Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing she felt was heat.

Not burning, not searing— but warm, like sunlight pressing gently against her cheek. Gentle. Steady. Alive.

Then came the weight. Small limbs. A light body. Limbs that didn't belong. Skin too smooth. Joints too loose, too soft. Like wearing the memory of someone else’s form. And beneath her ribs—something pulsed. Not a heartbeat. Something else. Something vast and ancient and humming with power. It coiled and stirred like a second soul. 

She inhaled sharply. The scent of incense swirled around her, grounded by a hint of sakura petals drifting through a half-open window. Everything was too vivid. Too delicate. Too real.

Her eyelids fluttered open. The ceiling above her was made of polished wood, slatted in careful lines. Sunlight slipped through a bamboo screen, cutting soft golden stripes across the floor.

And then— a face.

A woman leaned over her. Young. Serene. Proud. A kind smile pulling at her lips like she was trying not to cry. Her eyes shimmered, brimming with emotion. Dark hair framed her face like ink on silk. A stranger. The first thing that registered in her mind was Beautiful and Who are you? second. 

“Oh, he’s awake,” The stranger whispered, voice trembling slightly with wonder. He?

“My little Itachi…”

Itachi.

The name was a drop of ink spilled across her memory.

Hua’s mind—sharp, disciplined, forged in protests and quiet revolutions—snapped to full awareness. No haze. No confusion. Only the unmistakable sound of fate clicking into place.

Uchiha Itachi.

That name was a wound in history. A boy born to brilliance, raised in silence, and broken by duty. A ghost in his own life. A sacrificial knife held by his village; and used. No. No, no, no—

Her breath caught. Her heart thundered. She wasn’t dead. Not anymore. But she wasn’t herself, either.

Lian Hua, the woman who had braved the borders and died saving children and civilians in another life, was now the child who would one day kill his clan. Her mind spun, a thousand thoughts tumbling over each other. Fragments of her old world bleeding into this new one. History. Fandom. Tragedy. Memory.

Itachi. Killed his clan to save his village. Betrayed to preserve peace. Died unloved, unthanked, unseen. All for a lie. All for someone else’s definition of peace. All for someone else’s greed of power. 

A familiar story. A terrible one. A genocide.

And now she was him.

Suddenly, her body tensed. A sharp ache bloomed behind her eyes—piercing, blinding, ancient. Her vision blurred, darkened—

and then ignited.

Her eyes bled crimson.

Chapter Text

Her eyes bled crimson.

The world folded into color— not red, not blood, but something older. Three tomoe spun in silent harmony, like sorrowful stars caught in orbit, tracing circles of power and fate around her pupils.

Mikoto gasped. Not in fear. Not in suspicion. But in awe—soft, tender awe—as if watching the first bloom of spring after a bitter winter.

“So young… and already awakened three,” she whispered, her voice trembling on the edge of laughter and disbelief.

“You’re gifted, my little Itachi. Just like your father.” Father?

Uchiha Fugaku, her mind supplies. Clan Head of the Uchiha Clan. Wicked-eyes Fugaku. Leader of Konoha Military Force. 

Hua Itachi blinked slowly, forcing the Sharingan to fade, letting the red drain back into black. Too soon, too sharp. Her body was too small to hold that power for long.

Still, Mikoto only smiled and brushed a hand across her—his?—forehead, tucking stray strands of hair back with a mother’s reverence, as if the power behind those eyes didn’t scare her. As if she had already chosen to love whatever she would become.

Love.

It struck Hua Itachi like a blade made of honey. Sharp in its sweetness. Overwhelming.

There was no strategy in Mikoto’s touch. No calculation. No duty. Just pure, unconditional love—the kind Hua had once. She had known this love before—once, long ago, offered to strangers, to children in burning fields, to the bruised and bleeding and broken. She had given her heart freely, endlessly.

You loved too easily and freely, someone told her once. That she had a heart so readily available to be given. She liked to think it was a blessing— to be able to love so many people so greatly. To bring joy and happiness with each love she gave. To love was to see someone, fully. To love was to make the world gentler, even if only for a moment.

And yet, here, now, as Hua made her first breath as Itachi, she thought to herself— Will this love be a curse? 

Because Hua Itachi loved her his? new mother as easily as her lungs took in that very first breath.

She couldn’t speak yet. Not fully. But she could listen.

And she could watch.

She had always been a listener. In another life, she'd sat cross-legged in refugee tents and broken classrooms. She had held hands sticky with blood and ash, had heard lullabies and last confessions. She’d heard of children cries and of parents screaming in the hardened war borders.  

Now she listened again. To the creak of wooden floors beneath her father’s feet. To lullabies hummed by Mikoto while folding laundry. To Fugaku's low voice murmuring Clan reports at the dinner table, always softening when he addressed her. She listened to soft spoken love declarations by her new parents in the quiet of the night where they each thought the other wasn't listening. She listened to their chatters, daily conversations about everything and nothing. 

“How’s my boy?”

“He doesn’t cry. Ever. Just watches. Thinking.”

“He’s sharp. Like me.”

“No, like your mother.”

They laughed sometimes. Not loudly, but deeply. Quiet, gentle laughs that warmed the tatami floors and made the house feel like something more than wood and tradition.

And Hua—now Itachi—soaked it in.

She wasn't just learning language. She was learning love.

She took her first steps toward Mikoto.

Not because she was ready. But because she wanted to reach her.

She stumbled forward, tiny feet on cool wood— and Mikoto gasped, arms wide.

“Itachi!” she cried, scooping her up, spinning her gently in the kitchen light— like a whirlwind of joy, lifting her into a spiral of laughter and light.

“You did it!”

She giggled; a sound she hadn’t heard from herself in decades. It felt like sunlight trapped in her chest.

Mikoto kissed her cheek.

“You always try so hard for everyone, even now. My sweet, serious boy.”

Itachi buried her face in her mother’s shoulder.

My mother, she thought, and it ached like a secret.

