I, Uchiha, will not be whitewashed!

Yan reacted quickly, instantly retreating ten meters, but the aftershock of the explosion still sent him flying.

Fugaku charged up from behind, unleashing a flurry of shurikens that knocked away three kunai that were flying toward Yan.

Then they saw—dark shadows from all directions.

Not four, not eight, but more than twenty.

The Iwagakure Explosives Squad is an elite force among elites, comprised entirely of Jonin, specializing in assassination and sabotage. The leader wore a black mask, revealing only a pair of brownish-yellow eyes.

"Uchiha Kagami." The man's voice was like sandpaper scraping against stone. "Iwagakure is offering thirty million for your head."

The mirror did not answer.

His Sharingan was already spinning, the three tomoe gleaming like burning charcoal in the setting sun.

He was counting—twenty-three, no, twenty-four. One was hidden behind a rock, his chakra perfectly concealed, but his Sharingan could see it. Twenty-four Jonin.

There were only two people with him.

"Proverb, Fugaku," he said calmly, "stay close to me."

Then he moved.

The blade flashed for the first time in the setting sun.

A rock ninja fell, his neck wound so deep that bone was visible.

Before the second person could react, the knife had already pierced through his chest.

The third, the fourth—Mirror's speed was as fast as the wind, and blood splattered wherever the blade passed.

His movements were all precise and efficient; every strike was a deadly move, each one taking a life.

The Sharingan sees everyone's movements, anticipates, calculates, and then strikes—clean and swift, like wielding a sword under a waterfall, like practicing martial arts under the moonlight, like doing it ten thousand times.

But there were too many people.

Yan was entangled by three Iwa ninja, and he already had two more wounds on his body.

Fugaku stood in front of Yan, using his shuriken and kunai alternately to barely maintain the defensive line.

Mirror saw it—an Iwa ninja flanking from the side, his kunai aimed straight for Fugaku's back.

He turned, his sword held behind Fugaku, blocking the attack. The sound of metal clashing was piercing, like bones breaking. But in the instant he turned, his front was wide open.

A kunai was plunged into his ribs.

Jing grunted and slashed the man's head off with a backhand stroke.

Blood gushed from the wound, warm, and flowed down his clothes.

He didn't stop; he continued swinging his knife.

The fifth, the sixth, the seventh—his movements began to slow down. It wasn't due to physical exhaustion; it was because his blood was flowing, his chakra was draining, and even the rotation of his Sharingan was slowing down.

"Clan leader!" Fugaku rushed up and grabbed his shoulder.

Jing pushed him away. "Let's go."

"no--"

"Walk!"

Jing roared, his voice hoarse like torn cloth.

He severed the arm of an Iwa ninja in front of him with a single stroke, blood splattering onto Fugaku's face. "I'll cover your retreat, you all go. Go back and tell Kaze—tell everyone—be careful of Danzo."

Fugaku's lips were trembling.

He looked at the wound beneath the mirror, watched the blood seep through his fingers, watched those Sharingan eyes still spinning, still killing. He wanted to stay, but his body was more honest than his mind—his feet were retreating, one step, two steps.

"Go!" Jing shouted one last time.

Fugaku turned around, grabbed Ken, and vanished into the night in an instant.

Mirror looked in the direction they left, then turned to face the remaining Iwa ninja.

Eleven.

His Sharingan was still spinning, but it was no longer clear.

Blood gushed from his ribs, staining half his body red. His hands trembled, and he could barely hold the knife. But he stood there, like a tree, like a wall, like something insurmountable.

"Come here," he said.

The Iwa ninja hesitated. Thirteen corpses lay on the ground, all victims of this man's blade. They were still alive, but they were afraid. Was a head worth thirty million ryo?

The leader raised his hand. "Let's go!"

Eleven people rushed forward at the same time.

Jing smiled.

Then he raised the knife—

—The battle ended quickly.

Kagami lay in a pool of blood, with the bodies of the last two Iwa ninja lying beside him.

His eyes were still open, looking at the sky.

There are stars in the sky, one by one, so bright they're dazzling.

He thought of Shuoge, of the boy wielding a knife under the moonlight, of the crumbs on his lips as he drank berry cake, and of the eyes in his eyes when he stood at the door saying, "I'll go with you."

Like his father, he was stubborn, obstinate, and never smiled.

He thought of Shisui. That four-year-old boy, who would always tilt his head when practicing shuriken alone, waiting for his father to come home and praise him, saying, "Well done!" He had promised Shisui that he would teach him a new shuriken technique when he returned this time.

He had promised Shuoge that he would be back in three to five days.

He broke his promise.

Footsteps approached from afar. They weren't Iwa ninja; they were one of their own.

