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Batman in Konoha. Chapter 18. Union Day
🕑 Added 2025-06-05 15:56:30 +0000 UTCThis day went down in history: after three devastating wars that claimed thousands of lives and left indelible scars across the continent, Konoha and Kumo finally signed an official alliance.
Not a truce.
Not a temporary agreement.
An alliance.
For the village, it was the event of the century—and the Third Hokage wasted no time turning it into a grand celebration.
He declared a holiday: a day off, a parade, street fairs, performers, kites, flags, acrobats, carnival processions—the main street of Konoha burst into color and sound like never before. People laughed, cheered, clapped, feasted at every corner—and even those who had grumbled yesterday about rising taxes or the rice shortage now, for the first time in years, simply allowed themselves to live.
But one man did not smile.
Fugaku Uchiha knew exactly how such days ended.
Where children saw magic tricks, he saw blind spots.
Where adults admired the flag procession, he traced escape routes.
Where everyone else heard music—he heard footsteps.
Fairs. Parades. Crowds.
A gift for criminals.
“Form up!”
The police captain’s voice sliced through the air like a blade, and silence swallowed the station instantly.
In front of the Konoha Police Headquarters, the entire force stood at attention. Not a single relaxed face. Not a single unnecessary movement. Faces stern, backs straight. No one even blinked—as if a single motion might cost them their lives.
“Today, Konoha celebrates. Peace. Alliance. Hope,” Fugaku began, evenly, without theatrics. His voice needed no ornamentation to weigh a ton.
“But for us—this is just another day. A workday. And possibly one of the hardest.”
His gaze swept over every officer—from seasoned veterans to fresh recruits. All of them felt that gaze cut through them.
“We don’t get to watch the show. We don’t get to drink like everyone else. We don’t get to relax. Because it’s up to us how this day will be remembered. The joy and safety of the people—are our responsibility. Not a single pickpocket. Not a single thug. Not one drunk fool will ruin this celebration.”
He paused.
Everyone waited—and he gave them more.
“Today, you're not security. You’re not background figures in a parade. Today, you are a wall. Between the citizens and chaos. Between joy and fear. And if you fail—that failure will be felt by the entire village.”
Fugaku didn’t need to raise his voice. Yet everyone heard him as if he were standing right beside them. His words cut to the bone. Some officers unconsciously straightened up, sensing that something truly depended on them.
“Deploy to your sectors. Every street must be under watch. No one leaves their post without permission.”
“Yes, Captain!” came the unified reply.
Fugaku formed hand seals with blinding speed—ten shadow clones flared into existence beside him and darted in different directions.
The rest followed suit.
The police force might not have been large—but with clone jutsu, they became an army.
Especially an army motivated down to trembling knees.
He watched as Yashiro, Inabi, and Tekka charged first toward the busiest areas—experienced, disciplined, reliable. But not because they were the best.
Fugaku knew the truth.
Itachi, his ten-year-old son, could outmatch any of them.
Easily. Effortlessly.
But those three were the most driven. Because they knew—if they made a mistake, the captain would be there.
The scars on their faces were proof of Fugaku’s ruthlessness.
And everyone in Konoha knew: Fugaku was not someone you wanted to anger.
///
Fugaku returned home and changed out of his shinobi uniform into a formal kimono.
Despite being the police captain, he was also head of the Uchiha clan—and he was expected to officially attend events like this with his family.
He descended from the second floor.
His family was already waiting.
Shisui, dressed in a formal dark-blue kimono, was the first to approach, a box of paper cranes resting on his shoulder—meant to be released at the end of the festival. As always, he smiled, but his eyes were sharp, alert.
Beside him stood Itachi—already carrying the gaze of an adult in a child's body. He wore a somber, dark kimono, as if he were attending a diplomatic reception rather than a parade.
Mikoto came last. She wore a light yukata with a delicate sakura pattern, her hair gathered into a traditional bun. Beside her was three-year-old Sasuke in a colorful, eye-catching kimono.
“Papa!” he called out excitedly, stretching out his little hand.
