Uchiha Yorito's heart clenched. Qianyu was keeping Uchiha Jin'ya, but not him? No, no, no, this couldn't be.
"Qianyu!" he blurted out, desperation cracking his voice. "I—I was just frantic before! I spoke without thinking! Give me another chance. I'll follow your orders, I swear I will!"
Qianyu looked down at him, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips. "Chances," he said, the word light, almost casual. "I've given you plenty. Again and again. Keeping four of you… honestly, that's me being generous."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carried to everyone. "See, I'm a petty man. And I'm terrified of the Uchiha clan's revenge. So tell me… how can I possibly let you stay?"
He straightened up, the smile gone. "Someone has to take the fall. Bad luck. You're the one."
A collective mental eye-roll went through the onlookers. Terrified of the Uchiha? Right. They might have believed it if not for the five battered Uchiha lying in the dirt at his feet.
Yorito kept pleading, voice rising in panic, but Qianyu had already turned his back. He was done listening.
Uchiha Kyōsuke, Keiichi, and Ryūhei hung their heads and silently fell into step behind him. Even Jin'ya, leg and arm broken, hobbled desperately to keep up, fear of being discarded with a casual wave overriding the agony.
As Qianyu turned to leave, Yorito's focus snapped to Orochimaru. "Lord Orochimaru, please—!"
Orochimaru didn't even glance his way. "Pack your things. You're returning to Konoha." He walked off, leaving no room for appeal.
Despair, cold and heavy, began to pool in Yorito's gut. He turned a last, wild look toward Uchiha Kazuo.
But Kazuo had stood silent through it all. If he'd had any sway, he would have used it already. He let out a weary sigh. "Yorito… get your leg treated. Then go home. Report everything to the clan head truthfully. The punishment… likely won't be severe."
Yorito just stared. The throbbing pain in his shattered leg vanished, swallowed by a deeper, colder numbness.
It wasn't the punishment he feared. It was the eyes. The whispers.
Beaten by Qianyu. Disgraced. Sent packing.
How could he ever hold his head up in the clan again?
He drifted through the medic's treatment in a daze, barely registering the chakra knitting his bones.
Meanwhile, Qianyu led his four new… subordinates… to a secluded grove. He turned, his gaze a winter chill as it swept over them.
"I know you hate my guts," he stated flatly. "You'd love to see me dead. Good. The feeling's mutual."
He took a step forward. "But I'm the captain. You're the soldiers. My orders are law. Disobey again, and what happened back there will seem like a friendly pat on the back. Disobey in combat?" A razor-sharp smile. "I'll kill you. No hesitation, no second thoughts."
He let the words hang, heavy and final. "You know what I think of the Uchiha. Don't fool yourselves into thinking I won't do it."
His tone shifted, offering a cold, clear door. "But here's your last out. Leave now. Go back to Konoha. You never have to see me again. Choose."
Kyōsuke, Keiichi, Ryūhei, Jin'ya. None moved. They stood, a silent line of resignation.
Qianyu gave a single, sharp nod. "Choice made. No take-backs. Your names."
They stated them, one by one.
"Good." Qianyu clasped his hands behind his back. "You know my name, so we'll skip the introductions."
He paused, letting the next part sink in. "A warning. The missions I take… they're the ugly ones. The ones with high body counts. The danger will be real. Constant."
A glint in his eye. "But the glory? The achievements? Just as real. Don't slow me down, and I won't steal what you earn. Pull your weight."
He glanced at Jin'ya's mangled limbs. "Dismissed. Get patched up. Rest. I don't care what you do. When there's a mission, you'll know."
A flicker. He was gone.
The moment he vanished, the four Uchiha sagged, a collective release of breath they hadn't realized they were holding.
Humiliation. Fury. And a deep, seething sense of injustice.
He was just a kid. Thirteen. Keiichi, the youngest among them, was nineteen. Yet under that cold gaze, they'd felt like children themselves.
The war hadn't even properly begun. How long would they be stuck under his thumb?
And he'd spelled it out—he despised them. The future promised nothing but hardship.
Kyōsuke, Keiichi, and Ryūhei exchanged looks. A shared, hollow bewilderment stared back.
Back in Konoha, they were elites. Respected. Feared. Here? They were less than dirt.
A synchronized sigh escaped them. Wordlessly, they helped Jin'ya toward the medical tents.
They found Yorito there, his treatment finished. He sat on a cot, staring blankly at the canvas wall.
"Yorito?" Ryūhei called softly.
It took a moment for the name to register. Yorito blinked, turning. The smile he forced was ghastly. "I… I have to go back. To Konoha."
The others opened their mouths to offer some empty comfort. The words died before they were born. If Yorito hadn't threatened Qianyu… But 'if' meant nothing here.
Yorito's eyes, dull with despair, focused on them. "He's going to make your lives hell. You're just… going to take it?"
Ryūhei's shoulders slumped. "What choice do we have? You saw him. He doesn't operate on reason. And Lord Orochimaru just lets him."
A spark of desperate, wild hope lit in Yorito's expression. "This whole place hates the Uchiha anyway! Let's all go! Together!"
Four pairs of eyes widened in shock.
Yorito couldn't face the shame alone. Five returning together? That was a statement. A shared burden. Anything was better than solitary disgrace.
But his companions weren't fools. They'd accepted Qianyu's terms. Leaving now, after that? That wasn't a withdrawal. That was desertion. The clan's discipline would be the least of their worries; Konoha's military court would decide their fate.
This wasn't an escape. It was a plunge into a deeper fire.
They mumbled vague non-answers, made excuses about checking supplies, and quickly retreated from their former comrade.
Left alone, a hot, impotent rage boiled up in Yorito. It clawed at his throat, burned behind his eyes.
They abandoned me too.
The world sharpened. Colors bled into sharper contrasts. His vision tunneled, the frustration and betrayal a physical pressure in his skull.
Unconsciously, his Sharingan activated. A single tomoe spun in each crimson eye.
The tomoe spun faster, blurred by the surge of emotion—the pain, the humiliation, the sheer, furious injustice of it all.
With a subtle, almost inaudible click in his perception, the spinning stabilized.
Two tomoe. Perfect, stark black, against the bloody field of his iris.
Uchiha Yorito's Sharingan had evolved. Forged not in battle, but in the bitter, lonely crucible of his disgrace.
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