Uchiha Clan District – Within the System Space
Mikami stared at the glowing symbol of the Three Tomoe Sharingan, hovering in the starry void. Logically, he should have been elated. After a decade of being the clan's only 'blind' heir, to receive the very eyes that defined his bloodline was a cosmic joke of the sweetest kind.
Instead, a frustrated sigh escaped him. The disappointment was sharp and immediate.
"Only the Three Tomoe? Why not the Mangekyō… or even the Eternal?" he muttered, then his voice rose in a roar that echoed through the infinite blue. "Why the basic model?!"
His handsome young face was a mask of pure, childish petulance. In his mind, the Three Tomoe was his father's generation of power—a starting point, not an endgame.
"Host Mikami, your expectations are statistically unrealistic." Ling'er's voice chimed in, a hint of dry amusement beneath its usual neutrality. "The Three Tomoe Sharingan is the pinnacle of the standard ocular evolution. Its capabilities in perception, genjutsu casting, and chakra sight are formidable. It is hardly 'shabby.'"
Mikami grumbled but fell silent. He knew she was right. It was a treasure beyond measure for any other Uchiha his age. His greed, however, had been whetted by glimpses of the wheel's greater prizes.
"Fine, fine. So how does this work? Integrate them, I suppose."
At the thought of integration, a sudden, visceral memory surfaced: the infamous, revolting taste of Devil Fruits from the tales of that other world. He shuddered, a cold sweat beading on his temple. If eating that was the price…
"Integration is a system process, not a culinary one. No consumption required. Please prepare."
Before he could sigh in relief, a wave of cool, cleansing energy washed through him, starting from his core and radiating to his extremities. The world in his mind's eye shifted. The ambient chakra in the system space, previously invisible, now appeared as faint, ethereal currents of color and light. Every minute fluctuation was laid bare.
He brought a hand to his face, fingers hovering near his eyelids. "So this… is the clarity of the Sharingan?" he whispered, awe tempering his earlier disappointment.
Simultaneously, a second, profound transformation began. A warmth, pure and brilliant, ignited within his very cells. It was not the heat of fire, but the soothing, invigorating warmth of sunlight captured at dawn. He gasped, a soft, involuntary sound of pleasure escaping him as a luxurious, boundless laziness seemed to melt into his bones. For a fleeting moment, all tension, all the grit and grind of the past weeks, dissolved.
Then his eyes snapped open. His ordinary dark irises now swirled with the vivid crimson and three black tomoe of the Uchiha's pride. Within them, a new, terrifying light gleamed—the inherent confidence of absolute power.
"So this is the Pika Pika no Mi…" he breathed, flexing his fingers. He could feel the latent energy, waiting to be shaped into light itself. "No wonder the Admirals were forces of nature. This… this is incredible."
A smirk touched his lips, his posture straightening with newfound arrogance.
"Do not let power intoxicate you."
Ling'er's voice cut through his reverie, colder than he'd ever heard it. For the first time, her form materialized before him.
She was ethereal. Long, dark hair flowed as if in a subtle breeze. Her features were a masterpiece of serene beauty, flawless and elegant, radiating the detached grace of a celestial being. Yet her eyes, clear and depthless, held an ancient, unshakeable calm. She was perfection, and her utter lack of mortal emotion made that perfection somehow heartbreaking.
"You require perspective. And discipline."
In that instant, Mikami's training—his real training—began.
---
Two Weeks Later – Mikami's Courtyard
The political pressure on Konoha had reached a breaking point. The Third Hokage, Sarutobi Hiruzen, had visited the Uchiha compound again, his requests turning to desperate demands. The Wind Country's Sunagakure, in particular, was pressing its offensive brutally. The entire western front was crumbling, and with Konoha fighting a war on multiple fronts, the village's survival hung by a thread.
The legendary Sannin had even been reluctantly recalled from their self-imposed exiles to stem the bleeding. Konoha, the so-called "strongest" village, was being stretched to its limit.
No one knew the exact details of the meeting between the Hokage and Uchiha Fugaku, but when Hiruzen left, the grim shadow on his face had lessened. A pact had been struck. The Uchiha would commit shinobi to the war effort.
For Mikami, the implication was chillingly clear. His father, who viewed him as a living insult, would seize this chance. Sending the "failed heir" to die a "glorious" death on some distant battlefield was the perfect solution. Fugaku was still young; he could always sire another son, one not broken.
While this political drama unfolded, the scene in Mikami's secluded courtyard was one of intense, private struggle.
He lay on his thin futon, eyes closed, body still. But his face was a landscape of tension—brows furrowed, jaw clenched, breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. He was not sleeping. He was fighting.
Within the System World
Mikami faced his opponent, panting. The figure before him was dressed in familiar, haunting garb: the black cloak with red clouds, the forehead protector of Konoha slashed through. Sharp, defined features, and cool, assessing eyes that held no warmth.
It was Uchiha Itachi.
Not the real one, of course, but a combat simulation crafted by Ling'er—a phantom with all the skills, speed, and genius of the prodigal brother Mikami had only observed from afar.
Looking back on his eager agreement to this "training regimen" half a month ago, Mikami felt a wave of bitter regret. Youthful folly, he cursed himself. It was less training and more a daily, systematic dismantling. The injuries inflicted here, Ling'er had calmly explained, replicated real neural and muscular trauma. The pain was authentic.
The only consolation was the freakish resilience granted by the fusion of his new abilities. Minor wounds knitted shut with preternatural speed, his cells humming with restorative light-energy.
"Again," the phantom Itachi stated, voice a flat mirror of the original's dispassionate tone.
"Come on then, you emotionless puppet!" Mikami spat back, a feral grin on his lips. Two weeks of accumulated frustration and fury boiled within him. "But today… today I'm taking payment for every last hit!"
He didn't wait for a cue. His body dissolved into a flash of golden light, too fast for any ordinary eye to follow. Only a shimmering afterimage remained in the air where he'd stood.
The real battle, the one to forge a god of light from a scorned heir, was finally beginning in earnest.