'What the hell is going on?'
That was the only coherent thought in Satoru's head as his feet began to move on their own. The sound of students chatting and laughing in the courtyard dimmed around him, blurring into a background hum.
Every step forward seemed to stretch the air tighter; his pulse thudded softly in his ears, matching the rhythm of his cautious stride. Fugaku Uchiha stood motionless ahead, posture straight and unyielding, his dark eyes fixed upon him with the kind of authority that made Satoru feel as though he were walking toward judgment itself.
Itachi stood quietly beside his father, his expression unreadable, the same calm detachment Satoru had grown accustomed to, yet today it felt heavier, like the silence of someone who knew what was coming.
Satoru swallowed.
The evening light caught Fugaku's crest; the red and white fan of the Uchiha, stitched boldly against the back of his dark uniform. It gleamed like a silent warning.
'What the hell did I do?' he wondered again, his thoughts racing. Then, a different realisation struck him; cold, clear, cutting through the confusion. This… this might be it. The moment he'd been waiting for all along.
He had spent months silently baiting fate, subtly hinting at his heritage during his training session with both Shisui and Itachi, anything to provoke a reaction from either of the two shinobi clans.
'So it worked,' he realised, a faint spark of satisfaction flickering beneath his nerves.
'The bluff actually reached them. Let's just hope it doesn't backfire now.'
He stopped a few paces away from them and inclined his head slightly, forcing his tone to remain steady.
"You called for me… sir?"
Fugaku's eyes narrowed faintly, appraising.
"You're Yamanaka Toru's son… and Kaori, was it? From our clan." His gaze didn't waver as he continued, "I've watched you at the Academy, Satoru. You carry more than just their names. You carry ours, whether you acknowledge it or not."
Satoru blinked once.
'So those were their names…' he thought, the revelation landing softly yet heavily inside him. He'd inherited faint memories from the original Satoru but never the clarity of names. He had known only that his blood was tied to two clans, and that was it.
The fact that Fugaku spoke their names with such certainty, as if pulling them from a time Satoru could never touch, only reminded him how young the original had been when he'd lost them.
Too young to even remember.
His fingers curled subtly against his side. 'I need to be careful now,' he thought. 'Just enough interest to not offend, not too much to seem desperate. People like him… they measure you by every word.'
Fugaku's eyes softened, just barely, as he continued. "Toru was a respectable chunin," he said, his tone almost reminiscent. "But Kaori… she was the one I was more familiar with. She and Mikoto, my wife, were cousins."
He paused briefly, glancing toward Itachi; the boy's face was unreadable, his expression that of a perfect shinobi. "So the same Uchiha blood that runs in Itachi here," Fugaku resumed, "also runs in you. And blood speaks louder than your choices. You stand between two great legacies. But only one has been forged in fire, in sacrifice."
The words hung between them, heavy as iron.
Satoru's throat felt dry. He wanted to look away, but Fugaku's gaze anchored him in place. It wasn't a threat, not exactly; it was more like an inevitability spoken aloud.
Fugaku moved then, stepping closer. The sound of his sandals against the ground was measured, unhurried, yet each step sent a faint prickle crawling up Satoru's spine. Instinct told him to retreat, to create distance, but his pride refused. Still, when Fugaku suddenly stopped before him, towering and imposing, Satoru couldn't help the slight flinch that betrayed him.
The Uchiha patriarch paused. For the briefest moment, something flickered in those eyes, not disdain, but consideration. Then, to Satoru's surprise, Fugaku lowered himself onto one knee until they were at eye level.
It felt almost unnatural, seeing someone like him stoop down. The motion was not meant as comfort; it was precision, the kind of gesture a commander would use to ensure his words hit their mark.
Without warning, Fugaku raised his hand. The calloused fingers brushed against Satoru's forehead; a brief, almost paternal touch, before sliding gently to the nape of his neck.
And then it happened.
Satoru froze. His breath caught in his chest as the familiar, electric warmth of chakra flared behind his eyes. The world seemed to shift, colours sharpening, air rippling faintly.
His Sharingan had activated.
Not by choice. Not by will, instinct or reflex.
A gasp escaped his lips before he could stifle it.
Fugaku's eyes gleamed faintly. "A one tomoe Sharingan," he said, voice smooth and low, "you are as talented as I thought."
Satoru exhaled slowly, forcing his heart to steady itself. He inclined his head slightly, masking the unease with a polite nod.
"Thank you… sir," he replied, though in his mind, the words rang hollow. Compliment or not, he could tell it was a calculated statement, not flattery, but a test. Everything with Fugaku was a test.
Fugaku studied him for another heartbeat, then asked, "Tell me, Satoru. Which side of your blood do you honour?"
Satoru met his gaze. "Both gave me life," he said after a brief pause. "I don't discard either. But I shape my future, not my blood."
Fugaku's lips quirked, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. A sound rumbled from his throat, low and almost amused.
"A boy who believes he can escape blood… is either a fool, or someone already planning something."
Satoru's pulse thrummed faster, but his expression remained calm. There was a flicker; not defiance exactly, but something dangerously close to it, in his tone as he answered, "I plan to become strong enough that I choose where I belong; not the other way around."
The shift in the air was subtle but tangible. Itachi's gaze flicked briefly between them, quiet but attentive.
Fugaku's eyes sharpened, his voice dropping to a tone that carried steel beneath its velvet calm. "You think like a shinobi. You think like an Uchiha. Just know that the clan remembers its own. Sooner or later… you will need to choose a crest. When that time comes…" His gaze locked on Satoru's crimson eyes, unwavering. "I expect you to remember this conversation."
Satoru held that gaze, the red of his Sharingan reflected in Fugaku's pupils like a mirrored flame. The silence that followed was thick enough to feel.
Finally, Fugaku straightened to his full height. The pressure of his presence seemed to ease just slightly, though it never truly left. He turned, his cloak brushing lightly against the ground.
"If you ever wish to remember where you came from," he said over his shoulder, tone calm yet laced with meaning, "my doors are open. But only for so long."
The words were not an invitation; they were a warning dressed as mercy.
Satoru stayed silent, his thoughts swirling. He could feel the blood pounding behind his temples. His body felt light; not from relief, but from the weight of everything unsaid.
Fugaku took a few steps, then paused once more, glancing sideways. "Itachi informed me that you two train after school," he said, his tone slipping back into command. "There won't be any training today. Itachi has to attend to some matters at home. So just go home… and think about what we discussed."
"Yes, sir," Satoru said quietly.
Fugaku gave a final, acknowledging nod, then turned fully, his cloak swaying behind him as he began to walk away. Itachi followed silently at his father's side, his expression as composed as ever. But just before he disappeared around the corner, Satoru caught him glance back; just once, eyes lingering for a moment that said nothing and everything.
And then they were gone.
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