Batman in Konoha. Chapter 14 and 15. Hidden Strength

2900 words.

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Few in Konoha were surprised that the head of the Uchiha clan was known for his passion for science. Fugaku had never been just a warrior. There was always a sharp intellect behind his gaze, and even during his Academy years, scrolls with jutsu techniques coexisted peacefully in his hands with books on poison crafting and trap setting. He certainly had a talent for combat. But he never neglected preparation, analysis, and research.

After the end of the Third Great War, Konoha’s high-ranking officials noticed that Fugaku’s passion for science had intensified dramatically. He even built his own laboratory directly beneath his home. And again, no one was surprised—war changes people.

Even Mikoto, who had known him her entire life, wasn’t surprised. As a wife who respected personal boundaries, she accepted her husband's decision without question. She never entered the laboratory.

Sometimes, Fugaku would call on Shisui and Itachi to help—hold a test tube, log some data, run a basic analysis or trial.

Itachi—serious, focused, attentive—always followed instructions precisely.

Shisui—curious, a mischievous spark in his eyes—sometimes asked too many questions, but never crossed the boundaries Fugaku set. They had both seen the laboratory, both knew their father was working on something important for the clan or for Konoha as a whole. But neither suspected that beneath their feet, deeper than they could imagine, another level was hidden.

A hidden lab.

Fugaku stood by the far wall and, listening closely to make sure the house was truly empty, pulled on a barely visible metal plate embedded in the concrete. A mechanism engaged—there was a click, then a soft hum, and a section of the wall slid aside, revealing a narrow passage and a metal staircase leading downward. The concealed hatch closed behind him, cutting off the light from above and leaving only the dim glow of the lower level.

The space looked nearly identical to the upper lab—glass cabinets, shelves of tools, glimmering reagents. But the atmosphere here was completely different. This was where he reconstructed formulas and inventions from a past life.

On the long table by the far wall lay a project he had spent over a year on. Beneath a flask secured with steel clamps, a thick, almost fluorescent bright green liquid flowed slowly through curved tubes. A device hummed softly as it heated the mixture, pressure building until the substance began to drip, drop by drop, into a vial set under the intake valve.

A muscle steroid. In his former world, it was called Venom.

There, it had been a source of incredible power… and inevitable ruin.

After defeating Bane—in a battle where the enemy had nearly shattered his spine for good—Thomas hadn’t left anything to chance. He investigated the origin of the substance Bane used. The truth was horrifying and all too familiar: government experiments, underground labs, test subjects pulled from prisons. The goal was simple and insane—create the perfect soldier. A single dose could turn even the most frail and exhausted man into a machine of destruction. But the price…

The price was almost immediate degradation. Mental faculties plummeted like a stone in a well, the body burned itself out from within. Early versions of Venom killed within weeks. But over time, the formula was refined—strength increased, side effects lessened. It was this improved version that Bane had stolen. It granted monstrous power without loss of intellect, but still destroyed the body slowly, inevitably. Every injection cut a year off one’s life.

Thomas wrestled with the formula for years. Ten years of research, trials, errors, improvements. But the solution, strangely enough, hadn’t come from chemistry. It came from this new reality.

This world had something Gotham never did—chakra.

Chakra—mystical energy flowing through every shinobi’s body—strengthened cells, accelerated regeneration, and, as it turned out, neutralized the destructive effects of Venom. Fugaku had confirmed this personally—on test subjects bought off the black market, criminals who were never meant to return to society. He administered the drug, monitored them, measured, documented every effect.

And unlike Bane… their bodies didn’t die.

They grew stronger. Faster. Their skin thickened, muscles expanded, but their minds remained intact. Their emotions, too. Chakra acted as a buffer, a stabilizer. Combined with Venom, it created something new. Something perfected.

Fugaku stripped off his outer clothing. A dark long-sleeved shirt dropped to the floor, followed by his boots. He remained in loose training pants. The lab was cool, but Fugaku didn’t shiver. He knew what was about to happen to his body in the next few minutes—and he was ready.