Feng, leading several Uchiha Jonin, rushed out of the night. Seeing the corpse on the ground and Mirror lying in a pool of blood, his expression changed. He rushed over, knelt beside Mirror, and pressed his hand to the wound; blood was still gushing out uncontrollably.

"Chieftain—!"

Jing looked at him, her lips moving slightly.

"Shuoge...are you alright?"

Feng nodded, his eyes reddening.

"It's alright, he's alright. He sent me to rescue you, he said—"

"That child..." Jing smiled, a very light smile, like a leaf in the wind, "is smarter than I thought."

He closed his eyes. The tomoe in his Sharingan slowly stopped spinning, like three black stones sinking to the bottom of the water.

"Fugaku..." His voice was very soft, almost as if he were talking to himself. "Tell Fugaku... the Uchiha... is his responsibility..."

Feng knelt on the ground, holding the mirror in his hand, which grew colder and colder.

He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but his throat felt blocked by something, and he couldn't utter a single word. Several Uchiha Jonin stood behind him, none of them speaking or moving.

Feng placed Jing's hand on her chest and lowered her head.

The night wind blew across the hillside, carrying the smell of blood and scorched earth.

There were many bright stars in the sky. Jing lay in a pool of blood, with seventeen wounds on his body, the most fatal one in his heart. He still held the knife in his hand, the moon's reflection shimmering on its blade.

He left in the early morning.

On the way back...

never come back.

……

……

……

The news reached Konoha in the middle of the night.

Uchiha Kaze personally delivered it back.

He was covered in blood, kneeling at the gate of the Uchiha compound, his shoulders trembling.

Behind him were several tribesmen, each with the same expression on their face—the kind of expression that suggests they wanted to cry but couldn't, as if something was blocking their chest.

"The clan leader... has fallen in battle."

The sound wasn't loud, but it rolled across the street like thunder in the quiet night.

The door opened, the lights came on, and people poured out from all directions.

Some people stood frozen in place, some covered their mouths, and some collapsed to the ground.

No one spoke, only the sound of the wind rushing through the alley, howling like it was crying.

Shuoge was awakened by the sound of footsteps.

He sat up on the tatami mat, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. A nameless unease churned within him, impossible to suppress.

He put on his shoes and pushed open the door—

Uchiha Kaze stood at the door.

His clothes were covered in blood, which had dried and turned dark brown, clinging to his body in patches.

His eyes were red and sunken, as if he hadn't slept in a long time.

He looked at Shuoge, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but his throat felt like it was blocked by something.

Shuoge looked into his eyes. There were no Sharingan in those eyes, only bloodshot eyes and tears. And something deeper, something heavier—a guilt that could never be remedied for not being able to catch up, for not being able to save someone.

"Where is my uncle?"

Shuoge's voice was very calm. As calm as if he were asking what to eat today, as calm as if he were asking how his sword practice was going, as calm as if he knew nothing at all.

Feng's lips trembled. He opened his mouth and uttered a very soft, almost inaudible syllable. "...I'm sorry."

Shuoge stood there.

The moonlight shone down from above, illuminating his face, which had suddenly turned deathly pale.

His eyes were still open, looking at the wind, at the blood on the wind, and at the night behind the wind.

There was nothing there.

There was no mirror, no one who crouched down to look him in the eye, no one who patted his head, no one who said, "The berry cake is on the table, remember to eat it." Nothing at all.

Where is he?

"In the back..."

Shuoge didn't speak again. He turned around and went back into the house. Feng stood at the door, watching the small figure walk into the dark room, but didn't follow.

He just stood there, like a tree whose roots had been broken by the wind.

Fugaku heard the news at a clan meeting.

He stood in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by people—Uchiha elders, Jonin, and clan elders.

Everyone was talking, and the noise was as loud as a pot of boiling water.

Some were crying, some were shouting, some were questioning. But he couldn't hear anything. He only heard the wind say, "The chieftain took that blow to protect me."

That image was all he could think about.

The mirror stood in front of him, and the knife was held behind him, blocking the attack.

Then he turned around, and the door was wide open.

The kunai was inserted into his ribs.

blood.

Lots of blood.

Jing pushed him away and yelled "Go!" Her voice was as hoarse as torn cloth.

he's gone.

He glanced back—Mirror stood in a pool of blood, gripping his sword, facing eleven Iwa ninja, still smiling. Then he left. He abandoned his clan leader and left on his own.

Fugaku's eyes began to burn.

It wasn't hot, it was burning—like something was burning behind the eyeballs, burning from the eye sockets to the back of the head, from the back of the head to the spine, from the spine to every part of the body.

He wanted to call out, but couldn't.

I want to cry, but I can't. I want to move, but I can't.

He could only stand there, feeling the fire burning in his eyes, burning through everything, burning through all pretense and restraint.

