Standing before the mirror, Uchiha Fugaku reached up and touched his face.
There was warmth.
There was texture.
This wasn’t a dream.
Recalling the last fragment of his memory—being slammed in the waist by a speeding truck—the conclusion came easily.
With the “help” of that truck, he had been sent into the world of Naruto… and had become the head of the Uchiha clan, Uchiha Fugaku.
“…Just…”
Thinking back on the memories he had inherited, the new Uchiha Fugaku couldn’t help but frown.
The original owner of this body had gone mad trying to peer into the future, abusing the power of his Mangekyō Sharingan until his ocular strength was completely drained, leaving him in shock and unconscious.
At that exact moment, his own soul had crossed over, seizing the empty vessel and quietly absorbing the dormant soul within.
Did he feel guilty?
Not in the slightest.
When it comes down to life and death, only raw, primal instinct matters—everything else is secondary.
Besides, this man had been the primary architect behind the Uchiha clan’s tragedy.
Indecisive.
Hesitant.
Afraid to fight, yet unwilling to surrender.
Fully aware that his son had a heavy, complicated mind, yet still sending him into the ANBU.
And what was the result?
The boy was twisted by the Third Hokage and became the greatest butcher in the shinobi world.
(Some would say he’d already been traumatized at the age of three when he was taken to the battlefield—his expressionless face just hid the damage.)
Occupying the body of someone like this brought him no psychological burden whatsoever.
If anything, he felt like cursing the man instead.
Because from the glimpses of the future the original Fugaku had seen… he now knew one thing with absolute certainty:
The so-called Night of the Uchiha Massacre—
Was tonight.
And that was exactly why he was frowning.
A dead end.
Of course, it wasn’t all bad news.
The act of transmigration had healed the overdrawn Mangekyō Sharingan—and even refreshed its abilities, shaping them according to his deepest obsessions.
Unfortunately…
As an ordinary man, his greatest obsessions boiled down to just two things.
So—
Left Mangekyō: Yomotsu Shokufu — the power to consume all energy and convert it into chakra.
Right Mangekyō: Takamimusubi — the ability to generate boundless vitality and restore the body.
“…Heh.”
Lifting his head to glance at the dimming evening sky, Fugaku let out a long sigh.
By now, the Uchiha compound was likely sealed tighter than a cage.
Not even a mosquito could escape.
That bastard son of the previous owner—Uchiha Itachi—was probably hiding somewhere with Uchiha Obito, watching the clan like vultures waiting for the final moment.
So what now?
“What else… let it rot.”
As an outsider, he felt no attachment to anyone here.
Abandoning them meant nothing to him.
But even escaping on his own?
Impossible.
Everyone knew the difference.
A border collie is a border collie.
A dog is just a dog.
Uchiha Madara was Madara.
The Uchiha clan… was just the Uchiha clan.
Madara could wipe out Konoha even without his eyes, rampaging like a god of war.
But the rest?
Even with the Mangekyō, even with Susanoo, at best they were comparable to summoned beasts from the Three Great Sage Regions—and they’d be worn down to death eventually.
Not to mention—
He had only just arrived.
Even though he had absorbed the original Fugaku’s memories, his control over this body, his mastery of jutsu, his understanding of chakra… all of it still required time to adapt and synchronize.
From every possible angle—
Objectively speaking—
He was dead.
So…
Since it’s come to this—
Might as well sleep first.
“…Fugaku…”
Pushing open the bedroom door on the second floor, Fugaku saw Uchiha Mikoto sitting there, her face clouded with worry.
A few days ago, Uchiha Itachi—their son—had erupted into the most intense argument he’d ever had with his father.
Since then, he hadn’t returned.
At the same time, an indescribable tension had settled over the entire Uchiha district.
Once a jōnin, a wielder of the three-tomoe Sharingan, even after years as a housewife, Mikoto still retained her sharp instincts.
Something big… was about to happen.
So when she saw her husband walk in, the only thing she could do—
Was hope that he had a solution.
“Dear…”
Fugaku looked at Mikoto, who was gazing at him, and a faint smile appeared on his face.
He sat down beside her, his eyes lingering on her gentle features, and for a moment, ripples stirred in his heart.
Before transmigrating, he had only ever seen this character through a screen.
