The relocation of Shadowland was in full swing. High beneath the stone cavern's arched ceiling, bats swooped through the air with rustling wings and clicking echoes. Some folded their wings to sort scrolls, artifacts, and personal relics into simple wooden crates. Others were tearing down old dwellings—not out of rage, but with calculated purpose: anything that couldn't be moved had to be erased, leaving nothing behind for the enemy.
On the stone floor, dimly lit by softly glowing crystals, stood Fugaku. Hunched over, he studied an ancient map stretched across a flat rock. Along its edges, claw marks scratched in tunnels, underground rivers, glowing mineral deposits, and routes leading to other civilizations hidden deep below the earth. The bats had crafted this map over centuries—methodically exploring, charting paths, losing scouts, and returning with new knowledge.
Fugaku could almost feel the value of the map radiating off the stone. He was especially drawn to the mineral deposits. To many, it was just worthless rock, but Fugaku knew how to turn it into profit.
Above the map, Bat-Kage prowled, lazily dragging his claws to scratch in new notations. He had many copies of this map. One of them, he had shared with Fugaku.
"Building new homes isn't the hard part," Bat-Kage muttered without looking up. "The challenge is finding where not a single wretched spider can crawl through…"
"I'm still willing to share my barrier fuinjutsu," Fugaku reminded him. "I can tailor the formulas specifically to target arachnids."
Bat-Kage turned his head toward him. His jaw parted in something like a smirk—but it held no warmth, only the faint shadow of old pride.
"You really think my people don't know how to craft barriers? We were once allies of the Tsuchigumo clan. No, they don't get ballads sung about them like your precious Uzumaki, but trust me—they knew their craft. We filled hundreds of scrolls together."
He fell silent, and the smirk faded from his face.
"The problem lies elsewhere," his voice turned rough, like claws scraping against steel. "Those cursed spiders know fuinjutsu too. They're not as primitive as they seem. No matter how many seals you place, eventually they find a flaw. They always do. Their minds are like webs—the more intricate, the more insidious."
He leaned closer to the map. Stone grated under his claws as he unconsciously dragged one across it, leaving a thin but deep scratch. It was clear the situation was gnawing at him. He wanted a solution, but the map almost mocked him—any place safe for bats could just as easily be breached by spiders.
Fugaku straightened, his frown evident. His voice was firm, nearly cold:
"Wherever you decide to rebuild Shadowland—that's your call. But don't forget our agreement. I need your best operatives—one in every major capital. And one in Konoha. That's non-negotiable."
Bat-Kage didn't turn, just gave a short reply:
"I remember. That won't be a problem. We've placed agents in various countries for years. Watching, listening, selling information to those who pay. One will be stationed in Konoha, as you asked."
"I'll commission a separate mission from your clan later," Fugaku added, but stopped mid-sentence. Bat-Kage wasn't listening. His attention was entirely absorbed by the map.
Fugaku's gaze shifted toward where his sons were helping the bats gather supplies from the clan's vault. Items too large for small claws were effortlessly lifted by human hands.
Itachi worked silently. But silence didn't mean detachment. His black eyes constantly scanned—notes on scrolls, the way things were packed, the order in which they were arranged. Soon he came across a scroll filled with illustrations of rare subterranean plants, many of which were unknown even to Konoha's most seasoned herbalists.
He carefully unrolled the parchment and flipped through the pages, studying the drawings and handwritten notes. Some of the plants had potent regenerative properties. As a medic, he immediately recognized their potential—ointments, serums, maybe even antidotes. His voice was quiet, but steady:
"This scroll should be copied. It could save lives."
One of the elder bat scribes nodded in agreement and quickly passed the scroll along to the archivists for duplication.
Meanwhile, Shisui was helping to haul heavy crates. Unlike his brother, he couldn't stay wrapped in silent focus. As he carried supplies, he chatted away with a group of bats who, judging by their reactions, had already accepted him as one of their own. He'd already learned their names—Kaika, Ruvu, and Tama—and was eagerly asking them about their favorite foods, aerial maneuvers, and the strangest places they'd ever visited.