The people around me suddenly fell silent.

Someone gasped in surprise, while someone else took a step back.

Fugaku raised his head, and his eyes changed—his three-tomoe Sharingan was spinning, faster and faster, until the three tomoe joined together, forming a shape he had never seen before.

Like three sharp blades, like three drops of congealed blood, like something that only exists in legends and has been sought by countless Uchiha for a lifetime.

Kaleidoscope Sharingan.

No one speaks.

Everyone stared at those eyes, watching the three linked magatama slowly rotate in the darkness.

That was something Uchiha Kagami obtained with his life.

But Fugaku didn't want it.

He would rather trade these eyes for a pair of glasses.

Imagine that person standing before him, patting him on the shoulder and saying, "Well done." Imagine that person living. Even for a day. Even for an hour. Even just to see him one more time.

He closed his eyes. Tears slid down his cheeks, warm, and dripped onto the ground. No one saw them. Everyone kept their heads down.

-

There were no lights on in Shuoge's room.

He sat by the window, the moonlight streaming in and falling on his knees.

The knife leaned against the wall, its scabbard still bearing the marks of chopping ironwood. On the table lay an empty paper package, golden crumbs of berry cake still clinging to the creases, like frozen sunlight.

He didn't cry.

He just sat there, looking out the window.

The Uchiha compound was brightly lit, filled with a cacophony of voices, a mingled mix of crying and shouting. He didn't want to hear any of it. He just wanted to sit quietly for a while. Just for a short time.

My eyes started to feel hot.

It wasn't hot, it was cold—like something was frozen behind his eyeballs, freezing his eye sockets until they hurt, freezing his vision until he couldn't see anything clearly.

He blinked, trying to see the moon outside the window more clearly.

The moon is red.

wrong.

The moon is not red.

Her eyes are red.

He reached up and touched the corner of his eye. His fingers were wet. Not tears, but blood. Dark red, seeping from the corner of his eye and streaming down his cheek. His eyes were burning—not cold, but burning.

The kind of fire that starts from behind the eyeballs and burns everything to ashes.

He closed his eyes, trying to suppress the fire, but he couldn't.

It burned in my eyes, burned in my brain, burned in my heart.

Uchiha Sakugo remembered the day Kagami left. Morning light streamed in through the crack in the door, gilding that silhouette with gold. He said, "The berry cake is on the table, remember to eat it." He added, "Don't let it spoil."

He smiled, pushed open the door, and went out.

The figure disappeared at the end of the alley. He stood there for a long time. Then he turned around, went into the house, and ate the berry cake piece by piece. It was sweet. Just as sweet as it had been three days ago.

And now-

The blood of that person is still wet in the wind, the knife of that person is lost on some battlefield, and the promise that he would "come back in three to five days" has become a lie that can never be fulfilled.

He didn't even get to see her one last time.

The fire in my eyes suddenly went out. Not extinguished, but burned through. It burned through my eyeball, burned through my eye socket, burned through everything that blocked my vision.

He opened his eyes, and the moon outside the window was still red—no, not just red, everything he saw was red.

That red color unique to the Sharingan, visible only through blood and hatred.

He walked to the wall, where a small mirror hung.

The face in the mirror was that of a six-year-old, pale and expressionless, with a dried bloodstain at the corner of his eye.

But those eyes changed.

Two magatama slowly rotated around the dark pupils.

Not one, but two.

Both eyes are two-tomoe jade-shaped.

He looked at it for a while, then flipped the mirror over and placed it face down on the table.

He doesn't need to see it.

He knew he had gained new insights.

It was opened with my uncle's life.

He didn't cry. He simply walked to the wall, took down his long sword, hung it on his back, and pushed open the door. The moonlight outside was bright, illuminating the streets of the Uchiha compound.

Feng was still standing at the door. When he saw his eyes, he paused for a moment.

"Shuoge, you—"

"Uncle...when will you arrive?"

The wind opened its mouth. "Tomorrow."

Shuoge nodded.

He walked past the wind and headed towards the end of the street.

There was an open space there, where he often practiced his swordsmanship.

Jing stood there, teaching him how to hold the knife, how to exert force, and how to stand firmly under the waterfall.

Now it's empty, there's nothing there. But he still goes. He goes to swing his knife. One slash, another, and another. Just like before. Just like when that person was there. Just like nothing ever happened.

Behind her, the wind stood there, watching that small figure walk into the moonlight.

His eyes reddened, but he didn't chase after him. He just stood there, watching the figure grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared at the end of the street.

Under the moonlight, the sound of a sword being swung rang out.

One, one, another.

Just like yesterday, just like the day before yesterday, just like when that person was still here. Only now, no one will lean against the tree trunk anymore, arms crossed, saying, "That was a good cut."

……