Batman in Konoha. Chapter 10 and 11. The Fear Dealer

3900 words.

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Several months had passed since that night when the Nine-Tails’ roar shook Konoha. Autumn had left behind crimson leaves, and winter arrived, bringing with it a crisp frost. The cold bit at fingers, and the air was laced with the smoke of hot rice and wood-burning stoves.

Fugaku Uchiha did not believe in peace. He knew the enemy behind that attack would show himself again. The one who had commanded the Nine-Tails hadn’t vanished—he was merely waiting.

The investigation had stalled, as if it had hit a wall of ice. Witnesses were scarce; leads even scarcer. But the case wasn’t closed.

The next move had to be made—to smoke out the rats.

And yet, despite the lingering threat, life continued. After the tragedy, the clan grew quieter, more focused. The Uchiha looked at each other differently now—with restraint, with awareness—but also with a newfound closeness.

Shisui had moved into Fugaku’s estate shortly after the tragedy. The decision had come easily—not for Shisui, but for Fugaku. Shisui never asked. But he was alone, adrift, and Fugaku knew all too well what it meant to be left without support.

Mikoto welcomed him without a word. She simply laid out fresh bedding in the spare room and invited him to dinner.

Itachi hadn’t said anything when Shisui brought his belongings, but there was something like relief flickering in his eyes. He showed his friend around the house, pointed out where to train in the mornings. Since then, they were rarely apart.

Sasuke, still too young to speak, simply reached for him with tiny hands—as if he instinctively knew this man was now part of the family.

The clan accepted Fugaku’s decision without surprise. If the clan head chose to take in his second cousin—then so be it. The Uchiha understood: family was not just blood, but duty.

For the first time in a long while, Shisui felt like he belonged. Every day, Fugaku gave him more than orders—he offered knowledge, advice, a worldview that valued not just jutsu but strategy and responsibility. Shisui was learning, even when he said nothing, simply watching from behind.

Hiruzen approved with a quiet nod, a gesture steeped in long-earned wisdom. He had known Shisui since childhood, trusted him almost like a son, and hoped this young man might help bridge the rift between the Hokage and the Uchiha. Both sides needed a bridge.

In turn, Fugaku gained an unexpected but invaluable ally.

There was no idle time in his life: the investigation, clan meetings, police reports, patrols, politics… family. Shisui didn’t solve every problem, but he shouldered some of the weight. He became Fugaku’s eyes and ears when other duties called him elsewhere.

Winter whispered quietly at the windows. Gusts of wind carried snowflakes that settled on the sills and quickly melted, as if to remind them—the world could be cold, but the home must be warm.

Morning. The whole family gathered at the table. Mikoto flitted between bowls like a light-footed butterfly. Steam rose from rice, stewed vegetables, and meat, filling the air with a comforting aroma.

"Enjoy your meal!" Shisui declared cheerfully, deftly picking up a slice of carrot with his chopsticks. He sucked in a breath to cool it, then closed his eyes in delight. "Mmm! Mikoto-sama, did you use the broth from yesterday’s mussels? This is a masterpiece!"

Itachi had already taken his first bite, but at Shisui’s comment, he slowed down, chewing thoughtfully as if evaluating the flavor.

"Indeed," Itachi said calmly, glancing at his mother. "It’s well prepared."

"Thank you, Shisui-kun," Mikoto said softly, a slight blush touching her cheeks as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I’m glad you like it. I did my best."

Beside her sat two toddlers in high chairs. Sasuke and Naruto—almost the same age—each holding a milk bottle, drinking contentedly.

After delicate negotiations between Fugaku and Hiruzen, Mikoto had been granted temporary permission to take in the son of her late friend Kushina. Only until his first birthday. After that, according to what Fugaku considered a foolish village policy, Naruto would be sent to an orphanage.

Silence at this table was a rare occurrence.

"Did you hear what happened yesterday at the Yamanaka flower shop?" Shisui spoke up unexpectedly. "They say the Daimyo's wife came in looking for a bouquet to match the color of her cat."

"Her cat is brown," Itachi noted. "That's the color of rot, soil, manure..."

"Exactly!" Shisui grinned.

Everyone listened as he recounted how the whims of the Daimyo’s wife had added a few gray hairs to the Yamanaka clan head. Laughter and smiles spread around the table.