But it was dangerous to think that way.

She knew how this ended.

She remembered the cold.

Mikoto’s wide, disbelieving—and yet saddened, so so sad for her darling boy—eyes.

Fugaku’s calm surrender, with understanding eyes telling his son how proud he is of him. 

Sasuke’s confusion, drawn out over years like a bleeding wound— asking for his Aniki. 

Not this time, she swore.

I’ll burn the sky before I let the world devour them again.

She started speaking—formally. Politely. Always measured. Mikoto teased her about it.

“So serious, Itachi-kun,” she’d grin. “You speak like an old man.”

That’s because I was one, she nearly said.

Instead, she smiled. A bright, wide curve of lips that seemed to surprise her mother every time. 

Fugaku had grown more present. He brought scrolls home. Training manuals. Taught her to balance a kunai on her tiny fingers. To breathe with purpose. To strike only when necessary.

Itachi was brilliant, yes. But she never bragged. Never sought praise. Only studied every movement his father made. Every breath he took. There was something heavy in Fugaku's eyes. A quiet pride always guarded by tradition and expectation. But it was there. And she could see it.

And yet, she remembered of her old oath— in her life Before. An oath she took reverently— since she was a student and up until she was a doctor. Primum non nocere. Do no harm. 

Then, each time he taught her to hold her kunai, she learned. But after, she always let the kunai fall. She would take his hand gently, drag him to the sink, and wash his hands with hers— soap, water, lavender. A ritual. A prayer. A hope that she could cleanse not just skin, but fate.

And her father would let her, confusion marred all over his face. 

Sometimes, late at night, she would crawl silently from her futon and sit in the hall, listening to her parents speak.

“The boy… he understands everything. Too much, maybe.”

“He’s gentle, Fugaku. But he’s strong, too.”

“He reminds me of you,” Fugaku would say, almost too quietly.

And in those moments, she would feel her chest bloom with something dangerous.

Hope.

One humid summer night, Mikoto took her outside to the garden. 

They sat on a wooden engawa, fireflies flickering like tiny spirits in the tall grass.

She combed her hair with her fingers. 

“Do you ever wonder what you'll be when you grow up?” she asked.

She looked up at her.

“I want to protect everyone,” she said.

Mikoto laughed, brushing her thumb against her cheek. “Even strangers?”

She nodded.

“That’s a big dream.”

“I have a big heart.”

She paused, visibly struck.

“Yes,” she whispered, pulling her into a hug. “You really do.”

On her third birthday, Mikoto made red bean mochi. Fugaku gave her a small blade—ceremonial, still dull, but symbolic.

She stopped and stared at the blade; and yet she bowed, as tradition dictated.

But when she looked up at them, her voice wavered.

“I promise to protect this family. Always.”

Mikoto smiled, but her eyes shimmered.

Fugaku nodded solemnly.

And Hua—inside this body, behind these words—meant it.

Not just as a child.

Not just as Itachi.

But as someone who had seen the end.

And was ready to change it.

Chapter Text

Itachi was three years old when her father took her to the Clan meeting for the first time. 

She wore a simple indigo kimono with the Uchiha fan embroidered in red and white across her back. Her hakama swayed gently as she walked, too small yet solemn, slipping her tiny hand into Fugaku’s much larger one. She was quiet— not from fear, but from awe. From reverence. From an instinctive understanding that she was entering a sacred hearth. A place where history lived not just in scrolls, but in the lines of weathered faces, the cadence of laughter, and the silence that always followed.

For the first time, she saw her Clan not as a footnote in a tragic tale, but as a people— warm, alive, unapologetically human. Children with ink-smudged fingers clung to their mothers’ sleeves. Aunties shared mandarin cakes and grilled onigiri, their soft hands leaving traces of soy and warmth on napkins. Uncles boomed with pride as they thumped each other’s backs, the smell of sake and charcoal trailing after them. Young shinobi laughed as they traded stories beside old market stalls brought in just for the gathering. Older shinobi clustered in quiet conversation, their laughter rich with fatigue and pride. There were shinobi scarred by war, but none defeated by it. Men and women who had survived the Third Great War, who bore loss with dignity and wore their resilience like armor.

Her eyes grew wide open with wonder; taking in every little glimpse of interactions from her people. Her ears strained to listen to every laughter, every conversation. Her body, small and slight, leaned forward as though to drink in every joy, every rhythm, every small, priceless moment. Her Sharingan bloomed without intent—quietly, unnoticed; tomoe spinning gently from wonder— recording everything; the way a shinobi adjusted a bandage for a younger cousin, the way a grandmother laughed like rain on rooftops.

She memorized the way two children shared dango without speaking. The subtle nod of one shinobi to another in silent gratitude. The way Mikoto’s hand lingered against Fugaku’s elbow longer than necessary. All of it carved itself into her heart, soft and unguarded.

And in all of it, life pulsed. The Uchiha were not ghosts here. They were not shadows. They were a fire that had survived the storm.

And yet.

As she sat at the front of the grand hall beside her parents, a hush slowly coiled its way into the chamber. 

The Clan Elders filtered in like shadows parting the crowd. Robes pristine. Eyes unreadable. Their presence pressed like unseen weight against the wooden floorboards, against her ribcage.

The joy in the room thinned. It was subtle— only noticeable because she had learned to recognize it in war camps and protest lines. The twitch in a mouth too tense to smile. The undercurrent of conversation that never quite reached joy. Shinobi with folded arms and eyes that flicked too often to the entrance. There was strain in the air. 

Mikoto stepped forward, graceful and sure, and with a swift seal, summoned a ring of blue flame that raced along the walls—brief, bright, then vanished—triggering the silencing barrier. The seal closed, and conversation ceased. The Clan meeting began.

Fugaku rose. Still. Towering. Authority forged in stone.

“The Third War’s official end is under negotiation,” he began, voice low and steady.

