The Naka River's banks were cloaked in a pre-dawn mist, the air heavy with the scent of wet earth and iron. Akira knelt beside Kenta's body, his cousin's lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky, the gash across his throat a stark red against pale skin. His two-tomoe Sharingan burned, scanning the grove for signs of the killer, but the forest was silent, the only sound the river's soft murmur. Nine weeks remained until the Uchiha Massacre, and Kenta's death was a crack in Akira's plans, a wound that bled doubt and fear. The visions of the *Naruto* series had shown him the clan's doom, but not this, not Kenta, his pawn, his family, dead in the grass like a discarded tool.
His hands trembled as he closed Kenta's eyes, the weight of his actions pressing against his chest. He'd pushed Kenta, fed his paranoia with *Illusory Whisper*, driven him to confront Fugaku, to fracture the clan. The blood on his hands, Root operatives, the masked figure with Madara's Sharingan, was a necessity, a cruelty born of survival, but Kenta's death was different. It was personal, a failure that cut deeper than any blade. Had Root done this? Itachi, protecting his secrets? Or the masked figure, the one with the eye that shouldn't exist? Akira's wound from that fight throbbed, a dull ache under his blood-soaked tunic, a reminder of his limits.
He stood, wiping his kunai clean, his mind racing. Kenta's death would ripple through the clan, fueling the paranoia he'd sown, but it also tightened the noose around his neck. Itachi knew too much, Sasuke's fear, the girl with the scroll, the blood on Akira's hands. The visions had shown Itachi's pain, his loyalty to Sasuke, but also his ruthlessness, his blade that would carve the clan's end. Akira had dodged him last night, but the crows still watched, their cries a constant warning. He buried Kenta's body in the riverbank, covering it with earth and leaves, no trace left. Enemies deserved no mercy, but Kenta wasn't an enemy, just a tool, broken by Akira's own hand.
---
The Uchiha compound was a storm of whispers as Akira returned, the morning rain a steady patter that stung his wound. He slipped through the streets, his *Veil of Shadows* flickering to mask his presence, his Sharingan scanning for Itachi's crows. The clan was unraveling, Kenta's accusations now a blaze, the elders' meeting yesterday a spark that could ignite everything. Fugaku's hesitation, Shisui's doubt, Sasuke's fear, they were all threads in Akira's web, but Kenta's death was a tear, threatening to unravel it all. Danzō's Root was closing in, their spies carrying Uchiha secrets, and the masked figure's words, "You can't change fate", echoed like a curse.
At home, Hana's concern was a blade in his chest. "Akira, you're bleeding again," she said, her voice tight, her hands hovering over his bandage. "This isn't just a scratch, don't lie to me. You're out every night, coming back hurt, pale as a ghost. I'm your mother, I know something's wrong. Please, tell me what's happening, I can't keep watching you like this."
Akira pulled away, his smile forced, brittle. "I'm okay, Kaa-san, really. Just pushed too hard training, got careless with a kunai. I'll take it easy, I promise, so don't worry." The lie burned, a poison he couldn't spit out. He wanted to tell her about Kenta, the masked figure, Sasuke's terrified eyes, but the truth would shatter her. He could only protect her with silence, with the blood he'd spilled to keep the clan alive.
Taro's gaze was sharp, his voice gruff. "The clan's a mess, Akira. Kenta's missing now, didn't show up for training. People are saying he went too far, accusing Fugaku of working with Danzō. The elders are furious, calling for a hunt to find him. You were close to him, weren't you? If you know where he is, you'd better speak up, or this'll get worse for everyone."
Akira's heart raced, but he kept his expression neutral. "I haven't seen him, Tou-san. He was acting strange, talking about spies, but I thought he was just stressed. I don't know where he'd go." He took a sip of tea, his mind spinning. Kenta's absence would be noticed soon, his death a bomb waiting to explode. Akira needed to redirect the clan's anger, point it at Danzō, but Itachi's suspicion and the masked figure's threat loomed large. He was running out of moves.
