Two weeks of running had taught Keisuke that survival was measured in hours, not days.
They'd made camp in a rocky outcropping near the border between Fire and Lightning Countries, in the lawless zone where no village's authority held sway and strength was the only currency that mattered. The space was defensible, hidden, and offered sight lines that Keisuke's damaged vision could still manage.
Nineteen survivors now.
Old Kentaro's heart had given out five days ago, his body simply deciding it had endured enough. And yesterday, a six-year-old named Yuki had succumbed to infection from wounds sustained during the massacre, her small body unable to fight what Hana's depleted medical chakra couldn't heal.
Nineteen people left. Nineteen reasons to keep moving when every muscle screamed to stop.
Keisuke sat watch as dawn approached, his Mangekyo inactive to conserve what remained of his vision. The world existed in permanent blur now, details lost to overuse of techniques his body wasn't ready for. But he could still sense chakra, still read intent, still protect the people depending on him.
The attack came with the sunrise.
Six ROOT operatives emerged from positions that should have been impossible to infiltrate undetected, their masks blank and their killing intent absolute. No announcement. No demands. Just lethal efficiency aimed at eliminating every survivor.
Danzo, Keisuke realized with bitter certainty. The Hokage said to stop, so Danzo sent ROOT to finish what orders wouldn't allow.
His Mangekyo activated on instinct, the world sharpening into agonizing clarity even as blood began streaming from his eyes. He saw their formations, their coordinated assault patterns, the way they'd positioned to maximize casualties among the children.
"WAKE UP!" Keisuke shouted, his body already moving. "We're under attack! Protect the children!"
The camp exploded into chaos.
Ayame was up instantly, her two-tomoe Sharingan activating as she positioned herself between the attackers and the youngest survivors. Shin grabbed weapons with shaking hands, his fear visible but his courage holding. Hana began weaving protective barriers with what little chakra she had left.
And Keisuke threw himself at the ROOT operatives with the desperation of someone who had nothing left to lose except the people behind him.
His tantō met the first operative's blade in a shower of sparks. The ROOT agent was good—professional, trained, experienced. But Keisuke's Mangekyo showed him everything: the micro-movements that telegraphed attacks, the chakra gathering for techniques, the split-second openings that normal eyes would miss.
His counter-strike found throat. The operative fell without sound.
But there were five more, and Keisuke was already exhausted, already injured, already operating on reserves that didn't exist.
A kunai scored across his ribs. A fire technique forced him back, singeing hair and cloth. Another blade came from his blind spot—the literal blind spot where his damaged vision had created gaps—and only his afterimage technique saved him, creating temporal echoes that confused the attack's aim.
He killed another ROOT operative through sheer ferocity, his Mangekyo-enhanced speed allowing him to close distance and drive his blade through the agent's heart before they could react.
Four left.
But Keisuke's vision was deteriorating rapidly, blood obscuring everything, pain making each movement agony. A blade found his side, driving deep, and he staggered, his Mangekyo flickering.
Not like this, he thought desperately, trying to stay standing, to keep fighting. Not when we've come this far. Not when they're depending on me.
The ROOT operative raised their blade for a killing strike.
And a kunai appeared in their throat, thrown from an impossible angle with perfect precision.
The operative collapsed, and from the treeline emerged figures Keisuke's damaged vision couldn't quite resolve. More attackers? Different threats? He raised his tantō despite everything screaming at him to stop, to rest, to just lie down and let whatever came next happen.
"Stand down, Uchiha." A woman's voice, carrying authority without hostility. "We're not here to kill you. Though watching you fight ROOT with half-dead eyes is impressive enough that I'm reconsidering the not-killing part."
The newcomers engaged the remaining ROOT operatives with brutal efficiency. Within seconds, the ambush was over, the ROOT agents either dead or fled, and Keisuke's camp was surrounded by a dozen armed mercenaries who looked like they'd seen every kind of violence the shinobi world offered.
Their leader stepped forward—a woman perhaps thirty years old, with Mist-style tattoos on her arms and scars that spoke of survival hard-won. Her eyes were sharp, assessing, calculating threat and value simultaneously.
"You're the Uchiha survivors," she said, and it wasn't quite a question. "We heard rumors. Didn't believe them. Figured Konoha had finished the job completely."
