---

Whisper.

Dark clouds blanketed the sky as relentless rain poured down, drumming against the earth. Yet, no amount of water could quell the black flames devouring the mountains and forests, their hunger insatiable.

The flames, like a curse, spread outward, consuming everything in their path. But at the heart of this inferno, one place remained untouched—the battlefield.

What had once been the hidden base of the Uchiha clan lay in ruins, reduced to rubble by the intensity of battle. Scorched rocks littered the ground, remnants of a conflict beyond human scale.

Heat.

A massive figure, shaped from crimson light, stood like a god of war. In its left hand, a shield; in its right, a gourd.

Within the chest of this colossal avatar, a man, bruised and battered, staggered forward. His body trembled with each step, yet an unbreakable resolve drove him onward.

"It seems Itachi has won," murmured a voice from the shadows. "Sasuke never stood a chance."

A figure, half black and half white, emerged from beneath the rocks, chuckling softly. It was Zetsu, witnessing the end of a long and bitter struggle.

Encased within Susanoo, Itachi took another painful step. His vision blurred, but his eyes remained fixed on the young man before him—Sasuke, his younger brother, paralyzed by fear.

"I can't fall here... not yet," Itachi thought, his resolve stronger than death itself.

"Stay away! Damn it, stay away!" Sasuke's voice cracked as he pressed himself against the crumbling wall, the Uchiha crest stark on his back. But Itachi's relentless pace continued.

Despair clawed at Sasuke. He had thrown everything he had at his brother—every jutsu, every ounce of hatred. It wasn't enough. Abandoning Konoha, nearly surrendering himself to Orochimaru—all of it had led him here, yet he was powerless against the brother he had sworn to kill.

The sound of footsteps echoed like the approach of death itself, closer and closer.

Susanoo's arm moved, and Itachi's right hand, fingers extended, reached out toward Sasuke.

Sasuke froze, unable to move.

Itachi's hand hovered near his face. Sasuke braced for the worst—his eyes, his Sharingan—he thought Itachi would take them.

But Itachi stopped. His hand lingered above Sasuke's forehead, then a smile. A faint, weary smile.

Itachi's lips moved, whispering words that Sasuke couldn't hear but knew by heart.

"Forgive me, Sasuke. This is the last time."

With a soft tap, Itachi's fingers touched Sasuke's forehead, just as he had done countless times in their youth. In that moment, he transferred his final jutsu—Amaterasu—into Sasuke's eyes, unknown to his brother.

Susanoo emitted a mournful wail as its crimson glow faded. Then, Itachi collapsed, his life extinguished.

---

Does death truly mark the end?

Few in the shinobi world could answer that question.

Most believed death was the end, the cessation of all things.

But for Uchiha Itachi, death was not the end.

His consciousness drifted in a boundless white void, suspended in a place beyond time.

"Where am I...?" Itachi's voice echoed in the silence, his eyes scanning the endless white. "Is this... the world beyond death?"

He remembered his final moments—his battle with Sasuke, his death. But this place was beyond what he'd envisioned.

Relief washed over him. Here, he wouldn't face the souls of the Uchiha or his parents. Here, he was alone, with only his memories.

He reflected on his life—a life defined by sacrifice and tragedy.

"I deserve this," he thought. "For all that I've done, this is the only fitting end."

He had slain his clan, his parents, with his own hands. He had betrayed his family for peace. And yet, he had no regrets. His actions had spared Konoha and preserved the delicate balance of the Five Great Nations, preventing war from consuming the world again.

And Sasuke... Sasuke was alive, saved from the same fate.

No, he had no regrets about his choice. But as he looked back, he felt a familiar sadness. He had watched Sasuke spiral into darkness and had been powerless to stop it. Even his last plan—to guide Sasuke toward a different path—might fail.

He could only hope that Naruto would succeed where he could not.

As he drifted through these thoughts, a strange sensation washed over him.

"Do you truly have no regrets?"

The voice echoed in his mind. Suddenly, his vision blurred, his eyes turning a deep, familiar red.

The Sharingan. No—the Mangekyo Sharingan.

The three tomoe spun and coalesced, forming the shape of a triangular sickle.

"The Totsuka Blade..." Itachi murmured in astonishment as the legendary sword materialized before him, emerging from the whiteness. It took the form of a gourd, gleaming in the strange realm.

The blade wasn't just a weapon; it could seal anything it pierced into an eternal illusionary realm.

But why was it here?