"Vegetarians? Seriously?" he laughed. "And none of you has ever even tried a cricket? Amazing. I'm ready to move you into my attic."
Bat-Kage was watching the exchange. He took off silently and landed softly on Fugaku's shoulder.
"I didn't make a pact with you because of your fangs," he murmured. "Fugaku, you think like a bat."
"Explain," Fugaku said darkly.
Bat-Kage's voice lowered, almost contemplative:
"Among bats, some live in colonies. Others fly alone, solitary shadows. But even the most reclusive among us never abandon their offspring… not until they've learned to fly. Not until their wings are strong."
He turned his gaze to the same place Fugaku was looking—to the two young men, each absorbed in their task, but both fully aware their father was watching over them.
"Because nothing is more important than family," Bat-Kage finished. "Come. Let's stretch our wings."
They left the main camp behind, venturing deeper into the cave, where the crystals' dim light gradually faded into complete darkness. Here, there were no witnesses. Just the two of them—and the eternal stillness of stone.
Fugaku silently stripped off the upper part of his clothing. His body tensed, muscles rippling beneath the skin. Without injections or pain, the transformation began. Muscles thickened, vertebrae shifted, bones lengthened. His body grew, proportions changed, and soon wings unfurled, covered in dense membrane.
"Slowly," Bat-Kage clicked his fangs. "You're still not fully synchronized. You need more training."
Fugaku's voice came out muffled, as if echoing from within a throat not entirely his own:
"You don't strike me as an expert in becoming a monster."
"Monster or not," Bat-Kage snorted, lifting off with a powerful beat of his wings, "you've been given a gift. But a gift without control is just deformity. Follow me."
And they soared upward, vanishing into the dark.
Fugaku didn't activate the Sharingan. Instead, he focused on his new senses. Sight gave way to echolocation—bursts of sound bouncing off stone, forming a sonic topography of the world. It was unfamiliar at first, and he nearly crashed into several outcroppings, but he adapted quickly. Each movement grew more precise. His muscles, more responsive.
They passed through a narrow tunnel and emerged into a vast cavern with a high ceiling. Below, like a mirror, stretched an icy lake, still as glass.
Bat-Kage hovered mid-air, wings fully extended.
"This is where we train our young to fly," he said, his voice softer than wind. "You know how to flap your wings. But you lack grace. You're like an uncut diamond. You have strength—but no shine. Watch me. Repeat everything."
Fugaku frowned and activated his Sharingan. Crimson pupils flared to life, sharpening the world around him. He began to study. Every bend of the wing, every movement of Bat-Kage's body as he entered a dive, the angle of his claws as they sliced the air—all of it was memorized and immediately applied.
Five minutes. No more.
And Fugaku was already gliding over the lake's surface, the edge of his wing nearly brushing the water without causing a ripple. He mastered claw strikes mid-flight, combat spirals, and aerial pirouettes that brushed the edge of weightlessness. He was heavier than Bat-Kage, but moved with unexpected agility.
After another smooth arc, he returned to where Bat-Kage waited.
The bat said nothing.
He only watched—silent and assessing.
Fugaku didn't expect praise. He knew that in certain circles, instant mastery wasn't seen as an advantage—it was a threat. Many people resented the Uchiha precisely for that. He remembered how they had looked at Itachi when he finished the Academy a year early. As if the boy had stolen time from them. As if he had simply taken what they had earned through blood and sweat. Jealousy always came first.
"You think I'm angry because of your progress?" Bat-Kage suddenly said, not looking at him. "Only a foolish teacher resents a student who learns fast. A wise one feels pride."
"Glad you're not a fool," Fugaku muttered, retracting his claws and slowing his breath.
"You've already grasped bat-style taijutsu," Bat-Kage said, gently landing on the ledge above the lake. His eyes glowed a soft green in the dark. "Now it's time to move on to real weapons. Ninjutsu. What's your chakra nature?"
