Chapter Twelve (Patreon)

Konoha’s walls had always been there. They were tall and strong, reinforced by the best Uzumaki fuinjutsu money and alliances could buy, then supplemented by the brilliance of Uzumaki Mito and Senju Tobirama. They were a bulwark against the outside world. No matter how the war fared, no matter the assassinations and grand battles between the Great Villages, Konohagakure would always be protected by their walls.

Yet when Hua Jing passed through the northern gate, she did not feel protected. For the first time in her new life, the enemy was within. Her foes were her fellows, and conflict intended for the courtroom was rarely limited to that location.

Fugaku moved swiftly once they were let in. His eyes burned with a crimson gaze. One hand stayed on his kunai, the other was positioned to snap off hand seals at any time. Jing was no less tense. Though she dared not activate her Byakugan in so public a space, her sensory field was still active. It reached out, gently caressing the aura of passersby. She felt a Hyuga positioned against a wall, then another in an alley, and a third on a rooftop. She did not look. She reached out with her hand, gently tapping Fugaku’s shoulder.

“Hyuga clansmen,” she said, voice pitched just below a whisper. “Three.”

“I saw two,” Fugaku agreed. “Are they following us?”

“No.”

Fugaku breathed out with relief. “Good. We’re almost there.”

The Uchiha District was near the center of Konoha, just outside the Business District (on the opposite side of it from the old Senju Compound). The Uchiha District had walls of its own dating back to the fragile trust that created Konoha from a pair of vengeful, warring clans. They were more partitions than true defensive measures, the walls plastered white and missing their defensive towers. Even the gates were decorative. For all the stark grandeur of red tiles and black wood, the entrance to the Uchiha District could not be shut, for it lacked actual gates. To Jing this truly fit the Uchiha way–utterly loyal, utterly loving, and utterly unwilling to say so aloud.

Fugaku led her through the entrance, his mere presence forcing the guards to straighten their backs.

The Uchiha District was beautiful. The streets of Konoha were replaced by thoroughfares of paved stone and winding footpaths. Along the main streets were cherry trees, their blossoms only beginning to bud. Come spring they would blossom, creating a path of pink in the heart of the Uchiha.

“This is the shopping area,” Fugaku said as they passed by another family. A child pulled at her tight collar, a mother bowed at Fugaku. Fugaku nodded in return. “We Uchiha make many things, but we specialize in steel. Nowhere in the world can compare to our craft.”

“Even those who use fuinjutsu?” Jing teased softly.

Fugaku’s ears reddened. “Even fuinjutsu needs a strong base to work on,” he replied. They passed by a bakery, the scent of caramelizing crusts wafting on the air. “The paths,” Fugaku continued, “led to residences, or gardens. Most live in buke-zukuri, though there are smaller homes and a few apartment buildings as well.”

“How many live here?”

“When Konoha was founded, the Senju released their vassals,” Fugaku began. Jing’s eyes turned, focusing intently. There was an open passion to his voice she had seldom heard. “They took a compound, keeping only those who possessed the Senju name. We Uchiha did the opposite. Every family who had fought and bled alongside us was granted two gifts: a home, and the Uchiha name.” Fugaku smiled sharply. “Today there are six thousand Uchiha in the District, and only a few dozen Senju.”

Jing stared at Fugaku. Six thousand . . . she had not expected a number half so large. And for that to be only those living within the District . . . The Senju may have won the Hokage’s hat, but it was the Uchiha who prospered best in Konoha’s peace.

“Of course, there are only a few hundred who possess the Sharingan,” Fugaku continued. “The Hyuga Clan has more dojutsu than we do.”

“But far fewer ninja,” Jing guessed. “To say nothing of healers and craftsmen.”

