In the dining room, Uchiha Fugaku sat quietly at the low table, eating with deliberate precision.
Beside him, Mikoto spoke softly, occasionally refilling his sake cup—a scene of ordinary calm between husband and wife.
When Itachi stepped through the doorway, both of them looked up.
"Itachi," Fugaku said in his usual steady tone, "wait for me in the study."
The words were neither gentle nor harsh—they were an order.
Mikoto didn't intervene, as if this had already been discussed between them.
"Yes, Father."
Itachi bowed slightly, unfazed.
He was long used to this kind of conversation.
Since his earliest memories, his father's words had always carried the weight of authority—commands, not requests.
But he understood why. Fugaku's expectations for him had always been immense.
And Itachi could already guess what this conversation would be about.
It was time to face the issue he had been avoiding ever since returning from the battlefield.
He quietly left the dining room and walked down the wooden corridor toward the study.
Halfway there, though, a thought struck him.
Instead of heading straight for the study, he turned and walked along another hallway—toward the living room.
...
There, Artoria sat formally at a low tea table, her eyes closed, her posture perfect as always.
No matter where she was—battlefield, forest, or home—Itachi had never once seen her slouch, never seen her weary.
She was like a being carved from discipline itself: unwavering, unbending, unbreakable.
When she sensed his approach, Artoria opened her eyes and rose smoothly to her feet.
"I'm glad you remembered," she said softly. "I've been waiting here."
"I spoke with my father," Itachi replied calmly. "He wants to talk in the study."
"Would it trouble you if I joined you?" she asked.
Itachi hesitated briefly before nodding.
"…Of course."
After all, this mysterious "king" who only he could see was now an inseparable part of his life.
There was no point resisting that reality anymore.
Side by side, they made their way to the study.
...
For Itachi, the family study was like a second room of his own.
Since childhood, when he wasn't training, he could often be found here—reading, writing, learning.
At first, his parents had guided him. But within a week, he'd started studying independently.
Because he seldom went outside, the study had become his quiet sanctuary.
As he slid the wooden door open, the familiar scent of parchment and ink greeted him.
The room was lined with tall bookshelves filled with scrolls and volumes.
His gaze fell upon the small, high chair beside the desk—his chair.
He climbed into it instinctively and placed his hands neatly on the table.
The chair felt… slightly higher than before.
It took him a moment to realize he'd grown.
He drew a deep breath.
The faint smell of old paper filled his lungs, calming his heart.
No other room in the house felt this comforting—not even his own bedroom.
Everything here is the same, he thought, but I'm not the same anymore.
—
"From childhood, your only hobby was reading?"
Artoria's voice carried quiet amusement as she looked around the room, her expression softening slightly.
Before she could say more—knock, knock, knock—a gentle knock came at the door.
"Come in," Itachi said.
The door slid open with a soft click, and Fugaku entered.
Unlike his son, he seemed completely unaffected by nostalgia.
He closed the door behind him and approached with slow, deliberate steps.
From Itachi's perspective, his father's movements were precise—controlled, unhurried.
Then, unexpectedly, Fugaku's first words were not scolding, but simple observation:
"…You've grown taller."
Itachi blinked, taken aback.
Fugaku's sharp eyes had already noticed the imbalance between his son's chair and the desk.
"There's a saw in the storage room," he said calmly. "When you have time, adjust the height of that chair."
Crossing to the opposite side of the desk, Fugaku sat down in the main seat.
"I heard from your mother," he began, "that you believe the ambush— and the deaths that followed—happened because you delayed the march?"
His tone was even, expression unreadable.
Itachi felt as though he were staring into a mirror—two faces equally composed, equally stoic.
He nodded.
"When I was hiding in the tree hollow, I overheard the Iwa-nin saying that they were only able to gather such overwhelming numbers because our squad stopped to rest for half a day."
"It's true," Fugaku admitted. "Had we not stopped, their numbers wouldn't have outmatched ours so heavily."
He paused briefly, his gaze steady.
"But that half-day rest… wasn't your fault. It was mine."
"…Yours?"
Itachi looked up, puzzled.
Fugaku took a slow breath.
"Yes. I was the one who proposed the rest."
For Fugaku Uchiha, admitting fault—even to his own son—was no small thing.
But he did not hesitate.
"Don't misunderstand," he continued, "it wasn't because you fainted."
"It was before that—right after the battle ended, while you were still clearing the field. I held a quick discussion with the jōnin."
"That fight was the most intense our unit had faced since joining the front lines.
Many of our clansmen were killed, and the number of wounded was… significant. Too significant for me, as clan head, to ignore."
"In that situation, I made the decision to halt and allow the medical team assigned by Konoha to treat the injured."
He paused, his voice growing heavier.
"There were three reasons for the decision.
First—the Iwa forces had taken heavy losses too. We believed they wouldn't be able to counterattack immediately.
Second—if we forced the injured to continue marching without treatment, many would've died along the way.
Third—we still had plenty of time to reach the next battlefront and join the other Konoha units."
"For those reasons," he said quietly, "the others agreed. We rested."
His hands clenched slightly on the table.
"But that kindness… that mercy… was my mistake."
"Because I hesitated to sacrifice a few, I caused the loss of many more."
"My softness—my compassion—cost the Uchiha their honor on this campaign!"
His voice rose sharply near the end, echoing through the study.
It wasn't an explanation anymore—it was self-reproach.
Itachi fell silent.
He didn't know how to comfort his father.
Then, softly, a familiar voice spoke within his mind:
"Compassion has no place in command," said Artoria.
"To abandon wounded soldiers is cruel—but ensuring victory is the commander's truest duty."
"If he can learn from this, your father will become a better leader."
Her words hung in the still air of the study,
merging with Fugaku's heavy silence—
a lesson passed from one king to another.