Batman in Konoha. Chapter 16 and 17. The Law of the Pride

3200 words.

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A typical morning in the Uchiha household usually began in silence—accompanied by the clinking of dishes and the smell of steamed rice—but this time, the atmosphere shifted almost instantly, as if a cheerful gust of wind had blown into the house. Shisui had returned from a prolonged mission and, as always, made sure no one could miss it.

He burst onto the veranda without knocking, as if he’d never left. In one swift motion, he kicked off his sandals and, without waiting for an invitation, walked deeper into the house. The whole family was already seated at the low table: Mikoto was carefully pouring tea, Itachi was silently finishing his rice, Sasuke—his cheeks smeared with soy sauce—was poking distractedly at a cold omelet. Fugaku, as always, sat in composed silence.

“Wait a sec…” Shisui froze mid-step, staring at how different the head of the family looked. “Fugaku, did you… bulk up?”

He dropped down beside him and stared in disbelief at his adoptive father. His gaze swept across those unexpectedly broader shoulders, that neck carved like stone, and then kept going—upwards—because Fugaku now seemed... taller?

“And… taller?” Shisui squinted suspiciously.

Fugaku didn’t even look up from his plate.

“Hidden jutsu,” he replied curtly, still chewing.

“Riiight,” Shisui drawled with doubt. “But I always thought stealth was kind of essential in our line of work. And you—how should I put this… now look like a casino bouncer. With a mountain of muscles and a stare that makes flowers wilt. Why?”

To everyone’s surprise, Fugaku set his chopsticks down, looked Shisui straight in the eye, and answered calmly:

“So I can look down on everyone. Literally.”

A pause followed. An unnaturally long one.

“Was that… a joke?” Shisui asked cautiously, as if checking whether someone had replaced Fugaku with a shapeshifter.

“Yes,” Fugaku confirmed, face still like granite.

Mikoto froze mid-pour, the elegance in her movement momentarily lost. Itachi blinked, as if testing reality, and nearly choked. Sasuke, who had been diligently mashing the omelet with his fingers, went completely still, as if realizing for the first time that his father had emotions.

“Damn,” Shisui breathed, looking around at them. “I… I’m gonna remember this day forever.”

“You wanted to talk about your mission,” Fugaku reminded him evenly.

“Oh, right. Well… not much to tell,” Shisui shrugged and helped himself to some rice. “Guarding and escorting the Daimyo. A lot of bowing, formalities, endless meetings. Less action, more observation.”

“Even a jōnin wastes time,” Itachi said suddenly, still staring at his tea. Then he looked up at his father. “When can a shinobi ever step away from missions? To do something that truly matters?”

“Never,” Fugaku said firmly. “Once you wear the Konoha protector, you take on the duty—minimum of ten missions a year. You can take more. Never less.”

“I know that,” Itachi replied with a wave of his hand, though his voice had turned thoughtful. “I’m already a genin. I’m not interested in the rule—I want to know the exception. Why don’t you take missions yourself?”

“A shinobi can be exempt if they serve the village in another capacity,” Fugaku explained. “Academy instructors, medics at the hospital, or, in my case, police officers. One law for all.”

“So that means…” Itachi furrowed his brows, clearly doing the math in his head. “I could either knock out ten missions in a couple of months, if I’m lucky… or get stuck on a long, complicated one. But if I worked part-time at the academy, I could manage my own schedule.”

He turned his gaze to Mikoto.

“But you don’t take missions, and you don’t work anywhere. Yet you’re a jōnin. Why doesn’t Konoha bother you?”

Mikoto smiled gently as she set the teapot aside.

“I left service when you were born. Became a homemaker by choice. That, too, is a contribution to a shinobi family.”

Fugaku nodded.

“I pay the village the equivalent of three B-rank missions per year to keep her exempt,” he clarified. “Officially, she’s in the reserve.”

“It's the same for all the wives of influential clans,” Shisui added, leaning forward. “It’s considered... improper for a man to let his wife earn money. Especially if he can afford to pay for her instead.”

Fugaku’s cheek twitched—just barely, almost imperceptibly. But inside, that moment echoed like a muted bell. His memory stirred. He remembered Martha.

Martha Wayne. A woman who not only gave him a son, but was also his partner—his equal. Even during pregnancy, she continued managing her network of private clinics, consulting with charitable boards, running foundations. Sometimes she gave orders over the phone from her hospital bed, cutting down weak decisions without hesitation. He respected her for that strength. Loved her for it. Never once tried to limit her.

