When the effects of the Sealing Tsukuyomi faded, a thunderous wave of laughter erupted from the ranks of the Uchiha clan.
"Hahaha! The ocular technique worked!"
"With this power, we'll crush the other great clans—Hyūga, Aburame, even the Senju relics!"
"The era of the Uchiha has finally arrived!"
…
…
Their voices echoed off the blackened stone walls of the underground hideout, manic with pride. All eyes soon shifted to the center of the ritual circle, where a trembling black-haired girl knelt—eyes bleeding, vision blurred, chakra drained to the marrow. This was the girl they referred to only as the Unknown Weapon.
It was the first time such a wide-scale ocular sealing technique had been attempted. Her youthful, sweat-soaked face twitched from chakra exhaustion, and crimson tears streamed down from her eyes—her Sharingan forced beyond its natural limits.
Amid her daze, her lips barely moved. "I'm not… not a weapon… my name is…"
"Enough! Restrain the weapon and return her to containment. We can't afford any further errors."
Her fragile voice was swallowed by the clan's fervor. Two Uchiha shinobi stepped forward, grabbing her arms. They dragged her limp body like a discarded tool, heading back toward the fortified holding cells.
One of the kunoichi looked down at the girl with faint sympathy glinting in her mangekyō eyes. Her voice was barely a whisper.
"…This isn't how it's supposed to be. We've gone too far…"
Behind her, another Uchiha was still ranting with glee.
"Izanagi's development is flawless! Even if we lose an eye to blindness, the revival potential is unmatched!"
"Damn right! If it weren't for Izanagi, I'd be rotting in the mud alongside the Inuzuka I blew apart!"
"My grandson just awakened his Sharingan, and he strapped explosive tags to himself—took out three platoons before he detonated!"
"Smart. Next time, strap them to the lowborns in the clan. They may be fodder, but at least they'll die for something meaningful!"
…
…
There was no morality left in their words—only tactical efficiency soaked in blood.
The kunoichi escorting the "weapon" clenched her jaw as the twisted logic echoed around her. She couldn't bear it anymore.
"Clan Leader!" she burst out, turning to the front of the hall. "This use of Izanagi—it's turning us into monsters! We're sacrificing our eyes, our sanity! I've seen shinobi come back from the front unable to tell illusion from reality! Some end up killing their own family! Others just… end themselves."
Her name was Uchiha Jiri, a respected jonin who had once believed in the Uchiha's strength as a force for balance. Now, all she saw was power devouring the clan from within.
The Uchiha leader rose from his obsidian throne, eyes glowing with a warped Mangekyō.
"Silence, Jiri! Izanagi is our divine right—the technique that transcends death! Your parents gave their lives for this clan. Do not shame them with your weakness!"
He waved her away with contempt.
"Return to your duty. Watch the weapon. She is our key to winning this war. There can be no mistakes."
Jiri bowed her head, fists clenched so tightly her nails drew blood. She knew further protest would mean exile—or death. She turned silently and descended to the underground cell blocks.
The smell of blood and chakra residue clung to the air. As she approached the reinforced chakra-seal gate, her rage festered.
She wasn't just angry at the clan—she was angry at herself.
Because she understood the truth: Izanagi wasn't saving the clan. It was destroying it.
Its ability to alter fate had corrupted the Uchiha's soul. Now shinobi fought not for honor, but for personal glory—rewriting events to steal kills, betray comrades, erase mistakes. The Sharingan, once a symbol of precision and insight, had become a tool for delusion.
She stopped before the sealed cell.
Inside, Uchiha Hikaru lay unconscious—stripped of identity, stripped of name, forced to act as a living battery for forbidden jutsu.
Jiri's eyes welled up.
"…You shouldn't be called a weapon."
She pressed her palm to the seal, chakra flowing gently from her fingers. Her Sharingan spun… then shifted. The tomoe twisted, forming into a new pattern: jagged blades rotating like a windmill caught in a storm.
Her Mangekyō Sharingan had awakened.
"I won't let this continue," she whispered. "This madness ends with me."
The technique her Mangekyō granted her was not like Izanagi—it was its counterpart.
Izanami.
A genjutsu loop that traps the target in an eternal cycle—only escapable when they accept the truth of their reality.
But Jiri didn't want vengeance. She didn't want to punish. She wanted redemption.
She needed to adapt Izanami—make it teach, not torment. She would weaken its binding, strip it of its permanent loop, and mold it into a secret technique—one others could learn without awakening the Mangekyō.
Not to control fate.
But to help people understand themselves again.
"I'll give them a mirror to face… not a prison."
She began the work immediately, scribbling formulas with her chakra into the stone walls. This genjutsu wouldn't trap. It would liberate.
Meanwhile, inside the cell, Uchiha Hikaru tossed and turned in her sleep, caught in an abyss of nightmares.
Visions assaulted her.
"[Eight Thousand Spears]—this ability… unbelievable. From now on, you exist as a weapon!"
"If we transplant more ocular powers into her, the results will be exponential!"
"Weapons don't need names. You are nameless now!"
"Stop crying. Crying is weakness!"
"Your chakra is unstable. You're a threat. You'll live here until we decide what to do with you!"
Laughing faces. Eyes spinning. Hands grabbing. Chains binding. Screams.
"No… No… No!!!"
"Help me! Someone… anyone… please save me!!"
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
Her chakra spiked uncontrollably.
And then—it happened.
A black portal slowly materialized beside her. No sound. No chakra surge. Just a ripple in space.
It cracked the fabric of the room like shattered glass, swirling with shadows and whispers.
Something—or someone—had heard her cries.
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