Itachi's target was Inabi Uchiha—the one who had uttered the most vile slurs and the most naked threats.
Inabi felt a bone-chilling killing intent lock onto him instantly. He didn't even have time to weave a sign; all he saw was a palm, shrouded in a sharp gale, expanding rapidly before his eyes. The speed was so immense that even his proud Sharingan experienced a momentary lag.
Bang!
A dull, heavy thud echoed.
Itachi's right palm, imbued with violent chakra and sky-shattering fury, slammed squarely into Inabi's chest. The force was so great that Inabi's sternum let out a tooth-grinding groan. He felt as if he had been struck head-on by a high-speed carriage; his feet left the ground, a mist of blood sprayed from his mouth, and his body flew backward like a broken ragdoll.
"Inabi!" Tekka yelled in shock and rage. His kunai unsheathed in an instant, piercing toward the back of Itachi's heart with a sharp whistle.
However, Itachi acted as if he had eyes in the back of his head. His movement after striking Inabi didn't falter for a second. His body twisted at a bizarre, impossible angle, causing Tekka's "certain-kill" thrust to miss completely. Simultaneously, Itachi's left leg swept backward like a steel whip, shrieking through the air.
Snap!
The shadow of his leg struck Tekka's wrist with surgical precision. Agony flared, and the kunai went flying. Tekka let out a muffled groan, his body staggering back from the massive momentum.
"Arrogance!" Yashiro Uchiha roared, finally finding his opening as his hands moved in a blur to form signs. Chakra gathered at his fingertips; he would not tolerate such insolence from a junior!
But Itachi was faster. And far more ruthless.
The moment he repelled Tekka, he lunged again, sticking to the newly-recovered Yashiro like a shadow. Those black eyes, usually as calm as still water, were now burning with a terrifying scarlet light. Three pitch-black tomoe spun wildly, merging into a cold, eerie, and complex pattern—the Mangekyō Sharingan!
Terrifying ocular power erupted like a physical tide! An invisible mental shockwave, paired with frigid killing intent, slammed into Yashiro's consciousness.
Yashiro's hand signs froze. The pressure from Itachi's eyes bore down like a mountain, causing Yashiro's own three-tomoe Sharingan to throb with pain and vertigo. It felt as if his very soul were being frozen by that scarlet pattern. He stared in horror at those eyes—eyes that held the power of legends—and for the first time, he felt the genuine threat of death from Itachi.
Just as Itachi's fist, surging with violent chakra, was about to crush Yashiro's face, a more massive, heavier, and vaster pressure descended upon the entire courtyard without warning.
The air seemed to solidify. Falling maple leaves froze mid-air.
This pressure carried the unquestionable authority of a Clan Head and an absolute suppression rooted deep within the bloodline. Like an invisible giant hand, it instantly choked Itachi's violent movements and pinned the shocked Yashiro and Tekka in place.
"Stop!"
A low, authoritative voice, containing the fury of thunder, exploded from the doorway.
The tall figure of Fugaku Uchiha appeared at the end of the corridor. Dressed in his dark ceremonial robes, his face was as grim as still water. His gaze, cold as a blade, swept over the ruined courtyard: Inabi coughing blood on the ground, Tekka with a swollen wrist and pale face, and Yashiro standing paralyzed under the lock of the Mangekyō.
Finally, Fugaku's own eyes—holding that same scarlet glow with windmill patterns slowly rotating—locked onto his son in the center of the yard.
"Itachi!" Fugaku's voice was like ice, each word weighing a thousand pounds, carrying deep disappointment and rage. "Tell me! Why have you laid such heavy hands on your own kinsmen?!"
As a father, Fugaku was secretly pleased that Itachi had awakened the Mangekyō. But as a Clan Head, he was profoundly disappointed that Itachi chose to use that power against his own blood.
The Clan Head's pressure slammed into Itachi's heart. His father's interrogation felt like another cold dagger piercing his burning chest.
Disappointment?
The undisguised disappointment in his father's eyes felt colder and more suffocating than the vile suspicions of Yashiro and the others.
Why? Why is even my father like this? Can't he see my pain? Can't he see the anger of being pushed into a corner? Does he only see the result of me striking the clan?
Looking at the heavy disappointment in his father's eyes, the burning hatred in the eyes of the fallen Inabi and Tekka, and the lingering horror and humiliation on Yashiro's face... an indescribable sense of tragedy and profound loneliness washed over Itachi, instantly extinguishing the fires of his rage.
He slowly lowered his clenched fist from Yashiro's face. The violent chakra around him receded like a low tide. Those scarlet, spinning Mangekyō eyes dimmed rapidly, returning to their bottomless ink-black. But in that blackness, there was no longer the calm of the past—only a frozen exhaustion and a bone-deep detachment.
He looked around the familiar courtyard, at the faces of his kin—some angry, some suspicious, some disappointed. This was the home he had once desperately wanted to protect. Now, it felt utterly foreign and suffocating.
Suspicion was like a choking vine; anger ignited war far too easily; their "capacity" (kigai) was so narrow it couldn't hold a single dissenting opinion—nor a person trying to find a way out in the cracks between them.
"Why?" Itachi's voice rang out. It was no longer angry or agitated; it was as flat as a frozen lake, yet it carried a piercing chill. "Father, you should ask them why they used the most malicious suspicions to defile my bond with Shisui, and to trample upon my stance."
He raised his head slightly, his gaze no longer falling on the men on the ground, but looking past them toward the sky hemmed in by the high walls, appearing exceptionally oppressive.
His voice wasn't loud, but it reached everyone's ears with a finality that severed the past:
"The capacity of the Uchiha... is too low. So low it cannot hold trust. So low that it will only walk toward destruction through suspicion and internal strife."
He withdrew his gaze and gave his father, Fugaku, one last deep look. That gaze was infinitely complex—pain, resentment, and a bond too difficult to break—but eventually, it settled into a cold, unquestionable resolve.
"I will investigate Shisui's disappearance... in my own way!"
With those words, Itachi stopped looking at anyone. He turned around, his deep blue robes cutting a sharp arc in the air. His steps were steady, without a hint of hesitation, as he stepped over the golden leaves and headed straight for the estate's main gate.
His silhouette cast a long, solitary shadow in the autumn sun. He did not look back.
He left the courtyard in a dead silence.
Fugaku watched his son's resolute departure, the windmill patterns in his own eyes turning slowly. Beneath that majestic, calm visage, an unseen storm was churning.
'Those eyes...' Yashiro and Tekka struggled to stand, exchanging looks of shock and uncertainty with Inabi.
The heavy sound of the gate closing echoed for a long time in the empty, oppressive courtyard.