With his chatter, soft charisma, and unexpected stories, Shisui filled the house with a vibrant warmth. Mikoto smiled more often now—not politely, but genuinely.

Itachi had started talking about more than just training. Sometimes he shared what he saw at the Academy, his thoughts about the weather, or poems he’d read.

Sasuke and Naruto giggled when Shisui made faces at them.

Fugaku never said it out loud, but he hadn’t adopted Shisui for his talents, politics, or impressive career path. He had taken the boy in for the light inside him—a light he shared freely with others. Without Shisui, their home would have been as quiet as a tombstone.

When breakfast ended, Fugaku rose from the table first. As usual—without a word. Just a slight nod to signal: it's time. Shisui set down his cup, gave Mikoto a quick glance, smiled at Sasuke and Naruto—and followed his teacher.

They headed toward the back of the house, where a door led down to the basement. It was now a laboratory—new, sterile, with fuinjutsu tags on every stone. Built according to strict standards, protected against spies.

Itachi caught up with them at the stairs.

“Can I come with you?” he asked, serious as always. His voice was calm, but his eyes held focused anticipation.

“No,” Fugaku said sharply, not slowing his pace. “You haven’t even graduated the Academy. You have no business in the lab.”

Itachi didn’t react outwardly, but his gaze dimmed slightly. He understood his father wasn’t being cruel. Just stating facts. Father always spoke in facts.

Shisui stepped closer and placed a hand on the younger Uchiha’s shoulder. His usual smile—not playful, but reassuring, almost brotherly—softened the refusal.

“Hey, do this instead,” he said, lowering his voice like sharing a secret. “On my desk is a book—The History of the Land of Iron. Really cool stuff. It covers samurai techniques they never teach at the Academy. Learn something useful, and we’ll train together later.”

He winked, and Itachi gave the faintest of smiles.

“All right. Thanks, Shisui-nii-san.”

He went back upstairs, and only when he vanished around the corner did Fugaku say curtly:

“You spoil him.”

“I know,” Shisui shrugged. “But training’s the only way I can get Itachi to smile. One day, I swear, I’ll make him laugh.”

“Hell will freeze over first.”

They descended the creaking wooden stairs. At the heavy door, Fugaku paused, eyeing a glass carafe of water and, next to it, a tightly sealed vial of colorless liquid. He uncorked the vial, let a single drop fall into a glass, and handed it to Shisui.

“Drink.”

“This again?” Shisui grimaced but took the glass. “I’m almost used to the taste by now…”

He drank in one gulp, trying not to wince. The aftertaste was metallic, slightly bitter, and left an odd sensation on his tongue.

Fugaku watched him closely, unblinking. No reaction. No shapeshifter, clone, or parasite could pass this test. Ever since the incident with the white metamorph—whose nature had fooled even the Sharingan—he’d become a paranoiac.

“I still say we should make everyone who enters the village drink this stuff,” he muttered.

“You already proposed that. Hiruzen refused,” Shisui replied with a shrug.

“He said it would undermine trust. That people wouldn’t understand. That the clans would revolt. The same old nonsense.”

“Trust…” Shisui gave a wry smile. “Great idea—if you forget how the Nine-Tails tore through half the village. I say let people be offended. At least they’ll still be alive.”

“Exactly,” Fugaku said, unlocking the door.

They stepped into the lab.

The light hit his eyes—bright and white. The entire room gleamed, scrubbed to a shine. A few metal tables stood lined with equipment: microscopes, sealed flasks, reagents in numbered jars. In one corner—an operating table with leather straps; in another—a freezer. And at the far end, behind a glass partition, floated a massive capsule filled with orange liquid. Suspended inside was a dead metamorph. One arm was missing.

“I ran into Orochimaru in the Hokage’s office yesterday,” said Shisui, gazing at the capsule. “His sample ran out. He wants more.”

“Tell him he won’t get any,” Fugaku replied without even glancing over. “He should learn to take care of what he’s given. Or better yet—keep his hands to himself.”

“You really want me to say that… to him? To the White Snake of Konoha? The one rumored to eat children?” Shisui sighed theatrically. “Fugaku, you might as well hand me a kunai and say, ‘grab the sharp end.’”

“A valuable lesson. Learn to say ‘no’ to psychopaths. Especially the ones with long tongues and venomous fangs.”

“Lessons like that, I’m afraid, only you can teach,” Shisui shook his head. “Only you.”

