything: ancient pain, a curse, the fury of a beast in chains.
Instinctively, Shisui recoiled, one hand rising to shield his face. He had never seen anything like this. And for the first time, he felt like just a helpless boy.
But Fugaku didn’t move. He stared into the Kyūbi’s eyes with icy calm. Once, he had held his hand inside Killer Croc’s jaws. Once, he had stood face to face with Man-Bat. Beasts no longer frightened him. Now—he simply breathed. Without fear.
“I don’t care what you feel about my clan,” Fugaku said coldly once the Kyūbi, spent, finally stilled. “I have questions. You will answer.”
“And why would I?” the demon sneered, baring his fangs. “What could you possibly offer me? Unless…” — it cast a pointed glance toward the massive lock on the cage.
“Don’t even think about it,” Fugaku hissed, and there was so much threat in his voice that the air itself seemed to shudder.
“Then we’re done here,” the Kyūbi growled and slowly turned away, retreating into the shadows of the cage. “Leave.”
“I never expected you to yield after the first word,” Fugaku said, rolling up his sleeves. “But there are ways to force out the truth.”
He stepped forward.
Something flickered in the demon’s eyes. Interest. A predator’s curiosity.
“Fugaku-sama, don’t!” Shisui cried out, horrified. “That’s suicide!”
“We had an agreement,” Fugaku snapped, not looking back. “You don’t interfere.”
And then he stepped through the massive bars. The world held its breath.
The Kyūbi roared—an earthquake of sound—and lunged, its claw crashing down like a falling mountain.
“FOOL!” the demon thundered. “YOU ARE NOTHING! I AM DESTRUCTION!”
Fugaku raised his hand. Small. Human. And—stopped the blow. Held the claw, massive as a tree, as if it weighed no more than a twig. The ground beneath his feet didn’t so much as tremble.
The Kyūbi threw its full weight into the strike, snarling, pouring out its chakra. But it couldn’t move the Uchiha even an inch.
“How?!” the demon howled, struggling in disbelief. “You can’t be stronger! It’s not possible!”
“This world doesn’t obey normal laws,” Fugaku said, lifting his head slowly. His eyes—blood-red Sharingan—bored into the beast’s pupils. “Here, victory doesn’t belong to strength, but to will.”
He stepped forward—and grew. Literally. His body, his presence, his essence expanded with every second. He eclipsed the cage. He loomed larger than the Kyūbi.
“You’re a bijuu. A creature made of chakra. But chakra isn’t just power. It’s experience. It’s mind. It’s control.”
The Kyūbi backed away. And that—was astounding.
“You have power,” Fugaku continued, “but you don’t know how to wield it. You’re no warrior. You’re no sage. You’re just an angry child.”
He stepped again—and the world shook beneath his feet.
“I have defied the impossible! I have fought madness, monsters, fear itself!” His voice boomed like thunder. “I endured, I survived—and I won!”
The Kyūbi retreated into the far corner. It howled, tried to strike again—but its paw trembled.
Fugaku towered above it—a colossus, the embodiment of unbreakable will.
“I need answers. And I will have them. With your consent—or without it.”
He clenched his fists. The tension cracked through the mental labyrinth like thunder.
Shisui stood at the bars, both hands over his mouth. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t believe his eyes. One man… was breaking a bijuu.
The Kyūbi howled, resisted—but surrendered. And began to speak. Everything. About that night. Every detail.
///
Consciousness returned. They were once again standing over the altar. Hiruzen blinked.
“That was fast. You weren’t gone for even a second,” he said, surprised. “Did the Kyūbi refuse to talk?”
“He told us everything,” Fugaku replied calmly. “No criminal has ever endured my interrogation.”
Hiruzen glanced at Shisui—the boy looked like he’d just survived a war. Slowly, he nodded in confirmation.
“What did you learn?” Hiruzen asked, tension creeping into his voice.
“Seems we weren’t too far off, blaming Obito,” Fugaku said, folding his arms. “The one who controlled the Kyūbi had only one Sharingan.”
Hiruzen tensed.
“And if the Kyūbi’s not lying,” Fugaku went on, “the man wore an orange mask and was the same height as Obito.”
“You think he survived?” Hiruzen asked grimly.
“Or someone’s playing us for fools,” Fugaku growled through his teeth. “Either way, the site of his ‘death’ needs to be checked. Personally.”