“Our chuunin and jounin will be returning shortly from the frontlines. Until then, by Hokage mandate, our Police Force is to increase patrols within the village. Genin currently serving under Genin Corps, report to me after the meeting in the Police Force Office.”

A rustle of relief moved through the crowd. Shinobi parents exhaled— some weeping, others clasping hands in thanks. Children squealed, not understanding the weight, only the joy. Merchants leaned forward, already dreaming of open trade routes. Hope bloomed in the rafters.

But just as quickly—

A cough. A scoff. Sharp as broken glass.

“And what,” came a voice, sharp as snapped wire, “of the Sharingan thief?”

The silence that followed was immediate. Thick.

One of the Elders—his voice dry with age, but biting—rose to his feet. His robes bore the Clan crest in double-stitch, a mark of lineage so old it might as well have been fossil.

“I speak of Hatake Kakashi,” he said, each syllable clipped like a thrown kunai. “Of the boy who now bears a Sharingan in his head—a gift, we are told, from an Uchiha comrade. A dying gift.”

Itachi felt the air shift. Mikoto’s shoulders tightened. Fugaku’s eyes narrowed slightly— but he said nothing.

“A gift?” another elder echoed. “Or a theft coated in sentiment? Where was the Clan’s consent? Where was the ceremony? Our eyes are not war trophies!”

The silence that followed the elder’s words was brittle, like ice stretched too thin across a deep lake. Even the children seemed to still, as if the weight of the words settled across their small backs.

Hatake Kakashi.

A name already steeped in whispers.

Twelve years old and yet already a jounin. The Yellow Flash’s prized student. The son of a disgraced hero who died with the taste of betrayal on his lips. A boy who had already taken more lives than most grown shinobi.

And now he carried the Uchiha’s most sacred inheritance in his skull—a single crimson eye gifted by a dying boy beneath the crumbling bones of Kannabi Bridge.

A gift. A wound. A question.

“The eye was given by Uchiha Obito, son of Arata,” another elder spat, as if reciting a curse. “He was a child. A dying child. Who gave away our bloodline like a parting souvenir. Who allowed a non-Uchiha to awaken our most sacred legacy!”

A low growl of agreement rolled through a corner of the room. The older shinobi muttered under breath. The younger ones glanced uneasily. Some nodded. Some frowned. Others said nothing— but their silence said more.

One elder rose slowly. His voice trembled— but it was not weak. It was old like iron, rusted but not broken.

“I propose the eye be returned to the Clan. The child, Hatake, must be summoned. Not harmed, not accused. But corrected. The Sharingan does not belong to the Hatake line.”

Another scoffed.

“You would let him live with our eye in his head? What happens when he is captured? When it is stolen again— dissected, copied, sold? What happens when the other villages learn they can take from us without consequence?”

Mikoto’s hand clenched slowly in her lap. Itachi, seated between her parents, watched her with wide eyes. The quiet fury in her mother’s spine. The tension in her shoulders, held like a drawn bow.

Fugaku had not yet spoken. Not truly. He stood like carved stone, his eyes veiled.

“And what would you suggest?” someone asked. “Execution? A twelve-year-old? The Yellow Flash’s apprentice? A man rumoured to be the Yondaime?”

The name landed like a thunderclap.

Minato Namikaze.

The Fourth’s shadow before the Fourth had been named.

The Yellow Flash— the man who had turned the tide of the Third War in a single night, slaughtering over a thousand Iwa-nin before they could even speak his name. A man whose smile was said to melt fear. Whose wrath could hollow the earth.

“You would kill his student,” one Uchiha murmured bitterly, “and expect no fire to follow?”

There was a moment—a flicker in the flame—that passed across the room. Some expressions hardened. Others faltered.

She shifted slightly. A child between gods.

And then, quietly, she spoke. Her voice was soft— like a paper door sliding open in the dark.

“Was Obito not Uchiha, too?”

The words fell like snow. Unexpected. Chilling in their clarity. All eyes turned to her.

She felt Mikoto’s breath catch. Fugaku’s hand, heavy on her shoulder, didn’t move— but the warmth in it changed.

“He gave his eye,” she continued, “because he believed it would protect someone precious. Is that not our pride? That our eyes see what matters, even in death?”

Some stared. Some scoffed. Some blinked in open discomfort.

But one elder—Uchiha Kagami—bowed his head slightly.

“The child speaks with clarity,” he murmured. “Better than many of us.”

Still, not all were swayed.

“Sentiment is not strategy,” another snapped. “Compassion cannot stop Iwa’s blades.”

“And hatred never stopped Konoha’s betrayal,” another answered.

The meeting dissolved hours later, as all great tensions do— not resolved, but buried in ritual.

Blue flame again lined the walls. Mikoto’s hands made the final seal. The silence seal unraveled with a sigh like dying wind.

The elders filed out. Their footsteps heavy. Their shadows heavier.

That night, she sat by the engawa as her father leaned against a support beam, staring at the stars. His hands, normally so sure, were tight around a cup of untouched tea.

“Are you angry?” she asked softly.

Fugaku did not answer at first.

Then:

“No,” he said. “I am tired.”

The days after the Clan Meeting moved like wind through a forest— silent above, but stirring deeply below.

Outwardly, the Uchiha district returned to its rhythms. Smoke curled from chimneys. The scent of miso and rice clung to the evening air. Children ran with wooden swords while their mothers hung laundry. But beneath that—beneath the hearth-fire calm—something moved.

Whispers.

Glances.

She had learned, in another life, that revolution rarely arrives with horns and fanfare. It begins with silence. With the way people look at doorways before speaking. With the questions they don’t ask. With the way the Elders’ robes rustled like judgment when they passed her.

They never addressed her directly. Not yet.

But they watched.

She overheard it first through the shoji doors one evening— her father speaking with two of the Elders.

Their voices were low, urgent.

“The boy’s already awakened three tomoe before four winters,” one elder said, “That is not normal talent— it is a signal.”

“He should be given specialized training,” another insisted. “The Council would benefit if he were guided by the Clan’s interests. Not… parental sentiment.”