Fugaku smiled again. For a while they walked in silence. They passed by the shops, walked around the forges and smithies whose black smoke was swallowed up by the surrounding forests. They turned at a dirt path, twice as wide as the ordinary walkways. It twisted, the urban airs fading as they moved into a garden. Flowering shrubs sat in the light between slow-growing trees, each plant painstakingly placed. Water flowed through a canal, babbling as it passed through the crafted riverbed. A bridge of lacquered wood arched over the creek. The trees faded for a brief moment and sunlight shone down on the water. It sparkled, forming rainbows upon the surface before being swallowed by the clouds once more. 

Past the bridge the trees opened to a rock garden, where a man carefully raked pebbles into his perfect order. Fugaku led Jing carefully around the perimeter, a single finger to his lips. They passed the rock garden and walked through a meadow of mown grass. Just beyond lay the seat of the Uchiha Clan Head.

The shinden rose from the ground as a force of nature. The dark wood walls possessed no paneling. Doors grew naturally from the walls, windows appeared seamlessly.

“A gift from Shodai-sama,” Fugaku explained. “A gesture of peace. The Senju possess a gesture as well, a hearth fire that will never extinguish.”

Jung stared at her friend. She looked back at the mansion and tried to picture the man who could raise such a building with will and chakra. Her imagination did not carry so far.

“Come,” Fugaku said, a quirk to his lips. “The Clan Head is waiting.”

The mansion’s interior was built from that most Uchiha of aesthetics: austere luxury. Tapestries displayed the white war fan of the Uchiha on a black field. Simple landscapes hung upon the walls. The shogi walls were unadorned, yet thinner than the edge of a razor’s blade (something that demanded both precision and mastery from their craftsmen).

Uchiha Rikio sat in the reception room, porcelain cups and plates lain out before him. They rested on a short table of ebony surrounded by tatami mats. Uchiha Ren looked up from the tea set.

“Son.”

Fugaku bowed. “Father.”

Jing bowed. “Uchiha-sama.”

“Sit.”

They sat at the flat command, knees resting upon the soft wooden mats. Uchiha Ren poured the tea with the slow grace of a master, each drop falling perfectly into the cups. He placed the green glazed pot down, and slowly sipped the tea. Jing followed suit, unwilling to broach the conversation without permission. Fugaku simply sat, his eyes flickering between his father and his friend.

“You wish for our help,” Uchiha Ren said at last.

“Yes, Uchiha-sama.” Jing saw no point in beating around the bush. “These eyes were given to me by Hyuga Haruko, my dear friend and comrade. Yet to the Elders of that Clan this is all the more reason for them to be taken.”

“She was a member of the Branch Family then.”

“Yes, Uchiha-sama. In another year she would have been branded.” Jing tried to keep her voice even. Truly she did. But the thought of Haruko, the girl who lived and breathed in vibrant freedom, being branded and enslaved by her own family, bound in soul-deep chains . . .

My past may affect me more than I thought, Jing admitted.

“Their practice is despicable.” Uchiha Ren spoke as if commenting on the length of the meadow’s grass. “None deny that. Yet it has persisted for centuries. Why should the Uchiha Clan defend you against the privileges of another Clan?”

“She saved my life,” Fugaku interrupted. His voice was a blade–even, smooth, and steely sharp. “We Uchiha still honor such things.”

For a moment Uchiha Ren’s eyes softened. “So we do,” he said. “But the Elders–”

“The Elders will obey,” Fugaku stated coldly. “They are advisors, not commanders.”

“And life is easier when your advisors have a reason to support your actions.” Uchiha Ren turned to Jing. “Can you give me that reason?”

Jing carefully set her teacup down. Her eyes met with Uchiha Ren. They turned white, veins bulging at the her temples. “Six hundred meters,” she said. “Within that range I see everything. Every person, every insect, every leaf. Every piece of their bodies, from their tenketsu to their blood cells. Within that range I can call lightning from the sky, so small and thin it nears imperceptibility, so powerful and accurate a single bolt kills Jonin.” Her eyes faded back to blue. “Is that reason enough, Uchiha-sama?”

Uchiha Ren met her eyes. His own were crimson, three tomoe swirling with the cool grace of an ancient serpent. “Yes,” he decided. “Reason enough indeed.”