The air inside the Akatsuki's hideout was colder than the stone it was carved from. The silence wasn't just quiet—it was the kind that sank into the skin, the kind that made footsteps echo for too long in the narrow corridors. Even the faint drip of water somewhere deep in the hall seemed to fall with measured precision, as if the entire place breathed in rhythm.
It was in this stillness that Konan stood, her paper-like hair ornaments catching the dim light of the torches that lined the stone walls. Her amber eyes, sharp and unreadable, fixed themselves on the figure standing in front of her. Her voice, when it came, was as cold as the air around them—steady, controlled, leaving no room for interpretation.
> "Itachi… your partner is Kisame."
The words hung between them like a blade suspended by a thread.
Itachi Uchiha, dressed in the black-and-red cloak of the Akatsuki, did not flinch, did not react outwardly. His expression remained the same calm mask he always wore—half-lidded eyes, voice low, his presence quiet but carrying a weight that demanded attention. To most, his demeanor was unreadable. But behind those crimson Sharingan eyes, thoughts turned with the precision of a clock's gears.
He had entered this organization not to serve it fully, but to gather what he needed—information. Information that he would pass on to Shisui. A small step toward atoning for the sins he could never undo. He had recently left Konoha, his hands still stained with the shadow of the Uchiha clan's near massacre—a night that was not as the world believed. The truth of that night was locked away between himself, Gojo, and Shisui. Though Itachi and the masked man had both fallen to Gojo and Shisui's overwhelming strength, no word of that defeat had reached the ears of the Akatsuki. The façade remained intact.
Opposite him stood Kisame Hoshigaki.
The man was a tower of muscle and menace, his skin tinged with an unnatural bluish hue, his gill-like facial markings only adding to the inhuman aura. Slung over his shoulder with casual ease was Samehada, a monstrous blade wrapped in bandages, its faint hum betraying the hunger of the chakra-devouring weapon. Kisame's lips curved into what could only be called a shark's grin—sharp, dangerous, and far too wide. His presence carried an entirely different energy from Itachi's: where the Uchiha was still water, Kisame was the storm that churned beneath it.
For a moment, the two simply regarded each other in silence.
Kisame was the first to speak, his tone carrying an edge of interest rather than hostility.
> "So you're the prodigy… the one who almost wiped out his own clan and walked away from the village."
There was no mockery in his words, only the curiosity of one predator recognizing another. His small chuckle echoed faintly against the stone walls.
Itachi's gaze did not shift. His reply was calm, even, yet each word carried a quiet gravity.
> "And you're the Monster of the Hidden Mist."
No arrogance. No flare. Just an acknowledgment—mutual, unspoken—that each knew exactly how dangerous the other was.
It was not the kind of meeting that called for a handshake, nor the clash of blades to prove dominance. This was something subtler: two weapons forged for entirely different purposes, each recognizing the other's deadly sharpness. Kisame's grin widened, his teeth glinting under the dim torchlight. Itachi's only response was the faintest of nods, but in that small gesture lay the foundation of an understanding neither needed to speak aloud.
From that moment, the partnership was sealed—not by words, but by recognition.
---
Their first mission together came sooner than expected.
On paper, the assignment was straightforward: a rogue shinobi faction had been operating near the borderlands, interfering with Akatsuki movements and trade routes. The orders were simple—eliminate them, and recover any intelligence they possessed. But the Akatsuki's "simple" missions rarely were. There was always more to the situation than the parchment carried.
The day bled into twilight as Itachi and Kisame approached the target village. The sky was painted in streaks of crimson and gold, but the light did little to soften the oppressive air. They moved without sound, their long cloaks swaying slightly with each step. In that moment, they were not men—they were shadows given form, sliding through the land unnoticed.
When they reached the outskirts, Itachi's eyes shifted, the tomoe of his Sharingan spinning slowly. His gaze scanned the rooftops, the streets, the alleys—reading movement patterns, sensing chakra signatures, mapping out positions before the enemy even knew they were being hunted.