Fugaku didn’t answer. He was still recalling that meeting.

Orochimaru had sat in the chair like it was a throne. His movements were overly smooth, like a snake stirring from winter slumber. His voice—silken, mocking.

“My, my… so many talents in the Uchiha clan leader,” he had said, his tongue flicking lightly across his lips. “A warrior’s body, a scholar’s mind. How many years have you worked on this? Five? Ten? It doesn’t matter. I’ve been learning this world since birth. You’ll never match me.”

Fugaku hadn’t argued. He simply stood and left. That conversation made it clear why Hiruzen hadn’t chosen Orochimaru as his successor. A wise decision.

“So, what’s on the agenda today?” Shisui asked, rubbing his hands with barely contained enthusiasm. “Yesterday was tissue analysis. Something more... explosive today?”

Fugaku walked to the freezer, unlocked it, and retrieved a test tube filled with a yellow liquid. It gleamed thickly under the cold lights, leaving sticky trails on the glass.

“New compound,” he said briefly, casting a glance toward the capsule. “Get the metamorph.”

Shisui sighed and rolled up his sleeves.

“Not a single day without an autopsy... And people wonder why the Uchiha clan has a grim reputation.”

Above them, in the house, Sasuke reached for a sunbeam, Mikoto prepared lunch, and Itachi read about the techniques of ancient swordsmen.

Life went on—just like always.

But beneath it—darkness boiled.

///

With the coming of frost, Konoha shifted into winter mode: steam poured from shop doors, people bundled into scarves, and from morning till night the streets buzzed with noise, coughs, and sneezes. Just a typical cold season. A golden time for healers, apothecaries—and, of course, charlatans. Every day at the southern gate, the guards logged new arrivals: medics, herbalists, traveling doctors with wagons—and all of them, without fail, paid a fee to the village to sell their wares within its walls.

This day was no different.

“Don’t miss your chance!” shouted one of those newcomers from atop his cart. A mustached merchant in a red vest, with the voice of a theater actor, spoke like he was leading an auction. “A brand-new remedy! Say goodbye to colds—once and for all!”

The skepticism of Konoha’s people was almost tangible. These folks could tell the difference between a potion and slop—and no con artist could fool them easily. But the merchant was persistent.

“Only today—the first spoon is free!” he proclaimed triumphantly. “No tricks!”

The word free worked like a key: the crowd clustered around the cart, hands reaching out.

“Ugh, bitter!” grimaced one man, stepping back after taking a spoonful.

“What did you expect?” the merchant grinned slyly. “Real medicine is always bitter. The more bitter, the stronger the effect! Remember my words!”

The line grew. Most tried the free sample and moved on. Only a few were interested in buying.

That is—until she approached the cart.

The wife of the Hyuuga clan head—a delicate figure in an expensive kimono, with pale skin like carved porcelain and lavender eyes as clear as her husband’s. Everyone knew she was gravely ill. No one said it aloud, but the way people watched her made it clear—the illness was slowly claiming her.

“Please, my lady,” the merchant said with a gallant bow, offering her a spoon.

She took it. Drank. And everything changed.

At first, she swayed. Then she dropped to her knees, as if her body had stopped obeying her. From her skin—straight from her pores—something unnatural began to ooze: a white mass, thick and waxy, pouring out from within. The mass took shape.

A humanoid figure with deathly pale skin, tangled green hair, and yellow eyes. It howled in pain. It was alive.

The crowd recoiled with screams. People scattered in panic. The creature collapsed—and went still. Its flesh began to rot before their eyes, melting into the dirty snow. Within seconds, only a foul-smelling puddle remained.

The ANBU arrived within minutes. The area was sealed off. An investigation began.

///

By nightfall, as dry snow tapped across the Hokage’s office roof, the heads of all the clans gathered in the great council hall. The air was tight as a bowstring. At the long table sat the Yamanaka, Akimichi, Nara, Hyuuga, Inuzuka, and Aburame. In one corner, silent ANBU agents stood watch.

Hiruzen took the central seat—back straight, fully robed, his face unreadable.

Silence fell as the door opened and Fugaku entered. He walked in like a man summoned to trial—slowly but steadily, with a straight back and a predatory look. Eyes clung to him like claws: wary, hostile, expectant.

“After the investigation, we’ve got some questions for you…” Hiruzen began, but didn’t finish.

