Three months after the cataclysmic judgment at the village, a peculiar peace had settled over the Uchiha encampment. It was not the peace of victory, but the strained, administrative quiet of a military machine trying to function with a deeply unwilling commander.
Indra Uchiha, the War God, the master of Sun and Nature Breathing, the wielder of the Six Eyes and the Mangekyou, sat slumped in the clan leader's tent, his head resting on a stack of supply requisition forms. A low, pathetic groan escaped his lips.
"Why…," he moaned to the empty tent, "why are there so many forms? Who decided that the fate of a warrior clan should be determined by the quality of rice and the distribution of socks?"
He was, at his core, a man of simple, albeit grand, enthusiasms. The intricate melody of a piano sonata, the perfect arc of a sword strike, the profound flow of Primordial Energy—these were things that captured his soul. Logistics, budget meetings, and mediating disputes over who stole whose favorite whetstone were a special kind of hell.
He had been thrust into the role of temporary clan leader after Tajima's near-fatal injuries. While his father recovered his strength, the mantle of leadership had fallen on Indra's supremely capable, yet utterly disinterested, shoulders.
Across the battlefield, in the Senju compound, a different scene was unfolding. Tōka Senju, having similarly saved her father, had also taken charge. But where Indra saw a prison, Tōka saw a complex, fascinating puzzle. The War Goddess had become the Bureaucracy Goddess. She sat at a large desk, scrolls organized with terrifying precision, her brow furrowed in concentration as she solved supply chain issues, allocated resources for orphaned clan children, and drafted new training protocols.
"Sister," Hashirama whined, slumping into the chair opposite her, his head thudding on her desk. "Do I really need to know the difference between a trade deficit and a seasonal crop yield? Can't I just… you know… make more trees?"
Tōka didn't even look up from her scroll. "A leader who cannot manage his clan's stomach cannot command its heart, Hashirama. Now, explain to me the economic implications of a failed harvest in the western farmlands and three proposed solutions."
Hashirama let out a sound that was half-groan, half-sob. He was a dreamer, a creator, a force of nature. Being trapped in a room with spreadsheets was his personal Infinite Void.
Back in the Uchiha camp, Indra's misery had reached a critical mass. He stormed into his father's recovery tent, where Tajima was finally enjoying a peaceful cup of tea.
"Father," Indra began, his voice tight with six months of pent-up frustration. "This is intolerable. A man named Jiro claims his neighbor's chicken is laying eggs on his property and thus the eggs are his. Another man, Kenji, says the chicken only crosses the property line after laying the egg, so the eggs are his. They have brought this to me. Me. The one who split the earth. I was tempted to use the Celestial Exploding Strike on the chicken just to end the debate."
Tajima took a slow sip of tea, hiding a smile. "Leadership requires wisdom and patience, my son."
"Wisdom? Patience?" Indra threw his hands up. "I have the wisdom to see the fundamental laws of the universe! I have the patience to meditate for days on the nature of energy! I do not have the patience for poultry-based property disputes! It's beneath me! It's beneath the dignity of the Uchiha name! We are warriors, not… chicken arbitrators!"
This became a daily routine. Indra would appear, a storm cloud of complaints.
"Father, the elders want a report on long-term strategic grain storage. I told them my long-term strategy is to be so powerful and Wealthy we can simply Buy the grain from anyone who has it. They did not appreciate my efficiency."
"Father, we need to appoint a new head of sanitation. I suggested we use Fire Style to incinerate all waste. They said it was 'Bring Pollution' and 'would smell terrible.' The lack of vision is staggering."
Tajima, who had spent a lifetime buried in such minutiae, found his son's theatrical suffering to be the best medicine he could have asked for. But even his patience had limits.
After six months of this, as Indra launched into a detailed critique of the clan's inefficient laundry rotation system, Tajima finally snapped.
"ENOUGH!" he roared, slamming his teacup down. "By the Sage, boy, if you hate the position so much, then don't be the leader! Give it to Madara! Give it to Izuna! Give it to the damned chicken for all I care! Just stop whining! Now, get out! I have a scheduled nap, and your voice is ruining the ambiance!"
Indra's eyes widened, a look of pure, unadulterated hope dawning on his face. "Really? I can just… give it away?"
"YES! Now go! And report to the main clan medical room in two days. The elders and I need to speak with you about something important. No complaints!"