Before he could understand, light burst from the gourd, enveloping his soul. He felt himself being drawn in, his consciousness fading once more.

---

A piercing cry rang out, jolting him awake.

Slowly, Itachi opened his eyes.

He found himself leaning against a wall, having dozed off. Directly before him lay a cradle, and within it, a baby boy.

The newborn's skin was still soft and a little dry, a rosy tint gracing his delicate cheeks. He was unmistakably adorable, with a tiny, curious gaze that seemed to reach for something beyond the cradle.

The baby turned his head, locking eyes with Itachi. The cries softened.

Itachi's breath caught. His eyes widened as he stared at the child, his heart hammering. "Sasuke!?"

The name escaped his lips, barely a whisper. The infant was the spitting image of his younger brother on the day he was born.

Sixteen years had passed since that day, yet every detail was etched into Itachi's memory.

"What... is going on?" He looked around, searching for an answer, only to realize he was... smaller. The cradle was nearly eye-level, though it couldn't have been more than a meter high.

Raising his hand, he saw it was pale and childlike—his hand at five years old.

He swallowed, unnerved. "Is this... an illusion?"

Memories of his last conscious moments rushed back—the Totsuka Blade, the burst of light, his soul being drawn into its depths. Was he now trapped within its realm of endless illusions?

Furrowing his brow, he focused inward, trying to summon his Mangekyō Sharingan. But he felt no chakra within him, only the faint spark of a young child.

He clenched his small hand in frustration. Was he truly five years old, or was this part of an illusion?

The baby's babbling pulled him from his thoughts, and he turned to see Sasuke staring up at him, innocent and concerned.

In that moment, flashes of their past flooded Itachi's mind—the fierce hatred in Sasuke's eyes during their final battle, his anguished cries. But here was Sasuke, as a baby, his expression pure and untouched by those dark emotions.

Steadying his trembling hands, Itachi reached for Sasuke, who stretched his small arms, eager to be held. Gently, Itachi lifted him, his chest tightening as he felt the weight of his brother in his arms once more.

Sasuke giggled, his tiny fingers wrapping around Itachi's neck, his warm face nuzzling against his cheek.

Itachi stood there, frozen, feeling the familiar warmth and weight of his brother. Tears brimmed in his eyes, breaking the stoic mask he had always worn.

He whispered, "Sasuke... I'm sorry."

As he looked into Sasuke's innocent face, tears began to flow freely. The baby wrinkled his nose, touching the wetness on his cheek before putting his hand in his mouth and starting to cry again.

Itachi blinked, surprised by the reaction, then carefully laid Sasuke back in the cradle, wiping the baby's face.

"I'm sorry, Sasuke," he whispered softly.

Sasuke quieted, looking up with a dissatisfied pout, which brought a faint smile to Itachi's tear-streaked face.

"Sasuke," he murmured, "your brother will never say those words again."

As he made that promise, a strange calm settled over him. This moment was real, as real as he'd ever known. The warmth of his brother, the laughter, the sound of his parents in the next room...

Could he have... returned to the past?

An unexpected surge of hope blossomed within him. If this was indeed reality, could he truly change the future?

Before he could process it, he heard a familiar voice. "Itachi..."

The gentle tone made his heart skip a beat. He turned slowly, finding his mother, Uchiha Mikoto, standing in the doorway, leaning on his father, Uchiha Fugaku.

Their faces were tired but alive. Concern softened Mikoto's gaze as she looked at him. "Itachi, you look upset. Is something wrong?"

Itachi's throat tightened. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. His heart pounded as he struggled to hold back the tears threatening to spill over again.

"Dad... Mom..." His voice trembled with a sorrow he could barely contain.

The memories of their final moments flooded his mind—the night he had killed them, their understanding words, their unwavering love. That night had haunted him, seared into his soul.

But now, here they stood, alive, their love reaching out to him across time.

"Itachi, what's wrong?" Mikoto's gentle concern broke him. She stepped forward, worry etched into her tired features.

Before he knew it, he had fallen to his knees, forehead pressed against the floor, unable to look at them. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."

Mikoto knelt beside him, stroking his hair, her voice a soothing balm. "Itachi, what's wrong? Why are you apologizing?"

Fugaku placed a hand on his son's shoulder, his voice steady. "Stand up, Itachi. You're strong. I know you are."

The warmth of their touch, their acceptance—it was too much. He had killed them, betrayed their trust. And yet, they were here, offering him comfort.

Silently, he vowed, "I'll protect you this time. I'll protect you and Sasuke... no matter what."

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