I would like to let all readers know that I finally have a structure/foundation for this fanfic! Yesterday and today, I took some time to plan Indra's runes and everything he will receive throughout the story until he becomes a sovereign. Additionally, I managed to better structure the impact of his presence, deepening his existence and that of the Uchiha—all of this 100% within the rules of Shadow Slave. Now I have something to base my writing on, a path, so to speak.
Fortunately, due to this structuring, I ended up rereading what I've already written and noticed errors that I will need to correct. Things I forgot, others I exaggerated... But I managed to identify these points and also received notices about them. Best of all: now that I have a structure, the chapters will improve significantly! Instead of just having an idea jotted down on my phone and then developing everything somewhat blindly, the process will be much smoother.
Anyway, that's it! I will correct the errors after I finish this arc. Here is the chapter, and I hope you like it!!
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Indra did not answer. His crimson eyes swept over the vast options sprouting from the ground—spears, greatswords, and daggers—until his hand closed around the hilt of a Wakizashi. The weapon was singular: a short, straight blade with a robust Western-style guard that seemed made for the dirtiest, closest combat possible. The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, the cyan veins of the obsidian pulsed, and a sensation of absolute cold surged up his arms, silencing the tingling of pain.
The Zetsu did not wait for Indra to grow accustomed to the weight of the weapon. The instant the black metal left the ground, the creature exploded toward him in a pale blur.
Through the single tomoe spinning in his eye, the youth caught the slight tells of his opponent: the tilt of the creature's torso and the tension building in its white muscles. In a sudden snap, the Zetsu closed the distance at inhuman speed, delivering a violent horizontal punch aimed at crushing the boy's skull.
With minimal and calculated movements, he dodged the blow, feeling the displacement of air ruffle his hair as he dove under the arc of the punch, passing close to the aberration's open guard.
Using his short blade with brutal precision, he capitalized on the Zetsu's own momentum. In a sharp motion, Indra delivered an upward transverse cut. The sound was visceral: a wet snap of dense fibers being torn apart. The obsidian blade entered through the rib and exited through the opposite shoulder, opening a deep gash that separated the creature's musculature with terrifying ease.
A milky white fluid sprayed forcefully, staining Indra's face. The Zetsu let out a guttural sound of shock and immediately retreated, leaping back to gain distance while its feet dragged across the obsidian floor, leaving a pale trail.
Silence reclaimed the sanctuary for a few seconds. Indra kept the Wakizashi raised, his chest rising and falling, his crimson eyes fixed on the open wound that exposed the enemy's bizarre interior.
Then, the regeneration manifested.
The edges of the deep cut began to bubble. The white fibers writhed like worms, stretching to meet the other side of the open flesh. Within seconds, in a noisy process of tissues remaking themselves, the wound closed completely. The Zetsu cracked its neck, the unmoving smile returning to prominence on its pale face, as if the blow had never occurred.
Kushina watched from a distance, her crimson silhouette vibrating with cruel satisfaction. Crossing her arms over her chest, she shook her head. The tone of mockery was still there, but there was a spark of recognition in her gaze.
"Look at that... it seems the boy finally decided to stop embarrassing himself!" she exclaimed, her voice carrying that authoritative glow, yet with her usual vibrant manner. "It was getting ugly to watch, Indra. Now you're finally starting to get good! But don't get ahead of yourself just because you managed to land a tiny cut."
She took a step to the side, observing the scene like a predator evaluating its offspring.
"The bare minimum you should know is how to use a blade without cutting yourself with it. At least you know how to hold that thing decently now, but pay attention: the Zetsu isn't stupid. If you relax that slow brain for a single second, he will rip your head off and I will laugh at your corpse."
Kushina was right. After the shock of the first real cut, the White Zetsu changed. He did not charge like an enraged animal; instead, the creature pulled back its shoulders and lowered its center of gravity, hands open and ready to intercept, assuming a calculated defensive stance. The bizarre smile remained, but its movements were now economical, waiting for Indra to make the first mistake.
Indra held the Wakizashi steady. Sweat rolled down his temple, but he did not wipe it away. Through the Sharingan, he analyzed the aberration's new posture. He didn't just see flesh; he saw the points where the Zetsu discharged its weight and the gaps in the guard that opened by mere millimeters.
He waited. One second. Two.
