Main World.
Summer, year twenty-five of Konoha.
Uchiha Clan Compound, Clan Leader's Study.
The cicadas outside the window grew louder with each wave, as though singing a dirge for this steadily declining clan. Fushan sat behind his desk, a thick dossier spread before him, its pages covered in writing. His trusted aide had just delivered it-statistics on the clan's mission allotments, an inventory of the Clan Treasury, and the "latest news" about the young people sent to the Anbu.
He had not read the "latest news." He did not dare. He knew it would not be good news, but what he feared even more was the trace of guilt that would rise in his heart when he read it.
This was no longer his first time.
The first time he sent clan members to the Anbu, he had stayed awake all night. The next morning, looking at himself in the mirror, he had felt like an executioner. But later, he discovered that once you had been an executioner long enough, your hands stopped shaking.
"Clan Leader." A voice came from the doorway.
Fushan looked up to see Uchiha Gelu standing there, a trace of hesitation on his face.
"What is it?"
"Have you read the Clan Treasury's inventory?"
"I have."
"Then... those Sharingan..." Gelu lowered his voice. "What do you plan to do with them?"
Fushan fell silent for a moment.
"Keep them."
"Keep them?" Gelu frowned slightly. "What good will that do? We might as well... sell them to people who need them."
Fushan looked at him, his gaze complicated.
"Who needs them?"
Gelu did not answer, but Fushan knew what he meant.
Konoha needed them. The Hokage needed them. The Anbu needed them. Those who had no Sharingan but craved their power all needed them.
"Gelu, do you