When the next clan head sends you a personal invitation, you don't and can't refuse.
Uchiha Fugaku's messenger had arrived the night before, and Gen had been meaning to speak with him anyway; this was as good an opening as any.
The meeting was set for the afternoon. That left Gen with a free morning in Konoha.
He spent it strolling through the village, snacking on grilled dango, browsing market stalls, and letting the steam of the public hot springs loosen the tension that months of war had wired into his muscles.
By the time the sun leaned toward its descent, he was back in the Uchiha district, a box of fresh pastries tucked under one arm.
Fugaku's home sat in the district's heart, like the moon ringed by stars.
The house itself wasn't ostentatious—two stories, wooden walls, a larger-than-average yard. It was the location, not the structure, that spoke of its owner's standing.
The Uchiha clan wasn't the Hyūga. Their leader held power, yes, but the family's internal atmosphere was far more… democratic, at least by shinobi standards.
There was a distinction between main and branch families, but it wasn't rigid. Open the Sharingan, and you moved into the main family. Fail to awaken it, whether shinobi or civilian, and you remained in the branch.
Those without the eye could still serve in the Police Force, though their roles were lower in rank and safer than most shinobi work.
For those who did awaken the Sharingan, doors opened: squad leader, chief, elder, even clan head.
Those who lacked the talent—or taste—for politics could still thrive as the clan's high-ranking fighters, well-paid and well-protected.
The Uchiha had been the richest shinobi family for generations. Their fighters were warriors, yes, but they were also an economic force, which is one of reasons they'd survived so long despite political suspicion.
Gen rang the doorbell. The chime hadn't even faded when the door slid open.
A woman stood there—long black hair falling in straight sheets, eyes as dark as onyx, her expression gentle yet steady.
"Lady Mikoto," Gen greeted, bowing slightly with the formality due to the wife of the clan head.
She smiled, soft and warm. "Gen, no need for formality. Just call me Mikoto-nee."
He inclined his head. "Mikoto-nee, then."
She looked harmless, but Gen knew better. Mikoto was a shinobi in her own right and her Sharingan awakened, her skill considerable. Moreover, her bloodline was anything but mild, as the daughter of Uchiha Setsuna, the hawkish leader who had once tried to wrest the village's leadership back from the Senju and paid for it with a lifetime in Konoha's prisons.
Her marriage to Fugaku wasn't just a union; it was an alliance. Without her faction's support, Fugaku might never have claimed leadership.
They stepped into the yard, then into the house. Shoes came off at the door. As Gen straightened, a small figure was descending the stairs.
"Itachi," Mikoto called gently, "Come meet our guest. Call him Brother Gen!"
The boy stopped, bowed with perfect manners, and said, "Brother Gen."
Gen smiled. "Hello."
The boy was polite, composed—already wearing the still-water mask of a shinobi.
It was hard to imagine this child, barely out of toddlerhood, someday raising a blade against his own blood. But Gen knew the history, or the future that lay ahead.
Inwardly, his thoughts darkened. Fugaku's choice to drag a boy of three or four to the battlefield was… madness.
The shinobi world forced its children to grow up fast, but there was a line between early training and warping a mind before it was even formed.
Itachi's problem, as Gen saw it, would not be skill, he would be a prodigy, but perspective. Too absolute. Too certain in his own judgments. The elders of Konoha, masters of human nature, would see that and turn it to their advantage.
Without Itachi's eventual betrayal, could Konoha have truly destroyed the clan?
Suspicion alone was never enough for open slaughter; even the most paranoid leaders needed an excuse. Without proof, wiping out the most powerful family in the village would fracture Konoha beyond repair.
But with Itachi's cooperation—and Fugaku's eventual surrender—the deed had been done quietly, efficiently, leaving no room for rebellion.
Gen kept his face neutral, his tone light, and offered the boy a friendly nod before following Mikoto deeper into the house.
Children, especially ones like Itachi, were quick to sense hostility. If he wanted any chance to influence the boy's future, that door had to stay open.
The reception room waited ahead. So did Fugaku.