Batman in Konoha

The warm sun bathed the Academy courtyard, where families of the graduates had already gathered—dressed up, lively, filled with anticipation and pride. Flowers, ribbons, excited voices—all of it created a festive atmosphere worthy of the future shinobi.

Among the crowd stood Fugaku, Shisui, and Mikoto with Sasuke in her arms. They kept slightly apart—not out of avoidance, but simply because they were in a different league. The Uchiha always drew attention. They were impossible to ignore—especially today.

Onstage, the graduates lined up, their brand-new forehead protectors gleaming with the engraved Leaf symbol. Some stood with their backs straight, tense like drawn wires. Others struggled to hold back smiles, barely believing it had finally happened: they were ninja.

And among them, like a white crow, was one boy nearly a head shorter than the rest.

Itachi.

He stood with flawless posture, not a single emotion on his face, as if he already knew this whole celebration was nothing more than a formality. As if, in his mind, he was already far away—beyond this stage, this courtyard, even this village.

The Academy principal, stammering slightly from the solemnity of the moment, stopped right next to him and read his name with particular emphasis:

"Uchiha Itachi. Graduated in one year. Top of the class."

The crowd gave a polite round of applause—more out of courtesy than genuine admiration. Some parents eyed him with suspicion: could an eight-year-old really become a shinobi? Others whispered in awe: the son of Fugaku himself, a prodigy, a living legend…

Fugaku watched his son in silence. His gaze was heavy, full of conflicted emotions. Pride in Itachi's accomplishments warred with a deep unease: a child shouldn't be ready to kill at eight years old. Itachi was. And that was terrifying.

Sasuke buried his face in Mikoto's shoulder and began to babble softly, as if sensing the tension in the air. Mikoto stroked his back, but her eyes, too, were fixed on her elder son.

After the ceremony, most graduates clustered into groups—laughing, trading plans. Some invited friends to a café; others were already arranging meetings with their new squad leaders.

But Itachi didn't even glance at his classmates. He walked straight toward his family, back straight, face cold.

"Hey, at least smile a little," Shisui said, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder. "I'll ask Mikoto to bake you a cake. With your favorite—strawberries."

"We could make it two tiers," Mikoto added, trying to sound warm.

But Itachi didn't even blink. He only muttered:

"If I want cake, I'll buy one with my first genin paycheck."

"You're this year's top graduate," Shisui insisted. "Isn't that something to be happy about?"

"This certificate means nothing," Itachi said sharply, clenching the diploma in his hand like he might tear it. "The Academy is a waste of time. Out of thirty subjects, only three are remotely useful. The rest are pointless. Music, drawing… Anything that doesn't help you survive is meaningless."

"Variety helps you discover who you are," Shisui tried to explain, but Itachi was no longer listening.

For the first time during the entire ceremony, Fugaku spoke. His voice was calm but firm:

"Which subjects do you consider useful?"

"Hand-to-hand combat. Poison crafting. Trap setting," Itachi answered without hesitation. Only the disciplines that teach you how to kill. Quickly. Efficiently.

Shisui glanced at Mikoto in silence. She turned away so her sadness wouldn't show.

"I hope the captain of my team will actually teach something useful," Itachi added.

"Don't know how to break it to you… I wouldn't get your hopes up…" Shisui began but trailed off suddenly, avoiding his gaze.

Itachi narrowed his eyes.

"You already know who it is? Is he incompetent? Lazy?"

"I wouldn't let someone like that lead my son," Fugaku cut in coldly. His voice turned to ice. "I've already spoken with him. At the police station."

He didn't mention that he had first demanded the most qualified jōnin from the Hokage and then ran a quick "background check" on the man: a few details, some leverage, a bit of pressure. The gray hair the jōnin sprouted might've appeared that same night.

"Your captain knows what's expected of him. And he won't dare make a mistake."

Itachi gave a silent nod. But his suspicion remained.

"Then what's the problem?" he asked, turning to Shisui.

"The limitations of the sensei's duties," Shisui sighed. "They're... pretty strict. According to protocol, he's supposed to teach you how to interact with clients, how to take missions, return from them, file reports, and most importantly—how to work as a team."

Shisui spread his arms, as if apologizing for the system.

"But as for techniques and specialized skills—that's entirely up to him. If he wants to teach you, he will. If not…"

"I see," Itachi said curtly and turned around. "I'll apply for a chūnin promotion at the first opportunity."

He walked off without looking back. His figure looked far too small for that kind of resolve—and far too grown-up for his age.

Fugaku watched him go, with the same heavy feeling that had been pressing on him since the start of the ceremony. He was watching a child turn into a weapon. And he knew it was his own doing.

Around them, joyful voices rang out. Laughter. Hugs. Dreams of the future. Parents cried tears of pride, and children beamed with joy.

The Uchiha family walked home in silence.

