“You say the Third also went to see Linbei?”
Uchiha Fugaku set down his teacup, his eyes narrowing slightly.
His expression didn’t change much, but Shisui, sitting across from him, could feel the temperature in the air drop a fraction.
Shisui sat with his back ramrod straight.
He hid nothing—reporting every detail to Fugaku, from Linbei’s food cart to the appearance of the Third Hokage, including what the old man wore and his expression upon leaving.
Shisui’s stance had always been clear.
Influenced by the Will of Fire, he respected the Third Hokage and loved the village, but he never forgot he was a member of the Uchiha Clan.
What he wanted to be was a bridge—one connecting the village and the family.
Therefore, he had to report the Third’s activities to Fugaku.
This wasn’t betrayal; it was a matter of sticking to his principles.
“Yes,” Shisui nodded.
“The Third Hokage was in civilian clothes and a bamboo hat.
It seemed he just wanted to taste Linbei’s Krabby Patty.
He stood at the stall for a while, bought one, and left after eating it.”
“It ‘seemed’ he just wanted to?” Fugaku repeated the words, his tone carrying an ambiguous edge.
Shisui fell silent for a moment.
He understood Fugaku’s meaning—the Third Hokage was burdened with a myriad of state affairs; he wouldn’t appear at an eight-year-old’s stall for no reason.
No matter how delicious a Krabby Patty was, it wasn’t enough to make the Hokage make a personal trip.
“I understand your concerns, Clan Leader,” Shisui said.
“But Linbei is just a newly graduated Genin.
Though his summoned beasts are somewhat peculiar, they haven’t shown any threat.
Perhaps the Third Hokage really was just curious.”
Fugaku didn’t respond.
He looked down at the Krabby Patty beside him—the one Shisui had brought back.
It was wrapped in oil paper, still emitting a faint trail of steam.
A small patch of the paper had been soaked through by the oils of the burger, and through a tear in the wrapping, one could see the golden-brown bun and oozing sauce.
*Is this thing really that good?*
Fugaku unwrapped the oil paper, picked up the Krabby Patty, and took a bite.
His first reaction was to frown—not a frown of disgust, but an instinctive, defensive furrowing of his brows.
The flavor of the Krabby Patty was too intense, like a torrent of taste rushing directly into his mouth, giving him no time to prepare.
Then, his brow smoothed out.
The softness of the bread, the tenderness of the patty, the crispness of the vegetables, and the richness of the sauce—all the flavors intertwined, collided, and merged on his tongue like a well-trained orchestra performing a complex symphony.
Every note was exactly right; every flavor was perfectly balanced.
Fugaku’s expression didn’t change significantly, but his eyes brightened.
That light wasn’t intentional; it was a primal, physiological response—like someone suddenly seeing light in the darkness.
Without thinking, the eyes naturally brighten.
He chewed, swallowed the first bite, and then took a second.
The second bite was larger than the first, and his chewing speed increased considerably.
Without Fugaku even realizing it, the expression on his face softened.
The majesty and sternness he had worn for years melted away under the assault of the Krabby Patty, like snow meeting a spring breeze.
Sitting opposite him, Shisui watched the change in Fugaku’s expression, the corners of his mouth twitching upward slightly.
He didn’t speak, but he understood in his heart—no one could resist the magic of the Krabby Patty.
“Itachi, you try some too.” Fugaku handed the remaining half of the Krabby Patty toward Itachi, who was standing to the side.
Itachi had been standing in the corner since entering the room, as quiet as a plant.
He had heard Shisui’s report and seen the change in his father’s expression, but he had said nothing and asked nothing.
“Alright.” Itachi took the Krabby Patty and looked down at it.
This was his second contact with something belonging to Linbei.
The first was two years ago at the dango shop, when Linbei had taken his skewer of Three-Colored Pills.
This time, it was a Krabby Patty—one made by Linbei.
Itachi took a bite.
His first reaction was completely different from Fugaku’s.
Where Fugaku had frowned from the impact of the flavor, Itachi was simply…
stunned.
The taste of the Krabby Patty exploded in his mouth, like a flavor bomb detonating on his taste buds.
Sweet, salty, sour, savory, and aromatic—five flavors surged at once, each intense and clear, yet perfectly fused together.
Itachi’s pupils dilated slightly.
Then, he began to eat in large gulps.
This was very unlike Itachi.
But at this moment, the speed at which he ate the Krabby Patty was startling.
One bite after another, he had no intention of stopping.
In just a few mouthfuls, the Krabby Patty was gone, and he even licked the crumbs off his hand.
Itachi set down the oil paper and looked up, only to find Fugaku watching him.
“Good?” Fugaku asked.
“Good,” Itachi said.
This was the first time Itachi had used such a simple, direct word to evaluate food.
Before, whether it was Three-Colored Pills or anything else, his evaluation was always: “It’s fine.” Today, he used “good,” and there wasn’t a hint of hesitation in his voice.
Fugaku laughed.
It wasn’t a stern, restrained laugh, but one from the heart, tinged with a bit of helplessness.
“It seems this Krabby Patty truly has a unique charm,” Fugaku said, taking a sip of tea, the remnants of the smile still on his lips.
“Even Itachi likes it.”
Itachi didn’t speak, but his gaze fell on the remaining Krabby Patty on the tray.
Shisui had brought back two; Fugaku had eaten most of the first, and Itachi had finished the rest.
The second one was still wrapped in oil paper, untouched.
Itachi glanced at the burger, then retracted his gaze.