Indra didn't need to be told twice. He was out of the tent in a blur of white and salt-and-pepper hair, his spirit lighter than it had been in months.
He found Madara and Izuna training in a secluded clearing. Without preamble, he declared, "Congratulations. The two of you are now the co-leaders of the Uchiha clan."
Madara, who had been mid-kata, stumbled. "What?"
"Effective immediately," Indra said, a huge grin spreading across his face. "All decisions, all forms, all chicken-related litigation… it's all yours. I'm retired."
The clan elders were, predictably, furious. "Lord Indra! This is highly irregular! Madara and Izuna are too young! They lack experience!"
Indra looked at them, his Six Eyes glowing faintly. "My brothers are brilliant, powerful, and possess the unwavering spirit of the Uchiha. They will learn. Besides," he added, his tone leaving no room for argument, "I said so. My final act as temporary leader."
He then turned his attention to his brothers' training. Both Madara and Izuna had, as in the original timeline, awakened their Mangekyou Sharingan upon seeing their father's grievous injuries. Madara's was a pattern of stark, interlocking fans, symbolizing his fierce, protective nature. Izuna's was a more complex, pinwheel-like design, reflecting his tactical, intricate mind.
But Indra had seen the darkness that festered in a mind scarred by such trauma. He was determined his brothers would not walk the same path of bitterness and madness.
Thus began "Uncle Indra's School for Mentally Stable Mangekyou Wielders."
The classes were… unorthodox.
"Lesson one," Indra announced, sitting cross-legged before his frowning brothers. "It's okay to be sad."
Madara scoffed. "Sadness is a weakness."
"Is it?" Indra asked mildly. "When I think of Mother, I feel sad. Does that make me weak?"
Madara looked away, scowling. Izuna remained silent.
"Sadness is a natural response to loss," Indra continued. "It is the love we can no longer give. Suppressing it doesn't make you strong; it makes you a pressure cooker waiting to explode. The goal is not to eliminate sadness, but to feel it, understand it, and then… let it go. Like a leaf on a river."
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Madara grumbled.
"Is it?" Indra's Mangekyou swirled. "Tell me, Madara. When you saw Father injured, what did you feel?"
"Rage," Madara shot back instantly. "I wanted to destroy the ones who did it."
"And beneath the rage?"
"More rage!"
Indra sighed. "Beneath the rage was fear. Fear of losing him. Fear of being left alone. That fear is valid. Acknowledge it. 'I was scared.' Say it."
"I will not!"
"Say it, or I'll use the Flailing Turkey technique on you in front of the entire clan."
Madara's face flushed crimson. He looked at Izuna, who was trying very hard not to smile. "I… was… scared," he finally gritted out.
"Good," Indra said, his voice gentle. "See? The world didn't end. Now, Izuna. Your turn."
The classes continued. He taught them meditation techniques to calm the chaotic flow of chakra that accompanied their emotional turmoil. He made them talk about their feelings, a process Madara found more painful than any taijutsu session. They squabbled constantly.
"You can't just solve every problem by threatening to set it on fire, Madara!" Indra said during a lesson on conflict resolution.
"It's efficient!" Madara argued.
"It's arson! Izuna, what's a better approach?"
Izuna, the clever diplomat, would propose a nuanced, political solution, which Madara would immediately shoot down as "wishy-washy." The bickering was endless, but through it, a new understanding was forming. They were learning to process their trauma, not be consumed by it.
After two days of blissful freedom from leadership, Indra remembered his father's command. He strolled into the main clan medical room, expecting a routine check-up or perhaps another scolding about delegating his duties.
The atmosphere in the room stopped him cold.
Elder Tamiko, her face grim, stood beside a sterile medical cot. Great Elder Amara was there, his aged eyes filled with a profound sorrow. And Tajima sat on a stool, his posture weary, his own Mangekyou Sharingan active and solemn.
This was no routine check-up.
"Indra," Tajima said, his voice heavy with a finality that made Indra's heart clench. "Come. Sit down."
The air was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of a decision that had already been made. Indra's lazy retirement, his comedic complaints, the joyful training with his brothers—it all felt like a distant dream. He stood on the threshold, sensing that fate had just closed one door and was now, irrevocably, opening another. The unavoidable circumstance was here.
[Please support me with Power stone's and your Review's]