A pause. Then Fugaku’s voice, sharp as a blade being drawn slowly.

“My son is not your political tool.”

“He is not just your son,” the elder said quietly. “He is Uchiha.”

Itachi sat frozen in the hallway, knees drawn to her chest, arms curled around them. Not afraid. Just… knowing.

They would come for her.

That night, Mikoto pressed a cool cloth to her forehead, her hands moving gently as always. But her face was shadowed.

“Did they trouble you?” Itachi asked softly.

Mikoto’s hand paused.

Then:

“They have long memories, Itachi. Long grudges. They remember every life we gave the village. Every child buried in foreign soil. And they wonder— was it worth it?”

Her heart clenched, longing the peace she sought deeply— knowing in her another life that it was achievable once, that no child should be a casualty of war. 

“Was it?” she asked.

Mikoto didn’t answer. Instead, she leaned in and kissed her forehead.

“Don’t worry about the Elders,” she said. 

But how could she?

When the air itself tasted like history readying a noose?

Two weeks later, they sent Elder Masaki to her home— an unannounced visit in the late morning, bringing gifts: a scroll of calligraphy inked in Uchiha wisdom, and a ceremonial bell said to ward off malicious chakra.

Mikoto received him with grace. Fugaku arrived mid-conversation, his face unreadable.

But Itachi sat in the corner, silent, watching.

“You’ve raised him well,” Masaki said. “So composed. So aware. Like a grown shinobi in a child’s shell.”

“He is a child,” Mikoto said coolly. “He should be allowed to remain one.”

“Even the gods don’t wait for children to grow,” Masaki replied, smiling faintly. “And neither will war.”

There it was again—that hum beneath his words. Not threat. Not yet. But something worse.

Expectation.

The next morning, Fugaku brought her to the training field.

The air was thin, the sky overcast. No birds sang. The grass was still matted from drills and spars past. A smell of steel lingered. 

He handed her a kunai.

“Hold it properly,” he said.

She did.

“My hands may be tied,” he said. “But you are my son first and Uchiha Heir second.”

Her heart filled with warmth. She looked at her father— his face nothing but a Clan head’s blankness, and yet, his gaze was full of worry for his child. 

He showed her how to brace her stance. How to read weight shifts. How to strike— not with fury, but precision. And Itachi obeyed. The muscle memory came easily, too easily. But something in her resisted. Not the knowledge— but the purpose.

Later, she washed her hands three times. She used soap scented with plum blossom, scrubbing slowly, as though the act might turn the weapon back into peace.

She remembered her old oath.

First, do no harm.

But her new world would not let her live by that alone.

Not yet.

Fugaku watched with familiarity. He said nothing. But his hand rested on her shoulder. And in that quiet touch, she felt it:

He, too, knew what it meant to survive by killing your own vows.

That night, Itachi sat in the garden alone. The stars above her blinked like distant eyes— ancient, indifferent, ever-watching. The wind whispered through the sakura branches like forgotten songs.

They want me, she thought, not for who I am, but what I can be made into.

She touched the earth with one hand. The soil was soft. Alive.

But I am not their blade. I refuse. 

She had been a healer once. A surgeon who sewed lives together while bombs fell. Someone who believed in saving, not choosing between sacrifices.

The world would not be changed by loyalty to either side.

It would be changed by the quiet refusal to become a tool.

But she knew the game now.

If they wanted a prodigy, she would give them one.

But not theirs.

Hers.

The next morning, as the tea cooled and the morning sun broke gently across the tatami floor, she looked up from her scroll of military formations and said—

“Father, we need to add Hatake Kakashi to our Clan.”

Chapter Text

“Father, we need to add Hatake Kakashi to our Clan.”

Silence met her sentence. 

Itachi took notes of the tenseness that seemed to worsen in Fugaku’s shoulders— eyes narrowed, jaw tightened. Her own hands tightened their grip on her scroll, growing cold and colder as the silence grew. 

Then, 

“You would have us adopt an outsider into the Uchiha?” he asked, voice low and clipped. “One whose Sharingan was gifted, not earned? You insult the bloodline.”

Itachi did not flinch. “He is already carrying the eye of our clan. We can either pretend he does not exist and allow others to claim him as their own, or we acknowledge him and reap the benefits.”

Mikoto glanced between them, visibly unsettled. “But he is not of our blood, Itachi. Even if we accepted him formally, he would never be—”

“He would never be truly Uchiha,” Fugaku finished, voice firm.

Itachi’s hands curled tighter around the scroll in her lap. “Then what would you prefer? That the Council keeps whispering that an Uchiha eye now serves the village first and the clan never? That they see us too proud to reclaim even what is ours?”

Her father did not respond immediately, but she saw the flicker in his gaze. The argument was not lost on him.

“With the peace talk being negotiated, the village will look to us yet again. We will go back to being pushed further to the edge just like before the war started,” Itachi continued, her voice steady, but intense. 

“First it was our influence over the Police being questioned, then the Council blocking our funding proposals. The Uchiha are a symbol of power, yes— but to the village, we have always been and will stay a threat. Hatake, for all his faults, is neutral ground. They trust him.”

Fugaku folded his arms across his chest, looking toward the window, out into the village below. “You believe we can use him to curry favor with the Hokage.”

“I believe we must be strategic,” Itachi said. “Hatake Kakashi is the last of his line. He’s a war hero, admired across the ranks. He is also the Yellow Flash’s student, if the rumour that has been going on comes to fruition, then we will benefit from having Yondaime’s ears much closer from him. Having Kakashi on our side could give us back some measure of control.”

Mikoto hesitated. “And if he refuses?”

“He won’t,” Itachi replied quickly. “He’s loyal, but not blind. He already bears our legacy in his eye. We will not ask him to betray the village— only to acknowledge the truth of what he carries.”

Fugaku finally turned to face her fully. “You are playing a dangerous game, son. You ask us to tie the name of Uchiha to a boy who was never one of us. If he falls, we fall with him.”