Back then, he had already thought of her as graceful and beautiful—the “perfect wife” in the hearts of countless Naruto fans.
But now that she was right in front of him, the impact was on an entirely different level, something no two-dimensional image could ever compare to.
The previous Fugaku… what a fool.
Always obsessing over the clan, the coup, the future—yet sitting on such a treasure without ever knowing how to cherish it.
A waste.
With that thought, his hand naturally slipped around her waist.
Mikoto’s body stiffened slightly, then relaxed.
She leaned gently against his broad shoulder, letting herself sink into his embrace.
The past few days of worry, fear, and confusion—about her son, about the clan’s future—had nearly crushed her.
At this moment, her husband’s steady warmth and firm arms were the only thing she could hold onto.
She needed this support, even if it was just a fleeting moment of peace.
But that peace didn’t last long.
Because she soon felt that the hand around her waist… was starting to wander.
“Fugaku…”
She lifted her head, her cheeks flushing red, looking at him with a mix of helplessness and mild reproach.
At a time like this—when danger loomed outside, when the clan stood on the brink of disaster, when their son was nowhere to be found—how could he still have the mind for this…?
Fugaku looked at her blushing face, at those clear, captivating eyes—Sharingan or not.
He smiled faintly, tightened his arm, and pulled her closer, his voice low and steady, carrying an inexplicable certainty.
“Relax.
I’ve got everything under control.”
Before she could say anything more, he leaned in and gently pushed her down onto the soft bed.
The candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows across a group of aged, somber faces.
Hiruzen Sarutobi sat with a pipe in his mouth, smoke curling around him.
Danzo Shimura leaned on his cane, his single eye lowered.
Homura Mitokado and Koharu Utatane sat on either side, their expressions grave.
Kneeling on one knee before them was Uchiha Itachi.
His face was hidden in shadow.
“The Uchiha clan has already resolved to rebel.”
His voice was calm, as if stating something entirely unrelated to himself.
“And your decision?”
Hiruzen spoke slowly.
“I will carry out the purge.”
Itachi raised his head.
In the depths of his eyes lay an unfathomable darkness.
“On one condition.
The village must guarantee the safety of my younger brother, Uchiha Sasuke.
He is to remain ignorant of the truth and live in Konoha as a normal survivor.”
Hiruzen fell silent for a moment before exhaling a thick cloud of smoke.
“Sasuke is a shinobi of Konoha.
In the name of the Hokage, I promise—his safety and future will be protected.”
His gaze toward Itachi was complicated—tinged with regret, heaviness, and a trace of cold calculation.
“Uchiha Itachi… your resolve is for the greater good of the village.
Konoha will remember your sacrifice.”
A gust of wind passed.
Itachi stepped out of that memory.
Now, he stood in the shadows outside the village.
Beside him was the masked man who called himself Uchiha Madara.
“It’s dark now, Itachi.
Time to begin.”
The masked man’s hoarse voice broke the silence.
Itachi nodded.
After finalizing the plan with Hiruzen, he had also taken on a mission to investigate the Akatsuki.
Conveniently, this man claiming to be Madara had approached him.
In exchange for assisting in the clan’s extermination, Itachi would join the organization.
It was a deal with a convincing outward justification—awakening the Mangekyō Sharingan and leaving his brother alive for the sake of the future “Eternal Mangekyō.”
“So… who do we start with?”
The masked man asked, his tone laced with curiosity—a test of Itachi’s resolve.
“My parents.”
Itachi answered without hesitation, his voice icy.
“My father is the clan head.
He’s the strongest—and the most vigilant.
If he notices anything and rallies the clan, even with your help, things will become troublesome.”
The masked man let out a low chuckle, his Sharingan spinning slowly behind the mask.
“Decisive, aren’t you…”
Itachi ignored the remark and took the lead, heading toward his home.
The night was deep.
The residence lay silent, save for a faint glow from the second-floor bedroom window.
He took a deep breath, preparing to push the door open—to fulfill his duty of “righteous slaughter.”
But just as his fingers were about to touch the door—
A faint, unmistakable sound drifted out from within.
Itachi froze.
Beside him, the masked man also stiffened, tilting his head slightly, as if doubting his own ears.
The two exchanged a glance in the darkness.