The silence of the sanctuary became absolute, broken only by Indra's heavy breathing echoing against the obsidian walls. He knew that every second standing still was another second under the overwhelming pressure of the field. His crimson eyes fixed on the Zetsu; he saw the white aberration looking at him with that same mocking smile.
Without waiting any longer, Indra went on the offensive.
He did not possess the Zetsu's superhuman explosiveness, but he moved with surprising agility for a mere aspirant. His advance was technical, almost rhythmic. He initiated a series of rapid strikes with the Wakizashi, alternating between short thrusts to the plexus and violent lateral cuts aimed at the Zetsu's wrist joints, attempting to separate the creature's hands and force an opening in its absolute guard.
For a few moments, Indra's precision seemed to dominate the rhythm, the obsidian blade whirring millimeters from the white flesh. However, keeping his eyes active for so long was taking a devastating toll.
The avalanche of information processed by the single tomoe began to overload his brain. Suddenly, the world around Indra tilted; his vision blurred violently. A sudden heat ran down his upper lip—bright red blood dripped from his nose, a clear sign that his brain was frying under the ocular strain.
Indra stumbled, his balance failing for a second. And that was the breach the Zetsu had been waiting for.
Without hesitation, the creature delivered a brutal charging blow. Without the clarity of the Sharingan to guide him, Indra was hit full-on. The impact was like that of a sledgehammer; he felt his ribs protest as his body was hurled backward, flying several meters before colliding and rolling across the rough obsidian floor.
The Wakizashi escaped his hand, sliding away.
Groaning in pain, with blurred vision and a face stained with blood, Indra frantically fumbled at the ground as he tried to push himself up. His fingers scraped desperately across the obsidian floor until they closed around something cold and long. There, right beside where he had fallen, an obsidian spear with pulsing cyan veins lay thrust into the ground
Indra ripped the spear from the floor with a cry of fury, using the black shaft as support to force his body up. he Zetsu bent its knees, its body compressing for a fraction of a second — then it launched itself forward. The creature was already in the air, a compact white mass that had transformed its hands into a sledgehammer of dense flesh, falling with the weight of an avalanche
Even with blurred vision and his chest burning from the previous blow, Indra forced his muscles to the limit. In the final breath before impact, he executed a desperate lateral roll.
BOOM!
The impact of the creature against the obsidian floor generated a thunderous crash that echoed throughout the sanctuary, but the ground remained imperturbable, without a single crack, absorbing the brutal force as if the Zetsu's effort were nothing more than a useless whim.
Indra stabilized himself a few meters away, kneeling and spitting blood. He analyzed the situation with cutting coldness: if he continued this battle of attrition, he would die. The Sharingan was frying his brain, and his body was reaching its limit. He needed a checkmate, and he accepted that the price would be paid in blood.
He launched into one final offensive, advancing with the spear in a charged thrust, purposely exposing his lower line. And the Zetsu did not waste the flaw. Using its monstrous physiology, the creature twisted its own spine at an impossible angle, generating extra rotation to deliver a devastating low kick.
Indra, who had forced the activation of his eyes, saw the movement instantly, but did not dodge. He planned the point of impact.
The kick struck the region just below the knee joint, on the anterior part of the leg where the tibia begins. The sound was that of a dry branch snapping under a stone; the lower part of the leg exploded in a shower of blood and fragments, with what remained of the limb being flung away. However, Indra had already expected this. He used the violence of that impact and the energy of his own initial momentum to catapult his body upward, changing his trajectory in the air while the Zetsu was still trapped at the end of its kick rotation.
Even with his leg shattered and his body in shock, Indra did not hesitate in the face of the pain; he was already becoming accustomed to it. Taking advantage of the opponent's completely open guard, he came down with the obsidian spear in an arc of fury.
The cut was surgical and devastating. The black blade tore through the Zetsu's neck with terrifying ease, separating the head from the trunk before the creature could react to the blow. The aberration's head flew, the static smile finally disappearing into the dark, while the decapitated body collapsed like a useless burden of meat.
Indra collided with the ground immediately afterward. He rolled across the obsidian, leaving a scarlet trail behind, clutching what remained of his knee while his lungs fought for air. The pain was an inferno, but through the blood streaming down his face, his crimson eyes shone with the dark ecstasy of destruction.