One hand clung to his mother; the other reached for his father. As if trying to physically connect them, to anchor the moment in place. But he was too small. His hand stretched, but couldn’t reach.
Fugaku silently leaned down, lifted his son, and placed him on his shoulder. The motion—precise, strong, confident—made it seem like the child wasn’t a burden but an extension of him.
“Wow!” was all Sasuke could say, his eyes lighting up with wonder like lanterns at a night festival.
Fugaku held his gaze for a moment. A thin, nearly imperceptible smile touched his lips. He had almost forgotten how little it took to make a child happy.
They walked through Konoha unhurriedly, with restraint, almost ceremonially—from the Uchiha clan district toward the central square, as was fitting for a family of high standing.
The streets were packed that day—streams of people flowing toward the heart of the village like toward a source of warmth. The alliance flags of Kumo fluttered from every corner, the air rich with the scent of sweets and grilled meat, and music played faintly in the distance.
They arrived at their designated place—an elevated platform overlooking the square, marked with the Uchiha crest.
It wasn’t just an honorary stand. It was a symbol. The Hokage himself had ordered that Fugaku and his family be placed there. So that all could see: the Uchiha stood for the alliance. The Uchiha stood for peace.
Pure politics.
The crowd near the stage buzzed: acrobats performed—tumbling over each other’s heads, juggling torches, walking tightropes. It was the “warm-up” act before the main event—the Hokage’s speech and the formal ceremony.
As the family took their seats, passersby—civilians, shinobi, merchants, even children—nodded to Fugaku with reserved respect.
He responded with a nod of his own, face like stone. Nothing more.
Across the street, slightly removed from the main crowd, one of the boys—a young genin by the look of him—began making faces at Itachi.
He puffed his cheeks, stuck out his tongue, crossed his eyes.
Itachi didn’t even flinch.
“Father,” he said, in a calm, cold tone. “That’s my teammate from the last mission. We had a disagreement. Permit me… to address it.”
“Don’t take long,” Fugaku nodded.
Sasuke fidgeted on his shoulders, but his father held him steady without shifting focus. Chakra enhanced Fugaku’s sight and hearing, and the "Venom" augmentation granted him near-superhuman concentration. He observed the street corner with the same precision he would apply to a battlefield map in the command center.
“I’m going to take the chunin exams,” the boy announced, grinning stupidly. “You’ll still be chasing cats for old ladies!”
He snorted and laughed. The laugh was loud, but hollow—as if trying to convince himself it was funny.
Itachi didn’t move an inch. His face—expressionless. Cold. Perfect.
His gaze fixed, as if dissecting a failed biological specimen.
“Your existence is irrelevant to me,” he said slowly. “But your behavior reflects on my family. If it happens again—don’t come near me.”
“What are you gonna do, huh?” the genin jeered, lips curled mockingly. “Beat me up in front of everyone?”
Itachi scanned the surroundings—the festival, the noise, the crowd, the attention.
He shook his head.
And stepped forward.
Close.
Too close.
Personal space vanished.
“No,” Itachi whispered. “I’ll wait for our next mission. When we’re far from the village. When there are no witnesses. Then a bear will accidentally bite off your arm. Or a snake—poisonous, silent—will strike, and you’ll never walk again.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” the genin recoiled.
“Just reminding you that outside Konoha, there are plenty of dangers,” Itachi continued dryly. “There will be no Hokage nearby. No police to save you. Only me. And I guarantee, you won’t die—you’ll live, but you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
The boy flinched, went pale. Let out a squeak. And bolted—without looking back.
Itachi calmly turned and walked back to his father. His face returned to its emotionless stillness. As if nothing had happened.
Shisui, who had been standing nearby, winced and shook his head.
“We probably shouldn’t have brought him to the last clan meeting,” he said quietly to Fugaku. “He heard the way you talk to our people. Now he’s… even scarier.”
Fugaku glanced at Shisui for a brief second. The usual steel in his eyes.
“And? Is that a problem?”
“Maybe not for you,” Shisui replied. “But most kids are taught… something else.”