"I'm baking the strawberry cake anyway," Mikoto said quietly, almost to herself.

Sasuke babbled something playfully, tugging on a strand of her hair. It was the only genuine, living moment in that entire scene.

///

A week had passed since Itachi had officially joined his first genin team. Everything had been organized perfectly—Fugaku and the Hokage personally handpicked his teammates: disciplined, balanced, non-confrontational. No one called him a "runt," no one mocked his age. The team atmosphere was friendly.

But Itachi didn't look happy.

What affected him most was Shisui's departure. His brother, his closest person, had left Konoha on orders from the village. The mission was long-term and, as always, classified. Itachi didn't ask a single question at their farewell—he simply nodded, watching Shisui's figure disappear beyond the gates.

Now every evening, Itachi sat silent at dinner. He refused to talk about the team at all.

Fugaku was sitting in his office at the police station when there was a polite knock at the door. He lifted his eyes from the papers and said:

"Come in."

The door opened quietly. Itachi stepped inside.

Fugaku glanced at him sideways, then turned his gaze to the window. The sun was still high.

"Why aren't you with your team? The workday isn't over."

"Another cat-catching mission," he replied, a flicker of distaste crossing his face—but it vanished quickly. "D-rank. Another handout."

Fugaku raised an eyebrow slightly.

"Those missions are within the village. They're issued by ordinary residents—as a form of charity. So orphans can earn money for gear and not feel like beggars," Itachi continued calmly.

Fugaku nodded slowly. He knew that. Every month he personally commissioned a dozen missions for cleaning the police grounds. He could've just ordered the duty shinobi to sweep the leaves for free, but he preferred to pay out of his own pocket. Even if just one of those coins ended up saving someone's life—it was worth it.

"I don't need the money," Itachi said, looking straight at him. "So I left the mission to my teammates. Let them split the reward between the two of them. They need it more."

Fugaku gave a short chuckle.

"Smart. If you'd done the mission and then given them your share, it would've been charity. But this way—it's a business decision."

Itachi nodded and stepped closer.

"Father, you promised to train me after I graduated from the Academy."

"I remember. You've laid a solid foundation. I won't have to waste time on basics," he said, rising slowly and fastening his green flak vest. "What do you want to learn?"

"To kill."

Fugaku didn't blink, didn't flinch. For any other father, such a request from the mouth of an eight-year-old would have sounded like a nightmare. For Fugaku—it was inevitable.

"How do you want to learn?" he asked calmly.

"Let's start with ninjutsu."

Fugaku created a shadow clone, which remained behind at the desk, while the real one stepped outside with his son and headed toward the Uchiha Lake. It lay in a secluded part of the clan compound, where one could be alone with nature at any time of day.

The water was calm, clear, reflecting the cloudless sky and the treetops. They walked along a wooden pier that stretched deep into the lake and stopped at the very end. Fugaku stood still. The sun gilded his hair, his clothes, and his broad back.

"I'll show you a clan technique," he said without turning. "Watch carefully."

He formed the hand seals slowly and precisely. Then exhaled.

A powerful fireball burst from Fugaku's mouth and roared over the lake's surface. Splash. The water boiled, and thick steam rose over the lake, blurring the shoreline.

Itachi had already activated his Sharingan. Only one tomoe—but it was enough. He memorized every motion, every detail. Within seconds, he replicated the technique.

A smaller fireball, but just as fierce, shot forward and hissed into the water. More steam billowed up.

Fugaku nodded. Without surprise.

"With the Sharingan, you'll pick up any technique easily. I copied over a thousand in my life. I use maybe ten. The rest—trash, ballast," he turned to his son, his gaze hardening. "You need to choose a path. Your style. Otherwise, you'll drown in useless knowledge. What is it you want to achieve?"

Itachi looked straight into his father's eyes. His voice was emotionless, but held terrifying clarity.

"Efficiency. And lethality."

Fugaku nodded again. Slowly. Approvingly.

"Good. I'll teach you how to kill. And how to do it with minimal losses."

///

For an entire month, Itachi spent his days with his father. At sunrise they met on the training grounds—and until nightfall, they practiced jutsu, analyzed strategies, and studied mission reports with lethal outcomes. Not a minute was wasted. No complaints. No doubts. Only work.

Fugaku watched. And though outwardly calm, he felt it: something in his son wasn't just maturing—something was dying.

One day, before lunch, they sat together on the wooden veranda of their home. Behind them, Mikoto rustled in the kitchen. Their cups held cold tea with ice.

"You've been spending all your time with me," Fugaku noted. "What about your team?"

"It's fine," Itachi replied, looking up at the cloudless sky. "The sensei planned the whole week in advance: two days off, three D-rank missions, and two days of training."

Fugaku narrowed his eyes.

"You decided to skip those too?"

