Fifteen Days Before Blood
A crimson moon hung low over Konohagakure, casting its sickly glow through the paper-pane windows of a modest home in the Uchiha district.
Inside, a lone figure sat before a flickering holo–screen, eyes burning with a hatred so fierce it stained every thought.
"Sasuke Uchiha… the last hope of our clan," he whispered, voice ragged.
He had watched the footage a hundred times: Sasuke, one–armed and hollowed by guilt, kneeling before Naruto, pledging to rebuild the Uchiha.
But there was no rebuilding; there was only extinction. Sarada's birth certificate flashed at the corner of the screen—"Uzumaki." Uzumaki.
The final insult. His chest tightened. His knuckles whitened around the remote.
"So this is your legacy," he spat. "A single daughter bound to another line. The name 'Uchiha' snuffed out like a dying ember."
He pressed a trembling finger to the screen, shattering the glass image with a pitiful click. The holo–screen collapsed into shards of static, and for a heartbeat the world was silent.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears: too slow, too weak. He was no Uchiha—he was a bystander watching his beloved clan drown in passivity.
The realization crystallized into a bitter truth: Sasuke's vengeance had been nothing but wind. Danzo's terror had been a joke.
And Naruto's mercy… a folly that led to the clan's slow death.
A laugh rose from his throat—cold, mirthless. "If I were you, I'd have burned it all to ash."
His apartment walls seemed to shiver at the words. The air turned brittle. Electricity crackled, unseen, and a voice whispered from nowhere:
> "Would you sacrifice your soul for power?"
He froze. The question slithered through his mind like poison. What did he have to lose? His life, his regrets, his forsaken dreams—gone already. He closed his eyes, bidding farewell to the motes of light in his vision, and when he opened them again, the world had shifted.
---
A soft gasp escaped his lips as cold air brushed his cheek. He lay on a narrow futon, the fabric rough against his skin.
A paper lantern swayed gently overhead. Outside, the deep hush of early dawn settled upon the village.
He blinked—once, twice—then swung his legs off the bed, stumbling to a cracked mirror propped against the wall.
Staring back at him was not the face of the man who had cursed Sasuke.
Nor was it the face of the overly curious shinobi who had once researched Uchiha history in secret. No—this reflection was younger.
Stronger. Dark hair fell around angular cheekbones; eyes of onyx brimmed with a cruel, sovereign light.
His heartbeat quickened. He raised a hand, trembling, and brought his palm to his face. The skin was smooth, unscarred.
He swallowed. Indra Uchiha. A name he had only ever known in legend—and now it was his own.
He closed the distance to the mirror, inches from his reflection, and leaned forward until his forehead touched the cool glass. The world felt distant, like a dream he couldn't wake from.
Then a chime, delicate yet impossible to ignore, sounded in his mind:
> [Ultimate System Installed — Online]
[Succubus System Bound — Online]
His breath caught. He staggered back, knees buckling.
> [Ultimate System]
First Task: Survive & Win the Uchiha Genocide.
Reward: Ashura Template (Massive Chakra Fusion + Sage Body DNA + Indomitable Taijutsu Boost).
> [Succubus System]
(No mandatory tasks. Intimacy with key shinobi heroines yields potent rewards.)
He shook his head from side to side, as if to clear a haze. His fingers brushed against the hilt of a kunai tucked under his pillow.
Muscle memory flickered to life—he was no ordinary child. Prodigy. Elite. The embers of power slept just beneath his skin.
He closed his hand into a fist, and the kunai disappeared, consumed by mud-like substance—Wood Release? No, that wasn't his. It was the raw shape of chakra.
A sudden pounding at the front door shattered his reverie. He pressed himself against the wall, heart pounding.
"Kakashi-sensei? Guy-sensei?" he murmured, voice low. He remembered fleeting smiles exchanged in passing, the faint respect in Kakashi's one eye, Guy's booming laugh—before his memory snatched him back to reality. This body's reputation was intact: a three–tomoe Sharingan awakened, jonin–level prowess, and a charisma that had once captured the hearts of Kurenai, Anko, and Yugao.
A second knock came—more insistent this time.
He moved to the door, sliding open the paper screen. There stood Uchiha elder Hiashi, face drawn and pale, cloak fluttering in the morning breeze. Behind him moved a small squad of ANBU, their masks reflecting the dim light.
"Indra," Hiashi said, voice trembling. "It's time to report to the clan compound. Please hurry." His eyes flicked to the ANBU escorts. "No—no sign of worry, right?"
Indra forced a calm smile. "Of course, Father. I'll be there shortly."
As Hiashi turned and stomped away, Indra closed the door. His mind raced: In less than two weeks, they will strike. Itachi, Shisui… all of them. And then the slaughter.
He knelt to the tatami floor and placed both hands on the ground, lowering his forehead in a salute to traditions he now viewed as chains. The chime echoed once more:
> "Be the storm that wakes the world."
His lips curved into a predatory grin.
Not their storm. My storm.
Rising, he crossed to the mirror again. His reflection stared back, profound and unyielding. He reached out for the glass and brushed the surface, as if feeling for an unseen pulse beneath.
"Let them come," he whispered. "Let every traitor in Konoha feel the weight of their sins."
Outside, a crow cried—sharp, accusing.
He turned away. The door sealed his private vow. Soon, the massacre would begin. But Indra Uchiha, prodigy reborn, would ensure it ended on his terms.
And with the combined might of the Ashura Template and Ōtsutsuki blood whispered in his veins… he would rise from the ashes of his clan and blaze a legacy that no coward could ever extinguish.
The moon dipped beyond the horizon, leaving only the promise of blood and power in its wake.
---
End of Prologue