Night of the Clan Massacre (5)—Itachi

Footsteps.

Very light. They were almost inaudible against the wooden floorboards. But Shuo Ye heard them. The Mangekyō Sharingan had brought him more than just abilities—his five senses had been heightened. He could hear blood sliding from a blade. He could smell the thicker stench of blood in the air outside. He could sense that person's chakra—cold, quiet, like a blizzard being held down.

He did not look up. His forehead was still pressed to the floor. His fists clenched tight, his nails digging into his palms. His nails were not long—not yet long enough to need trimming—but he had clenched hard enough to break the skin of his palms.

The footsteps stopped at the doorway.

Shuo Ye raised his head.

Uchiha Itachi stood in the doorway. A thirteen-year-old boy. The standard ANBU vest, black skintight clothes. Blood still dripped from the blade in his right hand. It fell from the tip onto the floor, drop by drop. There was no expression on his face. No anger, no grief, no excitement. Just no expression.

But behind him—where he stood, Shuo Ye could see the end of the hallway—and two bodies lay there. Shuo Ye had not looked closely when he passed by earlier. Now he saw clearly. Grandpa and Grandma Nakajima from next door. Seventy-five years old. Just a few days ago, they had brought Shuo Ye dried persimmons.

Itachi looked at Shuo Ye.

Not as if looking at a survivor. Not as if looking at an enemy. He simply looked. His gaze passed over Shuo Ye's face and landed on the two bodies behind him—Takuma and Shizuka. His eyes did not linger. Not even for a second.

Then his gaze returned to Shuo Ye's eyes.

Sharingan against Mangekyō Sharingan.

Three steps separated them. Between them lay the petals scattered by his mother.

Shuo Ye moved.

What could a seven-year-old child do by lunging from this distance?

He did not know himself. Before his body moved, his mind had issued no command. The Mangekyō Sharingan burned—his left eye felt hot, his right eye felt scorching—and the chakra in his blood boiled.

He formed a hand seal in midair. He had played at this gesture in his previous life. He had practiced it in this life too. Rat—Horse—Monkey—the opening seal for Fire Release. He poured all his chakra into it.

"Fire Release—"

He did not know any Fire Release techniques. He was seven. He had practiced the Great Fireball, but had yet to succeed. He did not know what this seal would unleash.

Itachi did not move.

Flames transformed from chakra surged up Shuo Ye's throat. His mouth was full of burning pain. He was about to spit them out—

A hand pressed against the crown of his head.

Not a pat. A press. The force was precise, just enough to tip his head back and deflect the flames about to erupt upward. Fire burst from between his lips, grazing Itachi's left shoulder and burning through the ceiling boards. Wood chips and sparks rained down.

Itachi's other hand gripped Shuo Ye's jaw. His thumb pressed against Shuo Ye's windpipe. He did not apply force. He merely made it impossible for Shuo Ye to breathe.

Shuo Ye's chakra scattered. His mouth still burned. He glared at Itachi. The Mangekyō Sharingan spun wildly—the three arcs in his left eye contracting, the flames in his right eye flickering—but he could not move.

Itachi lifted him with one hand.

A seven-year-old body was too light. Shuo Ye's toes left the floor. His throat was gripped, but not fatally—Itachi's control of force was terrifyingly precise. Enough to make him suffer, but not enough to kill him.

Shuo Ye struggled. He kicked and swung at Itachi's arm. It would not budge. Itachi's arm was like iron.

"Mangekyō Sharingan."

Itachi's voice was calm. He stated it as a fact.

He looked into Shuo Ye's eyes—those two different Mangekyō Sharingan. On the left were three inward-folding arcs. On the right was a black flame pattern.

"The left and right eyes possess different abilities."

Itachi said.

A gurgling sound came from Shuo Ye's throat. He wanted to speak. He could not.

Then the arcs in his left eye suddenly tightened.

It was not his own will. His eye activated on its own. Before he understood what was happening—the world abruptly stuttered—and then his body shot backward beyond his control. Itachi's fingers slipped from his throat. He landed on the floor—no, he landed three steps away. Where he had been before leaping in to attack.

Time Retrace.

It had triggered passively. At the instant his life was in danger—the Mangekyō Sharingan had decided for him. Time had rewound three seconds. Not the entire world's time—his own time. He had returned to the position he had occupied in this space three seconds earlier.

Itachi's hand froze in midair, still holding the posture of gripping a throat. His hand was empty.

He looked at Shuo Ye.

Those Sharingan eyes narrowed slightly.

"Interesting."

Shuo Ye knelt on the floor, gasping for breath. His throat burned with pain. His left eye was still hot. Blood trickled from the corner of it again. That jutsu just now—he had not activated it himself at all. He did not even know how to activate it.

"A time... related ability."

Itachi lowered his hand. His body turned toward Shuo Ye. The movement was slow. Every shift of every joint was clearly visible. He was not taking a stance—he was merely facing Shuo Ye. Directly. Fully.

This was an unequal conversation. A thirteen-year-old ANBU squad captain. A seven-year-old child. Three-tomoe Sharingan. A newly awakened Mangekyō Sharingan. One had survived countless battles. The other could not even control his chakra.

Shuo Ye charged again.

He should not have. He understood that within seconds. He did not even know why he had charged. He had no chance of winning. He could not even defeat one of Itachi's hands. Yet his body simply would not listen. His fist struck Itachi's abdomen—Itachi did not evade—and a dull pain shot through Shuo Ye's finger bones. That punch had done nothing.

Itachi caught his wrist.

A twist. A shove.

Shuo Ye was pinned to the ground, his face pressed against the floorboards. There were dried bloodstains on the floor—possibly his father's. Itachi's knee pressed against his back, applying just enough force to keep him from rising.

"You want to kill me."

Itachi's voice came from above. Still that calm tone.

"Good."

Shuo Ye's face was pressed to the floor. Tears and blood mingled together. Both his left and right eyes burned violently. The pain in his eyeballs made it almost impossible to see anything. Yet he still struggled, like a fish pinned to a chopping board.

"But you can't do it now."

Itachi stood, but he did not release Shuo Ye—he grabbed Shuo Ye by the collar and lifted him up, facing him.

Two blood-red Mangekyō Sharingan. Two indifferent Sharingan.

"You have these eyes too."

Itachi said.

"So you will not die here."

His Sharingan began to spin.

"Tsukuyomi."

The world—changed.