“Fear,” said Fugaku. “The only thing that truly controls people.”
Sasuke, still perched on his shoulder, suddenly turned and jabbed a tiny finger at his father’s face.
“What’s fear?” he asked.
Fugaku caught him before he could slip and held him steady—firmly, but not roughly—by the collar of his kimono.
“Fear,” he said, “is your main enemy. The one inside. If you learn to defeat it—no one outside can ever hurt you.”
Sasuke puffed out his lips thoughtfully, as if trying to process the answer, then turned to look across the square.
About twenty meters away, the Hyūga clan had taken their designated place. Their honorary platform was nearly a mirror of the Uchiha’s.
Hiashi Hyūga was staring at Fugaku with cold, barely concealed contempt. He didn’t nod. Didn’t acknowledge him. On the contrary—he pretended the Uchiha weren’t there at all.
Fugaku didn’t bow either. The old rivalry between their clans had never faded, and after the blackmail operation where he’d extorted money from every noble family in Konoha, Hiashi’s hatred had only grown. And—unlike the others—he didn’t hide it.
Sasuke squirmed on Fugaku’s shoulder again.
“Stop moving,” he said, effortlessly keeping the boy in place as he started to slip.
“Papa… who’s that?” Sasuke pointed across the way.
Fugaku followed his gaze. A little girl, about three years old, with delicate features and pale lavender eyes, was peeking out from behind her mother’s kimono. She blushed under the attention from both father and son, then quickly pressed herself against the woman’s side—Hiashi’s wife.
He noticed the changes. Her skin, once deathly pale, now had a healthy tone. The unnatural thinness was gone. Her movements—softer, steadier.
The white parasites that had slowly been destroying her body… no longer returned.
Only because of Fugaku could she now spend more than half an hour outside.
Was she grateful?
Maybe.
But she would never say it out loud. She was Hiashi’s wife—and like any clan head’s spouse, she was expected to reflect his emotions. Even if they weren’t her own.
The thought of his own wife struck suddenly—he turned his head.
Mikoto stood just behind him, slightly removed from her surroundings. One hand rested over her heart, her eyes fixed on something off to the side, beyond the main square. He followed her gaze.
There, off to the side of the crowd, stood a group of small children—preschoolers from the orphanage, likely brought out for the occasion. They huddled together like fledglings in a nest, while a young woman—an indifferent caretaker—stood nearby, barely keeping an eye on them.
But Mikoto wasn’t watching all the children. Only one.
Amid the heads, like a bright flag in a grey crowd, stood a shock of blond hair. Naruto.
He was a little apart from the others. His head was down, shoulders slumped, and his eyes…
There was such sorrow in them that even Fugaku felt a sharp, unpleasant pang.
He knew that expression. Had seen it on the faces of those who’d been abandoned. Betrayed. Those left unwanted.
The adults had probably told the children: don’t go near him. And the kids, in turn, passed the fear among themselves.
Someone had heard that a Jinchūriki’s chakra was deadly.
Someone else—that he could explode.
Or that the demon inside would wake up any minute and start tearing through everything alive.
Fugaku couldn’t blame them.
These weren’t just rumors. They were statistics.
He had read the reports himself. There were incidents—emotional breakdowns, seal instability, bursts of demonic chakra—and even elite shinobi didn’t always survive such encounters.
A Jinchūriki could be a weapon. He could be a boy.
But the one thing he could not be—was just a child. Not in this world.
If it were up to Fugaku, the Jinchūriki would be kept in an isolated zone—under constant surveillance, behind walls, underground. Not among civilians.
But Hiruzen had a different policy. The “nobody’s Jinchūriki” approach. Freedom, trust, openness—damn him for his naivety.
“Go,” said Fugaku.
“What?” Mikoto blinked, as if pulled from her thoughts.
“You’ve been watching Naruto for fifteen minutes,” Fugaku said calmly, without reproach. “Bring him here.”
Mikoto straightened, her eyes wide.
“Really?”
He nodded.
“Fugaku, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Shisui interjected. He lowered his voice, but the concern in it was clear. “You know the Hokage’s orders… no one’s supposed to get close to him without approval.”