Kushina, who had watched everything in silence, took a step forward. The silence that followed the Zetsu's fall was heavy, almost solid. Where once the frenetic sound of a life-or-death duel echoed—a massacre disguised as training—now there remained only the rhythmic and deliberate sound of Kushina's sandals against the obsidian floor.
She approached slowly. Upon reaching the mutilated youth, the matriarch knelt down. Her expression, which previously overflowed with cruel mockery and vibrant authority, was now totally neutral, an absolute void that masked any emotion.
Indra, struggling not to faint as the agony of the missing leg and the pain hammering constantly in his head took hold, forced his vision to focus. Kushina's eyes had changed. Where that pearly, frigid white—vast as a horizon of snow—used to reside, a familiar crimson now burned. A scarlet glow, dense and deep, which Indra recognized as the mark of his own lineage.
Silence settled like a heavy mist. Indra agonized on the obsidian floor, cold sweat mixing with the scarlet pool expanding beneath him, but his teeth remained clenched and he looked into her eyes. Even with blurred vision and the world oscillating, he focused on her eyes. He stared into her beautiful crimson eyes, adorned with those strange and complex shapes that seemed to spin in a hypnotic dance. He would never miss a detail of that.
But he would give her no reaction of regret, no plea for mercy. Every fiber of his being, despite being mutilated, screamed that he had won. He wanted to show her, through that silent agony, that he was worthy; that he was the warrior she so desired.
Finally, Kushina's voice cut the air, stripped of any mockery. It was a dry question, almost a clinical whisper:
"Why?" She tilted her head slightly, observing the bloody stump where what remained of his knee used to be. "Why did you go so far, Indra? Why did you accept tearing yourself apart for a victory against a mere doll of flesh?"
She reached out her hand, but not to help him up. Her fingers hovered over the open wound, the cyan veins of the floor glowing with greater intensity in response to her presence.
"You sacrificed your base, your mobility... your integrity." The crimson in her eyes seemed to pulse. "Was it worth giving up a part of yourself just to see a worm's head roll?"
"Why?" his voice came out as a dry snarl, dragging from the back of his throat, but charged with a dark satisfaction. "Because you wanted a warrior... and not a disgrace. Look at the ground, Kushina. There lies my enemy, dead, while I am here. I did not retreat. I killed him. Even though he was faster, stronger... even though he was superior, I faced him head-on. And here I am."
He did not seek pity; he sought the recognition that he had reached the level of brutality she demanded. The scarlet-stained smile on Indra's face was that of someone who accepted the price of victory with pride. He was an Uchiha, and there, over his own blood, he finally felt worthy.
Kushina continued the battle of gazes. The red glow in her irises seemed to burn Indra's face. She slowly extended her hand and gripped his chin with a pressure that bordered on unbearable, forcing him to face the vastness of the lineage she represented.
Indra, even with his consciousness wavering, observed the face of the woman before him. It was the face of a saint, of divine beauty, but it was devoid of its usual vibrant warmth. Instead, what he saw was a totally stoic face, a marble mask that hid a frigid fury—a rage that Kushina directed at herself for having forced that situation to the limit.
However, as she looked into Indra's eyes, she realized the youth was not seeking excuses or comfort. He was seeking the validation of the blood he had spilled.
Tightening her grip on his chin a bit more before softening the touch, she finally broke the silence. Her voice was no longer a whip, but a profound recognition.
"You were wonderful, Indra," she said, and the words seemed to carry the weight of a crown. "Yes, you made mistakes... flaws of one who still lacks the necessary experience to deal with monstrous beings that defy logic. But you were great. You were worthy of every ounce of faith I placed in you."
She released his face but remained close, her crimson eyes analyzing the trail of destruction.
"You demonstrated a natural mastery over weapons, cold analysis, and a quick decision-making capacity that many take decades to achieve. You realized the battle of attrition was your ruin and had the courage to sacrifice to win. You were decisive. You were an Uchiha."
She sketched a slight smile, a flash of real pride crossing the crimson of her eyes. Slowly, she reached out and touched Indra's forehead with two fingers, a gesture of affection that contrasted with the carnage around them.
"Rest a little now," she said, her tone soft and welcoming. "The day is just beginning and we still have much to do, but for now... you deserve this rest."