His expression returned to calm, but Shisui noticed Itachi’s throat move.
He was swallowing his saliva.
Suppressing a smile, Shisui brought the conversation back to business.
“Regarding the Third Hokage…” he asked tentatively.
Fugaku set down his teacup, the smile fading as the majesty of the Uchiha Clan Leader returned.
However, the look in his eyes was different than before—the previous gravity and wariness had lightened, replaced by deep thought.
“It’s fine,” Fugaku said, tapping his fingers lightly on the table.
“Perhaps it really was a coincidence.
Even if the Third has a goal—”
He paused.
“We can also use Linbei as a channel for communication.”
Shisui was slightly taken aback, then understood Fugaku’s meaning.
The Uchiha Clan’s current situation was delicate.
After the Nine-Tails’ Rebellion, the village’s suspicion and marginalization of the Uchiha had become increasingly obvious.
The clan compound had been moved to the most remote corner, the actual power of the Police Force was being hollowed out step by step, and the Anbu’s surveillance never ceased.
Internal clan sentiment was also becoming more heated—the hawks, led by Elder Uchiha Setsuna, advocated for using hardline measures to respond to the village’s suppression, not even ruling out the possibility of a coup d’état.
As the Clan Leader, Fugaku had been suppressing the hawks’ impulses.
He knew a coup was a dead end—no matter how strong the Uchiha Clan was, it was impossible to oppose the entire Konoha village.
But he also had no way to make the village drop its suspicion.
The mutual antagonism was like a snowball rolling downhill; sooner or later, it would spiral out of control.
Fugaku needed a channel.
A way for the village and the Uchiha to rebuild communication.
Linbei was an orphan with no family baggage, none of the hawks’ radicalism, and none of the doves’ compromise.
He was just an eight-year-old child selling Krabby Patties on the commercial street.
The fact that the Third was willing to see him meant the Third was “interested” in him.
Since he was a member of the Uchiha Clan, if Fugaku showed him “care,” a delicate point of balance could be formed around Linbei.
Someone who could be accepted by the village and trusted by the clan.
A bridge.
Shisui looked into Fugaku’s eyes and read all of this within those deep, dark depths.
“A bridge for communication…” Shisui whispered the phrase, then nodded.
“I understand.”
He truly understood.
The person Fugaku chose wasn’t Shisui, but an eight-year-old child.
It wasn’t because Shisui wasn’t qualified, but because he was “too Uchiha”—his Body Flicker Jutsu, his Sharingan, and his reputation all made it impossible for him to be a pure “bridge.” He had navigated between the village and the clan for too long; both sides knew him, and both sides were wary of him.
But Linbei was different.
Linbei was a blank sheet of paper.
A sheet of paper that had not yet been stained by either side.
“Shisui,” Fugaku suddenly spoke.
“That child, Linbei…
what do you think of him?”
“He is very clever,” Shisui said.
“But not the ostentatious kind of clever.
He knows what to say and when to say it; he knows how to act in front of different people.
When the Third went there, he acted like an ordinary child who admires the Hokage.
There were no flaws.”
Fugaku listened without interrupting.
“His summoned beasts—that cat and that yellow thing—are not ordinary.
The cat’s eyes are too lucid; it doesn’t seem like an animal, but more like an intelligent lifeform.
As for the yellow one…” Shisui paused, searching for the right adjective.
“It is simple, but abnormally so.
Like an existence that possesses only instinct and no guile.”
“Go on.”
“As for Linbei himself…” Shisui thought.
“I can’t see through him yet.
But he is well-disposed toward me.
He called me ‘Big Brother.’ It didn’t seem like calculated flattery, but more like…
an instinctive closeness.”
“An instinctive closeness?” Fugaku repeated.
“Yes.” Shisui nodded.
“He knows who is good to him.”
Fugaku was silent for a long time before waving his hand.
“Continue to watch him, but do not interfere.
Let him develop naturally.”
“Understood.” Shisui stood up, bowed, and turned to walk out of the office.
Only Fugaku and Itachi remained in the office.
Itachi still stood in the corner, quiet as a statue.
He hadn’t spoken, but his gaze followed Shisui until he disappeared out the door.
“Itachi,” Fugaku called.
“Yes.”
“You and Linbei are classmates,” Fugaku looked at him.
“What is your opinion of him?”
Itachi was silent for a few seconds.
This was the second time Fugaku had asked him about Linbei.
“He has been hiding,” Itachi said.
Fugaku’s eyebrows twitched slightly.
“Hiding what?”
“His strength.” Itachi’s voice was calm, as if stating a fact.
“Back at the Ninja Academy, his grades were always just above average.
His Taijutsu barely passed, and for Ninjutsu, he only knew the Three-Body Technique.
But I have a feeling—that isn’t his true level.”
“What kind of feeling?”
Itachi was silent for another few seconds.
“It’s like someone intentionally slowing their pace to make you think they can’t walk fast.
But his shadow tells you that he can actually run.”
Fugaku looked at Itachi, looking at his eight-year-old son.
There was no jealousy in Itachi’s eyes, no hostility—only a cool, objective analysis.
He was observing Linbei in his own way, just as he observed everything else in the world.
“Why do you think he is hiding?”
“I don’t know.” Itachi shook his head.
“But I think he has his reasons.”
Fugaku didn’t ask further.
He picked up his teacup again and took a sip.
The tea was cold, but he didn’t call for a replacement.
Outside the window, the sky over Konoha was very blue, and the sunlight was warm.
But Fugaku knew that beneath this blue sky, the undercurrents never stopped surging.