Itachi met her father's gaze without wavering. “Then we must ensure he does not fall.”

There was a long pause.

Then, quietly, Fugaku asked, “Do you know why he was given the eye?”

Itachi nodded. “Yes. Uchiha Obito gave it to him, in death. That alone is enough to bind Kakashi to our history.”

Her father studied her, then sighed deeply. “You bring a hard burden, son. We will discuss this with the elders. Carefully.”

“Then I shall prepare, father,” Itachi inclined her head, just barely. It was not a victory. But it was not a refusal.

And in times like these, she had learned— even the smallest inch of ground could become a battlefield’s edge.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of lanterns set in each corner. A circle of seated elders, draped in traditional black, filled the hall with the quiet weight of judgment. At the center, Fugaku stood, arms crossed. Itachi knelt beside him, her scroll now unfurled, filled with annotations and seals she had carefully prepared.

"Begin," one of the elders said, an aged woman with eyes like flint.

Itachi bowed her head respectfully. "Honored elders. I bring before you a proposal, not of sentiment, but of strategic necessity. I ask that we recognize Hatake Kakashi—possessor of the Sharingan—as an adopted member of the Uchiha clan."

A murmur broke out immediately, half-contained hisses of disapproval and disbelief.

One elder, a gaunt man with a permanent scowl, leaned forward. "The eye was given. Not inherited. He is not one of us."

"That is precisely why we must act," Itachi countered.

"Kakashi is the only non-Uchiha in history to use the Sharingan effectively, with both tomoe and Mangekyō potential in speculation. If we leave him unclaimed, he becomes a tool of the village— an anomaly to be studied, manipulated. But if we recognize him, we restore the rightful legacy of the eye to the clan’s influence."

Another elder scoffed. "Are we now so desperate for allies that we offer our name to outsiders?"

"The boy is not Uchiha," said Elder Okabe, his voice thick with disapproval. “He carries the eye, yes, but he was never born of our blood.”

“He was born of Hatake Sakumo,” said another, Elder Gendo, his fingers folded before him. “The White Fang— respected, yes. But not ours. And now the son wears our dōjutsu like a weapon we never sanctioned.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the chamber.

Itachi spoke.

“He did not take it. It was given. Uchiha Obito chose to entrust him with the eye.”

Itachi’s expression did not change, but her voice grew firmer. "This would not be unprecedented."

That silenced them more effectively than anything else. Itachi reached into the folds of her scroll and drew forth a smaller document, aged and sealed in wax.

"According to the Clan Archives—Entry 314, under the Fourth Great Clan War—two individuals not of Uchiha blood were inducted into the clan due to possessing transplanted Sharingan. One served as a battlefield medic under the leadership of Uchiha Madara himself, and the other was a political marriage used to stabilize ties with the Kurotsuchi faction of Earth Country. Both were recorded as Uchiha in official ledger, and bore the crest until their deaths."

She slid a scroll across the table— an excerpt from the clan archives, crisp and deliberate.

“In the First War, Uchiha Ryoma gave his Sharingan to a Hyuuga ally before dying behind enemy lines. The scroll records that the Council at the time performed a binding adoption to honor Ryoma’s final will. That outsider was buried as Uchiha.”

She looked up, calm but unyielding. "This is not sentiment. It is precedent."

For a moment, the elders were silent— an unsettling pause.

Elder Okabe didn’t look down. “That was wartime. Emergency. We were desperate for survival.”

“And this is peacetime?” Itachi asked, her tone sharp. “When our people whisper of rebellion? When we are sidelined in every major village decision? You think we are not desperate now?”

A pause.

Elder Gendo narrowed his eyes. “You are young, Itachi-san. Passionate. But you fail to see that inclusion dilutes blood, blurs boundaries. Next, will we adopt Hyuuga children? Or—heaven forbid—Senju?”

Another elder, older than the rest, tapped his fingers together slowly. His voice was raspy but clear. "And what do you propose we do? Hand him the crest? Let him attend council meetings like any other Uchiha head?"

"No," Itachi said. "He need not even change his name. But he should be recognized. Granted honorary Uchiha status, with rights of consultation on matters involving the Sharingan, and access to clan scrolls concerning ocular history and control. We gain influence through inclusion, not isolation."

Silence again. But this time, heavier.

"Do you trust him?" the old man asked finally. "You speak of him like a tool, but this sounds like you admire him."

Itachi did not hesitate. "I do not trust easily. But I trust that Hatake Kakashi will never turn his back on what he believes is right. That belief, right now, is aligned with Konoha. And with us— if we are wise enough to offer him a place, not a leash."

“What I see is that Hatake Kakashi holds the eyes of one of our sons and the ear of the future Hokage. We gain influence. We gain legacy. We gain a future.”

“Or,” Okabe said coldly, “we give an outsider a key to our house—and wonder why the walls fall.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Fugaku finally spoke, calm and calculating. “Enough.”

The elders turned toward him. Even Itachi sat straighter.

“I see the risk,” he said, “but also the opportunity. Hatake is isolated, guilt-ridden, and bound by duty. If we bring him into the fold—not with sentiment, but structure—we tie his loyalty to us. Honorably.”

The elder leaned back, thoughtful. Others exchanged looks, still wary, but no longer outright hostile.

Itachi glanced sideways at her father. His mask never cracked— but she saw it now, the subtle lines in his eyes. He was not against her. But he was walking the line— between duty and fear, between his son’s vision and the weight of tradition.

She turned back to the circle.

“Uchiha Obito died to protect his team. To give his comrade a chance to live,” she said. “If we reject that act now, what does that say about our honor? About the worth of his final choice?”

No one answered her.

But no one argued either.

After a long silence, Fugaku finally stood.

“We will take it under consideration,” he said. “There will be no vote tonight. But we will decide before the season ends. For now, we watch Kakashi. And we prepare— for what comes next."

