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Batman in Konoha. Chapter 22. A Job You Never Rest From
🕑 Added 2025-06-12 14:56:02 +0000 UTCJust before stepping outside, Fugaku paused by the wardrobe and stood still for a few moments. His fingers brushed against the fabric of his police captain’s uniform. Not long ago, he wouldn’t leave the house without it—his uniform was a mark of authority, a reminder of who he was and what it meant to speak to him.
But things had changed.
After the duel with the Raikage—ending in the humiliating defeat of the Cloud’s leader—Fugaku’s face had become known even in the most remote corners of the shinobi world. He was no longer just the head of the Konoha Police Force. He had become a symbol. And symbols didn’t need to prove their power—it was self-evident. Just like the other legends: the Kage who wore their haori only for ceremonies, or Jiraiya, Tsunade, and Orochimaru, who had long since discarded the standard shinobi uniform as something beneath them.
Even the Konoha forehead protector—once a mandatory sign of loyalty—was no longer necessary. When you’re a legend, everyone already knows where you belong.
Fugaku chose a streamlined black armor. Over it, a short cloak, just as black, cast a rectangular silhouette behind his back. His fingers briefly touched the clasp—click—completing the image.
He stepped outside with an unhurried gait.
The streets of Konoha were calm, bathed in the soft glow of the morning sun. The air was fresh, rich with the scents of spices, smoke from food stalls, and blooming trees. In the distance came the sounds of children laughing and the barking of ninken.
Fugaku watched the police patrols. He noted who stood where, how they held themselves, the condition of the streets. Every motion, every glance registered in his mind. Yet even as he observed, he could feel the gazes on him—more than ever before.
People were watching. But not with fear. Not with suspicion. And not with hate.
They watched him with respect.
He knew why. They read the papers. They saw the headlines, discussed them over meals and in the markets. They had heard how the Raikage—one of the strongest shinobi alive—had been crushed in minutes. And they knew who had done it. Not because Konoha was the strongest village.
But because Konoha had Fugaku Uchiha.
"Good morning, Fugaku-sama!" a baker called out, wiping his hands on his apron and bowing nearly to the ground. "Would you like some buns? Fresh from the oven! For you—no charge."
Fugaku gave him a brief glance, indifferent, almost absent.
"I'm on duty," he said calmly, and walked on.
The baker didn’t take offense. On the contrary—his smile widened, as though he’d received a reward simply by being acknowledged.
"Hello, Fugaku-sama!" chirped a bright voice. A first-year academy student stood in front of him, staring up with a gap-toothed grin. "You're so big! Do you train a lot, or is that from jutsu?"
"Both," Fugaku said, not breaking stride.
The boy turned to watch him go, eyes shining with awe.
"How are you today, Fugaku-sama?" called an elderly woman from a balcony, steadying a laundry basket on her hip. "I always say, ever since you came, Konoha's been as orderly as it was in the First Hokage’s time! No litter, no hooligans. I pray for you every morning at the shrine."
"Thank you," he replied, curtly, almost automatically.
And so it went, the whole walk. People nodded. Children played in the streets, mimicking his fighting stance. Even adult Uchiha, upon seeing him, would stand straighter, their posture more disciplined. Strength was a language everyone understood. Personal power erased even the most inconvenient questions.
No one talked anymore about how he was the one who broke the ambassador from Kumo. How it was that incident that triggered the threats of war. How his ruthlessness had pushed the situation to the brink.
As he passed the park, Fugaku spotted a familiar figure—Hiruzen Sarutobi. The old man was strolling among the trees, taking in the scent of pine and blooming sakura. He nodded as Fugaku approached, falling into step beside him—not imposing, yet not falling behind either.
"Beautiful day," Hiruzen murmured, looking up through the leaves where sunlight streamed in. "You’re on the front page again. This morning’s paper. Headline reads: The Terror of Konoha."
Fugaku let out a faint snort.
“Tabloid nonsense. Pretentious lies. I didn’t drink the Raikage’s blood.”
Hiruzen chuckled, though without amusement.
“People fill in the blanks, especially when there’s no official version. They saw you with red eyes, and him covered in blood. That’s how legends are born. Though I’ll admit, I’d like to know how you pulled it off.”
“A shinobi doesn’t give away his secrets,” Fugaku said flatly. “Tell me what’s in the field reports.”
Hiruzen hesitated for a second, then frowned.
“Raikage A is in a wheelchair. Everything below the waist is non-functional. Was that really necessary?”
Fugaku stopped and looked at the old man.
“I did what you should’ve done ten years ago. I defended Konoha. Decisively. No speeches. No second chances.”
“You’re a cruel man,” Hiruzen exhaled. “You really do live up to your Bingo Book name—Evil Eye.”
Fugaku gave a short, humorless smile.
“Unlike you. You’re ‘The Professor’—and you don’t teach.”
“I actually wanted to go back to the Academy after passing the title to Minato,” Hiruzen said with a sigh. “Teach kids. Shape the next generation…”
He trailed off, as if swatting away dreams too old to hold onto.
“Either way, your... ‘terrorist attack’ worked. Kumo’s not eager for war. Their allies among the smaller nations have backed off too. A temporary balance has been restored.”
“Cowards,” Fugaku said with scorn, resuming his walk. “All it took was to snap their leader’s spine—and their spirit turned to ash. All their screams for vengeance, all their threats, their oaths—they vanished. Scattered like rats.”
Hiruzen’s frown deepened as he walked beside him. His eyes held no judgment—only concern.
