Chương 48: Illusion

Shin woke to a clock on the wall reading past nine. Cold dishes sat on the low table—someone had brought food while he was out. He'd slept through everything. The bone-deep fatigue was gone, at least. He dressed, ate what he could stomach cold, and stepped into the hallway. The door to the next room opened at the same moment. Two young Sand shinobi—the boys from the border checkpoint—emerged into the corridor. The fan girl was already there, waiting. The boys didn't recognize him.

At the gate, they hadn't spared him a glance. The girl's gaze passed over Shin once, flat and uncurious, before the three of them headed for the inn's main hall. They're staying here too. He tried Tsume's door. No answer. Right—the caravan crew had invited her out to eat. They'd come for him too, but he'd been dead to the world. Still not back, apparently. Nothing better to do. He wandered through the main hall, past travelers hunched over sake cups and low conversation, and out into the night. ……

The border town was alive. Wide streets strung with colored lanterns, lined end to end with izakaya, restaurants, gambling dens, and entertainment halls. Laughter and the clatter of cups spilled from every doorway. The air smelled like grilled meat, sake, and something sweet he couldn't place. It was nothing like Konoha. In the Leaf, shops grew out of residential neighborhoods—organic, unhurried.

Here, it was commerce from one end of the street to the other, a town built for people passing through, not for anyone who stayed. It reminded him of cities from before. The sprawl, the noise, the gaudy excess. Intoxicating even when you knew better. Too bad he was trapped in a child's body. Couldn't drink. Would get turned away at the door of half these places. Street vendors had set up stalls along the curb, hawking snacks and cheap toys aimed at kids. Shin had no interest. He drifted, content to look.

Then he spotted them. The Sand trio, clustered around a small stall up ahead. Daimaru was crouched in front of a shallow basin, paper net in hand. Goldfish scooping. The sign read: 50 ryō — 3 tries.

"Come on! Why does it keep breaking?!" The net tore again. Daimaru clutched his head.

"Because your hand won't stop shaking," his companion said, standing behind him with arms folded.

"You think it's easy? You try." The other boy shrugged, knelt, took the net, and swept it toward a darting flash of orange. Splash. Rip. The fish dropped through the hole and vanished back into the water.

"..."

"..."

"Ha!" Daimaru was doubled over.

"You're worse than me!"

"Shut up." The boy's ears went red.

"Temari, want a turn?" He looked up at the girl standing behind them.

"... Fine." Temari stepped forward and knelt. She took the net in both hands—careful, deliberate—and lowered it toward the water.

"Just relax," the boy said. That made it worse. Her hands shook. The net touched a fish, scooped—and tore on contact.

"..."

"..."

"A-again." A flush crept up Temari's neck.

"Pfft—"" Daimaru. Laugh one more time." She tried again. Deep breath. The paper net hovered over the basin like a weapon poised to strike. The goldfish darted. She stabbed downward. Rip.

"Again!"

"Take your time, miss." The stall owner smiled.

"A few more tries and you'll have it." Rip. Rip. Rip. Attempt after attempt. Not one success. Temari's expression migrated from embarrassment to something approaching homicidal.

"Uh, Temari? Maybe that's enou—""Maybe we should just—"" Who says I can't do it?!" Temari whipped around. The look she gave the lean boy could have stripped bark from a tree.

"N-nothing. Please. Continue." Temari turned back to the basin. Her hands blurred through a seal. Blue chakra flared along the paper net, reinforcing it from edge to edge, and she plunged it into the water. This time, the fish thrashed and the net held. She lifted it clear, deposited the fish into a paper bowl, and held it up to the stall owner with a look of pure triumph.

"That one doesn't count, I'm afraid." The man pointed at a small placard beside the basin. NO NINJUTSU. Temari stared at the sign.

"Excuse me—I got one." A voice from beside her. Temari turned. A black-haired boy she vaguely recognized—the kid from the inn hallway—was crouching at the basin's edge, paper bowl in hand. A single goldfish flicked its tail inside.

