When Evan Kamiyo stepped back into the classroom, the atmosphere shifted. The usual background noise of shuffling papers and whispered jokes spiked for a fleeting second—a reaction to his earlier dismissal—before settling into an uneasy quiet.
At the front of the room, Sasuke Uchiha sat like a statue carved from cold marble. His posture was perfectly straight, his gaze fixed on the chalkboard, though his eyes seemed to be looking through it rather than at it. A few students lingered in his orbit, drawn by the gravity of his clan's reputation, but Sasuke ignored them.
Evan felt no irritation watching the scene. Instead, a distant, inexplicable heaviness settled in his gut. He looked at the back of Sasuke's head and realized that some people were born under bright, guiding constellations, while others were born beneath shadows that were simply waiting for the sun to set.
If fate was a tangible thread, then Sasuke was currently walking a path that led straight into a night soaked in iron and salt. Whether the boy knew it or not, the world he understood was about to be burned to the ground.
Before Evan could dwell on the thought, the crowd of students dispersed. Sasuke hadn't uttered a single syllable. He never needed to; his silence was a wall that no one in the Academy was strong enough to climb yet.
The Sudden Shift
The afternoon dragged on with a strange, sluggish energy. However, after the final theory lesson concluded, Iruka-sensei didn't dismiss the class. He stepped back to the podium, his face tighter than usual, and cleared his throat.
"Listen up," Iruka announced, his voice echoing slightly. "We are making an adjustment to the schedule. We will begin shuriken and kunai throwing practice today."
Murmurs of shock and excitement rippled through the desks instantly. For first-year students, the Academy curriculum was famously rigid, focusing almost entirely on the dry fundamentals: chakra refinement exercises, history, and physical conditioning. Actual weapons were traditionally introduced much later.
This acceleration meant only one thing to those who could read between the lines: the village was in a hurry. The leadership wanted these children to become "tools" faster than originally planned.
On the walk to the training grounds, Shikamaru Nara fell into step beside Evan. He didn't look over, keeping his hands deep in his pockets, but his voice was barely above a whisper.
"Something feels off, Evan. The air... it feels like it's being squeezed."
Evan didn't answer immediately. He watched the ANBU guards standing atop the perimeter walls—more of them than he had seen yesterday. "I was thinking the same thing, Shikamaru."
They had been classmates long enough to recognize the subtle patterns of the village. Iruka's unusual tension, the rushed lessons, the way the Jonin were moving with purpose. The village was holding its breath, waiting for a heart to stop beating.
"Stay sharp," Shikamaru added, his lazy demeanor momentarily replaced by a flicker of genuine Nara caution. "Train like nothing is happening. But be ready if it does. Troublesome times are coming."
The Night of Crimson
That night, the moon hung over Konoha like a blind, white eye. Sasuke Uchiha did not return home with the other students; he had stayed late to perfect his form, driven by a need to impress a brother who was already moving through the dark.
Inside the Uchiha compound, the usual warmth of the evening fires was absent. Torches burned low, flickering against the walls of ancestral homes. Shadows stretched unnaturally long across stone paths that were suddenly, horrifyingly soaked in silence.
Then, the silence broke—not with a roar, but with the wet sound of steel meeting flesh. Blood began to reflect the moonlight, pooling in the grooves of the wooden porches. Bodies lay scattered like fallen leaves beneath a sky that seemed to turn a bruised, sickly crimson.
At the center of the carnage stood a masked man, his presence warped and suffocating, like a hole in the universe. Beside him, Itachi Uchiha moved like a phantom. His expression was a mask of cold glass, his eyes spinning with a power that defied nature, his hands stained a deep, permanent red.
The massacre ended without the sound of a great battle. It was a surgical removal. A clan of legends was erased in the span of a few hours. When the blade finally stilled, only two remained within the bloodline: the murderer and the survivor.
By the time the first rays of dawn touched the Hokage Rock, the Uchiha clan had ceased to exist as a living entity. It was now a ghost story.
The Empty Desk
The next morning, the Academy was unnervingly quiet. Sasuke's desk was empty. Iruka stood at the front of the room, his eyes bloodshot, looking as though he hadn't slept a wink.
"Sasuke-kun is... unwell," Iruka said, his voice cracking slightly. "He will be taking an extended leave for rest. Please respect his privacy."
No further explanation was offered, but rumors in a ninja village spread faster than a forest fire. By noon, the sanitized version of the truth had leaked into the corridors. The Uchiha clan had been annihilated. The "Genius Clan" was gone.
Evan listened in silence as whispers filled the halls. He heard fear in the voices of the civilian kids, shock from the clan heirs, and a chilling disbelief from the teachers.
From that moment onward, the fundamental structure of the class shifted. Sasuke was no longer the gifted child of a prestigious family. He was a survivor. He was an avenger. And though the village tried to move on, Konoha had lost one of its primary pillars.
Evan felt no surprise, only a grim confirmation of his theories. Power without restraint, and politics without empathy, always demanded blood as its final payment. The "Gears of Destiny" had turned, and they had crushed everything in their path.
The New Reality
That evening, the ANBU presence around the village doubled. The rooftops gained silent watchers with porcelain masks. Patrol routes were altered to cover the now-vacant Uchiha district. The village looked stable to the outside world, but it was a fragile peace held together by tension.
In the dark rooms of the administration building, the elders would argue about responsibility. Some would whisper Danzo's name with loathing; others would invoke the harsh legacy of Tobirama Senju to justify the blood.
But Evan knew the truth was much simpler and much more tragic. The system had allowed a rot to grow unchecked, fueled by pride and paranoia. And rot never disappears on its own; it eventually consumes the host.
Days turned into weeks. When Sasuke finally returned to the Academy, he was a different person. The coldness he had displayed before was now a sharp, jagged ice that threatened to cut anyone who came near.
Evan did not approach him. He knew there was no bridge to cross—only a vast, bloody distance to respect. Sasuke wanted no sympathy, and Evan had none to give that wouldn't feel like an insult.
Naruto, driven by a confused sense of empathy, challenged Sasuke constantly. He lost every time, hitting the dirt again and again. The cycle of their rivalry became the only thing that felt "normal" in the classroom.
Evan stayed out of the spotlight. He trained harder in secret. He observed the way the villagers looked at Sasuke—with a mixture of guilt and fear. He waited.
Because history wasn't finished with the Leaf. The blood moon had only risen once, and Evan Kamiyo knew that the night was still very, very long.