"Almost," Keisuke said through gritted teeth, one hand pressed to his bleeding side. His Mangekyo was still active, reading her for deception, for threat, for any indication this was just another attack wearing a different mask.
"You need help," the woman observed, her tone matter-of-fact. "Medical attention. Safe haven. Food for those kids who look half-starved." She gestured to the survivors huddling behind Keisuke. "And you need it bad enough that you're not immediately attacking people who could be threats."
"What do you want?" Keisuke demanded, his vision wavering but his Sharingan still tracking her every movement.
"I'm Kaida," she said, ignoring the suspicion radiating from him. "Former Mist shinobi, current leader of a mercenary group that operates in these territories. And honestly? Nothing immediate. But the Uchiha have always been powerful. If you're rebuilding, if you're trying to survive, you'll need allies."
"Allies?" Keisuke's laugh was bitter. "We're refugees with children and old people. We have nothing to offer."
"You have Sharingan," Kaida pointed out. "You have techniques that villages would kill for—oh wait, they already tried that. You have potential that compounds with time. We're not nobility or village shinobi. We're mercenaries, missing-nin, people the villages threw away. But we survive. And we help others survive, if the terms are right."
It wasn't the alliance Keisuke would have chosen. These were criminals, outcasts, people who operated in the shadows of the shinobi world. But choice was a luxury reserved for people with options, and Keisuke had precisely zero.
"No obligations," he said carefully, his tactical mind working despite the pain and exhaustion. "No debts that compromise us later. You help us reach safety, provide medical care and supplies. In return..." He paused, calculating what he could offer. "In return, we'll owe you a favor. One favor, to be called in when we're actually capable of fulfilling it. Years from now, maybe. When we're not barely surviving."
Kaida's expression suggested amusement. "You're negotiating from a position of complete weakness and still managing to set terms. Impressive." She extended her hand. "Deal. One favor, timeline undefined. We help you survive now, you help us with something later. Fair?"
Keisuke stared at her hand, knowing this was a crossroads. Accepting meant binding the Uchiha remnant to criminals. Refusing meant trying to survive on their own when survival was already impossible.
He clasped her hand. "Fair."
"Good." Kaida's grip was strong, businesslike. "Now let's get that hole in your side treated before you bleed out and make my investment worthless."
The hidden settlement was three days' travel deeper into the lawless zone, through terrain that would have been impassable for the children without Kaida's people helping carry supplies and the youngest survivors.
Keisuke spent most of the journey fighting to stay conscious, his wound treated but still serious, his body operating on pure stubbornness. Hana walked beside him when she could, her medical chakra keeping his injuries from becoming fatal but unable to actually heal them completely.
"You're killing yourself," she said quietly during a rest stop. "Using the Mangekyo so recklessly. Fighting when you should be recovering. Carrying weight meant for three people."
"What choice do I have?" Keisuke's response was automatic, defensive.
"The choice to trust others." Hana gestured to Ayame and Shin, both of whom had been helping manage the children, organize supplies, maintain morale. "The choice to acknowledge you're not alone in this. That leadership doesn't mean bearing everything yourself."
"They're teenagers," Keisuke objected. "Children themselves."
"So are you," Hana pointed out. "Twenty years old with the weight of clan survival on your shoulders. You're all children trying to do adult things. Might as well do it together instead of you martyring yourself while they watch."
The words stayed with him throughout the journey.
The settlement appeared gradually—rough buildings integrated into the landscape, designed for concealment rather than comfort. Perhaps sixty people lived here, all of them carrying the hardness of those who'd survived things that should have killed them.
Missing-nin from various villages. Mercenaries who'd lost their employers. Refugees from conflicts that history had forgotten. All of them bound by the simple truth that the shinobi world had discarded them, and they'd chosen to survive anyway.
Kaida led them to a cleared area near the settlement's edge—close enough for protection, far enough for privacy. "You can set up here. We'll provide supplies, medical attention, time to recover. In exchange, don't cause trouble and remember that favor you owe."
It wasn't charity. It was investment wrapped in pragmatism. But Keisuke would take it.
Over the next few days, as Hana treated their wounded and Keisuke negotiated for supplies they desperately needed, he began to understand the settlement's dynamics. It was run by consensus among various faction leaders, with strength and reputation determining influence rather than noble blood or official rank.
People here didn't care about the Uchiha's history or clan politics. They cared about capability and whether you were a threat or potential ally. It was refreshingly honest after Konoha's political games.