"My clone is with them now," Itachi said calmly, not changing his tone. "I see no point in giving it my all. My teammates don't even know basic chakra nature transformation. Coordinated techniques are impossible. For the simplest tactics, a clone is enough. Team training is a waste of time."

Fugaku said nothing. He waited.

"I ran a survey among the shinobi I know." Itachi spoke clearly, like a seasoned analyst. "On average, genin serve for one to two years. Then they get promoted. The team disbands. The meetings stop. There's no point in investing in people you won't work with again."

Fugaku nodded slowly. The boy didn't just understand—he was planning. Coldly, rationally. It was impressive.

"However, many chūnin continue working in the same teams," Fugaku reminded him.

"And jōnin work alone," Itachi replied instantly. "One jōnin replaces an entire team. It's more efficient for the administration—fewer resources, more control."

Fugaku smirked. He knew his son would push back. But he hadn't expected this level of preparedness. The arguments were coherent, logical—and disturbingly pragmatic.

"You must've noticed it by now," Itachi went on, finally turning to him. "I'm not sociable. I'm uncomfortable in a group. It's easier and faster for me—alone."

Fugaku looked into those cold, adult eyes. And saw himself.

He nodded. He understood. And yet—he couldn't shake a sense of unease.

"What do you want to study today?" Fugaku asked, rising to his feet.

"Shisui told me how you calculated the explosion force in the cave. I want to see the formula."

///

Three months had passed since graduation. Itachi had just returned from his first C-rank mission—an escort and protection job for a merchant.

Fugaku looked up from his paperwork when his son entered the office and silently closed the door behind him.

"Want to share how it went?" he asked, without warmth.

"No," Itachi replied flatly. "It was the most useless month of my life. Just travel. No training, no reading. Just guarding a cart and listening to dumb stories."

"Get used to a soldier's life," Fugaku said coolly. "You had more freedom in the Academy. But you chose the shinobi path—now earn it."

Itachi held back his irritation. He didn't argue. He accepted.

"It would be easier if I had the independence of a chūnin," he said. "The exam's in a month. My sensei refused to nominate our team, but I found another one. They're short a member. I need your written permission."

Fugaku set the papers aside and looked him straight in the eyes.

"You just graduated. Three months of experience. And you think you're ready?"

"Absolutely," Itachi replied. His Sharingan flickered—two distinct tomoe. No arrogance. Just fact.

"Chūnin isn't just about strength. It's responsibility. They lead others."

"I won't lead," Itachi said firmly. "I'll work alone. It's within the rules."

"And you really think I'll let my eight-year-old son leave the village alone?"

"I accounted for that," Itachi said confidently. "After promotion, I'll apply to ANBU. Shisui told me every rookie gets a mentor there. And the best are trained directly by the Hokage. I need this path. I can't wait for the world to catch up to my needs."

Fugaku stood up sharply. The chair screeched against the floor. He slammed his hand on the desk, and Itachi tensed instinctively.

"Shisui, me, the Academy—you think that's not enough?" His voice cracked like a whip. "It's never enough for you. You want power, and you chase it like an addict after a fix."

"What's so wrong with wanting to be stronger?" Itachi shot back.

"I know where that hunger comes from," Fugaku stepped closer. "From the day I took you to the battlefield. When you saw death for the first time. When you were afraid for the first time."

Itachi didn't reply. His face twitched—not from the words, but from the memory.

"I thought it would make you vigilant. But it made you a slave to fear," Fugaku hissed. "You're running. Hiding in books, in jutsu, in endless training. Driving yourself to the edge so you don't have to feel."

He jabbed a finger into his son's chest, in sync with the rhythm of his trembling heart.

"You're pathetic. Addict. The weakest of them all."

"No!" Itachi clenched his fists and dropped into a fighting stance, his Sharingan flaring to life.

"Going to hit me?" Fugaku growled, towering over him like a stone statue. "Go on. Try."

Itachi took a step forward—and in the same instant, he was slammed into the corner with a single precise strike. He fell hard and silent, like a sack of sand. Blood trickled from his split lip. His knees shook.

Fugaku stood over him—no anger, no pride on his face. Only cold, unwavering certainty.

"Skill means nothing. Will is everything," he said, turning to leave. "Fear is the worst teacher. You must learn to face it. Not run from it, but transform it. In your soul. In your mind. Only then will you become truly strong."

He left without looking back.

Itachi remained where he was. He didn't cry. Didn't scream. Didn't chase after his father.

He just wiped the blood from his lip and slowly got to his feet. The rage in his eyes was gone. Only silence remained.

Itachi stayed a genin for another year. One more year of "childish" missions. A full year of peace—to understand his goals and desires.

/////

Author notes:

If you've made it this far, you're already a hero.

Be a legend — leave a comment and power stone.

Your thoughts, theories, reactions — even a single emoji — are fuel that keeps me writing.