"Huh? When did he—" Daimaru and his companion leaned in, baffled.

"Oh! Well done!" The stall owner blinked, then recovered.

"Congratulations—you can take that one as your prize." He produced a small glass bottle, filled it with water, and transferred the fish.

"I've still got two tries left," Shin said. He lowered the net. One smooth motion—scoop, lift, transfer. A second fish sat in a paper bowl. He reached for a fresh bowl, repeated the motion. Three for three. The net was still intact. Temari: "..." Daimaru: "..." His companion: "..." The stall owner: "..."

"Could you bottle these?" Shin handed over the bowls.

"O-of course." The man fumbled two more bottles out, filled them, and lined all three up in front of Shin. Shin picked them up, turned—and found three faces staring at him with undisguised resentment. He blinked. Then smiled. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"Here. They're yours." He held out the bottles. He had no intention of keeping them—any fish in his care would be dead inside two days.

"Well, I couldn't possibly—" Daimaru was already taking one, scratching the back of his head with an easy grin.

"Thanks, little buddy." His companion and Temari hesitated, then each accepted a bottle.

"You're Sand shinobi, right?" Shin nodded at their forehead protectors. Temari still had the iron fan strapped to her back.

"Oh!" Daimaru puffed up immediately, one finger jabbing at the metal plate on his forehead.

"You are looking at a genin of the Hidden Sand Village! The man they call the Red Sandstorm—Daimaru the Mighty!"

"..."

"Nobody calls you that," the lean boy said. Temari wore the expression of someone who had never met this person.

"If you ever come to the Sand, little buddy, just drop my name. Nobody will give you trouble."

"Dropping your name is how you get trouble."

"So—you from around here?" Daimaru threw an arm around Shin's shoulders, his goodwill apparently purchased for the price of a single goldfish.

"No." Shin slipped free with a practiced turn. Still smiling.

"I'm from Konoha."

"Konoha?" The lean boy startled. Temari's expression didn't change. Daimaru went cold. The grin vanished. The arm dropped. The warmth drained out of him like water through a crack, and the person left behind bore no resemblance to the one who'd been laughing a moment ago. Shin wasn't surprised. He'd seen enough at the checkpoint to expect this.

"You a ninja?" Daimaru's voice had gone flat. His eyes went to Shin's bare forehead—no headband.

"Give me a couple years."

"Tch. Take it back." Daimaru shoved the bottle into Shin's hands. His companion sighed and returned his too. Shin accepted both, uncapped the bottles, and poured the fish back into the stall basin. Temari hadn't moved.

"Temari—you're keeping something from a Leaf ninja?"

"He just said he isn't one yet." Temari's voice was bored, her gaze withering.

"Picking a fight with a kid half your size. Were you looking for more ways to embarrass yourself?" She turned and walked away. She would never admit the real reason was that she wanted the fish—and couldn't catch one herself.

"Hey—Temari?!" No answer.

"Dammit—you Leaf people are all the same!" Daimaru shot Shin one last venomous look and took off after her.

"Sorry about that." The lean boy—Nora—lingered. He gave a small, awkward bow.

"My friend... some things happened recently, and he has certain feelings toward your village. It's a misunderstanding."

"Don't worry about it." Shin shrugged. He'd wanted to talk with them. First time meeting shinobi from another village—he'd been curious. But that door was closed. Nora bowed again and jogged off after his teammates. Shin watched their backs disappear into the crowd. He stood there a moment, then drifted on—wandering the market streets without destination until the noise lost its novelty. He headed back to the inn. …… Light seeped from under Tsume's door. He knocked. Let himself in.

Tsume sat cross-legged at the low table, a cup in her hands. A faint flush colored her cheeks—she'd been drinking—but her eyes were clear and sharp. The cup was probably something to sober up on, not more sake. Kuromaru lay curled in the corner, one ear twitching at Shin's entrance.

"Hey." She glanced over.

"Out exploring?"

"Mm. Walked around a bit."

"Good. Nothing wrong with having some fun." She set the cup down.

