Miwa leaned back with a soft shuff of fabric against tatami, her own eyes closing as she rubbed her temples with thumb and forefinger.
"Start from what you do know," she instructed, her voice a steadying force. "Your first Mangekyo, how did you learn its abilities? Did they simply… appear in your mind, fully formed?"
Renjiro considered, "No. Not fully. But there was… an instinct. A pull." He held up a hand, staring at his palm as if seeing the ghost of his former power there.
"It felt like a muscle I never knew I had. I still needed experimentation—dangerous, reckless testing in hidden places—but the fundamental grammar of the power was there. This time…" He shook his head, the Sharingan still blazing.
"This time, there's no grammar. Just static."
Miwa stood abruptly, and she began to pace the short length of the room, her geta sandals making soft, purposeful clicks on the wooden floor. The silence stretched, filled only by the sound of her steps and the faint, distant cry of a night bird.
"I am out of my depth, Renjiro," she stated plainly, not with defeat, but with stark, analytical honesty.
She stopped by a small shelf holding a single, cracked bonsai, her back to him. "My eyes are the three tomoe. I honed them, I understand their sight, their predictive cadence. But the Mangekyo…" She turned, her profile sharp against the pale wall.
"I never sought it. I understood the price, not just of blindness, but of the pain required to purchase it. I chose not to transact in that particular currency."
Her words hung in the air, and in the quiet that followed, Renjiro understood the monumental subtext. Miwa, who had lost her parents to the Second Shinobi War, her sister and brother-in-law (his own parents) to a Uzushio's fall—she had endured trauma that could have shattered a lesser soul and forged a Mangekyo in a dozen different hearts.
Yet her eyes remained three-tomoe. It was not a lack of love, but an excess of it, a conscious refusal to let her grief be monetised into power. Her strength was a different kind: the strength to bear the weight without letting it distort her vision. And he, her last living blood tie, was now embodying the very distortion she had rejected.
The unspoken understanding was a bridge of shared sorrow between them, a silent acknowledgement that his power was also her failure to protect him from the world's cruelty.
Her pacing resumed, a physical manifestation of her racing thoughts. "Green flames…" she muttered to herself, then, "Chakra marks…" She stopped, facing him fully.
"The principles are the only guide we have. The Mangekyo's gifts are not random. They are reflections. Of personality, of deepest trauma, of desperate desire, of personal history. They are the soul's need, weaponised. So..." She fixed him with a piercing look.
Renjiro interrupted and pointed out, "Hadō no Kokuin. The Mark of Dominion is the given name of the ability to place chakra marks."
Miwa's mind worked visibly, her analytical prowess slotting the pieces together. "Hadō… the path of conquest, of supremacy. Kokuin, a permanent brand."
She nodded slowly. "After Uzushiogakure fell, you were unmoored. An Uchiha who was also Uzumaki, a boy belonging to two clans yet feeling rootless in both. Your entire world was violently re-ordered without your consent." Her eyes softened with a painful insight.
"The mark is a subconscious assertion of control. A way to say, 'This is mine. This space, this target, this point in reality—I claim it. I impose my order upon it.' It is the power of a refugee desperate for a homeland that cannot be taken away."
Renjiro's jaw tightened. "It's a tactical tool. It's not… it's not some psychological crutch."
A faint, weary smirk touched Miwa's lips. "You're still in denial, Renjiro. The deepest powers don't come from the tactical mind. They rise from the wounded child." She waved off his impending rebuttal.
"And the other? The flames?"
"Jaaku no Jōmetsu, The Purge of the Wicked."
Miwa went very still. The concept was terrifying in its purity. "It doesn't kill."
"It doesn't need to," Renjiro replied, his voice flat. "A shinobi without chakra is less than a civilian. They are… neutralised. Completely."
"Purge… of the Wicked," Miwa repeated, tasting the theology of the phrase.
"It frames destruction as moral cleansing. Your power judges chakra itself as the source of wickedness?" She paced again, her shadow a giant against the scroll-lined wall.
"You have seen the machinery of the world up close, Renjiro. The great villages, the tailed beasts… our entire history is a cycle of immense chakra being wielded by the proud, the hateful, the desperate, and the mad, causing cataclysmic suffering. Your ability doesn't just kill the sinner. It seeks to erase the very capacity for the sin. It is a power born of a witness who is tired of the root cause. Or perhaps…" she mused, a darker thought occurring, "it is born from a desire for clean annihilation. No corpses to bury, no physical evidence of violence, just… emptiness. A purification. Your trauma rationalised."
Renjiro sat with her interpretations, feeling uncomfortable. She was carving into the heart of his powers with the precision of a master interrogator, and the truths she revealed were ones he had avoided looking at directly.
"But this," Miwa said, stopping and levelling a finger at his eyes, her expression grim. "This is the critical point. These two abilities, as profound as they are, belong to one pair. They are a coherent, if terrifying, reflection of your psyche. It is the second pattern, the silent one, that is the true mystery and the true danger."
Her voice took on a tone of urgent command. "You must discover its nature. Is it a complementary set? A protective measure? Or is it something else entirely—a backlash, a flaw in the awakening, a psychological block so severe it has manifested as ocular power? Understanding that will tell us if this new pattern phenomenon is a unique evolution, a manageable condition, or…" she hesitated, "an existential threat to your very sanity."
Renjiro sighed, "I know. I'll start exploring it. But first… I need to process how I even obtained them in the first place. The… catalyst."
Miwa registered the weight behind his words, the unspoken horror of the trigger event he still hadn't shared. She gave a single, shallow nod, respecting the boundary he placed.
She returned to her seat, the conversation clearly nearing its end. But one final, crucial question remained.
"So," she said, her tone deceptively calm, the eye of the hurricane. "What will you do, Renjiro Uzumaki, with two pairs of Mangekyo Sharingan burning behind your eyes?"
Renjiro looked at the jar. He then turned back to her, and his expression was one of casual, chilling resolve. He shrugged, a simple, almost offhand gesture.
"I'll get the Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan," he said, his voice as matter-of-fact as if stating he'd go to the market in the morning. "If everything goes as planned."
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