The Naka River's grove was a prison of shadows, the moonlight fractured by twisted branches, casting jagged patterns on the blood-stained ground. Akira stood frozen, his two-tomoe Sharingan locked on the masked figure before him, the single glowing Sharingan in the stranger's eye a chilling echo of the *Naruto* visions. The voice, low, rasping, laced with malice, had called him by name: "Akira Uchiha. You've been busy, haven't you?" The words hung in the air, heavy as the kunai in his hand, still slick with the Root operative's blood. Nine weeks remained until the Uchiha Massacre, and Akira's world was unraveling, thread by thread, under the weight of enemies he couldn't predict. Itachi's blade had missed his throat by an inch hours ago, and now this figure, bearing a Sharingan that screamed of Madara Uchiha, stood before him, a threat beyond his calculations.
His heart pounded, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs, but he forced his breathing to steady, his face a mask of defiance hiding the terror clawing at his chest. The visions had shown him Madara's legacy, his power, his ambition, his shadow stretching across the shinobi world, but Madara was dead, or so the story went. This figure couldn't be him, not yet, not here. Was it Obito, masquerading as Madara? A Root operative with a stolen eye? Or something worse, something the visions hadn't revealed? Akira's grip tightened on the kunai, his knuckles whitening. He'd killed without mercy last night, twisting the blade to silence a spy's screams, and he'd do it again. Enemies deserved no quarter, not when his family's lives hung in the balance.
"Who are you?" Akira demanded, his voice low, cold, cutting through the grove's silence. His Sharingan tracked the figure's every movement, every subtle shift in the cloaked silhouette. The mask, painted with Root's sigil, glinted in the moonlight, but the Sharingan beneath it was no illusion, it was real, its tomoe spinning with a malevolence that sent a shiver down his spine.
The figure tilted its head, the single eye narrowing. "Names are meaningless, boy," it rasped, its voice a blade scraping stone. "But you… you're an anomaly. Killing Root operatives, stealing scrolls, whispering doubts in the clan's ears. You think you can change fate?"
Akira's blood ran cold. The figure knew too much, his actions, his plans, his defiance of the visions' doomed future. Had Itachi sent him? Danzō? Or was this something deeper, a shadow from the *Naruto* story's endgame? He wove the *Veil of Shadows* instinctively, his chakra softening, his presence fading into the night. It wasn't perfect, the jutsu flickering under his strain, but it gave him a moment to move, to circle the figure, his kunai raised.
The figure laughed, a low, guttural sound that echoed in the grove. "Hiding won't save you." It raised a hand, and a wave of chakra surged, shattering Akira's jutsu like glass. He stumbled, his Sharingan flaring, pain lancing through his head as the figure's chakra pressed against his mind, heavy, invasive. A genjutsu, subtle but crushing, began to weave images, flames consuming the Uchiha compound, his parents' bodies, Sasuke's screams. It was too familiar, too close to his own self-inflicted nightmares.
Akira fought back, his Sharingan spinning, countering with a desperate *Illusory Whisper*: *You're mistaken.* The jutsu was weak, a thread against a storm, but it disrupted the figure's genjutsu, giving Akira a moment to lunge. He aimed his kunai for the figure's chest, his movements fueled by a cold fury. This was an enemy, a threat to his survival, and he'd end it with the same ruthlessness he'd shown the operative. The blade struck, but the figure flickered, a Body Flicker Technique carrying it out of reach, leaving Akira's kunai slicing air.
"You're quick," the figure said, reappearing behind him, its voice a venomous whisper. A tanto flashed, aimed for Akira's back, but his Sharingan caught the movement, and he twisted, the blade grazing his side, drawing blood. Pain flared, but Akira didn't flinch. He spun, driving his kunai toward the figure's mask, aiming for the single eye. The figure blocked, their blades clashing, sparks flying in the moonlight.
Akira's mind raced, his body moving on instinct. He couldn't match this figure's strength, not yet, but he could outthink it. He wove another *Illusory Whisper*, threading a cruel suggestion: *Your body betrays you.* The figure staggered, its movements slowing as the illusion took hold, its mind convinced its limbs were failing. Akira seized the moment, slashing his kunai across the figure's arm, blood spraying. He didn't stop, driving his blade into the figure's shoulder, twisting it with a brutality that left no room for mercy. The figure grunted, its mask cracking under the force, but it didn't fall.
"Enough!" the figure snarled, its chakra surging, shattering the illusion. A wave of force knocked Akira back, his body slamming into a tree, the air driven from his lungs. The figure advanced, its Sharingan blazing, and Akira felt the pull of a stronger genjutsu, one he couldn't break. The world tilted, the grove fading into darkness, and he saw the Uchiha compound burning, his own body broken among the dead.
But Akira wasn't done. He clawed at the edges of his mind, his Sharingan burning, and screamed, "You won't stop me!" His chakra flared, raw and desperate, breaking the genjutsu's hold. He staggered to his feet, blood dripping from his side, his kunai raised. The figure paused, its single eye narrowing, as if reassessing him.
"You're tenacious," it said, its voice a mix of amusement and respect. "But you're playing a dangerous game, Akira Uchiha. The clan's fate is sealed, and you can't outrun it."
