"You're not afraid of dying?"
Rin's voice was calm as he looked at the boy, but the evaluation in his mind shifted upward.
Impressive. This kid wasn't just anyone—he was a true heir of the elders. Barely three years into the Academy and already had chakra reserves on par with a Genin. No wonder Setsuna had his eye on him.
"I am afraid," Amakumo answered. "But I fear being overlooked even more."
"I have an older brother—already a Jōnin."
"If I don't surpass him, I'll never inherit anything. I'll never change the Uchiha's current state of weakness."
"I'm going to become Hokage."
As the purified drug coursed through him, Amakumo's calm demeanor began to twist. He clenched his teeth, and a crooked grin ripped across his face, stretching to his ears. His body trembled with spasms, but his eyes stayed sharp.
The Uchiha were known for their precocious children—especially the offspring of the elders. They were drilled from a young age, rigorously trained, and by the time they graduated, many were already elite among their peers. That was the clan's tradition of grooming excellence.
Ordinary clansmen, however, were a different story.
Elder families typically focused their resources on one or two descendants. The rest were left to fend for themselves. Even the Uchiha didn't have the resources to nurture every child equally.
What mattered most in the clan was talent—and talent meant Sharingan.
Other skills—ninjutsu, taijutsu, even intelligence—meant nothing in comparison. Only the eye mattered.
It was enough to drive people mad.
"Son of an elder… of course," Rin muttered under his breath.
That was the disease of a bloodline clan. Once someone reached the elder rank, their position became immovable. Even Setsuna, after attempting a coup, remained a clan elder—untouchable, despite the disgrace.
That made the competition among their offspring even more vicious. There was only one seat. The losers became footnotes, forgotten. A few generations later, their lines wouldn't even produce ninja.
Amakumo's father was just a mid-level Chūnin. Still hadn't awakened his Sharingan. Just a street patrol officer in the Police Force. But his grandfather—an elder. His older brother—the heir.
So what about the commoners?
Rin saw the rot running down the clan's spine. The top fed off the bottom. The only way forward… was to shatter it all.
"How do you feel?" Rin asked, his tone flat, revealing nothing of the storm beneath.
Amakumo's breathing grew ragged. His expression twisted further. His body began to convulse erratically, but his consciousness clung on. His eyes, though bloodshot, still tracked Rin.
"I… I can keep going."
Then it hit—another surge of pleasure and pain.
His vision rippled.
A genjutsu?
He recognized the symptoms and tried to disrupt his chakra flow, following methods taught by his elders to break illusions.
But it didn't work.
What he saw next twisted the laws of reality.
In Amakumo's hallucination, a monstrous, humanoid being loomed—hundreds of meters tall, its flesh covered in slick, glistening dark-green scales. On every scale was a blood-red Sharingan. Hundreds. Thousands.
And each eye contained something worse.
Not tomoe.
But writhing, inhuman patterns—veins of wriggling tendrils coiling within the pupils. When they contracted, the designs collapsed into impossible shapes—symbols that shattered cognition at a glance.
He gazed into them once.
And his soul was pulled inside.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Amakumo collapsed.
Time passed.
Smack!
The sting of a slap yanked him back.
Pain bloomed across his cheek. He winced, grabbing his head, blinking hard to clear his vision.
"What… what happened?"
"Why does everything hurt?"
He stared at the figure in front of him, disoriented and afraid.
"You almost lost your mind," Rin said quietly. "Feel your eyes."
The moment the drug took hold, Rin had cast a genjutsu—an Uchiha illusion, enhanced by the serum's effects. The fear, the horror… perfect fuel.
Conventional chakra disruptions couldn't break the hallucination. Physical pain, even torture, wouldn't work while the drug was active.
Only when the chemical burned out would the vision fade.
That meant this wasn't just a tool for awakening. It had potential on the battlefield.
Amakumo blinked hard. His body still ached. His eyes burned.
But deep within… something new stirred.
A power he'd never felt before.
"These are… the Sharingan?! I awakened them!?"
His voice trembled with joy.
Just as he turned to thank Rin—
A whirling storm of shuriken descended on them.
"So fast!?"
Rin's face darkened.
He'd only been away from the clan compound for half an hour.
ANBU were already here.
Danzō's grip on the village was absurd.
Or… had someone within the clan tipped them off?
"Blood Veil!"
No time for seals.
Rin instantly hardened the blood extracted from Amakumo into a crimson shield.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Shuriken embedded themselves in the blood barrier, stopping short of their marks.
"Six ANBU… Two are Jōnin. What an honor," Rin muttered, eyes sweeping the surroundings.
"You pissed off ANBU!?" Amakumo said, finally grasping the danger.
Despite the pain still wracking his body, he drew a kunai, crouching low, eyes sharp.
Rin didn't answer.
Instead, he detonated.
A red mist burst from his pores—
Bloodlust Frenzy.
"Now!"
No room for restraint. His body surged with strength as the drug activated.
In a heartbeat, he vanished.
Reappeared behind two ANBU scouts.
Fingers drove into chests. Hearts were torn free.
He absorbed their blood on contact, replenishing what he had spent.
One breath.
Two kills.
"So fast…" Amakumo whispered.
The ANBU hadn't even reacted before they died.
"He's too quick! Use sealing techniques!"
The squad captain recognized the threat.
"Wind Release: Shackling Chains!"
"Lightning Release: False Darkness!"
"Genjutsu: Darkness Path!"
The ANBU operatives moved as one, unleashing a synchronized counterstrike.
Meanwhile, the Jōnin among them cast an illusion tailored to disrupt the Sharingan—meant to neutralize Rin's visual prowess.
"Sealing Art: Phantom Binding Chains!"
Chains invisible to the naked eye lashed out from every direction.
They caught Rin mid-step, mid-air, halting his momentum and suspending him helplessly.
Trapped.