Chapter 16 — The Uchiha Clan's "Love"
Fugaku's awkward, understated warmth never reached Itachi's heart.
For a shinobi whose techniques and tactics were already fully formed—who had the strength of a jōnin—an extra high-tier jutsu meant nothing like it did to Sasuke. It didn't excite him. It couldn't.
For someone like him, saturated with a single feverish ideal, any words spoken by those standing opposite him—those whose positions ran counter to his—felt cold and abstract, like lines of text on a page. So when Itachi spoke, his response was naturally cool.
"Thank you, Father."
"Also… there are things I would like to discuss with you in detail, if I may…"
He glanced at Fugaku, then at little Sasuke. Fugaku knew his eldest son well enough to see that the request was not idle. A man who had taken his four-year-old eldest into battle might be a poor father in some ways, but as clan head and captain of the Konoha Security Force, he was far from blind. If Itachi—usually reserved and stern—asked for a private talk, there had to be a serious matter behind it.
Fugaku's brief warmth cooled into the same measured gravity that he wore in public; he inclined his head and walked into the main room first. Itachi followed without another word.
Sasuke, still a child, watched them go with a puzzled frown. The pond had been singed to black; his motivation seemed less interesting now, but stubbornness won out and he began drilling the new seals again. Father and brother must think I'm weak because I can't do it yet… I'll make them look at me differently, he thought in earnest.
Inside the main room, father and son sat facing one another. When the time came to speak, Itachi—despite the clarity Sōsuke's counsel had given him—found the opening awkward. The conversation he'd had with Sōsuke had been short but incisive; two lines had burned into his mind:
"Decide seriously who you must kill."
"Carry out your choice relentlessly."
Those lines had cut through his confusion and illuminated a direction. He wanted to pass them on to the man who himself seemed caught between hesitation and duty.
"Is this about the intelligence from the Third?" Fugaku asked, observing the long silence from his son.
"No." Itachi inhaled slowly. When he looked up, his gaze was steadier than it had ever been. The voice that followed was calm and resolute.
"I want to ask you something."
"If this coup fails—would you have intended to take your own life?"
Fugaku's pupils tightened. He stared at his son's serious face for a long moment, then let out a slow breath.
"You've seen the sequence of events surrounding Sakumo Hatake's case," he said quietly.
Itachi nodded with the memory of that scandal still fresh between them. There had been little father-son exchange in recent years, so both recollected that episode sharply. Fugaku neither confirmed nor denied outright; instead he asked back, as a test:
"If it were you, Itachi, would you understand me?"
As clan head and captain of the Security Force, Fugaku knew the balance of power all too well. From his vantage, the gap between Konoha's central authority and the Uchiha—even though the Uchiha's Sharingan made them fearsome—was vast. The "coup" the clan fantasized about had never had a realistic chance of success. He was, at best, a leader dragged forward by the current—afraid to directly defy both Konoha and his own people. He had no illusions of victory.
Itachi bowed his head and spoke in a tone that left no room for doubt.
"Father, please abandon this road."
"For the sake of both Konoha and the Uchiha's survival."
Though he knelt as if in submission, his voice was firmer than it had ever been.
"The ones planning insurrection are, frankly, only a small group," he said. "The majority of the clan is being swept by public opinion right now—you know whose voices foment that opinion."
"If that is the case, remove the enemy," Itachi continued. "Whether inside or outside the clan."
"I can persuade Root to act. I can persuade Shisui to join me. We could eliminate those fools who would force the clan into rebellion in a single night. With such an achievement, even to protect the Uchiha's fragile status quo, the Third would not allow that line of attack to continue."
"If that fails, I will—alone—assassinate the man driving this propaganda. The blame will fall on those few conspirators and on me. For Konoha's sake, and for the clan's."
"A sacrifice of a small part of us is enough."
Choose your enemy seriously. Execute your choice without hesitation.
Those two maxims steadied Itachi's voice and brightened his face. The suffocating pressure between clan and village that had hemmed him in all this time loosened; a faint smile—calculated, almost peaceful—touched his features. He thought he understood the Third.
*—*
Just as Itachi understood the Third Hokage—
the Third understood him.
Even if only for the sake of maintaining his image as Konoha's moral pillar, after losing his "white gloves" (Root's expendable secrecy), the Third could never order the annihilation of the Uchiha once their "dangerous elements" were purged.
Once that was done, the clan would no longer be at risk.
All it would take… was the sacrifice of a few.
Only a few of us need to die. That's enough.
It was a mission that demanded blood and life—and yet, the clarity of that logic filled Itachi with a strange exhilaration, even joy.
Until—
"Enough!"
The thunderous roar shattered his composure.
Itachi froze mid-sentence, stunned, and lifted his head.
Before him, Fugaku Uchiha—usually calm and impassive as a still pond—stood rigid, trembling with anger.
For the first time, Itachi saw rage blazing from his father's eyes—two Sharingan glowing a furious, bleeding red.
"That's your solution?!"
"Do you even realize who I am?"
"I am the head of the Uchiha clan!"
"And more than that—I am your father!"
"And you would have me… slaughter my own people with my own hands?!"
"Father!" Itachi's voice cracked as he tried to speak, to explain, to make him understand—
about his identity as a Konoha shinobi, about the heritage of their clan, about the dream of peace he still clung to.
All the words he wanted to say flooded his mind—
but under the fierce, pained gaze of those Sharingan, every syllable died in his throat.
The two of them sat there, eyes locked—
a father and son connected by eyes that could see the soul,
yet incapable of communicating heart to heart.
The silence in the tatami room deepened, cold and hollow.
Even the candlelight seemed to waver and shrink away.
Finally, Fugaku exhaled and raised a hand, dismissive but weary.
"Never speak of such things again."
"Just remember—Uchiha blood runs in your veins. That's enough."
"I have my own position to uphold."
"…"
Itachi stared at him for a long time.
The fire in his eyes slowly dimmed—
until only darkness remained.
Aizen Sōsuke's words, he now realized, were not entirely correct.
Because sometimes, there was no freedom to choose one's enemies.
After a long silence, Itachi bowed his head.
"…I understand."
He rose quietly and left the room.
Fugaku remained seated, his expression blank as he watched his son's back disappear beyond the paper doors.
Yes.
He had his own stance too.
As the head of the Uchiha clan.
As the father of Itachi and Sasuke.
To lose his brilliant, dutiful son to this madness—
that would be the true tragedy.
With Itachi's genius, his loyalty to the Hokage, his place among the elite—he would surely reach the same rank as Kakashi someday.
And Sasuke… would live under his brother's protection.
If that can be secured, Fugaku thought quietly,
then the clan… even my life… will all have been worth it.
A faint creak came from the sliding paper door.
Mikoto Uchiha stepped softly into the room, her face calm, the candlelight tracing her silhouette.
She had heard everything.
She sat beside her husband without a word.
When Fugaku finally looked up at her, she met his eyes and smiled gently, the same serene smile she always wore.
"I'll stay with you," she said simply.
A few words—unquestionable, absolute.
And once more, the room fell into silence.
Because the love of the Uchiha clan
had always been absolute—
and absolute love always demanded something in return:
sacrifice.