The meeting adjourned without ceremony. The elders filed out slowly, still murmuring. Some offered Itachi narrowed glances. Others… thoughtful ones.

When the room was nearly empty, Fugaku paused by her side.

“You speak well,” he said, not quite praise, not quite warning.

“Because someone must,” she answered.

He nodded once, then left her in the glow of the lanterns— burning low, but still burning.

As the elders filed out, still whispering, Itachi remained kneeling, letting her breath slowly return to normal.

It was not acceptance. But it was no longer outright rejection. And in the world of politics and clans, that was a movement of earth beneath one’s feet. 

The Uchiha training grounds were unusually quiet in the late afternoon. The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the wide field, where the scent of scorched leaves still lingered from the morning drills. Itachi stood at the edge of the grounds, adjusting her sleeves as she observed the lone figure in the center— fluid, fast, precise.

She recognized him instantly, though they had never spoken.

Uchiha Shisui.

"You're watching like a shinobi, not a child," he said without turning around, his voice casual but clear.

Itachi stepped forward without hesitation. "And you're moving like someone who wants to be watched."

That earned a grin from him. He turned, Sharingan active, spinning slowly in his eyes as they faded back to black. He was older than her by a few years, but not by much— still young, yet already carrying the ease of someone who had killed and lived long enough afterward to smile again.

"You’re Itachi," he said simply.

"You knew my name?"

He shrugged. "Hard not to. You stirred up the elders like a kunai in a hornet’s nest. The Hatake proposal— that was you."

Itachi inclined her head. “It was necessary.”

Shisui tilted his head, studying her. "You walked into that meeting like you were thirty years old. Quoting archive logs, referencing obscure precedents. You knew exactly what kind of pressure that would cause."

"I knew what the clan needed to hear,” she said. “Even if they won’t admit it yet.”

Silence stretched between them— until Shisui stepped closer and offered a hand, palm up.

“I’ve been waiting for someone else who understands,” he said. “Someone who knows we’re not just fighting for pride or names— but survival.”

Itachi looked at the hand for a moment before accepting it. His grip was firm, steady.

“I heard you were dangerous,” she said. “A genjutsu prodigy. ANBU material.”

He smirked. “I heard you were born with three spinning tomoe. A prodigy.”

She didn’t smile. “Then we’re both better than we expected.”

Shisui’s expression shifted— less amusement now, more sincerity. “You know this clan is bleeding, right? Quietly. From within. The elders can feel it, but they’re too proud to act. Fugaku-sama is cautious, but he’s not ready to make a real move yet. You? You came out of nowhere and started pushing pieces across the board.”

She nodded. “Konoha isolates us more each year. We need leverage, not sentiment. The Sharingan shouldn’t be a curse or a weapon for others to use. It’s our heritage. If Hatake holds it, we should claim him.”

Shisui’s gaze lingered on her, thoughtful. Then, slowly, he said, “You’re thinking several moves ahead, Itachi-san. That’s rare. Especially in a clan built on reaction, not foresight.”

He looked back toward the field, eyes distant. “Most of them still think power is enough. But you… you’re thinking about influence. Policy. Control.”

“I’m thinking about survival,” she said softly.

He looked at her again, and this time, there was something more in his expression— respect, yes, but also kinship.

“I’d like to train with you,” he said at last.

She blinked, surprised.

“Not just combat,” he added. “Ideas. Strategy. You’re going to lead this clan one day, Itachi-san. You just don’t know how much yet.”

She met his gaze, unflinching. “Then help me make sure I lead it somewhere worth going.”

His grin returned, but this time, it held weight. “Deal.”

They moved to the edge of the training field, where a grove of trees offered shelter from the fading light. The hum of insects replaced the clang of practice weapons. Shisui perched on a low branch, while Itachi sat cross-legged on the grass below, a quiet tension in her posture that didn’t quite relax even in stillness.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then, Shisui asked, almost absently, “Why are you doing this?”

Itachi glanced up at him. “I already told you. The clan needs leverage.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s what you said. But it’s not why.”

Itachi stared ahead, toward the distant rooftops of Konoha, their tiles catching the last of the sun like broken mirrors.

"I want peace," she said finally. "I want a world where children don’t carry kunai before they’ve lost their first tooth. Where they don’t bury their teammates before they understand what grief is.”

Shisui’s expression sobered, his gaze unreadable.

Itachi continued, voice soft but steady. “The clans talk about legacy. About honor. But what legacy is it to pass on a cycle of death?” Her fingers pressed into the earth. “No one should accept that as normal. Not us. Not them. No child should be born just to be turned into a weapon.”

Shisui exhaled slowly. “You sound like you’re already carrying the weight of a Hokage.”

“I don’t want to be Hokage,” she said. “I want a world where the Hokage doesn’t need child soldiers to protect it.”

Shisui was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “That’s a dangerous dream.”

“I know.”

“People don’t like being told their pain isn’t sacred. They cling to it. Build identities out of it. This clan especially.”

Itachi looked up at him. “Then I’ll tear down whatever they’ve built, if that’s what it takes.”

There was no pride in her voice— just a stark, unwavering truth.

Shisui studied her, the corners of his mouth twitching into a wistful smile. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

“You’re not the first to say so.”

“But you’re also... exactly what we need,” he said. “You’re not pushing for power. You’re pushing for a world that doesn’t need people like us.”

She nodded, meeting his eyes. “That’s the point.”

Shisui dropped down from the branch, landing beside her with a soft thud. “Then I’ll help you, Itachi-san.”

“You already are.”

“No,” he said. “I mean all of it. The politics. The whisper campaigns. The missions the clan doesn’t need to know about. If we’re going to cut this rot out of the system, we need clean blades and quiet hands.”

She looked at him carefully, then gave a small nod.

“Chan. Call me Itachi-chan, Shisui-kun,” 

Shisui froze. It wasn't dramatic— just a fraction of a second too long before he replied. But in that moment, something shifted behind his eyes. His weight, his stance, the tension in his jaw. It wasn't rejection. It was realization. And it hit him harder than he expected.

