Chapter 113: The Burden of a Name
In the perfect, silent world of the Tsukuyomi, the recreated Uchiha compound felt more like a beautiful tomb. Ren watched his brother, seeing the storm of confusion and rage warring on his face.
"What I'm about to tell you will challenge everything you believe," Ren began, his voice losing its earlier mockery, becoming somber and direct. "So I suggest you prepare yourself."
"Just say it!" Sasuke snarled, his patience worn to a thread.
"I know, I know. But this isn't a simple story. It's long, and it involves layers of deception and duty. Rushing won't help you understand it." With a mere thought, a plush, dark leather sofa manifested behind Ren. He sank into it, the picture of calm contrast to Sasuke's vibrating tension.
Once seated, Ren's expression grew grave. "Sasuke. You've built your entire life on one idea: that Itachi is your enemy. That he is a monster to be slain. Correct?"
"Isn't he?!" Sasuke shot back, the name alone making his voice drip with venom.
"Did you ever consider that if it weren't for what Itachi did that night, neither of us would be breathing right now?" Ren's words were quiet, but they hit with the force of a physical blow. "He has been protecting us. From the very beginning."
The statement was so utterly contrary to Sasuke's reality that he could only stare in stunned disbelief. Then, a wave of furious denial crashed over him. "Impossible! Protect me? That's a lie! A sick joke! If you're just going to spout nonsense, I'll kill you where you stand!"
A cold, humorless smile touched Ren's lips. "What I'm telling you is the absolute truth. You think you know Itachi? You don't know the first thing about the burden he carried."
"Shut up! Don't say his name!" Sasuke roared, his composure shattering. He drew his chokutō in a flash of steel, lunging at Ren with pure, unadulterated hatred.
*He's still so predictable,* Ren thought with a flicker of disappointment. With a mere flick of his will, the wooden porch beneath Sasuke's feet erupted. Thick, powerful branches of wood—the very power of the First Hokage—shot up, wrapping around his arms, his legs, his torso, immobilizing him in an instant. The sword clattered to the ground.
"It seems you'd rather react than listen," Ren said, his voice cold. "So you'll stay there until you're calm enough to hear the whole story."
"That monster killed our parents! He slaughtered our clan! He became a missing-nin! A traitor! He deserves nothing but hatred! How could he possibly be protecting us?!" Sasuke struggled against his wooden bonds, his voice raw with a pain that was years old.
"He did kill the clan. He did become a missing-nin," Ren acknowledged, his tone flat and factual. "But he did it on orders. A mission, handed down to him by Konoha itself. *That* is the door to the truth you've been searching for."
The fight seemed to drain out of Sasuke. The revelation was so monumental, so contrary to his entire worldview, that it momentarily short-circuited his rage. "...A mission?" he whispered, the words foreign on his tongue.
"Yes. That night, Itachi made a choice. He sacrificed his name, his future, his very soul to complete that mission. It seems you're finally ready to listen." Ren leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "To understand Itachi, we have to go back. Back to the very founding of Konoha. Itachi... he was a sacrifice. A pawn in a game that started decades before we were born."
"A sacrifice..." Sasuke echoed, the word tasting like ash.
Ren nodded. "The roots of this lie go deep. Everything I tell you now is the unvarnished truth. Do you want to hear it?"
There was a long pause. Sasuke stopped straining against the wood. His head was bowed, his black hair hiding his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was low, defeated, but utterly serious. "...Continue."
"Over eighty years ago," Ren began, his voice taking on the cadence of a storyteller recounting a dark legend, "the world was not divided into hidden villages. It was the Warring States Period. Shinobi clans were mercenaries, hired by nations to fight their wars. Children were sent to battle. Families were wiped out for profit. Among the countless clans, two were feared above all others for their sheer power. Our clan, the Uchiha. And the Senju, led by Hashirama Senju."
He let the names hang in the air. "The Uchiha were renowned for our potent chakra and our unique ocular prowess—the Sharingan. We were a battle clan, through and through. And in that era, a singularly powerful ninja emerged from our ranks, a man whose name still echoes with power and fear: Uchiha Madara."
Sasuke's head lifted slightly at the name. "Uchiha... Madara?"
"Indeed. Madara possessed a chakra so powerful it was legendary. In an era where strength was the only currency that mattered, he was willing to do anything to obtain more of it. It is said... that he killed his closest friend to obtain the ultimate power: the Mangekyō Sharingan."
Sasuke recoiled as if struck. "He... killed his friend? For power?"
"That is the story," Ren said, his voice neutral. "It is the darkest potential of our bloodline. That we are a clan so consumed by power that we would sacrifice those closest to us for it. That we are a 'cursed' clan, destined for betrayal and bloodshed. This is the narrative that has been used against us for generations."
He saw the revulsion on Sasuke's face and, to his own surprise, felt a pang of sympathy. He remembered the weight of that revelation himself. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ novel(ꜰ)ire.net
"Damn it... Shut up!" Sasuke yelled, struggling again. "That's not—!"
"Just kidding," Ren interjected, his severe expression melting into a faint, almost apologetic smirk. He released the Wood Style bindings, letting them crumble into dust. "Itachi made that same disgusted face when he told me all this, spouting that same nonsense about a 'cursed clan.' I just wanted to see how you'd react. Consider it payback for him. You don't have to take that part to heart."
Sasuke stumbled forward, free, staring at his brother in utter bewilderment, the whiplash from profound horror to mundane teasing leaving him speechless and off-balance. The tense, dreadful atmosphere had been punctured, leaving behind a confused silence and the first, fragile thread of something other than hatred between them.
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