I, Uchiha, will not be whitewashed!

Chapter 80 Tranquility!

The underground laboratory in Otogaku Village, the land of fields.

Orochimaru lay on a chair next to the culture tank, his body wrapped in bandages, his face paler than usual.

Dou was tidying up the surgical instruments on the side, occasionally glancing up at him.

Three days ago, Orochimaru attacked Itachi Uchiha and was instantly dragged into the world of Tsukuyomi. The seventy-two slashes he suffered still left a stinging pain in his mind.

It wasn't because Itachi's genjutsu was so powerful—it was because his spirit was too weak.

The reincarnation technique has been used too many times, and the soul is like a piece of paper that has been folded repeatedly, with creases so deep that it is about to break.

"Lord Orochimaru, you should rest." Kabuto pushed up his glasses.

"Rest?" Orochimaru's lips twitched slightly.

"My body can rest, but my mind can't stop."

He sat up straight, took a scroll from the drawer, and unrolled it.

The document is densely filled with data on the Sharingan and the First Hokage's cells—postoperative observation of the Danzo arm transplant, fluctuations in the Sharingan's pupil power, and activity tests of the First Hokage's cells.

"The Sharingan—the Mangekyou Sharingan—and those eternal eyes that will never go blind—"

He closed the reel, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

Itachi is too dangerous. The calmness in those eyes wasn't feigned; it was genuine fearlessness.

Orochimaru couldn't see any flaws in Itachi's eyes—no fear, no desire, no openings that could be exploited.

Those people, those eyes, were eyes that looked like they were ready to die at any moment.

Neither of them are good prey.

He needs another way.

A closer, more accessible target. A target who can deliver the Sharingan to him while allowing him to study it safely. He needs someone who will actively seek him out.

A name popped into his mind.

A few days later, Konoha Village.

Shuoge is compiling mission reports at the secret base.

After the Battle of Kakuzu, his vision in his left eye was stable for a while, but it has recently become blurry again.

Tsunade's repair surgery did not solve the fundamental problem—her pupil power was still being depleted, and her optic nerve was still atrophying.

He examined himself in the mirror and noticed that the edges of the kaleidoscope pattern in his left eye were starting to blur again, like ink that had been soaked in water.

He knew that his left eye would worsen again in a few months.

A faint rustling sound came from outside the window. A small snake, grayish-white in color and about half the length of a little finger, slithered in through the crack in the window, carrying a scroll in its mouth.

It climbed onto Shuoge's table, put down the scroll, coiled up, and stared at him with its tongue flicking out.

When it comes to snake-type summoned beasts, the first one that comes to Sakugo's mind is Orochimaru.

He unrolled the scroll, which bore Orochimaru's handwriting: "I have a way to heal your eyes. Three days later, at the old stronghold in the Land of Rice Fields. Bring your Sharingan."

He glanced at it, then brought the scroll close to the candle flame and burned it. The ashes fell onto the table, and the little snake had vanished without a trace.

Shuoge stood up. Without hesitation. His eyes could not be delayed any longer.

A few days later, Shuoge accepted a border reconnaissance mission and left the village alone.

The sword was on his back, and inside his ninja tool pouch was a sealing scroll containing several Sharingan eyes.

He walked towards the direction of the land of fields, his pace neither fast nor slow.

Orochimaru had Sakugo lie on the operating table. The operating table was old, the metal sheet was cold, and when Sakugo's back touched it, the cold seeped into his bones from his skin.

Orochimaru injected the first generation cell culture medium into a syringe, and the pale green liquid sloshed around in the syringe.

"The dosage can't be too high, and it can't be too low," Orochimaru said intently. "Too much, and your cells will go out of control, and your body will suffer a backlash from Wood Release. Too little, and you won't be able to control the consumption of your eye power."

He wiped Shuoge's right arm with an alcohol swab and then inserted the needle into a blood vessel.

Shuoge did not speak.

The warm liquid flowed through my blood vessels and spread throughout my body.

His left eye began to burn—not the gentle burning sensation of Tsunade's eyes, but a scorching, tearing burning sensation, as if something was growing inside his eyeball.

His fingers gripped the edge of the operating table tightly, his knuckles turning white, but he remained silent.

The Mangekyou Sharingan automatically activated, and three black crescent moons spun violently in the red pupils, sometimes fast and sometimes slow, as if fighting against some kind of power within the body.

The veins in my right arm bulged and then deflated, and something was flowing in the blood.

Orochimaru was recording data nearby, his pen scratching across the paper. His golden eyes were filled with excitement, like a biologist who had discovered a new species.

"Pupil power is rising — cell sex is decreasing — mutual pressure, mutual balance —" His voice grew softer and faster.

"As expected, the Sharingan and the First Hokage's cells are natural rivals, and also natural partners. Danzo's arm required so many Sharingan to suppress it because he transplanted too many cells. You only need a very small dose, because your Mangekyou Sharingan itself consumes ocular power, and the freed-up space is just right for the cells to fill a perfect balance —"

Fifteen minutes later, Orochimaru put away his pen. "All done."

Shuoge sat up and blinked his left eye.

My vision is clear now, not like the kind of clarity that Tsunade experienced when her optic nerve was "repaired," but a clarity where there is no more blurriness.

He closed his eyes, then opened them again. The kaleidoscope pattern slowly rotated in his pupils, steadily and powerfully, like a machine that had just been calibrated.

Orochimaru handed him a small bottle containing pale yellow pills.

"An inhibitor. The First Hokage cells will slowly proliferate in your body, and your Sharingan will continuously suppress them. But occasionally, an imbalance will occur, such as when you are seriously injured, your chakra is depleted, or your emotions fluctuate violently. At that time, taking one pill will help you stabilize."