The atmosphere instantly turned… strange.
Awkward.
The masked man seemed about to say something to break the silence, but Itachi suddenly grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the house, retreating into deeper shadows.
“…They are still my parents.”
Itachi’s voice was dry as he looked away.
“They deserve… a measure of respect in their final moments.”
“…Fair enough.”
The masked man coughed lightly, his tone odd but not disagreeing.
“But still…”
He couldn’t help lowering his voice and adding,
“Your father’s… quite spirited, huh?”
His laughter sounded oddly out of place in the night.
Itachi said nothing.
He simply stood there in silence, his gaze fixed on his home, emotions unreadable.
Time passed—slow, suffocating, and unbearably awkward.
Yet the “noise” they expected to end quickly… did not.
As the wait dragged on, Itachi’s expression shifted—from stiff, to embarrassed, to blank… and eventually, faintly dark.
“…Your father’s in pretty good shape.”
Itachi shot him a glare sharp enough to kill.
The masked man wisely shut up.
At that moment, the ground stirred slightly, and a white figure—White Zetsu—emerged.
“Madara-sama~”
he reported in his usual peculiar tone.
“That brat, Sasuke, just finished training.
He’s heading back—almost home.”
Itachi raised a hand and rubbed his temple hard.
One push, then decline, then exhaustion—his carefully cultivated resolve for the night had been completely shattered by this absurd chain of events.
And now Sasuke was returning.
Clearly, this was no longer the right time to act.
“The plan is postponed.”
Itachi took a deep breath, his voice tinged with fatigue and irritation.
“Tomorrow.
And send your subordinates—disguised as my clansmen—to intercept Sasuke.
Make up any excuse.
Just don’t let him come home.”
“Got it.”
The masked man—Uchiha Obito—agreed readily.
Because just moments ago, White Zetsu had infiltrated the house and confirmed everything.
It was real.
Not an illusion.
Judging from the situation inside… whatever was happening had been going on for quite a while.
“…Damn it.
Is that guy even human?”
Obito couldn’t help muttering.
That stamina… that endurance…
For a moment, he even suspected that Fugaku’s Mangekyō ability was specifically designed to enhance his vitality.
Dawn broke.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating the messy bedroom.
Fugaku leaned against the headboard, a cigarette between his fingers, exhaling a slow stream of smoke.
His expression was calm—almost lazily satisfied.
Beside him, Mikoto was fast asleep, her breathing soft and steady, a faint blush and lingering fatigue still on her face.
“…So why didn’t Itachi come back?”
Fugaku’s thoughts shifted, turning analytical.
According to the original storyline, last night should have been the night of the massacre.
Itachi and Obito should have come.
But the commotion he and Mikoto had caused had lasted nearly the entire night.
Even for someone like Itachi… walking into that scene, he would likely choose to withdraw.
And Sasuke hadn’t returned either.
That was further proof.
Thinking this, Fugaku rubbed his chin and suddenly let out a low chuckle.
Did this count as a lucky accident?
Last night, he had fully intended to indulge himself and then die.
From every angle, there had been no path to survival.
And yet, this reckless indulgence… had unexpectedly delayed time and disrupted the “filial son’s” massacre plan.
Absurd.
Ridiculous.
And somehow… darkly amusing.
“…Hah.”
He exhaled softly, turning his gaze toward the sleeping Mikoto.
His eyes softened slightly—though there was still a trace of lingering satisfaction.
Some truths only come with age, it seemed.
But he wouldn’t push her further.
One reason was simple—he cared.
From now on, she was his wife, and his alone.
The other—
This seemingly absurd night had, in a way, opened a new path.
Like a masterful move in a complex game of chess, it had bought him precious time—time to fully merge with this body, to digest the vast memories he had inherited.
Now, he had completely absorbed Uchiha Fugaku’s combat instincts, ninja experience, and chakra control.
And with that came a deeper understanding of his newly awakened Mangekyō abilities.
Last night, he had treated them as nothing more than crude manifestations of appetite and desire.
But now—
As he carefully pondered the names Yomotsu Shokufu and Takamimusubi, combining battle experience with his own insight…
A bold, entirely different idea began to take shape in his mind.
Maybe—
He wasn’t completely without a way out after all.
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