He walked over to the table where a syringe lay waiting, already prepared and sterilized. Beside it sat a vial filled with bright green liquid. Venom. A serum that altered a man on the cellular level.

He sat on a high stool, positioned himself comfortably, and slowly—like a surgeon—drew several milliliters of the substance into the syringe. His movements were calm, as if he were preparing a routine vaccine. He found a vein on his forearm and, without hesitation, pushed the needle under his skin. A sharp prick—then the thick liquid began to enter his bloodstream.

The reaction was nearly instant.

Fugaku didn’t scream, though pain exploded through his body like fire. His muscles spasmed and seized, the stool toppled, and he crashed to the cold floor. His body convulsed—his teeth clenched so hard it was a wonder they didn’t shatter, thick saliva dripping from his chin. His chest expanded like bellows of a forge, as if a volcano was igniting inside him.

Through the pulsing agony, he felt his skin flush, every muscle swelling from within, tearing and then reforging itself—stronger, larger. Veins bulged like living snakes along his arms and neck, surfaced across his forehead and down his ribs. His bones—each one—cracked like brittle twigs. His height began to shift, joints popping loudly, spine stretching. Pain? Yes. But not uncontrollable. He endured it.

The minutes dragged like an eternity before it was finally over. The tremors stopped. His heartbeat, pounding violently in his temples, began to slow. He lay there on the floor, breathing heavily, soaked in sweat and power. The air was thick, buzzing in his ears, but every cell in his body… was alive. Awakened. Reinforced. Renewed.

Slowly, with the grace of a predator, Fugaku rose. His legs no longer felt familiar—they were thicker, heavier, like columns built to bear the weight of a titan. He walked toward the tall mirror mounted to the wall and looked at himself.

A stranger stared back.

Massive shoulders. A chest like an elite fighter’s. Perfectly sculpted muscles, bulging veins. His neck—short and broad, almost bullish. His face had sharpened: cheekbones more pronounced, jaw wider. He looked like a statue brought to life—a Greek hero carved from marble.

He stood to his full height and blinked in mild surprise—the mirror reflected a man at least twenty centimeters taller than the one he was used to. From his usual one-eighty, he’d crossed the two-meter mark. Fugaku was now one of the tallest people in the village—and possibly the most intimidating.

"This is what a shinobi should look like—commanding respect without a word," he murmured with satisfaction.

Itachi would understand.

Shisui would joke.

And Mikoto… she would likely remain silent, as always, quietly accepting whatever change came over him.

A sudden change in physique could be explained by many things—in a world full of jutsu and anomalies, such transformations rarely caused panic. Muscles? Who knew how many secret training sessions the head of the Uchiha clan undertook. Height? Shinobi had techniques to instantly lengthen hair, increase breast size, even slow aging. Some clans could change their appearance entirely.

But he had an even stronger argument—hiden jutsu. A personal, secret art. Legal, recognized, but not subject to disclosure. If a shinobi said their technique was hiden, pressing for details was considered rude. One word was enough to end any conversation. And he would use it, if necessary.

Fugaku touched his neck, checking his pulse. Everything within normal limits. He could feel the strength surging through his veins, his muscles harder than wood, his skin tougher than armor.

This was a super-soldier serum. A weapon capable of shifting the balance of power in the shinobi world. And he had no intention of sharing it with anyone.

Venom required regularity. One injection per week—and the body remained in optimal condition. Without maintenance doses, the muscles would gradually shrink, the body weaken. But with discipline, the results were undeniable.

Now, he had a body that could withstand the most extreme stress. He already felt faster—his leg muscles coiled like compressed springs. He could likely leap over the rooftop of a neighboring house in a single bound. As for strength… he could already picture his punch shattering an opponent’s shield and the stone wall behind it.

It was time to rethink his combat arsenal. Techniques once deemed too dangerous for his own body were now safe to use.