If he—Thomas Wayne, not Fugaku—had ever dared to tell Martha she should quit her work, dismiss her staff, and just stay home with the child… she would’ve stood up, walked over, looked him straight in the eyes—and with that quiet dignity of hers, slapped him across the face.

And now…

He glanced at Mikoto. She was gently wiping a spot of sauce off Sasuke’s cheek, patient and quiet, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Her movements were smooth, her expression serene. No trace of regret. No hidden irritation. No conflict.

Mikoto was content. She’d been raised from childhood to be the wife of a clan head. Everything around her—this home, the children, her place in the family—didn’t feel like a cage to her. It was a goal. A path completed.

Fugaku turned back to his tea bowl. The past and present rarely align. One thing must always be remembered—you cannot choose for someone else.

“How are things, Itachi?” Shisui asked. “Still chasing cats around?”

Itachi answered with his usual cold clarity:

“Our team has refused D-rank missions. Our sensei believes real field experience is more valuable. Next year, we’ll be taking the Chūnin Exams.”

“The whole team?” Shisui raised a brow. “Hmm. I figured you’d want to take it solo. There’s precedent... plenty of strong genin have entered alone.”

“I see no reason to turn down an alliance with capable people,” Itachi replied curtly. His voice had taken on a firmer edge—almost adult. “My mentor is Sarutobi Hotei, the Hokage’s eldest son. My teammates are Yamanaka Yuiko and Inuzuka Toru. My Sharingan, her mental techniques, and his tracking skills give us an ideal combination for reconnaissance, pursuit, and interrogation. That kind of advantage shouldn’t be wasted.”

Shisui leaned back slightly, watching him closely. He noticed the change right away—and understood where it came from. His eyes shifted to Fugaku.

Ever since that intense conversation between father and son, Itachi had changed. Not drastically—no, Itachi was still the same quiet, reserved boy who whispered bedtime stories to Sasuke when he thought no one was looking. His goals were probably unchanged—the same deep idealism, the same brilliant mind, the same steel will. But...

His methods had changed.

As if Itachi had finally realized: a hero doesn’t have to sacrifice himself for peace. On the contrary—he must survive as long as possible to protect it.

Fugaku saw it. And it pleased him. He didn’t smile, of course—Fugaku was not a man to waste gestures. But in his gaze, in the slight pause with which he looked at his son, there was something close to approval.

“And still,” Shisui broke the silence, staring at Fugaku again, “I have to ask… are you comfortable like this? Seriously. Muscles are cool, sure, but mass slows you down.”

Fugaku nodded. He didn’t see the need to defend himself—he simply answered, like during a sparring match:

“You’re right. Ordinary muscle mass slows you down. But these aren’t ordinary. It’s a hidden jutsu.”

“He’s the fastest shinobi in Konoha,” Itachi said with a hint of pride in his voice. “While you were gone, he beat Maito Gai in a race.”

“The race was during Gai’s wedding,” Mikoto added with a faint smile. The memory, it seemed, was still vivid.

“Wait. Gai got married?!” Shisui’s eyes went wide. “Who’s the brave soul?”

“Uchiha Suzumebachi,” Mikoto said calmly. “The wedding was last week. At the clan shrine. Not everyone’s recovered yet.”

Shisui let his forehead drop onto the table.

“I… I understand your pain now, Itachi,” he groaned. “While I was wandering around the Daimyō’s palaces, real life was happening here… weddings, races, records… And I was there, stiff in a kimono, bowing on autopilot…”

Itachi gave the faintest smirk. Sasuke laughed out loud. Mikoto, sympathetic, cut Shisui a slice of pie.

///

A new structure had appeared in the back yard of the Uchiha compound—a squat, solid building of reinforced wood and stone. Where once there had been a small garden, lined with flowerbeds and walking paths, now stood Fugaku’s personal gym.

Its architecture was utilitarian: clean lines, open windows for constant airflow, reinforced beams—and nothing unnecessary. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of metal, sweat, and oil used to keep the equipment running. The atmosphere hummed with raw, concentrated masculine energy. This wasn’t a place for meditation—it was a place for work.

The machines had to be imported from the Land of Lightning. Nowhere in the Land of Fire—or even the surrounding nations—were such devices popular. Shinobi traditionally built strength through bodyweight training and endless sparring. No one wanted to get bulky, to sacrifice mobility for power that could be matched by the tip of a kunai.

Except for one exception.