But it was also dangerous. Everyone here had blood on their hands. Everyone was hiding from something. And trust was a currency more valuable than gold.
Keisuke found Mirai sitting alone near the settlement's edge as the sun set on their fourth day. The eight-year-old was staring toward the direction they'd come from, her expression unreadable.
He sat beside her, his damaged vision unable to see her face clearly but his heart seeing everything that mattered. "What are you thinking about?"
"Home," Mirai said quietly. "I keep forgetting it's gone. I wake up and think I need to go to Academy, or help Mother with breakfast, or show Father the new technique I learned. Then I remember." Her hands clenched. "Why do I keep forgetting?"
"Because your mind is protecting you," Keisuke said gently. "Giving you moments of normal before the grief catches up. It's not wrong. It's survival."
"Are we ever going home?" The question came out small, afraid, desperate for an answer that wouldn't hurt.
Keisuke wanted to lie. Wanted to promise return and restoration and justice. But lies wouldn't help them survive, and survival was all they had.
"Konoha isn't home anymore," he said, and the words felt like glass cutting his throat. "They tried to kill us. They succeeded in killing almost everyone we loved. Home is... somewhere we have to build now. Somewhere new. Somewhere that's ours because we make it, not because we were born there."
"Will we be Uchiha there?" Mirai asked, and the question cut deeper than any blade. "Or will we have to hide? Pretend we're someone else?"
The question struck at something fundamental. Could they maintain identity while in exile? Preserve traditions while scrambling to survive? Be proud of heritage that had nearly gotten them killed?
"We'll be Uchiha," Keisuke promised, and meant it with everything he had. "We'll remember everyone we lost. Honor our clan. Practice our techniques. Pass down our history. And someday..." He paused, thinking about futures that felt impossible but necessary. "Someday, the world will know we didn't die quietly. That some of us survived. That the Uchiha aren't extinct. That we're still here, still carrying forward what they tried to erase."
"But we're not going back to fight Konoha, are we?" Mirai's perception was frightening in someone so young. "Because we'd lose. Because there's nineteen of us and thousands of them. Because revenge would just get us killed."
"No," Keisuke admitted, the word tasting like defeat and wisdom simultaneously. "We're not strong enough. Not now. Maybe not ever. But survival isn't about revenge. It's about proving they failed to destroy us. That we continue despite everything. That's a different kind of victory."
Mirai was quiet for a long moment, processing words too heavy for her age but necessary for her survival. "I miss them," she finally said, her voice breaking. "I miss Mother and Father and my brother and everyone. I miss home. Even though I know it's gone, I still miss it."
"Me too," Keisuke said, and let her lean against him as she cried, her small body shaking with grief that had nowhere else to go.
He thought about everyone they'd lost. His mother's final stand. Shisui's sacrifice. The compound burning. Itachi's cold Mangekyo eyes. All of it compressed into weight that never got lighter, just more familiar.
We carry them forward, Keisuke thought, one arm around Mirai's shoulders. Every person we lost, every dream that burned, every promise that broke—we carry it all forward. Not as burden, but as fuel. As reason to survive when survival feels impossible.
"We're Uchiha," he said softly, repeating the words like mantra. "And we survive. That's what we do. That's all we can do. And it's enough."
Mirai nodded against his chest, and they sat together as darkness fell, two survivors finding small comfort in shared grief and stubborn determination.
Behind them, the settlement bustled with the business of people living in the margins. Ahead, the future waited, uncertain and terrifying and theirs to shape from ruins.
And Keisuke Uchiha, twenty years old with eyes that barely saw and shoulders that carried impossible weight, made a silent vow to everyone they'd lost:
We'll survive. We'll build something from the ashes. And someday—not today, maybe not for years, but someday—the world will know the Uchiha didn't die. We just went somewhere you couldn't follow. And we're still here. Still fighting. Still carrying forward everything you tried to destroy.
That's our revenge. Not violence. Not hatred. Just existence. Just the stubborn refusal to die quietly.
We're ghosts now. But ghosts can haunt.
And we will.
The stars emerged overhead, indifferent to human suffering, witnessing the birth of something new from the grave of something old.
Nineteen survivors.
One clan.
Endless determination.
And the first fragile threads of a future that shouldn't exist but would, because they refused to let it die.