At the moment of her touch, a wave of calm began to fight against the inferno of agony consuming Indra's body, as the familiar darkness of necessary sleep began to pull him away from the obsidian floor.
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Watching the youth fall asleep over the viscous puddle of his own blood, Kushina's slight smile vanished instantly, replaced by a face of pure ice. The sanctuary seemed to cool along with her gaze.
"Blackie." The name came out as a death command, dry and authoritative.
Immediately, Black Zetsu, who had remained motionless in absolute silence since the beginning, rose from his kneeling position. With his head bowed in a sign of total submission, he approached the Matriarch. Knowing the will of his mistress without her needing to utter another single word, the creature extended its arm toward Indra's inert body.
What followed was a demonstration of dark biological alchemy. Black Zetsu's arm unraveled, transforming into tentacles of a dark, dense matter that penetrated the open wound of Indra's thigh. As if divine—or demonic—hands were weaving reality, the leg began to be reconstructed.
It was a miraculous process: muscle fibers intertwined like silk threads, nerves were reconnected with almost inaudible electric snaps, and bone was molded from the creature's own essence. Slowly, but with terrifying perfection, Indra's leg was remade, returning his physical integrity to him as if the brutal blow had never existed.
As Blackie finished his task, a movement in Kushina's shadows caught her attention. From the darkness projected by the Matriarch's feet, another White Zetsu emerged. He was completely intact, his pale skin without a single mark of combat, as if the previous battle had been only a dream. However, the body decapitated by Indra still lay a few meters away, rotting upon the obsidian—a silent reminder of the infinite multiplication capacity of those aberrations.
Kushina did not ask why he appeared, nor how. She only demanded an answer with her gaze.
"It was what my lady desired deep down, wasn't it?" the White replied, with his habitual voice, slightly sibilant and devoid of any fear or remorse.
The answer, however, did not please the Matriarch. The instant the words left the creature's mouth, an impact of overwhelming magnitude cut through the sanctuary air. Unlike any strike Indra had seen from the Matriarch, this movement did not just hit the target; it rewrote the location.
Kushina simply delivered a casual wave, a hand movement as light and disinterested as someone swatting an annoying fly.
The result was devastating, as if the space around her hand seemed to collapse under the weight of her will.
There was a dry thud and, in the blink of an eye, the White Zetsu simply disappeared. He was not thrown away; he was obliterated. Unlike the Zetsu's attacks that did not mark the ground, Kushina's blow left a trail of physical destruction on the obsidian field, a deep scar that proved this woman's strength transcended the limits of that place. Where the White had stood, only a vacuum and silence remained.
She did not even look at the site of destruction. She turned her eyes back to Indra, who was beginning to breathe more rhythmically, oblivious to the absurd power just demonstrated over his head.
But as if mocking his own annihilation, a new White Zetsu emerged from the ground a few meters away, letting out a shrill giggle that echoed through the obsidian walls. He showed no fear, only a morbid curiosity as he observed the crater Kushina had just opened in the sacred soil.
"Now, my lady... what is all this for?" the White provoked, tilting his head bizarrely. "Deep down, we know my lady wanted exactly that. You wanted him to prove what he's made of, didn't you? You wanted to see if your precious Indra had the stomach to tear himself apart."
Kushina did not respond immediately. Her gaze remained fixed on Indra's serene face, now breathing without difficulty. The Zetsu touched upon an uncomfortable truth: behind the facade of care and the gestures of maternal affection she gave the youth, a much more sordid and hungry will was hidden.
Her "love" was a forge; she would love him with such intensity that, for that very reason, she would destroy him and rebuild him as something superior. Yet, seeing him falter, something ancient and visceral stirred in her chest—the irrational desire to keep him whole, safe, far from the pain she herself demanded. For a brief moment, she almost yielded.
Kushina contained the impulse with difficulty. The need to see him transcend burned deeper than any affection, even while the instinct to protect him fought, silent, against the cruelty she called love.
She withheld the gesture. Pain was necessary. Even so, she looked away for an instant, as if unable to bear watching the price she demanded of him.
the Zetsu's audacious mention irritated her precisely because it exposed this weakness. She did not need a tool to verbalize the conflict raging in her heart.