“You already have all the answers,” Fugaku cut him off coldly. “The merchant confessed. He named me. Yes, I gave him the crate of mixtures. Yes, I told him to offer free samples. I left enough evidence that none of you should be in doubt. Or do you need me to say it aloud?”

The silence grew heavier. Someone inhaled sharply. Yamanaka’s leader pressed his lips together in frustration. Hiashi Hyuuga leaned slightly forward, as if ready to speak. Inuzuka Tsume, by contrast, smirked like a wolf enjoying the show. Nara Shikaku watched with calm detachment, as if confirming what he already knew. The other clan heads held their composure, but the air was boiling.

“You’re admitting to deliberately experimenting on civilians?” Inoichi Yamanaka said through clenched teeth.

Fugaku waved it off, as if brushing away nonsense.

“It was a demonstration of your weakness.”

He began to walk slowly between the tables, like a prosecutor in a courtroom. Each step echoed far too loudly in the silence.

“There are spies in Konoha. They slip through your checks like water through fingers. Even your Byakugan, Hiashi, couldn’t spot the enemy in his own bed.”

Hiashi’s fists clenched. His knuckles turned white.

“These things don’t disguise themselves—they invade. Parasites. The shell remains, but inside, they devour us. You don’t notice until it’s too late.”

He paused. Everyone was listening. Even those who didn’t want to believe.

“Today, I stationed three merchants in different parts of Konoha. Each gave out the mixture. Each found one. A metamorph. A spy. Three in one day. Now imagine how many more are hiding among those we love.”

“We hear you, Fugaku,” Hiruzen said wearily, folding his hands. “You’ve proven the threat. You’ve shown how to detect it. I doubt any of us will object if every resident of the village... takes one spoon of this medicine.”

The council exploded into voices. Everyone talking at once, loud and urgent—each trying to assert their knowledge, their influence, their importance. It was no longer a meeting—it was a performance of power.

“And who are these… white creatures, anyway?” boomed Chōza Akimichi in gruff confusion, his fingers nervously drumming the table.

“A variant of the Wood Release genome,” Fugaku said crisply. “I don’t know the enemy’s name, but without a doubt—he has mastered the legendary power of the First Hokage.”

Several heads turned toward him at once.

“How did you learn of their existence?” Hiashi Hyuuga asked coldly. His voice was even, but there was personal resentment behind it.

“I encountered one of them before,” Fugaku replied calmly. “During the investigation into the disappearance of Obito’s Sharingan. Back then, I had no tool to expose them. Now I do.”

A pause followed. Silence before the next blow.

“Is this the work of the Akatsuki?” Tsume Inuzuka muttered, narrowing her eyes. “What if they’ve planted spies in every village?”

“Quite possible,” Fugaku nodded. “There’s reason to believe that with the Wood Release genome, they can create these parasites as easily as we create shadow clones.”

It was like throwing oil into fire—the room erupted in a new wave of debate. Some spoke of a possible epidemic, others of an international threat, and whispers were already spreading about a complete screening of all shinobi.

Hiruzen assumed the role of pacifier—cooling tempers, interrupting the most aggressive voices, steering the conversation back on course with calm but firm control.

Fugaku stepped back into the shadows. He had said enough. There was no turning back now. No one suggested “leaving things as they were” anymore.

And then, as if drawing a final line, the Hokage said:

“In light of everything that’s happened,” he said in a judge’s tone, “I declare mandatory screening for all Konoha residents. From this day forward, anyone leaving the village must take one spoon of the mixture.”

There were no objections. Some nodded. Others silently accepted the verdict.

“Fugaku,” Hiruzen continued, “I expect you to hand the recipe over to the hospital tonight, so that mass production can begin by morning.”

“The recipe stays with me,” Fugaku said flatly, without a hint of hesitation. “Anyone who wants to test their loved ones can purchase the mixture from me. The price is reasonable.”

He paused, locking eyes with the Hokage.

“For the government… a discount is possible. On large bulk orders.”

The room erupted.

“You filthy profiteer!”

“Uchiha is making money off the village’s suffering!”

“Where’s your Will of Fire, you son of a bitch?!”

Fugaku looked at them with lazy disdain. There was no shame in his eyes. Only cold superiority.