Kisame, however, was not one for subtle reading. He hefted Samehada slightly, feeling the hum of its hunger through the wrappings, and grinned to himself. The scent of battle stirred something primal in him. His bloodlust was almost tangible, the aura of a predator eager for the first strike.
When the first enemy appeared—emerging cautiously from behind a wooden fence—Itachi moved like the breath before a whisper. A flicker of motion, the gleam of a kunai, and the target fell, eyes clouded by genjutsu before the blade even touched. In the same heartbeat, Kisame surged forward into the narrow street beyond, Samehada tearing through the air. His strike didn't just wound—it shredded chakra from flesh, leaving his foe to collapse with a look of confusion and horror etched across their face.
The battle unfolded with a strange, terrifying rhythm.
Itachi's movements were calculated, surgical. Every step, every strike served a purpose: to herd, to mislead, to open pathways for his partner. Kisame was chaos incarnate, his sweeping attacks cutting down groups in bursts of violence, forcing survivors to retreat straight into the traps Itachi wove with his illusions.
The difference between them was stark—scalpel and sledgehammer—but the effectiveness was undeniable. Where Kisame's brute force might have been reckless alone, Itachi's control molded it into a weapon of precision. Where Itachi's efficiency might have seemed cold and distant, Kisame's ferocity broke through defenses that strategy alone could not.
There was no spoken coordination. No orders barked across the battlefield. Only glances, brief as the flicker of a flame, and an unspoken trust that the other would act.
By the time the mission ended, the village lay in silence. The rogue shinobi force had been erased—obliterated without either Itachi or Kisame sustaining so much as a scratch. The setting sun bled into night, painting the smoldering ruins in shades of deep red and black.
Kisame stood amidst the destruction, Samehada still humming faintly from its feast. He looked at Itachi, that shark-like grin returning, but this time there was something else in it—respect.
> "I think I'm going to enjoy working with you, Itachi."
Itachi met his gaze, his face as unreadable as ever. But he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. It was enough.
From that night on, they were no longer simply partners assigned by the Akatsuki. They were a balanced killing machine—two blades forged for different purposes, but deadly when used in tandem.
The mission was done.
The forest behind him lay silent, the wind brushing faint ripples across the surface of the moonlit lake. Itachi stood at the edge, his lone figure reflected in the still water like an unfinished painting—perfect on the surface, yet hiding countless unspoken brushstrokes beneath.
His eyes, half-lidded yet sharp, followed the dance of the ripples. No emotion crossed his face, but somewhere deep within, something flickered—an ember of thought, unreadable to anyone but himself.
The world moves as it always has, he mused inwardly, and yet… the pieces are shifting faster than they should.
A faint smile curved his lips. It wasn't warmth—it was the kind of smile that carried the weight of an unspoken plan. Without another glance at the lake, he turned, footsteps soundless against the grass, and vanished into the shadows.
---
Meanwhile, on the other side of the village, the day's routine was about to erupt into its own storm.
Shizuka stepped into the academy classroom, her steps graceful yet purposeful. Her eyes immediately found Gojo—and froze.
Karin was there, clinging to his arm like she had every right to be there. The scene hit Shizuka like a needle scraping glass. She felt her jaw tighten, her teeth grinding in a motion she kept carefully hidden.
A thin, sharp thread of anger began to coil in her chest. She didn't understand why it was there—why it always sparked whenever another girl got too close to him—but it was there nonetheless, demanding to be felt.
Across the room, Sasuke had been watching the doorway. When his gaze fell on Shizuka, he braced himself for the usual sting of being ignored. But this time, her attention wasn't on him at all—it was locked entirely on Gojo.
Sasuke released a slow, quiet breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He didn't want to admit it, but seeing her attention somewhere else—anywhere else—meant he didn't have to deal with the awkward weight of her eyes on him.
His moment of reprieve lasted exactly five seconds.
"SA-SUKEEEE!"
Naruto's voice ripped through the air like a badly played trumpet, and before Sasuke could react, the blond blur came barreling out of nowhere.
The impact knocked them both to the floor in a tangle of limbs, the wooden floorboards groaning under the sudden collision.