"We head out tomorrow morning. Once we're deeper into the Land of Rivers, we'll take our time. It's good country for sightseeing."

"So..." Shin hesitated.

"How long before we go back?"

"Homesick already?" One eyebrow arched.

"Not really. Just wondering."

"Could be two or three days. Could be a week. Could be a month."

"A month..."

"Most people would kill for a trip like this, and here you are trying to cut it short." She shook her head, half-smiling.

"..."

"Stop thinking about going home." The warmth was still there, but something underneath had cooled and hardened. She met his eyes.

"When it's time to go back, we go back. Not before." She held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary.

"It's late. Get some rest." When it's time to go back... And when is that, exactly? Shin closed the door behind him, the question turning without answer. A barbecue restaurant somewhere in the Hidden Leaf. Itachi sat across from Shin, Sasuke, and the third member of their team, but he hadn't touched a thing. The meat sizzled untouched on his side of the grill. He watched the three of them eat, his mind turning the same question over and over. What is this world?

"Nii-san, aren't you going to eat?" Sasuke looked up, chopsticks paused mid-reach.

"I ate not long ago. Go ahead." This Sasuke is the same as the real one... Everything here felt real. Dangerously real. But he knew— knew —that none of it was. He turned to the Uchiha girl.

"What's your name?" The girl blinked. Sasuke and Shin stopped eating too. All three stared at him. Itachi suppressed a frown. Of course. In this world's logic, he already knew her. She was Uchiha—he was supposed to be their jonin instructor.

"Sagiri Uchiha." The girl answered carefully.

"Itachi-sama... Sensei, you... don't recognize me?"

"... I do. Just making sure."

"???" The look was unanimous. The rest of the meal passed in stiff silence. When they stepped out of the restaurant, Itachi said nothing.

"Nii-san, when do we get our first mission?" Sasuke's eyes were bright with anticipation. Shin and Sagiri wore identical expressions.

"... Tomorrow."

"What kind of mission? Will we leave the village? How much is the pay? Will it be hard?"

"Nii-san?"

"Nii-san!"

"Nii-san..." Sasuke's chatter filled his ears, and the noise scraped against something raw inside him. He didn't want this. He resented it—this hollow imitation of warmth.

"I have something to take care of. Go home." He vanished. Body Flicker—gone before they could blink. Three genin stood on the street, rooted in place.

"Did... Sensei just ditch us?" Sagiri murmured.

"Isn't he supposed to be our jonin instructor?"

"I'm sure Itachi-nii has something going on," Shin said.

"Nii-san..." Itachi moved straight for the Hokage's office. Villagers greeted him along the way—civilians, shinobi, familiar faces and strangers alike. He acknowledged none of them. He still didn't understand the nature of this genjutsu. It wasn't like Tsukuyomi. Inside Tsukuyomi, he had absolute control—he could conjure torture, loop old memories, reshape reality on a whim. But the scope was narrow. Suffering and repetition. That was its domain. This was something else entirely.

A world this vast, this detailed—Tsukuyomi couldn't produce it. Not with his ocular power. Not with anyone's. I need to find a way out. But first—I need to understand the rules. He reached the office door and pushed it open without knocking. Inside, Fugaku Uchiha sat behind the desk in civilian clothes, brushing through a stack of documents. He looked up.

"Itachi?" Surprise, then a smile.

"What brings you here? How was your first day as a jonin instructor? How are Sasuke and the others?" Itachi stood in the doorway, studying him. Is this Fugaku real—or a construct?

"Father." He walked forward and stopped on the other side of the desk.

"You should be with Sasuke and Shin right now. Why'd you come here?" Fugaku leaned back in his chair, relaxed, smiling.

"..." He has to be fake. Itachi's brow tightened. He had no way to tell. No way to distinguish this Fugaku from the one in the real world.

"Father—what happened with Tsukasa Takami?"

"Hey." Fugaku's smile dropped.

"That's rude, Itachi. He's your elder. Use the proper address."