After breakfast, he headed to the training grounds, his wound aching but his resolve firm. The grounds were tense, Uchiha sparring with sharp movements, their Sharingan flashing like embers. Shisui was there, his eyes distant, his posture guarded. Akira approached, his voice low, careful. "Shisui-nii, you heard about Kenta? He's gone, and people are whispering he was right about spies. I'm worried the clan's turning on itself, and I don't know what to do. You're close to Fugaku, any idea what's happening?"
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Shisui's gaze sharpened, his Sharingan flickering. "Kenta's caused enough trouble, Akira, and now he's vanished? It's bad timing, I'll give you that. The elders are scared, thinking someone's leaking secrets to Danzō. I'm trying to keep things calm, but it's like holding back a storm. You're always around, listening, watching, don't tell me you haven't heard something. If you know where Kenta is, speak up, or this'll tear us apart."
Akira shook his head, his expression earnest. "I swear, I don't know where he is. I saw someone near the shrine last night, not Uchiha, carrying one of our scrolls. I tried to stop them, got hurt for it. Root's out there, Shisui-nii, and I'm scared they're moving faster than we are." He wove an *Illusory Whisper*, threading a suggestion: *Danzō's the real threat, not Kenta.* It was a subtle push, urging Shisui to focus outward, to delay the clan's collapse.
Shisui's jaw tightened, his eyes searching Akira's face. "You're too young to be mixed up in this, but you keep showing up where you shouldn't. I'll look into Root, but you stay out of it, Akira. This isn't a game." He turned away, his words a warning, but the suggestion had taken root. Akira watched him go, his heart heavy. Shisui was a key to saving the clan, but his loyalty to Itachi made him a risk.
---
That afternoon, Akira returned to the Naka River grove, the pain in his side a constant reminder of his failures. He spread the stolen scrolls, his eyes lingering on the *Genjutsu: Mind's Fracture*. Its cruelty was a weapon he'd used to break enemies, their screams a necessity he didn't regret. Root, the masked figure, they deserved no mercy, their blood a price for his family's survival. But Kenta's death, Sasuke's fear, the girl's sobs, they were wounds that wouldn't heal, cracks in his resolve.
He practiced the *Veil of Shadows*, his chakra flowing smoother, his presence fading for seven minutes before it collapsed. Progress, but not enough. He turned to the *Mind's Fracture*, its hand signs complex, its chakra demands brutal. He wove them, his Sharingan guiding his movements, but the jutsu failed, his chakra faltering. He cursed, trying again, ignoring the pain, the blood seeping through his bandage.
The Mangekyō was his only hope against Itachi, against the masked figure. He wove a self-inflicted genjutsu, bracing for the pain. The world dissolved, the grove replaced by the compound in flames. His parents lay dead, Kenta's throat slit, Sasuke screaming. The masked figure stood over him, its Sharingan blazing: "You can't change fate." Akira screamed, his Sharingan spinning, his heart tearing. His vision blurred, tears streaming, but the Mangekyō didn't come. He collapsed, gasping, blood dripping from his side. "Why isn't it enough?" he whispered, his voice raw.
He stood, kunai in hand, ready to leave, but paused, his Sharingan scanning the grove. The silence was heavy, no rustle, no crows. Kenta's death was a shadow over him, a reminder of his limits. He'd killed without mercy, pushed Kenta to his doom, but the cost was mounting. Sasuke's fear, Itachi's suspicion, the masked figure's threat, they were closing in, tighter each day.
Akira returned to the compound, his steps heavy, his mind a storm. He sat by the koi pond in his family's garden, the water's surface calm, reflecting the fading light. Kenta was gone, his blood on Akira's conscience, if not his hands. He'd wanted to save the clan, to rewrite the visions, but each step took him further from the boy he'd been. The Mangekyō was out of reach, the massacre closer every day. He stared at his reflection, his Sharingan dull, his face pale. "I'm trying," he whispered, to no one, to himself. "I'm trying."
For the first time in weeks, he let himself breathe, the weight of his actions settling like ash. Tomorrow, he'd face the clan's anger, Itachi's eyes, the masked figure's shadow. But tonight, he sat, the pond's ripples his only answer.