Shuoge took the medicine bottle and put it in his pocket.

"This is just the beginning."

Orochimaru's voice came from behind. "You've only suppressed the side effects, not cured them. As long as the balance isn't broken, your eyesight won't deteriorate further. But if the balance is ever broken—"

'

He didn't continue.

Shuoge stepped off the operating table, slung the scalpel behind his back, and walked towards the door. After a few steps, he stopped without looking back.

At least for now, the side effects of his kaleidoscope have been resolved, and his eyesight will not deteriorate.

Evening, Konoha Village.

Naruto inserted the key into the lock, turned it twice, and the door opened.

The room was dark, the curtains were not drawn, and there was a smell of leftover food in the air. He pressed the light switch, and the light flickered twice before turning on. One end of the fluorescent tube was blackened, and it was humming.

In the entryway, there was only his own pair of old sneakers. Shuimen's shoes were gone; he hadn't returned yet.

Naruto threw his backpack on the sofa and went into the kitchen.

-

-

The refrigerator contained eggs, milk, a bag of wilted greens, and several boxes of instant curry.

He took out two boxes of curry, tore open the packaging, put them in the microwave, and microwaved them for three minutes.

The microwave was humming as he leaned against the stove, waiting. His gaze fell on a bowl that had been sitting in the sink for two days, unwashed. Another bowl contained the remnants of instant noodles, the soup dried up and stuck to the sides.

He turned on the tap, rinsed the bowl, but there was no dish soap. His hand slipped, and the bowl fell into the sink, chipping it.

The microwave beeped. He took out the curry, poured it into a bowl, and sat down at the table.

Yesterday's newspaper was spread out on the table. The front page was about the Hokage attending a certain meeting. In the photo, Minato was wearing the Hokage robe, standing among a group of adults, smiling.

Naruto pushed the newspaper aside and lowered his head to eat. The curry was a bit salty and made him choke, so he poured himself a glass of water, which was cold.

Halfway through the meal, there was a rustling sound outside the window.

A gray-white hawk landed on the windowsill, with a small bamboo tube tied to its leg.

Naruto put down his chopsticks, walked over and opened the window. The ninja hawk tilted its head and glanced at him, then stretched out a leg. He untied the bamboo tube, and the ninja hawk shook its wings and flew away.

A piece of paper was rolled up inside the bamboo tube.

Unfolding the document, you can see Minato's handwriting: "Naruto, Dad's working overtime tonight and won't be home for dinner. Make yourself something to eat and go to bed early. Don't forget your homework."

Naruto read it once, folded the note, and stuffed it into his pocket.

He returned to the table; the curry had gone cold, and the rice was hard. He finished the rice in his bowl, cleared away the dishes, picked up his schoolbag, went into his bedroom, and began doing his homework.

The math problems weren't difficult, but he couldn't solve the last one, so he left it blank.

When he was copying Chinese texts, his handwriting started to become crooked halfway through.

He put down his pen, leaned on the table, and closed his eyes for a while. When he opened his eyes, an hour had passed, and a crease had appeared on his notebook.

He continued writing, then closed the notebook and put it in his schoolbag.

He went to the living room, sat on the sofa, and turned on the TV.

The variety show was a mix of laughter and commotion. He watched for a while, chuckled twice, the sound echoing briefly in the empty room before fading away.

He changed the channels a few times, but there was nothing he wanted to watch, so he turned off the TV.

The lights in the neighbor's house outside the window were still on, and I could hear children laughing and adults talking through the curtains.

Naruto stood by the window for a while, then drew the curtains, brushed his teeth, washed his face, and changed into his pajamas.

Uchiha headquarters, training ground.

Shisui stood alone in front of the target, holding a kunai in his hand, his three-tomoe Sharingan slowly turning in the setting sun.

He didn't throw; he just stood there.

Xiang and Ling have already gone home, leaving him alone on the training field.

The moonlight shone on the bullseye, the densely packed marks of kunai gleaming coldly in the moonlight. He threw one—the bullseye. Another—the bullseye.

The sound of the kunai hitting the bullseye was crisp and monotonous, one after another.

He remembered when Itachi was still around, the two of them would throw together and see who could throw more accurately.

He wins more often, but Itachi never fights.

On the day Itachi left, Shisui did not go to see him off.

He stood on the training field and threw at the target all night.

The kunai had chafed his hand raw, blood dripping onto the ground, but he didn't stop. He hadn't thrown many tonight. He stopped, put the kunai back in his ninja tool pouch, and turned to leave.

Quanmei sat on the veranda.

She held a shuriken in her hand, which she had picked up from the training ground—someone had thrown it off course, but the blade was engraved with the character "Itachi," crooked and distorted, like a child's carving.

She turned the sword in her hand over and over, the moonlight shining on the words, giving them a cold gleam.

Quanmei is now fifteen years old. Her hair has grown long, and she still has a bit of baby fat on her face, but her eyes are no longer as timid as they were when she was a child.

She heard the news of Itachi's defection—the people in the clan were saying that he was jealous of Sakugo and that he ran away after losing.

Izumi didn't believe it.

She has known Itachi for a long time, ever since they were children.

The one who always looked so serious while throwing shuriken on the training field, the one who retrieved the shuriken that had been blown away by the wind for her, the one who said "thank you" when Izumi gave him an ice cream—he would never betray her.

Izumi held the shuriken in her hand, the metal warmed by her body heat, the coolness slowly receding. She didn't know where Itachi had gone, why he had left, or when he would return.

But she knew he would come back.

A breeze blew in from the courtyard, ringing the wind chimes under the eaves. Izumi looked up at the swaying glass shards, which refracted tiny fragments of light.

"I will wait for you."

The sound was very soft, as soft as a wind chime that rang once and then disappeared.