"...Itachi-chan," he repeated softly, as if testing the syllables not for correctness, but for honesty.

She nodded once–firm but without flinching–watching closely to his expression. Shisui’s gaze dropped to the ground for a moment, lips parted in thought. Then he looked back at her, and there was something new in his face. Not just respect now. Not just kinship. But something gentler. Fiercer.

“You really don’t do anything halfway, huh?” he said, his voice quiet, almost reverent.

Itachi said nothing at first, only returning his gaze with that same calm clarity she always carried— sharp as a kunai, but never cruel.

“I never had time to,” she replied. “People don’t make space for girls like me in the clan. So I take it. Quietly. Efficiently. Permanently.”

Shisui chuckled once under his breath, then exhaled slowly. “You’re braver than any of them. Than me, too.”

She blinked, caught off guard for the first time that day. “You don’t need to say that.”

“I’m not saying it for you,” he said. “I’m saying it because it’s true. You already know who you are. Most of us spend our whole lives pretending not to wonder.”

Itachi turned her face to the sky, just for a moment. The stars were beginning to emerge— small lights in a darkening world.

"Thank you," she said, and meant it.

He stood beside her again, this time closer. “Anyone else know?”

She shook her head. “Not even my parents. Not in the way that matters.”

“Do you want me to keep it to myself?”

“I want you to see me,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Not just agree with me. Not just accept. I want you to understand.”

Shisui’s expression softened. “I do.”

And there was no hesitation in that.

“I see you, Itachi-chan. And if anyone dares speak your name wrong in my presence again, they’re going to meet the edge of my genjutsu and forget they ever knew it differently.”

That made her smile— small, but real. The kind of smile that didn’t happen often.

He looked at her then with a mix of admiration and something else—something too early, too tender to name.

“We’ll change the world, won’t we?” he murmured.

Itachi nodded, her voice quiet. “We’ll try.”

And in the silence that followed, the wind passed through the trees above them like breath through a broken flute—melancholy, unresolved, but not without hope.

They were two blades forged too early, tempered in secrets and shadow.

But together, for the first time, they felt less alone.

And more like the future.

Itachi wasn’t following him. Not exactly.

She had been returning from her training rounds when she noticed the presence— a fleeting blur of chakra that felt oddly… fractured. Familiar and restrained. She pressed herself into the tree line out of instinct, just as the cloaked figure slipped through the far entrance of the Uchiha memorial grove.

The setting sun made the stone names harder to read. Shadows stretched long between the trees, cloaking the carved altar in dusk. It was the hour of ghosts, she thought. The hour when memories spoke louder than voices.

She had meant to pass through quietly— check on the altar before returning home.

But the moment she arrived, she stilled.

A foreign chakra signature. Controlled. Not hostile, but… heavy.

She moved without sound, melting into the upper branches of an old camphor tree that overlooked the grove. And there, standing still as a blade driven into earth, was Hatake Kakashi.

Alone.

He stood before the Uchiha memorial stone like someone afraid to be seen by the dead.

His shoulders were hunched. Not lazily, like during mission briefings, but as if they carried something cracking down his spine. His headband was tilted low, covering the eye she knew was not his by birth.

He didn’t belong here.

No one had invited him. And yet, he looked like he’d been coming here for years.

Itachi didn’t move. She barely breathed. Watching.

Kakashi stared at the stone.

At Obito’s name.

Uchiha Obito
Loyal son.
Gave his light so another might see.

For a long time, he said nothing.

And then, in a voice hoarse and low:

“You were always better than me.”

It wasn’t self-pity. It wasn’t reverent, either. Just… flat. As if the truth had long since been worn smooth by repetition.

“You were late, loud, reckless, and you never followed orders. And still... you were better.”

A long pause.

“I watched you die. I let you die. You gave me your eye like it was some… joke. Like you were already gone. And maybe you were.”

Kakashi raised a hand to the side of his head, fingers hovering just over the covered Sharingan. But he didn’t touch it.

“You thought it would help me see. You didn’t understand. I already saw everything. That was the problem.”

There was a deep weariness in him, Itachi noted. Not just tiredness. This was something older. Guilt fossilized into the bones.

“You thought you were making me better. But all I became was someone good at killing.”

He stared a little longer, then—without kneeling, without praying—placed his hand against the stone.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

And then he turned.

Itachi vanished into the shadows before he could see her, her heart strangely still in her chest.

She didn’t know what she expected from Hatake Kakashi. The stories said he was cold, brilliant, and numb. A tool of the Hokage. A perfect ANBU.

But what she had seen was something else.

Someone grieving in silence because no one ever taught him how to speak it aloud.

Someone who came to the Uchiha stone not for politics, not for power, but for a boy he failed to save.

Obito’s friend.

Itachi crouched in the high boughs until Kakashi disappeared beyond the grove, back into the forest. She remained a moment longer, then dropped lightly onto the grass near the stone.

She looked down at Obito’s name.

And then—without speaking—placed her fingers against the words Kakashi had just touched. 

Still warm. Still alive.

The lamps in the Uchiha compound had not yet been lit when Itachi returned home. The quiet of early evening clung to the air, and every step she took from the grove to the threshold of her room felt heavier than the last.

She closed the sliding door behind her and leaned her back against it, eyes shut.

Hatake Kakashi was grieving.

Not theatrically. Not loudly. But in a way that was deeper than sound. In a way that could only come from someone who had not only seen death— but understood it. Lived beside it.

And Itachi knew that kind of pain.

Not from this life.

But from the last.

Images pushed up from the depths of her memory—the past life she had buried beneath shinobi protocol and clan expectations.

A battlefield clinic. Scorched earth. The screaming of a boy no older than ten as he bled out on the cot she’d knelt beside. Her hands slick with blood that was too hot, too much, and too final.

She remembered the names of patients she couldn’t save.

The team of medics she lost in the bombing raid.

The moment she had to close the eyes of her fellow doctor after bullets of wounds hit him.