"I have four," Fugaku replied calmly, spreading his wings and rising to his full height. His silhouette, massive and dark, looked like part of the stone itself. "But fire is my strongest. Strong enough that I no longer need hand signs. A single impulse is enough."
He snapped his toe—an almost imperceptible gesture, if not for the explosion that followed. He exhaled a fireball toward the center of the lake. A wave of heat slammed into the cave walls, raising steam and a deep tremor. The air rang with intensity.
Bat-Kage didn't flinch, but his voice grew sharper:
"Poor form. Too hot. Too loud. Too obvious." He clicked his fangs. "We bats live in shadow. We move unseen. Wind is our element. Lightness. Silence. Agility. But you, Fugaku—with your fire—you're more dragon than bat."
Fugaku didn't argue, but neither did he apologize.
"I can use wind," he said after a pause. "But not well enough to forgo hand signs. My entire combat training was built on fire. It's my style."
"Change it," Bat-Kage snapped. "I don't have time to wait for you to evolve on your own. I'll show you the foundation. The rest is your responsibility."
He shot into the air. For the next several minutes, Fugaku watched his mentor work wonders.
Bat-Kage wove through tight cracks and sharp turns with such precision, it was as if the air itself guided him. He created whirlwinds, accelerated mid-flight, then stopped on a dime just inches from the stone walls. Using air currents, he performed maneuvers that defied gravity. He sharpened his blows by coating the edges of his wings in a thin, almost invisible layer of cutting chakra. With his hind legs, he unleashed hidden wind blades—so fast and silent even the Sharingan could barely track them.
"Memorized all that?" he asked at last, without the slightest hint of breathlessness.
"Yes," Fugaku nodded. His voice was calm but lacked the earlier enthusiasm. He understood now: between "memorized" and "replicated" lay an abyss. "Though I don't understand one thing. If your claws and wings are already weapons… why do you carry swords?"
Bat-Kage snorted.
"Curious," he said with a grin. A sharp twist mid-air—and two short, curved swords dropped from the harness on his belt. In a flash, he caught them with his hind claws, and his movements took on a dangerously elegant flow.
"Watch."
He swung both blades at once, and a vortex rose above the lake's surface. A small tornado spun upward, scattering water in a spiral and lifting a misty plume into the air.
"An artifact?" Fugaku narrowed his eyes. He was impressed, though he didn't show it.
"Custom-made in the Land of Craftsmen," Bat-Kage said with a trace of pride. "Balanced, flexible, tuned for wind chakra. You won't find better. Want a pair?"
Fugaku didn't answer right away. He stretched his massive, powerful wings—taut and covered in dense membrane. One full beat—and half the lake churned into a white froth. Water spilled over the banks, exposing the bare bottom, and the cave filled with the echo of a concussive wave.
"I've got something better," he said with a cold smirk. "Raw physical power."
Bat-Kage's eyes widened. He even drifted back slightly to take in the damage his student had caused.
"And if I master wind chakra, charging my wings with it…" Fugaku went on, almost to himself. "If I adapt the wind-style tactics of the giant fan units from Suna… then I won't just be flying. I'll be sweeping armies off the face of the earth."
Bat-Kage cleared his throat, masking his unease.
"Well… since you've brought up armies. It's time you met mine."
They flew onward, leaving the lake and Shadowland behind. The path led deeper into the mountain's heart. The tunnels narrowed, grew darker—until suddenly, a massive stone chamber opened before them. The ceiling vanished into shadows. Then came the roar.
Thousands of bats surged into the air. Their wings beat in rhythm, like a living heartbeat. They flew overhead, merging into patterns, weaving symbols and characters in the sky—some even forming numbers.
"Welcome to the farm," said Bat-Kage. His voice shifted—more businesslike now, almost detached. "Here, we raise our mindless kin. Primitive, obedient, easy to control. They don't think. They only follow orders."
