"For Obito in this world to have come this far... in the end, it was because the clan failed to hold him back all those years ago."
Uchiha Shisui stood on high ground, gazing at the gray horizon ahead, as though he could see something through the heavy clouds that no one else could.
His voice was soft, tinged with reminiscence and regret. He remembered Obito as a boy-the fool who was always late, always crying, always shouting that he would become Hokage. Whenever their squad assembled, he was always the last to arrive, scratching the back of his head with a silly grin and saying, "Aw, I saw an old lady who needed help on the way." Back then, Obito's eyes had been full of sunshine and dreams. Who could have imagined that hatred would later stain those eyes so deeply? Who could have imagined that the boy who could not bear to hurt even a cat would raise his blade against his own clansmen on the night of the massacre?
Itachi's steps faltered slightly.
His gaze fell to the ground ahead, watching his shadow stretch across the dry grass. Wind passed between them, stirring a faint rustle from the grass, as though it were sighing on behalf of those silent departed souls.
"He chose his own road."
"All we can do is keep him from dragging the entire Uchiha name into the abyss."
Uchiha Shisui did not answer immediately. He fell silent for a moment, then turned his head slightly to glance at Itachi. He noticed the hand gripping Itachi's sword hilt, the whitened knuckles, and the fleeting flicker deep within those Sharingan-a look he had come to know well. He had once asked Itachi, "Can you really kill Obito with your own hands? He was an elder