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Mount Myōboku. Morning mist and frog song.
Manji sat on his usual rock, eyes closed, natural energy drifting around him like a second skin.
A messenger toad had just delivered the latest intelligence from the human world. Manji opened his eyes, and his brow creased.
"Kitsune is dead? Not a chance..."
He tapped his knee, thinking.
Nothing about this added up. Uchiha Kitsune—the orphan who'd survived a decade of frontline combat through sheer cunning, launched a coup against his own clan's leadership without breaking a sweat, and rebuilt the Uchiha from near-collapse into a major power—killed by a random assassin from the exchange houses?
A man like Kitsune didn't die in an alley. If he went down, it would be at the climax of a war, buried under the combined weight of every enemy he'd ever made. Not from some hired knife in the dark.
And Manji had checked. The exchange houses hadn't received any contract on Kitsune. Nobody had even submitted one. Who would? Taking that job was suicide. Might as well accept a bounty on the First Hokage.
The exchange network had some capable fighters on its payroll. None of them were "assassinate an active Sharingan-wielding clan head" capable.
Manji's eyes narrowed. Then relaxed.
He already knew.
"Fake death. The whole thing is staged."
Kitsune was planning something. The "assassination" was cover for anything that followed. Classic misdirection from a man who'd spent his entire life hiding his real capabilities behind a mask of mediocrity.
"Crafty little fox..."
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Mount Myōboku. Historical Records Hall.
Fukasaku sat at his desk, brush poised, carefully inscribing the latest entry.
"Shinobi Year 70: Uchiha Clan Head Uchiha Kitsune assassinated—"
The door burst open.
Black Zetsu came skidding in like something was chasing him.
"Stop writing! Hold off on that entry—it needs verification!"
Fukasaku's brush froze mid-stroke. He looked up at Black Zetsu's flustered face. "The Uchiha formally announced his death to the entire shinobi world. What's there to verify?"
"I don't know the details! The Grand Sage sent word directly—says Kitsune's death is probably faked. We can't commit this to the official record until we're sure!"
Fukasaku set the brush down on the inkstone without hesitation.
"If the Grand Sage says wait, we wait."
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The next morning. First light barely touching the mist along the Senju border.
Uzuki was already dressed and standing at the compound gate. Simple traveling clothes. No armor. Just a short blade at her hip—a Senju family heirloom—and the weight of what she was about to do pressing against her chest.
She wasn't going to a funeral in battle gear.
The elders were already clustered around her, faces tight with worry, tripping over each other to get their concerns heard.
"Elder Uzuki, the Uchiha are unpredictable even on their best days. Kitsune may be dead, but that doesn't mean the clan won't try something underhanded."
"Please—at least take five of our best fighters as escort. Just in case."
Uzuki shook her head.
"Unnecessary. With Kitsune gone, there isn't a single person in the Uchiha Clan who can challenge me. I spent ten years on the same battlefields they did. I know exactly what they're capable of, and I know my own limits. I'll be fine alone."
Her confidence wasn't arrogance. It was arithmetic. A decade of combat had placed her at the undisputed top of the shinobi world's active fighters. The only person who'd ever pushed her to her limits was Kitsune himself, and Kitsune was—supposedly—dead.
Besides, she didn't want to turn a funeral into a military operation.
The elders persisted. "Even if you're the strongest, there's no reason to take unnecessary risks. Five escorts. That's all we're asking. Just for our peace of mind."
She studied their worried faces. Old men who'd spent their lives calculating odds and hedging bets. They weren't wrong about the principle, even if they were wrong about the threat level.
"Fine. Five escorts. But they stay outside the compound."
Five Senju veterans materialized behind her. Battle-ready, stone-faced, radiating the quiet menace of people who'd been killing professionally for a very long time.
Uzuki didn't look back. She stepped into the morning fog and disappeared, her escort falling in behind her like shadows.
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Half a day's travel. The Uchiha compound materialized through the trees.
Rows of weathered wooden buildings, patched and rebuilt since Kitsune's reforms, stretched across the valley. Under different circumstances, the place might have looked almost welcoming. Today, it looked like a photograph drained of color.
White everywhere. White banners hanging from every roofline. White mourning clothes on every person in sight. White flags shifting in the breeze with a sound like quiet breathing.
Uzuki stopped at the gate and let the sight settle into her.
Two Uchiha guards quickly stepped forward. They were polite, respectful, and well-trained.
"Elder Uzuki, welcome. We apologize for the inconvenience, but Lord Kitsune's final instructions were specific—the funeral invitation extends to you alone. Your escorts are not permitted inside the compound."
Behind her, the five Senju fighters bristled visibly.
Uzuki considered the request.
She'd known Kitsune longer than anyone in this compound. Known him when he was a starving orphan who couldn't afford to eat properly. Known him when he was a teenager pretending to be weak so nobody would use him as a more efficient weapon. Known him when he grabbed her hand in a forest clearing and pulled her toward something neither of them was supposed to want.
They'd never married. Either of them. In all the years since that day on the road—through the war, the coup, the ceasefire, the quiet years of watching each other from opposite sides of a line neither could cross—they'd both stayed alone.
If Kitsune's last wish was to see her, just her, one final time… that wasn't a trap. That was a man dying the way he'd lived. Stubbornly. On his own terms. Reaching for the one person he'd never been allowed to hold onto.
"My escorts will remain outside. I'll enter alone."
She walked through the gate without waiting for a response.
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