Crack.
A sound that shouldn't exist—like a hairline fracture spreading across a mirror—rang through the Uchiha District.
Then another.
And another.
Under the pale moon, thin fissures spiderwebbed across empty space.
Air doesn't crack.
But tonight, it did.
For half a breath, everyone froze—Uchiha and Root alike—because the instinct in every shinobi screamed the same warning:
This isn't normal. This isn't a technique they recognize.
And the worst part?
The cracks weren't random.
They were moving.
The Roofline — The One Behind the "Cracks"
On the highest ridge of a nearby roof, a figure stood with his hands in his pockets, cloak fluttering in the night wind.
Ren.
His eyes were calm—too calm for a night like this.
The massacre had started. He could feel it: unfamiliar chakra signatures blooming across the district like rot spreading under skin.
Root had entered.
And Itachi… had already drawn his blade.
Ren exhaled once.
A faint, pale shimmer wrapped around his right hand.
Not chakra.
Not exactly.
It was that same violent, alien force that had once made the sky fracture above the Nine-Tails.
The Tremor-Tremor power.
Ren didn't raise his voice.
He didn't shout a jutsu name.
He simply pressed.
Crack—crack—crack.
The fractures multiplied across the district like invisible glass breaking in slow motion.
And then—
they aimed themselves.
Root — Panic Behind the Masks
Root operatives, already positioned on rooftops and in alley shadows, stiffened as the night turned wrong.
"What is that?"
"Is it a barrier collapsing?"
"No—this isn't chakra structure!"
"Someone found us—scatter!"
They moved—fast, disciplined, practiced.
But discipline didn't matter when the battlefield itself became a weapon.
One operative dashed across an alley—
and a crack slid through the air in front of him like a blade.
He didn't even have time to scream.
His body detonated into red mist, as if something had crushed him from the inside.
A second Root shinobi tried to leap away—
the crack followed.
Pop.
Another burst of blood.
No hand seals.
No dodging.
No counter.
Just death.
The remaining operatives felt their scalps go cold beneath their masks.
This wasn't an ambush.
This was an execution.
The Uchiha — Instant Mobilization
For years, the village had squeezed the Uchiha into a corner.
But the Uchiha were still the Uchiha.
The moment the first foreign chakra signatures were sensed, alarms went up.
"Enemy presence!"
"Too many—this is a wipeout!"
"Get civilians to the shelters—now!"
Shinobi poured into the streets, Sharingan spinning red under the moon, kunai and blades flashing.
Civilians sprinted for emergency tunnels the clan had prepared long ago—because deep down, the Uchiha had always known this day might come.
Then someone shouted the name no one wanted to hear.
"Root!"
Rage hit like a spark thrown into oil.
"So it's true…!"
"They're erasing us!"
"Kill them!"
Root Gives the Order — Too Late
A Root jōnin, cornered and furious, finally roared from the shadows:
"To hell with the cracks—move!"
"Uchiha civilians, Uchiha shinobi—leave none alive!"
He forced his operatives forward.
He had to.
Because if Root lost the element of surprise, the casualties would spike.
And if casualties spiked, the village leadership would start asking unpleasant questions.
So Root rushed in.
And the cracks answered.
"All of You… Get Out."
Ren's voice rolled across the district.
Not loud—just absolute.
It carried the kind of pressure that made bones feel heavy.
"All of you," he said, cold and flat.
"Get out."
The cracks moved again.
Not like a jutsu.
Like a decision.
Dozens of Root operatives didn't even get to complete their first hand seal.
Cracks slid through them—
and they burst apart in synchronized sprays of blood that painted rooftops and alley walls.
Panic snapped Root's spine.
"Fire Style: Great Fireball Jutsu!"
"Wind Style: Wind Blade!"
"Shadow Clones—!"
Flames rushed forward.
Wind shrieked.
Clones exploded into being.
And every technique that touched the fractured air shattered on contact—broken apart by a violent shockwave that made the street stones rattle.
Clones fared even worse.
The cracks ignored the fakes with terrifying accuracy—
and struck the real body.
Root operatives started backing away without realizing it.
Their masks hid their faces.
But not their fear.
Fugaku's Home — Itachi Stalls Mid-Strike
In the heart of the district, inside Fugaku's house, the moment had already reached its edge.
Itachi's short blade was raised.
His breathing was steady—too steady for what he was about to do.
Then—
Crack.
A fracture formed near the ceiling.
And Itachi's weapon exploded midair, shattered into glittering fragments that clattered across the floor.
Itachi froze.
His pupils tightened.
He looked up, then instinctively looked at Fugaku—like he was asking a question he didn't want answered:
Is this… the clan's secret weapon?
Fugaku's expression was just as stunned.
So was Mikoto's.
They had prepared to die.
They hadn't prepared for the night itself to turn into a blade aimed at Root.
Fugaku's brow furrowed hard.
That voice…
That pressure…
For a heartbeat, something old and buried stirred in his memory.
Then Fugaku's eyes hardened.
"…We're not dying here."
He turned to Mikoto immediately, voice sharp and controlled—the voice of a clan head in a war zone.
"Take Sasuke to the shelter. Now."
Mikoto's arms tightened around Sasuke without hesitation.
Fugaku didn't look away from Itachi as he continued, each word landing like iron.
"I'll take responsibility."
Itachi stood there, blade-less, frozen in place—
because his plan had just been shattered along with his weapon.
Outside, the district burned with chaos.
Root operatives died in red fog.
Uchiha shinobi mobilized in fury.
And somewhere above it all, unseen by most—
Ren watched the board shift under his hand.
Tonight wasn't going to end the way anyone planned.
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