Fugaku silently watched as hundreds—thousands—of creatures moved through the air in perfect synchronicity, like a single organism. This wasn't an army. It was a wave. A swarm. A force.
"They'll be your eyes, your claws, your fangs. You won't be able to bring them all at once. But they'll fight when you command. This is your shadow army."
Fugaku kept watching. Not with awe. Not with fear. But with recognition.
This was power. And it was his now.
"Can I summon them like regular contract creatures? Like someone from your clan?" Fugaku asked, eyes fixed on the swarm as it reorganized itself midair and hovered in orderly rows.
"They are part of my clan," Bat-Kage replied calmly. "Just as cattle belong to the farmer. No will. No thought. No self. They are tools."
He glanced at one of the larger bats, and it instantly shot upward, disappearing into the dark as if it had received an invisible order.
"Besides," Bat-Kage continued, "these creatures have almost no chakra. That makes them ideal—you'll be able to summon dozens, even hundreds, without draining yourself. And you can sacrifice them without hesitation. Like shuriken."
"How do you control them?" Fugaku asked. His tone was even, but his eyes were sharp, focused.
"All intelligent animals can command their mindless kin," Bat-Kage replied. "You're one of us now. You're a bat too. So you should be able to. Try."
Fugaku closed his eyes, focusing on the connection—thin as spider silk. After a few instructions from Bat-Kage, he reached out to the swarm—through thought, chakra, and beast instinct. At first, there was resistance. The hive moved uncertainly. Then—something clicked.
The cave filled with a whispering rustle. Thousands of wings flapped in unison. The bats—his bats now—obeyed with terrifying ease. He ordered them to rise. Then to dive into the stone wall.
They obeyed.
The rock rang with the impact. Blood sprayed from their small bodies. But not a single one hesitated.
Absolute obedience.
"I'm sure you'll learn to do it in your human form as well," Bat-Kage noted, watching with quiet approval.
Fugaku had no doubt about it himself. He remembered Orochimaru—the only one of the three Sannin who, in battle, could summon not just a single snake, but waves of them—silent, obedient, weaponized. Orochimaru had long since stopped being human. His fangs were elongated, his pupils vertical, his skin cold. He had fused with the snake—and in return, he had gained a new kind of power.
Fugaku had no intention of following Orochimaru's path, but he understood the principle.
To command an army, one must first become part of it.
"If you're lacking firepower," Bat-Kage said quietly, pausing for a second, "summon the heavy artillery."
He sent out a mental signal, and from the far end of the cave, massive shapes began to move. Five giant bats emerged from the darkness—each the size of a full-grown horse. They moved with calm confidence, like predators trained for war. Their wings draped behind them like cloaks, claws scraping against the stone floor. Simple harnesses hung on their backs, clearly meant for riders.
Fugaku examined them in silence. These creatures weren't meant for him—he could fly on his own. But for others… for Itachi, Sasuke, Shisui… these mounts could prove useful.
"Where do you get them?" he asked. "I've never seen bats that size in any field guide."
"They're just normal bats," Bat-Kage replied. "We fed them shinobi blood. Chakra-rich nourishment works wonders. Feed it to a cricket, and it'll grow to the size of a dog. Our kin? Even more so."
He let out a low chuckle.
"If you ever need something truly enormous—say, a bat the size of a bijuu—you can grow one. Just be aware: feeding and controlling it will be your responsibility."
Fugaku smirked. That wasn't a warning—it was an offer. And one he liked.
"I'll think about it," he said calmly, ideas already forming in his mind.
"I've given you everything every bat clan member should know," said Bat-Kage, scratching behind his ear with a hind leg, as if pondering something. "There's no time for anything deeper."
"It's enough," Fugaku replied, feeling confidence rise inside him again. He spread his wings and stepped toward the cave's exit. "Call me through the ring if anything changes."
"Consider senjutsu," Bat-Kage said quietly as a parting thought. "With your beast form, you have massive potential in that direction."
Fugaku nodded.
He had no intention of stopping.
He had become something more than human.
After all—he could fly.