"... What happened with Tsukasa-san?"

"What do you mean, 'what happened'?" Fugaku frowned.

"Did something happen to Tsukasa?"

"..." Fake. He has to be.

"Father." Itachi's eyes shifted. Black bled into crimson—three tomoe spinning in each iris. He fixed Fugaku with a cold, unblinking stare. Father's genjutsu... Is he watching? Can he see what I'm doing in here? Maybe I can learn something from this.

"Itachi?!" Fugaku straightened, frowning at the Sharingan.

"What's wrong with you today?"

"Father." The tomoe accelerated. What the Sharingan fed back was unremarkable—Fugaku's chakra network was stable, steady, identical to the real thing. Itachi pushed genjutsu through his eyes. A standard technique—nothing elaborate. Just enough to test.

"Would you answer my questions?"

"..." Fugaku's expression went flat.

"Itachi... what exactly are you trying to do?" The genjutsu didn't work. Because I'm already inside one? It made sense. If this world was controlled by the real Fugaku, then everything here—every person, every surface—was under his dominion. Genjutsu cast within a genjutsu would be meaningless. Or perhaps... in this constructed world, Fugaku was simply as powerful as his real counterpart. An ordinary genjutsu wouldn't touch him regardless.

"... I'm sorry, Father." Itachi stepped back and bowed. The Sharingan faded, crimson dissolving back to black. Fugaku's expression remained severe. Itachi's behavior had been bizarre by any standard. The silence was warranted. After a long moment, Fugaku rose from his chair, circled the desk, and stopped behind Itachi. His gaze moved over his son—measuring, appraising.

"What do you want to know?" he said quietly.

"... The Mangekyō Sharingan." Fugaku stiffened. His eyes narrowed.

"Why are you bringing that up all of a sudden?"

"I want to know... what is Wakahirume?" This genjutsu world didn't seem to be something his father could control at will. Perhaps the real Fugaku could observe his actions from the outside—but the people in here appeared to have minds of their own.

"... Wakahirume..." Fugaku murmured the name. He opened his mouth to answer—and his face twisted. The change was sudden and grotesque. His features contorted, his expression crumpling into something that looked like agony.

"Itachi!"

"Why?" One hand rose to cover his distorted face. The voice that came out was trembling and raw.

"Why won't you just accept it?"

"Isn't this future... good enough?"

"Father..." The real Fugaku. He could reach into the illusion after all. He could interfere.

"Father—what would it cost to make this real?" Itachi's voice hardened.

"Blood? Revolution? The moment civil war begins, it won't stay inside Konoha. Other nations will seize the chaos. You know that."

"Would you trade the village's fate for the clan's?"

"And what would the Uchiha even be without Konoha?" He looked up at Fugaku—at the man who seemed to be in genuine, unbearable pain—and felt nothing settle inside him. None of this made sense. This was Fugaku's own technique. He had built this world. So why did he look like he was suffering?

"Itachi..." A cold, fractured smile spread across Fugaku's twisted face.

"You think I don't want peace?" What does that mean? Before Itachi could respond, vertigo slammed into him. The office cracked. Colors drained from every surface—walls, desk, the light through the windows—peeling away like paint in a fire. The world shattered frame by frame and fell into nothing.

"Itachi!"

"Itachi?"

"Itachi!" His eyes snapped open. His room. His house. Sunlight slanting through the window. The old clock on the wall, its hour hand resting between nine and ten. The room was wide and empty and utterly still. As if nothing happened.

"Itachi, what are you spacing out for?" A light tap on the back of his head. He turned to find Mikoto standing beside him, one hand on her hip, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"It's already morning. Are you going out or not?"

"Sasuke and Shin are probably tired of waiting by now."

"... Mom?" He stared at her. The scene before him didn't make sense. Nothing about this made sense.

"Today's the day they get assigned to their teams, and here you are—their jonin instructor—not even bothering to show up on time." She jabbed a finger at him, her other hand planted firmly on her hip. This genjutsu... What the hell is going on?