Ignoring the aberration, Kushina leaned down and took the bloodied youth in her arms, carrying him so that Indra's head rested upon her shoulder, holding him like a giant baby. The contrast was stark: the stoic imposition of the saint holding the aspirant's still-fragile body. As if the world around recognized the Matriarch's sovereign will, all the blood staining Indra's skin and soaking the obsidian floor was suddenly drained and removed, vanishing into the soil as if it had never existed.
Now, only Indra's damaged and torn clothes remained, revealing impeccable skin underneath; all the injuries and the lost leg had been reconstructed by Blackie's dark matter. In a demonstration of genuine affection that completely softened her features, Kushina placed a tender kiss on Indra's forehead.
"The next combat sessions will be controlled," she declared to the Zetsus, her voice recovering a calm authority. "I will not allow this to happen again. He has already proven what he needed."
With the youth asleep in her arms, she turned her back on the battlefield. The obsidian ground, which moments before had been marked by the devastating impact of her blow, was already beginning to regenerate, erasing the traces of the saint's fury. Kushina walked out of the training field, carrying Indra with a lightness that belied the gravity of the situation they had just lived through. He had survived the baptism of blood, and she would ensure that, next time, he would be ready to destroy without needing to break himself.
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Indra was submerged in a comfort that seemed unreal. His head rested on something soft and firm at the same time, and the aroma enveloping him was an inebriating mix of sandalwood and wild flowers, something that disarmed any instinct of defense. Opening his eyes slowly, the first thing he saw were two white eyes, pure and deep, observing him with indescribable tenderness.
He was no longer in the cold obsidian field. Indra realized his head was resting on Kushina's lap, who remained seated in a posture of serene elegance.
They were in a large study room, a place of ancestral mysticism that seemed to be the origin point of everything he knew. The environment was constructed entirely of a dark wood so dense it seemed to shine under the light of the lanterns. The floor, covered by perfectly fitted straw mats, exhaled a freshness that calmed the senses and muffled any mundane noise.
The walls were composed of translucent paper panels that filtered an eternal light, transforming it into a soft, amber glow that rested on shelves carved directly into the room's structure. The bookcases were filled with books and scrolls, each more singular than the last: some displayed organic textures and monstrous features, with covers that seemed to breathe, protected by seals that had never been broken by common hands.
It was a space of absolute silence and divine order, where time did not seem to flow the same way as in the outside world. In the main niche, in a position of honor, a minimalist painting of a nine-tailed fox under the red moonlight stood out on the wall; the work seemed to pulse slightly, emanating the same cyan energy that ran through the sanctuary's veins, as if the image were alive and watching every movement in the room.
Still with the youth lying in her lap, Kushina slid her fingers through Indra's hair, a gesture of affection that seemed to seal the cracks the fight had left in his spirit.
"Good morning, 'princess'!" she exclaimed in an animated and exaggerated tone, letting out a small nasal laugh. "Did you sleep well during your beauty sleep, or do you want me to sing a lullaby too, huh?"
She gave a light, playful tap to his cheek, without any trace of that deadly seriousness she had in the training field.
"You were right here drooling on my lap as if you hadn't just lost a leg. How shameful, Indra!" She laughed, poking his nose. "Let's get up, you've slept long enough, we have things to do now!"
Indra felt his face heat up instantly. The shame of being caught in that state of vulnerability—and worse, of having rested so deeply in her lap—made him stand up in a quick, though still somewhat clumsy, movement. He tried to recompose himself, wiping the corner of his mouth while avoiding Kushina's mocking gaze, as she seemed to enjoy every second of his embarrassment.
"Enough laziness," she said, rising with divine lightness and gesturing for him to follow her.
They left the original study room, walking through corridors that seemed like labyrinths of knowledge.
As they walked through the corridors of that monumental library, Indra observed the shelves stretching as far as the eye could see, loaded with scrolls and books that seemed to hold the weight of eras. At the end of this labyrinth of knowledge, he saw an exit through which an intense light poured—the first real light he had seen since that nightmare began.
Upon crossing the threshold and leaving the sanctuary's interior, three sensations hit him in sequence, like a rebirth: the first was the pure air, invading his lungs with a freshness that cleansed the trace of blood and obsidian; the second was the sun's brightness, a golden warmth that made his eyes sting slightly; and the third was the dreamlike landscape that opened before him.
