Midway through his notes, Sasuke paused.
His brush hovered above the page as his eyes returned to one particular line.
Konoha Year 61. April.
According to the records, Team Seven completed eight missions between March and April. One C-rank. Seven D-rank. The C-rank was the Wave mission.
Then there was a gap.
From April to July.
Three full months.
They hadn't been idle. Sasuke knew that much. Missions had taken place, even if they never surfaced in official reports or memory fragments. The absence wasn't proof of rest. It was proof of omission.
He considered the timeline once more, then reached a decision.
The paper burned quietly in his palm, ash falling into the tray below.
By Konoha Year 61, July, he needed power sufficient to act freely.
Mangekyō.
No later than the Chūnin Exams.
If steady mental conditioning failed to produce results by April, then the remaining three months would require measures he would rather avoid.
Risky ones.
Sasuke exhaled and let the thought go.
He moved to the center of the room, sat on the mat, and sank into meditation. Breath slowed. Awareness narrowed.
Preparation first.
Elsewhere, far from Konoha.
Deep beneath the fields of the Land of Rice, a newly constructed underground facility hummed with sterile light.
Orochimaru stood before a bank of monitors, sleeves neat, eyes sharp. The room around him was crowded with microscopes, surgical tools, and sealed containers.
On the table lay Sharingan eyes.
He studied them in silence.
"At what point," he murmured, "does the difference appear?"
Ordinary Sharingan awakened under extreme emotional strain. Rage. Fear. The brink of death. A biological response amplified by bloodline.
That much was understood.
But Mangekyō was different.
Not everyone reached it. Not even among the Uchiha.
He flipped through reports, memories surfacing unbidden. Faces from the village. Patterns that didn't quite align.
If it were grief alone, others should have awakened it that night.
They hadn't.
Which meant something else was required.
Talent.
An edge that couldn't be replicated through trauma alone.
His thoughts drifted, inevitably, to one name.
Uchiha Itachi.
Orochimaru's fingers tightened.
Disgust. Obsession. And something colder beneath it.
"…So that's how it is."
A hand gesture summoned an assistant.
"Bring in the boy."
"Yes, Lord Orochimaru."
Moments later, a pale, white-haired youth was laid out on the operating table. Unconscious. Breathing steady.
Shin.
A rare subject. One whose body accepted foreign tissue without rejection. Voluntarily offered. Eager, even.
Orochimaru observed as transplanted Sharingan settled into place. No inflammation. No resistance.
"Remarkable," he said softly. "Even eyes like these take root."
Then his expression darkened.
"But they're still ordinary."
His thoughts returned, unbidden, to the gaze that had crushed him. Calm. Distant. Untouchable.
The look of someone standing far above.
"…Itachi."
The name escaped him, sharp with venom.
Shin stirred faintly.
He didn't understand the meaning. Only the tone.
Within it, he sensed two things entwined.
Desire.
And fear.
The name etched itself into his mind.