"You bastard! You didn't wait for me after training yesterday!" Naruto barked, grabbing the front of Sasuke's shirt.
"Tch. Maybe because I didn't want to," Sasuke replied flatly, shoving Naruto back with a hand to the face.
"Oh, that's how it is?!" Naruto snapped, springing back to his feet in a crouch. "You think you're too good to hang out with me now, huh?"
"I don't think—I know," Sasuke shot back, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve with insulting calm.
"Oh yeah?!" Naruto's voice was already climbing in volume, drawing stares from around the room. "Well at least I don't walk around looking like I swallowed a lemon!"
"At least I don't act like one," Sasuke countered without missing a beat.
"You—!?" Naruto lunged again, but this time Sasuke sidestepped with irritating ease, letting Naruto stumble past him.
"You're too slow," Sasuke said, tone icy.
Naruto whirled, glaring with enough intensity to set the room on fire. "Say that again, teme!"
"I said you're—"
"I'll show you slow!" Naruto roared, charging once more.
Their verbal jabs melted into a messy back-and-forth of shoves, grabs, and insults, their voices blending into a chaotic rhythm that somehow seemed like their own strange way of communicating.
Some students were watching with amusement, others with mild exasperation. Iruka hadn't even entered the room yet, and already the day was starting like a small battlefield.
---
At the back of the room, Shizuka's focus hadn't wavered from her true target.
Her anger was a slow burn, her expression neutral—but her eyes… her eyes told another story entirely. With deliberate slowness, she began walking toward Gojo.
Karin felt it before she saw it—a heavy, unspoken weight pressing against her, the air growing colder in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.
Shizuka stopped right beside them, her gaze locking onto Karin's with quiet, razor-sharp intent. No words passed between them, but the message was clear.
Karin's shoulders stiffened involuntarily.
Then, as if flicking a switch, Shizuka turned toward Gojo. The darkness in her eyes softened, and a smile bloomed—sweet, innocent, and breathtakingly beautiful, as if she had been nothing but sunshine the entire time.
Before Karin could even react, Shizuka slipped her arm through Gojo's free one, claiming the other side.
From the corner of her eye, she saw movement—Ino, Hinata, and Sakura approaching. The moment they stepped within range, her expression shifted again.
Her smile faltered into a small frown, and her gaze hardened. The weight of her intent rolled off her in waves, invisible but suffocating. The three girls froze for a heartbeat, their breath catching under the pressure.
Then, without a word, Shizuka tightened her hold on Gojo and pulled him toward a nearby bench.
---
Gojo didn't resist—he rarely did when it came to where he sat. He simply let her guide him, lowering himself onto the bench with the same unbothered ease he always carried.
Within moments, his head tilted slightly, his breathing evened out, and it was clear he'd fallen into one of his casual, public naps—right there under Iruka-sensei's yet-to-arrive lecture.
Shizuka sat beside him, her posture composed but her eyes never leaving his sleeping face. A faint smile lingered on her lips—not one of mockery or victory, but something softer, more personal.
Every now and then, her gaze would lift to scan the room.
Karin. Ino. Sakura. Hinata.
Each time her eyes met theirs, the softness vanished, replaced by a sharpened, warning edge. Each time, the other girl would look away, shuddering slightly, as if reminded that there were lines not to be crossed.
---
At the far side of the room, Naruto and Sasuke were still locked in a silent staring match, their earlier shouting replaced by an intense quiet that said the argument wasn't over—it was merely on pause.
The tension in the room was a strange mix:
the heavy, quiet possessiveness of Shizuka,
the irritated warzone of Naruto and Sasuke,
and the soft, steady breathing of Gojo, who remained blissfully unaware—or perhaps simply uninterested—in the storm swirling around him.
---
End of Chapter
---
Want to read advanced chapter?
Give me your stone to this novel to reach the milestone that will give you bonus chapter per day!!!
10-20 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter / Day
20-30 Power Stones = 2 Bonus Chapters / Day
30-40 Power Stones = 3 Bonus Chapters / Day
Please support me?
See ya!