Masked Intentions
In Konoha, within the Uchiha district, Satoru's pale blue eyes gazed calmly at the distant forest. His Six Eyes allowed him to see clearly through the shadows, where two figures were locked in a conversation.
Amid the trees, Uchiha Itachi spoke coldly, "Tonight's operation."
The masked man across from him folded his arms, his face concealed behind an enigmatic expression.
"Very well," the masked man replied. "As agreed, I'll assist you."
Itachi turned slightly, his gaze drifting deeper into the forest. "Then follow the plan."
The masked man's posture didn't shift, but his tone grew colder.
"The reason I'm helping you annihilate the Uchiha is not solely for revenge. I have… other goals."
Itachi's gaze hardened. "Is that so?"
The masked man nodded. "Don't bother using your Sharingan to try and see through my actions. I've already proven my sincerity by agreeing to spare your brother."
"I don't need a child without a Sharingan," the masked man continued.
Itachi's tone remained emotionless. "Then I suppose I have no choice but to trust you."
"If you ever find yourself at a loss," the masked man said lightly, "you can always join my organization."
"Your organization?" Itachi asked, his voice devoid of curiosity.
"It's called the Akatsuki."
Satoru withdrew his gaze, his short white hair falling slightly over his forehead.
Tonight's the night.
The timing was perfect. He had already passed along critical information to Uchiha Fugaku, sparking a private and intense discussion.
Fugaku had listened intently to Satoru, unable to forget the dazzling youth who proposed such unconventional yet brilliant strategies. Years later, Fugaku would still recall that moment vividly, marveling at Satoru's ingenuity.
Perhaps genius truly knows no bounds of time or age.
Night fell.
"Are you sure about this?" Shisui asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
Satoru brushed his hand through his hair, a playful grin lighting up his face. "Didn't I say so before? I'll handle the masked man. You take care of the rest."
Shisui frowned. "No, you didn't say that. Not at all."
The shadows around Shisui darkened as his irritation grew. His face was stern, his voice tense. "You're just telling me now?"
Satoru chuckled nervously, his grin faltering slightly. "Haha… well, now you know. No harm done, right?"
Shisui exhaled deeply, forcing himself to remain calm. He's the brains behind our operations. Patience, Shisui, patience.
After a long silence, Shisui spoke slowly, "If this masked man is as strong as you suggest, I'll face him. You can't risk yourself—too much depends on you right now."
Satoru laughed dismissively. "You? Against him? You've only got one Sharingan, Shisui. Save your illusions for children."
Shisui's frustration deepened as Satoru's laughter rang out, but he suppressed his annoyance. "Fine. But who are you going to send? And who is this masked man?"
Satoru's face grew serious as he replied, "I have my own arrangements. You just focus on your task—use the scrolls I gave you to evacuate the Uchiha and fake their deaths. With your genjutsu and Fugaku's cooperation, we'll fool Itachi."
Shisui sighed but nodded. "Alright. I'll trust you on this, little genius."
Elsewhere, in the Uchiha district…
Satoru observed the masked man—Uchiha Obito—who had arrived ahead of schedule. A faint smile played on his lips.
How convenient, Satoru thought. The mysterious man meets the mysterious man. How poetic.
Dressed in a swirling mask and black robes identical to Obito's, Satoru chuckled inwardly. Today, everyone's a mystery.
Without hesitation, Satoru flung several shuriken toward Obito, their metallic glint cutting through the darkness.
Obito dodged the shuriken with ease, his gaze narrowing as he spotted Satoru retreating.
Who is this? Obito wondered, his wariness growing.
Without a moment's hesitation, Obito activated his Kamui. In an instant, he disappeared into the void and reappeared directly in Satoru's path.
"Who are you?" Obito demanded coldly, his voice laced with menace.
Satoru tilted his head slightly, the corners of his mouth lifting into a sly grin. "Shouldn't I be asking you that? Why are you here?"
Obito's patience snapped. He threw out his chains, aiming to ensnare Satoru. But with a subtle motion, Satoru evaded the attack effortlessly, reappearing behind Obito in the blink of an eye.
"So impatient," Satoru remarked lightly, his voice carrying a mocking edge.
Obito froze. The movement… it was eerily familiar. That technique… it resembles space-time ninjutsu.
But this was different. Even the Flying Thunder God Technique required seals or markings. Yet Satoru's movements left no trace.
How is this possible?
Obito's Sharingan spun rapidly, his gaze locking onto Satoru's pale blue eyes.
"Stupid," Obito sneered. "You dare meet my Sharingan head-on?"
The kaleidoscope spun, activating an illusion designed to trap Satoru in a nightmarish vision.
"Now," Obito said, his voice low, "tell me who you are."
Satoru froze momentarily, his black robes swaying in the wind.
"I'm…" he began, his voice trailing off.
Obito leaned in, anticipation mounting.
Suddenly, Satoru chuckled. "Sorry, sorry. I couldn't resist messing with you. Shall we try that again?"
Under his mask, Obito's expression darkened. Impossible! How did he break free?
Obito's Sharingan was no ordinary tool—it was built for illusion, observation, and manipulation. Yet Satoru seemed completely unaffected.
Who is this man?
"What do you want?" Obito finally asked, his voice edged with caution. "As long as you don't interfere with my plans, I have no reason to fight you."
Satoru smirked, brushing stray strands of hair from his face. "That's not going to work for me. I'm here to avenge my sister."
Obito blinked in confusion. "Your… sister?"
Satoru's voice remained calm but carried an undercurrent of amusement. "That's right. My sister. You've killed so many people—you probably don't even remember her, do you?"
Obito's wariness deepened. Who is this man, and what is he planning?
In the tense silence, Obito's grip on his chains tightened. Whatever Satoru's true purpose, it was clear he wouldn't be leaving without a fight.
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