Fugaku's name hung in the cool night air like a sealing tag after activation, thrumming with silent, potent energy. For a half-second, Renjiro's mind was a blank scroll. Then, the realisation inscribed itself with dry, ironic clarity: 'Oh. Right. I almost forgot Fugaku is the new clan head.'
The transition of power had happened during the chaotic, grief-stricken days after the war, while Renjiro himself had been grappling with blindness and the ghost of powers he thought lost.
His ascension to the central seat was as logical as it was, for Renjiro, inconvenient, as it was a herald for what was to come. The Clan Massacre.
Renjiro stared at the young messenger, 'Why?'
The question echoed in the silent chambers of his assessment. He had no ongoing business with the clan's apex. His interactions with Uchiha leadership had ended long before the war's conclusion.
He paid his dues, maintained his residence, and otherwise existed in a self-imposed orbit just outside the clan's political gravity well. A summon from Fugaku felt like a tectonic shift.
The internal scrutiny lasted only three heartbeats. To let his uncertainty show would be a weakness. With a slow, controlled exhalation that misted faintly in the night air, Renjiro gave a single, curt nod.
"Lead the way," he said.
Their route did not take them out of the Uchiha district, but deeper into its heart. By the time they reached the central plaza, the compound was stirring to life with the pragmatic energy of a military society at peace, but never at rest.
The sun, now nearly at its noon apex, poured golden light over the sweeping, fan-adorned roofs of the main administrative buildings. The air, still cool but losing its night's bite, was filled with a symphony of purposeful sound.
The Clan Head's office was not a distant, secluded place. It was situated in the largest building framing the central plaza. The walk from the plaza's edge to its doors took only minutes. Yet, Renjiro consciously matched the messenger's steady pace, refusing the instinct to Shunshin the distance. This extra time was a buffer he needed. Facing Fugaku was never a smooth interaction.
Their interactions during Renjiro's younger years had grown stiff, formal, and laden with the unspoken shadow of Daichi's early manipulations—manipulations that had deliberately soured Renjiro's relationship with the main family to keep him as a pliable asset.
It had bred in Renjiro a deep-seated desire to stay far from the former Clan Head and his formidable son. Now, that son was the man he was walking towards.
'Good thing I already stored the jar.'
The thought was a lifeline. The clan knew he had awakened the Mangekyo before the war. But the method of his healing, the existence of a spare pair of eyes and the research behind it… that was a secret of a different, more dangerous order.
The messenger stopped at the polished door, bowed once more to Renjiro, and melted away into the flow of clan traffic without another word. Renjiro was alone on the threshold. He took one final, centring breath, then he slid the door open with a firm, smooth motion.
Two men were in the room. Daichi stood not at the Patriarch's shoulder, as Renjiro might have expected, but far back in the corner near a shelf of historical chronicles, as if trying to become part of the furniture. His arms were crossed, his posture watchful and neutral, but his eyes tracked Renjiro's entrance with the intensity of a hawk.
And it was his eyes that Renjiro noted first—clear, sharp, and utterly, undeniably seeing. The shock of it was a silent detonation in Renjiro's mind.
Daichi was blind after the war. Yet the man staring at him now had the gaze of a fully sighted shinobi.
Seated at the desk, the very picture of calm authority, was Fugaku Uchiha. He looked more responsible now. His hair was meticulously styled, his goatee trimmed sharp. He wore the standard Jonin vest over a simple clan tunic, but the way he wore it spoke of command.
"Renjiro," Fugaku said.
"Fugaku-sama," Renjiro replied, executing a perfect, respectful bow from the waist. He straightened and offered a lesser nod to the shadow in the corner.
"Daichi-sama."
Daichi returned the nod, a mere tilt of his chin, his expression unreadable.
Fugaku's gaze swept over Renjiro, lingering for a fraction of a second on his eyes.
"It is good to see you fully recovered. The reports of your restored vision are a relief to the clan. Our strength is not so great that we can afford to lose such a potent Kekkei Genkai to the ravages of time and use."
His tone was measured, carrying the weight of genuine, if politically framed, concern.
Inside, Renjiro's mind reeled. The comment was a trap disguised as benevolence. It demanded an explanation he could not give. The flicker of shock at Daichi's clear sight now fused with a surge of defensive alarm. 'He's probing.'
"Thank you, Patriarch," he said, his voice carefully even. "It has been a long road. Indeed, it feels like a considerable time has passed since we last spoke."
He was steering the conversation away from the mechanics of his healing and towards the broader, safer context of shared history. It was a blatant dodge, and from the slight tightening around Daichi's eyes in the corner, the older man noticed it immediately. But Daichi, for now, remained a silent sentinel.
Fugaku accepted the pivot, though a glint in his eye suggested he had marked the evasion for later.
"It has," he agreed, his steepled fingers tapping once. "Time has reshaped the village, our clan's position within it, and the demands placed upon our most capable members."
He let that statement hang, a clear preamble to the true purpose of the summon.
Renjiro decided to meet it head-on. The formal dance was exhausting, and the undercurrents were making his skin prickle. He stood a little straighter, meeting Fugaku's gaze directly. "With respect, Fugaku-sama, may I ask why you requested my presence?" he asked, his tone layered with polite deference that did not entirely mask his desire for clarity.
Fugaku leaned back in his seat, the chair giving a soft, leathery creak. He glanced briefly at Daichi, a silent communication passing between them, before returning his formidable attention to Renjiro.
The ambient noise from the plaza—a burst of laughter, a vendor's call—seemed to fade into a muffled silence, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
"The Hokage's office has convened a council to select a new Jonin Commander," Fugaku began, his words deliberate, each one placed with the care of a stone on a Go board.
"The position is now vacant, with Nara Shiba stepping back. But the village's military leadership must be solidified."
He paused, letting the significance settle. "The Uchiha clan," he continued, his voice gaining a subtle, proud edge, "intends to put forward a candidate. Our voice in Konoha's highest councils must be strong, unambiguous, and backed by undeniable capability. We need a candidate who embodies martial excellence, possesses the respect of the wider shinobi forces, and can bear the weight of the village's security on their shoulders."
A cold trickle of understanding began to seep into Renjiro's stomach.
No. It couldn't be.
Fugaku's dark eyes locked onto his, and in them, Renjiro saw not familial warmth, but the ruthless calculus of clan politics.
"Therefore," Fugaku stated, the words final and immovable as etched stone, "the Uchiha clan will officially recommend you, Renjiro Uzumaki, for the position of Jonin Commander of Konohagakure."
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