“They fear you. And frankly, they have reason to,” he said. “A Kage isn’t just a politician. He’s a symbol of his village’s strength. The deadliest warrior they have. And you destroyed him. On top of that, you killed their jinchūriki.”
The corners of Fugaku’s mouth twitched, forming a brief, almost invisible smile. It held no joy—only satisfaction.
He remembered that strike. Lightning-fast. Precise. Measured down to the millimeter. Straight to the heart—right where the major chakra pathways converged. Not even demonic regeneration could save a jinchūriki from that. The classified scrolls he’d found deep in the old Uchiha archives had been telling the truth.
“Half of Kumo lies in ruins,” Hiruzen continued, lowering his voice as if it were still confidential. “The jinchūriki is dead. The Raikage is confined to a wheelchair. He’ll never be a shinobi again. Their situation is worse than ours was after the Nine-Tails attack.”
Fugaku gave a slight nod, as if drawing a conclusion.
“Then they’re licking their wounds now. Trying not to appear weak to their neighbors. Masking fear with the illusion of stability. Have they chosen a new leader yet?”
“Yes,” Hiruzen exhaled. “Acting Raikage is the jinchūriki of the Eight-Tails. Killer B.”
Fugaku raised a brow slightly.
“‘Acting’? What does that mean? A still thinks he’s coming back?”
“Exactly,” Hiruzen confirmed. “Our spies report he’s looking for Tsunade. Hopes she can heal him.”
Fugaku gave a mirthless huff.
“How amusing. Not long ago he was snarling at Konoha, baring his teeth, demanding compensation. And now he crawls to the ones he tried to crush, begging for help. No dignity. No spine—in both senses of the word.”
They reached the edge of a path where the park began, with stone walkways and flowerbeds. Hiruzen stopped and turned to Fugaku, his gaze sharpening.
“In any case, my student won’t be healing him,” he said. “Tsunade doesn’t practice anymore. She doesn’t take patients. Only gives advice—and even that, rarely. A won’t get so much as a consultation.”
Fugaku nodded with clear approval.
“Good. Helping an enemy, even under noble pretense, is still betrayal.”
Hiruzen eased himself down onto a wooden bench beneath the tree. His movements were slow and cautious—age was catching up with him. He gestured beside him, inviting Fugaku to sit.
“By the way,” he said, “I know a thing or two about medicine myself. Comes with age—had to patch myself up more than once in the field. Our spies managed to get a copy of A’s spinal x-ray. I took a look. What you did to him... it’s irreversible.”
Fugaku sat down next to him, arms crossed over his chest.
“Of course it is. I don’t leave enemies behind me. Only corpses... or those who’ll never stand again.”
For a while, they sat in silence. The leaves rustled overhead, children’s voices rang faintly in the distance. The world kept moving, even as great powers collided in its shadows.
“I’m not your secretary,” Hiruzen suddenly said, turning to him. “I’m not obligated to deliver field updates personally. I came because I want a serious conversation.”
Fugaku turned his head slightly.
“I’m listening.”
“I won’t lie—what you pulled off with Kumo was a feat. Brutal, ruthless, but effective. And now the whole world understands that. Even I do.” Hiruzen looked him straight in the eye. “It was, without exaggeration, the most successful covert operation of the last twenty years. Which is why... I’m offering you a new position. One of strategic importance.”
Fugaku narrowed his eyes.
“And what exactly do you want me to take over?”
“Counter-intelligence command,” Hiruzen said without hesitation. “The position Danzo used to hold.”
Fugaku’s expression darkened.
“So you want me to replace your runaway old friend?”
“I’m good at making new ones,” Hiruzen replied evenly. “This isn’t just a promotion. It’s a chance to operate in the shadows—at the international level. Your own network of agents, access to top-level intelligence, off-the-record operations. Full control over Konoha’s security, inside and out. I believe this role suits you.”
Fugaku absorbed the offer in silence. His gaze flicked to the patrol across the street. One of the officers—Yashiro—was picking up minute details, coordinating clones with sharp, practiced precision.
“What about the police?” he asked at last.
“You’ve already done what needed to be done,” Hiruzen replied. “Under your leadership, discipline has reached levels we haven’t seen since Madara’s time. Order is holding. Patrols run day and night. The streets are quiet. You’ll be respected as the founder of a new era. The police will remain under clan control, but the strategic matters… it’s time you handled something greater.”
“When I commit to something,” Fugaku said slowly, “I follow it through. Completely. With full responsibility. No compromises.”
“Which is exactly why I’m offering you this role,” Hiruzen nodded. “You can delegate the police to your deputy. He’s trained enough to maintain order. Monthly inspections from you will be sufficient. You’ve already built a solid foundation.”
Fugaku leaned back against the bench, his gaze darkening.
“What you’re offering isn’t just another mission, Hiruzen. It’s a burden. Constant surveillance, pressure, responsibility for agents operating across the world. Endless monitoring, interrogations, preemptive strikes. It demands total immersion. I won’t be able to rely on just a few clones. It’ll take my time. All of it.”
He paused, as if weighing whether to continue.
“And I already have a clan I’m responsible for. A family. A business. Duties to those who trust me. Taking this job means giving all of that up.”
Hiruzen rose to his feet, straightening his back with effort. He looked down at Fugaku—not with condescension, but with quiet understanding.
“I’m not asking for your answer now,” he said. “Think it over. Weigh everything. But know this—I don’t see anyone else more suited for this task than you. This isn’t a job for someone afraid of isolation or instability. But you, Fugaku... you already live in the shadows. Now it’s time to act from them.”