The setting was a sanctuary of peace. Groves of colossal bamboo rose like green pillars, while streams meandered through the terrain, displaying Koi fish in black, white, and red. And in the center of this harmony, there was a resting structure made of polished black mineral, designed to fuse comfort and integration with the environment. Under its shadow, there was a relatively large black stone table; on the floor were comfortable-looking cushions, and in front sat fine jade tableware. However, what truly paralyzed Indra were the flowers adorning the banks.
They were flowers of hypnotic and cruel beauty, with long, thin, twisted petals that opened like graceful fingers toward the sky. Their tone was a deep and vibrant crimson, as if they had blossomed from blood—a hue identical to Kushina's hair. They sprouted directly from the cracks in the black mineral of the structure and all around it.
Indra approached one of them, fascinated.
"They are extremely beautiful..." he whispered, still absorbed. He glanced at Kushina, who was watching him in silence. "They are just like you. Even the color... it reminds me exactly of your hair."
Kushina, seeing him static before the life pulsing there, smiled thinly. The sincere compliment and the comparison seemed to have softened any remnant of previous severity. She walked toward the resting structure made of black mineral and sat at the polished stone table, where the fine tableware and mystical artifacts already waited.
"They are known for blooming on the exact boundary between life and death," she replied, her voice light and calm, accompanying the soft rhythm of the water. "Sit down, Indra. You have already seen what our blood does when it overflows in fury, but now, under this light and in this weather, I am going to teach you everything that is necessary and even a bit more. After all, knowledge is also power, and I will ensure that you have it."
The atmosphere was one of a strange and comfortable familiarity. Kushina settled on her knees upon the straw mat with enviable naturalness and, with a complicit look, signaled for Indra to do the same. He obeyed, sitting in front of her, feeling the bamboo grove's breeze refresh his face as he prepared for the first real lesson of his life.
But the peace was broken by an abrupt and noisy movement.
"I-haaa! What a warm welcome!" The shrill and mocking voice surfaced suddenly.
From the shadows of one of the black mineral pillars, White Zetsu jumped out carrying a set of tea and snacks, bearing his usual excitement, making a racket that nearly made Indra jump. The youth froze, his eyes on the creature he was certain he had decapitated. The Zetsu, acting as if nothing had happened, approached the table skipping, placing the set upon it and leaning over Indra with that bizarre smile.
"Hey there, big guy! How's the new leg?" he asked, laughing. "That was a great fight, huh! You almost caught me for a second!"
Indra felt his hand tremble with the impulse to attack, but confusion spoke louder.
"How... I ripped your head off. I saw you die!" Indra exclaimed, his voice loaded with incredulity.
The Zetsu let out a laugh as he began to serve the tea with quick and clumsy movements.
"Oh, that? That was just 'one' of me that died, no big deal!" He shrugged, as if talking about changing clothes. "There's plenty more where that one came from!"
Kushina let out a giggle, finding humor in the youth's mental confusion, and took the cup the Zetsu had just filled.
"Don't waste your nerves on him, Indra," she explained, blowing on the tea. "What you faced was just a cell of an army of them. He can multiply infinitely. If you kill one, ten will appear on the spot; they're like cockroaches."
She looked at the Zetsu, who gave an exaggerated bow before moving back a little, remaining nearby like a noisy servant.
"Now that the scare with this worm has passed, pay attention Indra," Kushina resumed, adopting an animated and encouraging tone, but without losing focus. "You must have wondered, deep down, what the Uchiha really are, haven't you? What defines this blood you carry?" She smiled, watching the tea's vapor. "And perhaps you wonder why I expect so much from you. It's simple, Indra: you inherited something that was destined to end, something forgotten that failed to continue, but now pulses within you. I want you to understand every drop of this blood so that it is your tool, and not your master."
She leaned in slightly, keeping the conversation light, hiding any deeper intention under a layer of maternal care. To Indra, it seemed only that she wished for him to be the perfect successor to an ancient legacy.
"The story of the Uchiha's origin is not a beautiful and bright fairy tale, Indra. Do not expect heroes in armor or acts of pure kindness," she began, and her voice, though still calm, gained a cutting seriousness. "On the contrary. Our root is divine, but this fruit grew in soil soaked in blood, marked by chaos and madness."
Kushina spun the teacup between her fingers, her white eyes fixed on the crimson liquid, as if she were seeing the past reflected there.