///

In the office of Uchiha’s Police Captain, silence reigned as usual—dense, oppressive, disciplined. Even the sound of paper being moved from one side of the desk to the other echoed dully, like footsteps in an empty hall.

Someone knocked.

“Come in,” Fugaku said curtly, sliding the reports into a leather folder embossed with the clan crest.

The door creaked open, and in walked a man.

Might Duy.

Wearing a tight green jumpsuit, orange leg-warmers, and a forehead protector, he looked more like a circus performer than a shinobi. Messy hair, thick eyebrows hanging over his eyes like two shaggy caterpillars, and stubble sticking out in all directions gave him the look of a man who’d long forgotten what a mirror was. His appearance didn’t just fail to meet shinobi expectations—it irritated.

Fugaku, used to order, neatness, even a ritualistic sense of presentation, felt this visual chaos almost like physical pain.

“I was stopped by your people on the street,” Duy mumbled, awkwardly rubbing his hands as he stood by the door. “They said you wanted to see me, Fugaku-sama, but didn’t explain why…”

“For official business,” Fugaku cut him off, staring directly into his eyes. “Sit down, Duy.”

He gestured to a wooden chair in front of the desk—hard, without armrests, as if it were meant not for guests but for interrogations.

Duy sat down reluctantly, shoulders slumped, as if expecting a trap beneath the chair.

“We live in the same village,” Fugaku began, his tone cold, like reading from a report. “Both shinobi. Nearly the same age. And yet… we’ve never spoken.”

He paused, as if giving Duy a chance to say something—yet the man only swallowed and nodded.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Of course, Fugaku-sama,” Duy murmured. “You’re… the police captain, head of the Uchiha clan, hero of the Third War, a jōnin.”

“Correct,” Fugaku nodded. “And yet Konoha barely speaks of you. Not because of fear,” he reached into a drawer and pulled out a thin folder—just two sheets of paper. “This is your entire life’s record.”

He opened the first page and began to read aloud, not lifting his eyes from the paper:

“Might Duy. Age thirty-three. Rank: genin. According to the Analysis Division’s assessment: ‘Intelligence below average, incapable of independent mission planning or evaluation. No leadership potential.’”

He looked up. Duy had already turned red, like a student who had just failed an exam.

“In other words,” Fugaku added dryly, “according to Konoha, you’re dumber than some Academy graduates.”

He turned the page.

“Mission contribution—zero. No notable actions during the war. Quoting a partner’s review: ‘His shouts about the power of youth are irritating. I refuse to work with him again.’”

Duy took a breath, clearly about to say something foolish, but Fugaku cut him off:

“In your free time—solo taijutsu training. Never married. One son—Might Guy, now a jōnin. The child’s mother fled after giving birth.”

He closed the folder and set it aside.

“As you can see, Duy, we have nothing in common. And yet, you may still be useful to me.”

Fugaku clasped his fingers in front of him, leaned forward slightly, and looked him straight in the eyes—a gaze that sent a chill down the spine.

“I want to buy the technique of the Eight Gates from you.”

Duy froze, then shook his head.

“Fugaku-sama, I can’t. I… I passed that technique down to my son. It’s his path now.”

“It’s not your technique,” Fugaku said sharply. “Do you know how I even found out about your existence?”

He stood and walked to a bookshelf, pulling out a thick, old folder bearing Konoha’s emblem. He placed it on the desk, opened it, and unfolded one of the yellowed pages.

“A wartime chronicle from the era of Madara Uchiha. Enemies he faced, including masters of the Eight Gates. Long before you were born. This technique is not yours, Duy. It’s a secret art passed to Konoha from the Senju clan. It became part of the village’s legacy.”

He closed the folder.

“Hiruzen,” Fugaku said, with a faint trace of contempt, “took pity on you. Saw that you were hopeless at everything except brute physical strength. So he gave you the technique to keep you from breaking completely.”

Duy’s face was burning. He clenched his fists and lowered his head. His breathing grew quicker. He didn’t look angry—he looked humiliated.