“I’m responsible for the parade’s security,” Fugaku said firmly. “The Kumo delegation is present. If the Jinchūriki loses control, I’m more likely to contain him than some chakra-less nanny.”
His voice never rose, but there was so much iron in his words that Shisui nearly snapped to attention.
For a moment, doubt flickered in the young Uchiha’s eyes. Then came his usual grin. He raised a thumb:
“Understood, Captain.”
Mikoto wasn’t listening anymore. She stepped down from the platform and hurried toward the children—almost running. The caretaker, seeing her approach, exhaled in relief—as if someone was finally taking an unpredictable bomb off her hands. She didn’t even try to stop Naruto when Mikoto reached out to him.
At first, the boy didn’t understand what was happening. He didn’t recognize her—he was too young to remember her face.
But the cotton candy in her hand made him step closer.
And her gaze—a gaze with no fear in it.
Mikoto took his hand and led him to the platform.
“Wanna go up?” Fugaku asked as they reached it. Without waiting for an answer, he picked Naruto up and placed him on his other shoulder, beside Sasuke.
Naruto froze.
And then—his face lit up.
Like a child seeing fireworks for the first time.
As if, for the first time, he felt: he didn’t just exist. He belonged.
Fugaku knew: this moment might become the happiest memory of that boy’s life.
And he knew what it would cost.
He felt the stares. Sharp as arrows.
The Hyūga clan hadn’t taken their eyes off him.
He didn’t look their way, but with enhanced hearing, he caught the whispers:
“Uchiha want to take the Jinchūriki…”
“They’re getting close to the weapon…”
“Fugaku’s planning something…”
The parade was in full swing. Down the main street of Konoha marched acrobats in bright costumes, juggling flaming balls with practiced ease. Behind them came illusionists, casting smoke and light tricks that drew delighted squeals from children and indulgent smiles from adults.
And then, amidst all the festive commotion, the Hokage began walking down the street—calmly, composed.
An old man in the traditional hat, nodding politely to the crowd. He moved like a textbook diplomat: friendly, steady, wearing that practiced expression that inspired trust. A carpet of cherry blossom petals lay beneath his feet. The crowd greeted him with applause.
He cast a glance upward—toward the platform, toward the Uchiha clan.
For a brief second, his eyes rested on Naruto, perched on Fugaku’s shoulder.
The Hokage’s expression didn’t change.
He didn’t pause.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t frown.
He simply shifted his gaze and continued on his way.
Fugaku didn’t care what he thought. He had done what needed to be done.
What interested him far more was the man walking behind.
The ambassador from Kumo.
Modestly dressed, but expensive nonetheless: a thick dark haori, leather gloves, a polite smile on his lips, hands raised in greeting. He looked every bit the peaceful representative of a foreign power. If not for the body.
Too solid.
Scars on the fingers. One knuckle slightly crooked, like after a poorly healed fracture. Those weren’t wounds from negotiations. This was a warrior—disguised as a diplomat.
Fugaku narrowed his eyes. His gaze turned sharp, slicing.
“Shisui,” Fugaku said quietly, eyes fixed on the ambassador, “you’re part of ANBU. So why are you standing here with me, and not guarding a high-value target?”
Shisui glanced down briefly, but his voice remained steady:
“We’re not allowed to monitor him. Hokage’s orders. He doesn’t want to insult the ambassador with excessive scrutiny. The man’s a former jōnin—he can sense if he’s being watched.”
Fugaku slowly clenched his fists.
A so-called ally, walking freely through the capital—unsupervised, unwatched. A warrior in the guise of a diplomat, and no one keeping eyes on him.
That wasn’t diplomacy. That was stupidity.
“Brilliant,” he said under his breath, voice cold as steel. “While we pretend to be friendly, the enemy studies the village layout, patrol routes, and our security system.”
“Maybe the Hokage sees it as an act of trust,” Shisui offered carefully.
“He can believe whatever he wants,” Fugaku replied, “but I’m not leaving a potential enemy unwatched.”