The Raikage. For each of them, muscle was a symbol of rule, and their speed didn’t drop with mass. Their Lightning Armor gave them acceleration.

He was another exception.

A shinobi with Venom running through his veins—a steroid-like drug that pushed his physical limits beyond what any ordinary ninja could reach.

To master the Eight Gates technique, he had to train his body past those limits. Unlike Maito Dai, simple exercises like push-ups or sprints were useless to him. Venom let him do those endlessly.

His only option was machines—loaded with weights that no regular shinobi could even budge.

Now, he was lying on the bench beneath a barbell. The steel bar hummed under the strain of plates etched with fuinjutsu to increase their weight. Every rep felt like an explosion from the inside. Sweat rolled down his temples and neck, pooling on his chest. His muscles thrummed like live wires. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else.

The creak of a door broke his focus.

Slowly, he slid the barbell back into the rack. The metal clicked into place. Fugaku sat up, pulled off his training gloves, and wiped the sweat from his face.

Three men stood at the threshold.

Uchiha Yashiro. Uchiha Inabi. Uchiha Tekka.

Men whose faces he had known for years. Men who had opposed him since the first day of his leadership. Men who whispered at meetings, dripping poison into the clan’s ears—and who, at last, had found the courage to come.

Fugaku didn’t stand. He didn’t need to rise to assert dominance.

“So,” he murmured, shaking his head like a disappointed teacher, “you finally worked up the nerve. I was wondering how long it would take before you showed up to make your move. At least you brought two friends—three-on-one.”

Inabi and Tekka flinched—just barely—at his calm certainty. Only Yashiro, the eldest of the three, stepped forward. There was anger in his eyes, but beneath it, Fugaku saw the fear. And he noted it.

“You stopped holding clan meetings!” Yashiro burst out, like he’d memorized the line.

Fugaku stood. No haste, no aggression—just a smooth, composed rise. Yet there was a grace in it that made Yashiro feel small beside him. Not weaker—smaller.

“They’re a waste of time,” Fugaku said, walking toward a water bottle and taking a long drink. “I speak with the ones who wear the police badge every day at work. As for the retirees and housewives—I have nothing to say to them.”

“There!” Yashiro jabbed a finger at him, as if catching him red-handed. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about! You despise your own people! You don’t care about the clan’s voice!”

Fugaku lowered the bottle and looked at him. Not with anger. Not with irritation. Just—cold curiosity.

“Very well,” he said evenly. “Since you’ve come, speak. What exactly are you three so displeased with?”

Tekka muttered something under his breath but fell silent the moment Fugaku turned his head in his direction. Yashiro, emboldened, spoke again—louder now, as if trying to convince himself:

“You’ve gone soft! You bend to Konoha! You’ve forgotten who you are! You’re supposed to defend the clan first—not the Hokage! We should’ve kept the Jinchūriki—it’s power! It’s a symbol! It’s authority! We’re Uchiha! That strength should have been ours!”

Fugaku frowned. His voice didn’t rise, but it grew colder—sharper.

“Is that so?” he said, stepping closer. “Tell me, Yashiro… did you fully understand the Fourth Hokage’s fuinjutsu? Did you study all the triggers, all the failsafes? Did you grasp how the seal activates?”

Yashiro clenched his jaw.

“You wanted to hide a bomb in our home—among our wives, our children, our brothers and sisters. A bomb that could detonate at any moment. All because you crave the feeling of power.”

“We should’ve killed the brat!” Yashiro shouted, losing the last shred of self-control. “Seal the Nine-Tails into one of us—and that’s it!”

His hysterical outburst was the signal.

“You’ve disgraced the clan!” Inabi roared, his face twisted with rage. “How could you let Might Guy into our ranks?! You train with that… clown—and his ridiculous father! A disgrace to Uchiha blood!”

“Because of you, we’re Konoha’s lapdogs!” Tekka barked, throwing his arms out. “Uchiha are meant to rule this village—not run errands for the Hokage like pathetic watch dogs!”

Their shouts echoed off the gym’s stone walls. Loud, but trembling. Confident, yet desperate. They were vomiting years of resentment—but only because they thought Fugaku was vulnerable. Tired. Alone.

They were wrong.

With every second, he stood taller. Straighter. And the taller he stood, the quieter they became. Silence didn’t descend—it pressed on them, like a shadow falling.

He stood like a statue carved from granite. Bare chest slick with sweat, muscles pulled taut like cables. His eyes—cold as blades. Next to him, they looked like boys who’d stumbled into a room meant for men.

