Chapter 36: My Divine Might Cannot Hide My Tears

You taught me how to treat others gently, but you never showed me how to be cruel, Rin. Now, all the cruelty I possess is self-taught.

Obito, hidden beneath his mask, murmured to himself. As expected, I am an irredeemable scoundrel. I couldn't protect you, nor anyone else—not even my own clan.

The streetlight glowed dimly, the only source of illumination on this blood-soaked path, but soon it would vanish completely. With a crash, the streetlight shattered, plunging the entire street into darkness. Obito, cloaked in black, was all but inseparable from the shadows.

In the flickering dance of blades, his silhouette flashed relentlessly. When Obito's movements finally stilled, the long sword stopped. Over a dozen Uchiha shinobi lay lifeless in pools of blood, silent forever.

Even though he faced his own clan—even though many of the fallen were familiar faces—there was no warmth in Obito's eyes. Every strike claimed a life. Through his eye socket, the Sharingan glowed with a sinister crimson, mocking the impotence of the Uchiha clan.

Gazing at the bodies strewn across the ground, Obito remembered the day he had seen Rin die. The torrential rain had washed away her final warmth, and with it, Obito’s last sliver of hope for this world.

In that moment, Obito had to admit that the old man Madara was right. This world is diseased—a place where gentle souls like Rin can never survive.

“I will create a world with you in it, Rin!”

All that remained in Obito’s heart was his thirst for power and the Infinite Tsukuyomi. He wanted everyone to live in an illusion, including himself. Of course, he knew the Rin in the illusion would be false, but was the Rin lying in a pool of blood any more real? He didn’t wish to shatter his own fantasy, lest his beautiful dream turn into a nightmare.

“Only two left, then my work is done.”

Obito whispered, sword in hand, heading in a certain direction.

“This is bad! Run!”

Itachi, hiding in the shadows, saw Obito speeding toward them like a flickering phantom and was struck with horror. He immediately rose, hoisting Sasuke onto his back and fled.

He knew carrying Sasuke would slow him down, but had no other choice. Sasuke’s psyche had collapsed, his limbs utterly powerless. It was only natural.

For a child not yet seven years old, the scene was far too brutal. Last autumn, Sasuke had just entered the ninja academy. He had never been to the battlefield, never witnessed death up close. Suddenly seeing his clansmen—those he’d lived alongside—fall one by one; suddenly seeing the earth stained by the blood of hundreds, lives snuffed out amidst the pungent scent of blood at the hands of the enemy—Sasuke could not remain indifferent.

This was a one-sided massacre—a nightmare no Uchiha could escape. Even Itachi, who had claimed many lives before, was now chilled to the bone. He knew that, having only just awakened the Mangekyō Sharingan, he likely wasn’t a match for this man. All he could do was escape, taking Sasuke with him. All he could do was pray his speed was enough, pray that Naruto would notice the anomaly in the village and come to their rescue.

At least... at least save Sasuke!

At that moment, the space before Itachi twisted.

A figure wearing a single-eyed mask appeared abruptly before him, blocking his path.

“Oh, so it’s you, Fugaku’s son, Itachi.”

Obito, striving to imitate Madara’s deep voice, pointed his sword at Itachi and said,

“I’ve heard you’re a genius, a member of the Hokage’s personal Anbu. I’d like to see what kind of talent you really possess...”

Sasuke, having recovered slightly from the shock, caught sight of the masked figure from his nightmares. He pointed at him, trembling, and stammered,

“Madara! Uchiha Madara! He…”

“Sasuke, that’s not Madara.”

Itachi cut off Sasuke’s rambling, saying,

“He’s nothing but a coward hiding behind a mask. Madara, proud as he was, would never behave like him.”

“Oh? Is that what you believe?”

Obito asked with amusement. “And what makes you say so?”

“If I’m not mistaken, that technique for hiding yourself—it should be the ocular jutsu granted by your Mangekyō Sharingan, right?”

Itachi analyzed calmly, “The Mangekyō Sharingan’s abilities manifest one’s deepest desires. Your jutsu lets you avoid being struck by others, which means your heart’s strongest yearning is for a place to hide and lick your wounds. Madara was a man who would fight to the death rather than retreat—how could someone with a desire for solitude awaken such a jutsu?”

Itachi didn’t mention his own abilities, for he knew himself well. He had indeed awakened a jutsu that matched his innermost wish. Shisui, truth be told, was a man with strong controlling instincts; he wanted everyone around him to coexist harmoniously as he wished. Thus, Shisui’s jutsu was Kotoamatsukami, able to control others without their awareness.

Obito clapped softly,

“A brilliant analysis. Since you speak so confidently, you must already possess the Mangekyō Sharingan, yes? Let me guess—what is your jutsu? Is it a powerful illusion? I can see how much you treasure your brother, striving to give him a safe environment to grow up in. But you know, in the unpeaceful shinobi world, such safety is an illusion. In other words, you’re deceiving your brother, aren’t you?”

Obito’s words made Itachi pause.

Obito knew he’d struck true.

“At the same time, you’re also working hard to play the role others want to see. You want to deceive everyone, don’t you? Deep down, you hide a savage urge for destruction—a wish to obliterate everything. I’d wager that, besides your powerful genjutsu, you also possess a destructive ocular jutsu.

So, am I right?”

Itachi did not know what to say; his mind was in turmoil.

To him, the battles between shinobi were battles of information. Losing the informational advantage was almost equivalent to defeat. Originally, his analysis of Obito’s jutsu was a ploy to muddle Obito’s mind, hoping to provoke a slip. Now, Obito had turned the tables, using the same tactic against him, putting them back at square one.

The prospects for this fight were grim.

“Isn’t it exhausting, living like this? Isn’t it painful?”

Obito raised his ninjato high.

“Let me free you, starting with your greatest burden.”

With those words, Obito’s blade swung toward Sasuke on Itachi’s shoulder.

Itachi, carrying Sasuke, struggled to dodge the blow.

Obito’s swordplay was eerily uncanny—like a disease clinging to the bone, it shadowed every move, always threatening to strike from an unexpected angle. Even Itachi, with his battle-honed reflexes, found it hard to keep up.

At the moment Sasuke was about to be struck, Itachi hurled him away, narrowly evading the attack.

“You’ve finally come around.”

Obito prepared to finish Sasuke once and for all, but just then, strange black flames ignited upon his sword.

A powerful sense of danger crawled up Obito’s nerves; he quickly discarded the ninjato. In the next instant, the sword was consumed, leaving not even ashes behind.

“Don’t you dare attack my brother, you scoundrel!”

Itachi declared. In his pupils, three spinning pinwheels whirled at high speed.