“But… it’s a kinjutsu,” Duy muttered, barely above a whisper. “A forbidden technique. It kills the user. Hokage-sama… he forbade me from teaching it to anyone.”

“And you disobeyed that order,” Fugaku interrupted harshly, “when you passed the technique to your son.”

Duy froze.

“Don’t bother making excuses. I’m not ANBU. I don’t need a reason to crush you. But you’re still alive because I am a rational man. I know my body’s limits. I won’t die from stupidity or ignorant overconfidence. I will calculate every stage.”

He straightened up, and his massive figure blocked the light from the window. Against the morning sun, he looked like a statue—a perfectly carved union of strength and will.

Duy looked up at him, his eyes widening like a child staring at a dream behind glass. When he spoke again, his voice was louder, tinged with something like awe:

“You’re really strong, Fugaku-sama. I saw the Raikage during the war. And you—you’re like him. Maybe even stronger. No matter how hard I trained, I never reached that. What’s your secre—”

Fugaku cut him off with a single sharp word:

“Hiden jutsu.”

His tone said: This conversation is over. Duy understood. He swallowed the rest of the sentence and bit his lip.

“Do you understand why you’re here right now, Duy?” Fugaku asked coldly, looking at him like a teacher addressing a student lost on the most basic principles.

“You… want to buy the technique from me?”

“No,” Fugaku snapped. “You’re here because of my mercy.”

He walked to the window and looked down at the streets of Konoha, at the people below. Then — over his shoulder — at Duy.

“I could have pulled everything out of you under genjutsu. You wouldn’t have even realized you were talking to me, not an illusion of your son. But I… am showing restraint. I’m spending my time. Not conducting business. Not earning money. Instead, I’m speaking to you—Might Duy, the eternal genin.”

Duy blinked again, and it seemed only now did he truly grasp where he was. And with whom.

“Value my mercy,” Fugaku repeated. “For one S-rank technique, I offer something of equal value. One favor. From the leader of the village’s most powerful clan.”

He paused, letting the words sink in.

“Do you want to move out of your shack on the outskirts and live in the heart of Konoha? It’s possible. Want the rank of jōnin? You’ll have it. Want your name to be spoken on the streets not as a joke, but with respect?”

“You… you can do all that?” Duy’s voice trembled. He looked like someone who had just been offered a ticket to another world.

“I can do anything,” Fugaku replied flatly. “As long as it doesn’t go against my interests.”

Silence. Then Duy slowly raised his head. His voice no longer shook—it was unexpectedly sincere.

“I don’t need wealth. I’ve never lived with it—and I won’t start now. The only thing I have…” he swallowed, “is my son. He’s my only treasure. If… the Uchiha clan could take care of him…”

Fugaku didn’t answer right away. His gaze turned heavy, like a block of granite.

Might Guy. Fifteen years old. Jōnin. Taijutsu master level. Summoning: giant turtle. Downside—acts like a circus clown. But that could be corrected.

“It can be arranged,” he said at last. “After the Nine-Tails attack, many widows remain. Among them—Uchiha Suzumebachi. Nineteen. No children. I’ll give her a personal recommendation for Guy.”

He paused. Then, glancing at Duy’s pitiful appearance, he added:

“And I’ll provide funds for the wedding. Guy will take his wife’s surname and join the Uchiha clan.”

Duy broke. He dropped to his knees, bowing his forehead to the floor.

“Thank you, Fugaku-sama, thank you! I never dreamed my boy would bear such a great name…”

Fugaku gave no reaction. Words of gratitude were empty air to him. Everything was going according to plan. He had already calculated the outcome.

Suzumebachi was known for being ambitious, quarrelsome, and demanding. She would nag her husband day and night. Insist he throw away that green jumpsuit, dress like a normal person, learn proper manners. She would push him to take more missions, earn respect, live up to the Uchiha name.

Fugaku saw it clearly: Guy would change. He would stop being a laughingstock. And maybe… become a good husband.

Duy was still kneeling. But now—not before an enemy.

Before a patron.