Before Akira could respond, the figure vanished, its Body Flicker Technique a blur, leaving only a faint ripple in the air. Akira stood, gasping, his body trembling, his Sharingan aching. The encounter had been a warning, a test, but from whom? Madara? Obito? Or something else, a shadow the visions hadn't shown? He wiped the blood from his kunai, his hands steady despite the pain, the fear. Enemies deserved no mercy, and he'd given none. But the figure's words lingered, a poison in his mind: *The clan's fate is sealed.*
---
The Uchiha compound was a gray haze as Akira returned, the morning rain a steady patter that soaked his clothes and stung the wound at his side. He slipped through the streets, his *Veil of Shadows* flickering to mask his presence, his Sharingan scanning for Itachi's crows. The clan was a powder keg, Kenta's paranoia now a blaze, the elders' meetings shrouded in secrecy. Akira's manipulations were working, but they were a double-edged blade, cutting into his own soul. The blood on his hands, the operative, the figure, felt heavier now, a weight he couldn't shake.
At home, breakfast was a silent ordeal, Hana's eyes boring into him, her concern a knife twisting in his gut. "You're hurt," she said, her voice sharp as she noticed the blood seeping through his tunic. "What happened, Akira?"
He forced a smile, wincing as he adjusted his posture to hide the wound. "Training accident, Kaa-san. I'm fine." The lie was bitter, but necessary. He couldn't tell her about the figure, the Sharingan, the blood he'd spilled. She'd break under the truth, and he couldn't protect her if she knew.
Taro's gaze was sharp, his voice gruff. "You're careless, Akira. The clan's under enough pressure without you getting yourself killed in training. Kenta's causing trouble, talking about spies and traitors. The elders are on edge. You know anything?"
Akira's heart skipped, but he kept his expression neutral. "No, Tou-san. Just rumors." He took a sip of tea, his mind racing. Kenta's confrontation with the elders was imminent, a spark that could ignite the clan's collapse. Akira needed to guide it, to point their suspicion at Danzō's Root, but Itachi's warning and the figure's attack had changed everything. He was running out of time, out of moves.
After breakfast, he slipped out, his destination the training grounds. Kenta was there, his face pale, his Sharingan flickering with agitation. Akira approached, his expression one of concern, his voice low. "Kenta, you look like you're about to snap. What's happening?"
Kenta's eyes snapped to him, his voice a hiss. "The elders are liars, Akira. They're hiding something, plans, secrets. I confronted them, and they shut me down. They're betraying us!" His words were loud, drawing glances from nearby Uchiha, their whispers a soft buzz in the rain.
Akira leaned closer, his voice a whisper. "I saw someone last night, Kenta. Not Uchiha. Root. They had a scroll, our plans. The village is closing in." He wove the *Illusory Whisper*, threading a suggestion: *The elders are working with Danzō.* It was a reckless push, urging Kenta to escalate his accusations, to fracture the clan further.
Kenta's eyes widened, his hands shaking. "Danzō? And the elders do nothing? I'll expose them!" He stormed off, his anger a wildfire Akira had stoked. Akira watched him go, his heart heavy but his resolve firm. Kenta was a tool, a means to delay the coup, to buy time. If his anger tore the clan apart, so be it.
---
That afternoon, Akira returned to the Naka River, the grove his sanctuary and his crucible. The wound at his side throbbed, but he ignored it, spreading the stolen scrolls. The *Genjutsu: Mind's Fracture* stared back at him, its cruelty a mirror to his own. He'd used it on the operative, shattering his mind before ending his life, and he'd do it again. Enemies deserved no mercy, not when they threatened his family, his future.
He practiced the *Veil of Shadows*, his chakra flowing smoother, his presence fading for nearly four minutes before it collapsed. Progress, but not enough. He turned to the *Mind's Fracture*, its hand signs a labyrinth, its chakra demands a mountain. He wove them slowly, his Sharingan guiding his movements, but the jutsu failed, his chakra sputtering. He cursed, his voice a low growl, and tried again, ignoring the pain, the blood seeping through his bandage.
The visions had shown him the Mangekyō's power, its ability to bend reality, to crush enemies, but also its cost. He needed it, needed its strength to face Itachi, to defeat the figure with Madara's eye. He wove the hand signs for another self-inflicted genjutsu, bracing for the pain. The world dissolved, the grove replaced by the Uchiha compound in flames. His parents lay dead, their blood pooling. Shisui's body was broken, Sasuke's screams echoing. And the figure stood over him, its Sharingan blazing, its voice a rasp: "You can't change fate."
Akira screamed, his Sharingan spinning, his heart tearing under the illusion's weight. He forced himself to endure, to feel the despair, the betrayal. His vision blurred, tears streaming, his chakra surging. The tomoe spun faster, but the Mangekyō didn't come. He broke the genjutsu, collapsing onto the wet grass, his breath ragged, his body shaking. "Not enough," he whispered, his voice raw, blood dripping from his side.
A sound, a soft footstep, made him freeze, his Sharingan flaring. He stood, kunai drawn, scanning the darkness. Another enemy? Or Itachi, back to finish him? He wove the *Veil of Shadows*, his presence fading, and crept toward the sound. His heart pounded, his mind racing. He couldn't afford another mistake, not after the figure, not after Itachi.
Then he saw it, a silhouette in the trees, small, familiar, but out of place. Sasuke Uchiha, his eight-year-old cousin, stood frozen, his eyes wide with fear, his small hands clutching a kunai. "Akira?" he whispered, his voice trembling. "What… what are you doing? I saw you… with that man, the blood…"
Akira's blood froze, his Sharingan locking on Sasuke's terrified face. He'd been seen, his killing, his cruelty, his secrets laid bare to the one person he'd sworn to protect. And behind Sasuke, a crow landed, its black eyes glinting, its cry a sharp, chilling note that promised Itachi's wrath.