The twilight was like spilled ink, pressing heavily upon the small courtyard where Uchiha Shisui stayed. He sat cross-legged on the cold engawa (veranda), his spine held straight, yet he looked like a statue from which the soul had been hollowed out.
The thousands of lights from the distant City of Stars blurred into a hazy halo, unable to penetrate the slowly rotating three-tomoe Sharingan in his eyes. Uzumaki Vanilla's words had taken root like cold, poisonous vines, frantically draining his past convictions and tearing at his mind.
Konoha... the Uchiha's home?
He closed his eyes, and chaotic images surged in the darkness.
Beneath the thunderous waterfall of the Valley of the End, the heaven-splitting duel between Hashirama Senju and Madara Uchiha played out. Two of the strongest souls, ending with one falling. Was this the fate of the co-founders? Was the seed of discord planted from the very beginning?
The scene shifted.
In the solemn Hokage's office, the silver-haired Second Hokage, Tobirama Senju, was strictly instructing a young Uchiha ninja. The youth's face was calm, his eyes focused—it was Shisui's grandfather, Kagami Uchiha. Tobirama's finger pointed at a scroll, explaining the intricacies of a sealing jutsu. Though his expression was stern, it lacked the bone-deep suspicion he held for other Uchiha.
The inheritance of master and disciple... this was once the warmest light in Shisui's heart, a symbol that the rift was not insurmountable.
Then came the sun-like smile of the Fourth Hokage, Minato Namikaze. Beside him stood the gentle Kushina Uzumaki, facing Fugaku and Mikoto Uchiha. The two couples raised their glasses in a small tavern booth. Fugaku's usually stern face was unusually relaxed; Minato laughed and patted his shoulder, sharing a joke.
The image turned again. Before the mission at Kannabi Bridge, Minato solemnly handed a Flying Raijin kunai to that Uchiha boy who was always late but had burning eyes—Obito Uchiha.
The Fourth Lord... he truly accepted the Uchiha.
The memories receded like a tide, leaving behind a cold, jagged rock: the Third Hokage, Hiruzen Sarutobi. Shisui struggled to remember, but the memories felt covered in thick dust. Lord Third was always smiling warmly, giving speeches at the Memorial Stone, or overlooking the village from the Hokage Rock.
What had he ever said to the Uchiha? What substantial action had he taken—like the Second taking a disciple or the Fourth making a friend—to bridge the gap?
Nothing.
There were only the vague words Fugaku brought back after meetings: "Understanding," "Waiting for the right time," "Considering the big picture." Behind the warm smile of the Third Hokage lay a bottomless alienation and a suffocating distance.
An answer deliberately forgotten; a demonstration left on a high shelf.
"Ahem."
A slight cough broke the deathly silence, like a stone dropped into a deep pool. Shisui was startled, his Sharingan instantly locking onto the source. The shadows of the courtyard seemed to come alive, coalescing into a figure. The black robes were motionless in the night wind, the Kujō Shaba-ka patterns on the cloak shimmering with an eerie luster under the moonlight. The white three-eyed fox mask hid the visitor's face, leaving only a pair of eyes as deep as an abyss.
"It seems Vanilla's words have given you much to think about." Shura's voice came through the mask, low and steady. He didn't approach, merely leaning against a pillar, melding with the shadows.
Shisui's muscles tensed. His new Sharingan spun wildly, trying to catch even a hint of a flaw in the opponent, but he felt only a chakra as vast as an ocean, concealing destructive power beneath its surface. He suppressed his heart and rasped, "Lord Shura... to what do I owe the honor of this late-night visit?"
"No 'honor' intended." Shura's gaze seemed to pierce the mask, falling on Shisui's transplanted eyes. He walked over and sat down beside Shisui with innate composure.
"From the rise and fall of the Uzumaki, she saw many things. She asked me..." Shura turned his head, the mask's eye-holes seemingly staring into Shisui's soul. He tossed out a question that weighed a thousand pounds: "Has the Uchiha clan ever owed anything to Konoha?"
Owed?
The word was a needle, popping the heavy confusion in Shisui's heart. Without hesitation, he straightened his back, his eyes flashing with sharp light. "No! The blood the Uchiha has shed for Konoha, the sacrifices made—it is second to no other clan! From the founding to the Great Shinobi Wars, the Uchiha's Sharingan has always been one of the sharpest blades protecting Konoha! The Police Force maintains order with absolute dedication!"
Countless Uchiha had died in the three wars; even his grandfather, Kagami, had died on the battlefield. Shisui's voice was resonant, filled with undeniable pride and sorrow. This was the foundation of all his struggles. Even Madara himself couldn't take the Uchiha clan away!
"Good." Shura's voice held a faint, almost imperceptible trace of approval, which quickly turned into deeper coldness.
"Then tell me, Shisui. If one day, a 'cleansing' arrives—not from an external enemy, but from internal suspicion, fear, and power struggles. When the blade is held to the neck of every Uchiha, when the blood-red moonlight of the genocide night covers the Nakano River... what will you do?"
The night... of genocide!
Those words carried a thick scent of blood, instantly seizing Shisui's breath. A sharp phantom pain shot through his eyes; the image of Danzō gouging out his eye with a sneer flashed again. Then came the distorted, angry faces of the radicals at the clan meeting, Itachi's silent and thinning silhouette in the Anbu shadows, and the Third's deep alienation behind a smile.
What would he do?
Shisui trembled violently. He looked for a piece of driftwood in the sea of despair. Ask the Third for help? The cold, monitoring Anbu figures in the illusion extinguished that final fantasy. Danzō had already stolen his Mangekyō—did the Third truly know nothing? Would he really protect the Uchiha?
Vanilla's words echoed: "The solution is simple... why doesn't the Third do it?"
Perhaps the answer was that someone in the high command didn't want to solve it; they welcomed the result.
Lead the clan in rebellion? That would ignite a civil war, drowning innocents in blood. And it would surely end like the Kaguya rebellion—suppressed by every other clan and civilian ninja.
Stop Itachi with all his might? Against absolute power and a meticulously planned conspiracy, how many could one person protect?
What could he do? What should he do?
On one side was the family that raised him; on the other, the village he swore to protect with his life. When forced into a corner where one must be destroyed to "solve" the problem, where did he stand? Where was his power? After losing his eyes, what was left of "Shisui of the Body Flicker" and "Kotoamatsukami"?
Enormous pain and confusion submerged him like a tide. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He could only clench his fists until his nails drew blood.
A coldness, silent and soft, landed on Shisui's tense shoulder. He shuddered and looked up. More coldness fell from the deep night sky—tiny, crystalline ice flakes shimmering in the moonlight like shattered stars.
It was snowing. The first snow of the year 56.
The flakes touched his hot skin and melted instantly, leaving a biting chill—a sigh of fate announcing the start of a long, harsh winter.
Shura watched quietly. He didn't push, comfort, or judge. He simply watched the storm inside Shisui. The black figure eventually faded into the falling snow as if he had never been there.
Shisui was left alone on the veranda, snow piling on his shoulders like a forgotten stone statue. Behind the veil of snow, his Sharingan rotated slowly, reflecting the stars and the bottomless weight of his choice.