“I’ve heard enough,” he said. His voice was calm, almost quiet—but within it was steel, sharp enough to cut. “One of you is a would-be child-killer. The other—a degenerate offended that I train with someone stronger than he’ll ever be. And the third? A parasite who dreams of power but has never had the spine to claim it. But do you know what you all have in common?”

He stepped forward.

“Cowardice.”

Yashiro instinctively stepped back—then forced himself to stand tall. Inabi’s fists clenched. Tekka inhaled sharply.

“Even now, you waited until the end of my training. Not when I was fresh. Not when I was ready. You came when you thought I’d be tired. Like jackals, attacking a wounded lion.”

They didn’t answer. Only shifted into fighting stances. Their eyes flashed red—one, two, three.

Fugaku smirked—viciously, and with a flicker of pride.

“So you’ve awakened your Sharingan too. That means I lose my advantage. Fine.” He drew in a slow breath. His own eyes lit up—three tomoe in each, glowing with blood and power. “If you’ve mistaken me for easy prey, that’s my mistake. I let you believe it. But I have just one request.”

He tilted his head slightly—mocking.

“Please… don’t hold back.”

Fugaku opened the First Gate—and charged.

///

It had been two years since the shadow of the Nine-Tails swept across the village.

Two years since the heart of Uchiha Fugaku changed forever.

And two years since the last time the Uchiha clan gathered in whispered, distrustful, secret meetings.

But darkness always returns.

Tonight, Fugaku called an emergency meeting.

As tradition demanded, every member of the clan made their way to the Naka Shrine.

Officially — for a special evening prayer.

The neophytes, like Uchiha Guy, still didn’t know that the prayer was just a mask.

And the prayer always ended the same way.

When the last candles burned down, a segment of stone beneath the altar slid aside with a dull click. A hidden staircase revealed itself, leading down into the underground chamber beneath the shrine. One by one, the Uchiha descended — into the hall where the Stone of Insight stood, bearing the final words of the Sage of Six Paths.

Atop the dais beside the stone sat Fugaku. Next to him stood three striking posts.

Yashiro, Inabi, and Tekka were tied to them like butchered meat, left on display.

Their faces were bruised, lips split, eyes swollen shut.

Their arms were twisted, their wrists bloody from the ropes.

They mumbled something — but it was incoherent.

Fugaku sat calmly. A face of stone. No anger. No exhaustion. Only cold, relentless composure.

When everyone had settled onto the tatami mats, he began to speak:

“Uchiha Tenma. You all know that name. He was the previous leader of our clan. Ruled with an iron hand for decades. A hero of two wars. A genius. A symbol of Uchiha strength.”

Many nodded. In the front row, Shisui and Itachi exchanged a wary glance.

Fugaku continued:

“But there is a natural order. In the wild, every alpha one day grows old and weak. And a younger lion tears out his throat and claims the pride. One day, such a lion came to the Uchiha. He was smarter. He was stronger. He attacked Tenma… and tore out his throat with his bare hands. That young alpha—was me.”

He stood. The room tensed.

Fugaku stepped toward the bound men. Slowly, with ice-cold precision, he grabbed Yashiro by the hair and lifted his head so the whole room could see his face.

“They thought I had grown old. That I could be overthrown. That I had gone soft. They chose to attack.”

He let go. Yashiro’s head dropped limply.

“And now, they have something to say to you all.”

No one could make out the mumbled words.

Fugaku barked sharply:

“Louder!”

“Fu… Fugaku… is our leader…” Yashiro whispered. Saliva mixed with blood dripped from his mouth onto the floor.

“We… would give our lives for him…” rasped Inabi.

“We… are worthless…” Tekka murmured.

“We… will not oppose him…”

“We… will not scheme behind his back…”

“Fugaku… is our leader…”

The phrases circled like a litany. Like a prayer.

Fugaku had broken them—physically and mentally.

The wives of the men wept. Someone leaned forward—then recoiled. No one dared break Fugaku’s order. No one dared move to untie them.

Fugaku swept his gaze over the gathering.

“This… is a lesson. For them. And for all of you. Do not forget: only a strong leader can lead the pride into the future. A weak one leads it to ruin.”

He paused.

“One day, someone younger will come. Stronger. Smarter. He will defeat me—and I will accept it. But that day… is not today.”

The Uchiha looked

at him.

Some with respect.

Some with fear.

But all with understanding.

He did not ask for loyalty.

He took it—by force.

And that… was irresistible.