“Colleagues, in case you’ve forgotten,” he said calmly, “I’m not just a shinobi—I’m a businessman. Taking advantage of an opportunity and making a profit isn’t a crime. Any one of you would’ve done the same in my place.”

“Don’t speak for all of us!” Chōza flared up. “I’m nothing like you!”

Fugaku smirked, meeting his eyes directly.

“Of course not. You own the largest restaurant chain in Konoha. And if you were a patriot in more than just words, you’d have been feeding shinobi for free long ago. Or at least not raising ramen prices every winter.”

He turned to Inoichi Yamanaka.

“And you? Don’t you raise flower prices before every holiday? We all know how the game is played. Stop pretending otherwise.”

Some lowered their eyes. Others clenched their teeth.

“Fugaku,” Hiruzen began, his voice soft but tight, “we are the leaves of one tree. We put aside personal gain to unite against a common enemy. That is the Will of Fire.”

Fugaku snorted.

“Then pool your resources. In money. If the village matters so much—pay. And don’t cloak demands for charity in grand speeches.”

“We’ve got a few samples of the mixture left,” came Shikaku Nara’s lazy voice—but there was steel in it now. “We can crack your recipe, Fugaku.”

“I don’t doubt it for a second,” Fugaku sneered. “After all, you own the largest pharmacy network in Konoha. The problem is time. How long will it take? A month? A year? Five? —” He stepped closer, looming over Shikaku. “You don’t even know where to start. This isn’t a puzzle—it’s a needle in a haystack. Maybe you’ll get lucky on the first try… or maybe the enemy gives the order tomorrow, and the parasites begin killing their hosts from within. Maybe that host… is your son.”

Shikaku clenched his jaw so hard, there was an audible crack.

“We could just steal the recipe,” Hiashi Hyuuga said dryly. “We’re shinobi, don’t forget that.”

Fugaku only shrugged.

“Go ahead and try. Just know this: I’m the only one who knows the full recipe. My shadow clones brew the mixture at a sealed facility. It won’t be easy. And time is ticking.”

“What if we rip the truth out of you?” Tsume Inuzuka growled. Her voice was almost a snarl.

“I won’t go down without a fight. And trust me—half the people in this room will come with me,” Fugaku said, and for a moment, his Sharingan flared. “And if even a single hair falls from my family’s heads, the Uchiha clan will rise in open rebellion. Konoha will burn brighter than the night the Nine-Tails attacked.”

A wave of noise swept the room. Someone stood up. Others started firing off the same questions, over and over, in different forms. It was no longer debate—it was helpless chaos, echoing in circles.

Fugaku waited for the noise to die down. Then, without a word, he placed a sheet of paper on the table.

“That’s the price for the first batch. One spoon per resident of Konoha. The Hokage will bring the money himself. Tomorrow. Six a.m. To my house. If he doesn’t come—Uchiha leaves Konoha. And you can fight the parasites on your own.”

He left the room, which now buzzed like a hornet’s nest.

///

The next morning, at exactly six o’clock, there was a knock at the Uchiha compound gate.

Hiruzen stood at the doorstep. In his hands—two heavy suitcases. His face was tired, shoulders slumped, the lines on his face deeper than the day before.

“You’ve just become the richest man in Konoha,” he said, handing over the cases.

Fugaku silently activated his Sharingan. In a blink, he counted the contents—then gave a short nod. Everything was there. Not a single counterfeit note.

“The crates of mixture and the full recipe are already in the hospital basement,” he replied. “From now on you can produce it yourself.”

“What?” Hiruzen blinked. His face seemed to smooth out, as if shedding ten years in a second. “It was a bluff. Even if I hadn’t come—you would’ve handed it over. For free.”

Fugaku said nothing. The play was over, the cards laid bare, the game finished.

“I swear, I don’t understand what goes on in your head,” the Hokage breathed. “You know you’ve turned every clan in the village against you with this display of greed.”

“No worse than usual,” Fugaku replied with a shrug. “The Uchiha have never been liked. Now they just have a new reason to talk.”

“But why do you need that much money?” Hiruzen asked, and there was almost a fatherly ache in his voice. “You’re not a poor man.”

For the first time, Fugaku smiled—not bitterly, not coldly, but genuinely.

“It’s an investment. In a new business. As long as I live, the Uchiha won’t just be the strongest clan… they’ll be the richest, too.”

And he shut the door in the Hokage’s face.