In that life, she had prayed for miracles that never came. She had lived as a healer in a world that tore itself apart faster than she could stitch it back together.

And when she died—

She had made a vow:

Never again.

Not if she had another chance. Not if she could stop it.

In this life, she had Sharingan. Influence. Access to the clan records. She could see the cracks in the world before they split open. And now she had seen Kakashi—one of Konoha’s weapons—carrying the soul of someone who had once belonged to her clan. Someone kind.

She lit the lamp.

And then reached for the scroll she had been drafting the night before.

The proposal.

Formal adoption of Hatake Kakashi into the Uchiha clan by precedent of the Old Blood Accord, Section XIII: "If a Sharingan is gifted in death, the recipient may be recognized as a clan successor if the donor was of direct bloodline and intent of loyalty is proven."

She added a line:

Clause 14: In times of great loss, we must remember the future we owe the fallen. To bury the dead is not enough— we must honor the legacy they entrust to the living.

Her brush didn’t shake.

This was not about reclaiming an eye.

It was about what that eye meant.

Obito had believed in Kakashi. Enough to give him a part of himself. Enough to die for him.

And Kakashi—flawed, wounded, drowning in quiet guilt—still came to remember him.

That meant more than any bloodline ever could.

Itachi set the scroll aside, sealing it with wax.

Tomorrow, she would speak to the elders again.

And this time, she would not ask them to consider the future.

She would remind them of the past.

The Uchiha council room was cold even with the lanterns lit.

Six elders sat in quiet semi-circle, their expressions a mixture of skepticism and fatigue. Fugaku stood behind Itachi, unreadable. Her scroll lay open before them on the polished wood, the wax seal already broken.

"...And so I propose, again, that we act under the Old Blood Accord," Itachi said calmly, her hands folded before her. "The Old Blood Accord allows for adoption if the intent of the Sharingan donor was loyalty. Uchiha Obito gave his eye in sacrifice. He entrusted Kakashi Hatake with it— and with his legacy.”

Elder Natsume sniffed. “Legacy or not, Hatake is not one of us. The Sharingan alone does not grant lineage.”

“Then what does?” Itachi countered. “Power? Blood? Is that all that matters? Because if so, we’ve learned nothing.”

Several glanced toward Fugaku, but he remained still, hands clasped behind his back.

Another elder frowned. “And why now, Itachi-san? Why so urgently?”

Itachi’s gaze was level. “Because Konoha has started to treat our Sharingan like a resource. One to be observed. Catalogued. Contained. We cannot allow others to claim what Obito entrusted to us. Kakashi Hatake is more than a vessel— he is proof that the Uchiha legacy can live beyond blood.”

The elders stiffened. Some exchanged uncertain glances.

The moment hung.

One elder opened his mouth to respond—

Bang.

The doors to the council room slammed open.

A young shinobi stood in the doorway, breathless, blood still on his flak vest. “Forgive the interruption— there’s been a death.”

Everyone turned sharply. Fugaku’s voice was iron.

“Who?”

The shinobi swallowed, glancing once at Itachi— then down. “Uchiha Kagami. Found in the forest near the old Hatake training field. Slashed throat. Burn damage.”

A collective gasp.

“His eyes,” the shinobi added grimly. “Gone.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Even the lamps seemed dimmer.

Itachi felt something hollow open in her chest. Not from surprise. From confirmation. From the chilling recognition of a pattern she had seen too many times—eye theft, mutilation, memory erased by fire.

“Do we know who did it?” Fugaku asked, voice taut.

The messenger shook his head. “No. But… there were remnants of chakra residue. Faint. Older. Not ours. Not even from the village.”

Itachi’s hands clenched.

Something deeper was moving.

Someone was collecting Sharingan. And she might know exactly who that was. 

The compound was quiet. The elders were in lockdown; orders had gone out to secure every known Uchiha with active Sharingan. The death of Kagami—an elder, a war hero—was being kept from the public. For now.

In the kitchen, Mikoto poured tea. Her hands were slow, gentle. She didn’t speak right away, and Itachi was grateful.

She sat across from her mother, sleeves rolled back, the taste of ash still clinging to her thoughts.

“You saw him,” Mikoto said softly.

Itachi didn’t ask who. “Yes.”

“Do you trust him?”

“I trust his grief.”

Mikoto studied her son for a long time. “And the plan? You’re still pushing for it?”

“I have to.” Itachi looked down into her tea. “I thought Hatake’s addition would be symbolic. Now I realize it’s necessary.”

Mikoto didn’t argue.

After a while, Itachi spoke again, voice lower.

“I remember it all, Mother.”

Mikoto’s hand stilled on the teapot.

“My other life. The war. The blood. I wasn’t Uchiha then. I was a medic. Civilian-born. Young. I held people’s hands while they died. I tried to stitch children back together with chakra I didn’t have. And when I died—when the last bombing run hit our camp—I thought that was it.”

She looked up. “But I woke up again. Here.”

Mikoto didn’t speak right away. Her eyes were calm, but her grip on the porcelain was white-knuckled.

“I always knew there was something older in your eyes,” she said finally. “Something too still. Even as a child.”

Itachi let out a breath. “I can’t tell Father. He already thinks I see too much.”

Mikoto smiled faintly. “He’s right.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Itachi whispered:

“I don’t want this clan to become what I saw before. War devours people. It doesn’t care what name is on their back. I’ve seen what it turns children into.”

“And what will you do, knowing all that?”

Itachi’s jaw set. “I’ll make sure we don’t go quietly. I’ll build something better, or burn away what stands in the way.”

Mikoto reached out, resting her hand over her daughter’s. “Then you already honor that other life. And this one too.”

A knock interrupted them.

Fugaku’s voice, low and urgent from the other side of the paper door.

“They’re calling for a full clan meeting. Kagami’s death changes everything.”

Itachi stood.

Eyes clear.

Steps steady.

And without saying another word, she left to answer the call.