Konoha Village, Uchiha Clan District.
The wind was unusually restless tonight, rattling through the streets and stirring the crows perched on telephone poles into uneasy motion.
A full moon hung high overhead, yet its light was tainted with an unsettling crimson hue.
Uchiha Itachi stood atop a telephone pole, his pitch-black ANBU attire nearly melting into the night itself.
Beneath the fox mask painted with vermilion patterns, a pair of eyes stared coldly ahead—eyes that could no longer shed tears. The three tomoe within them spun rapidly, twisting and fusing into the shape of a windmill.
Just minutes earlier, he had finalized the deal with the masked man who called himself Uchiha Madara.
For the peace of the village.
For the life of his younger brother.
All the sins.
All the infamy.
All the blood.
He alone would bear them.
Itachi's fingers trembled slightly before tightening around the hilt of the ninja sword strapped to his back. His grip was so forceful that his knuckles turned white, his fingernails biting into his palms. The sharp pain was the only thing keeping him conscious—keeping him sane.
After tonight, the Uchiha Clan would become nothing more than dust in the annals of history.
And he would become Konoha's most heinous criminal—a rogue ninja who slaughtered his own clan with his own hands. A true Asura.
"…Sasuke."
He whispered the name silently in his heart.
The only person he still cared about.
The only reason he was willing to crawl through hell and live on.
As long as Uchiha Sasuke survived…
Even if it meant that he himself would sink into darkness for ten thousand years, it didn't matter.
Itachi drew in a slow breath. The air already seemed thick with the stench of blood yet to be spilled.
In the next instant, his figure flickered.
The Body Flicker Technique activated, and like a silent wraith, he appeared before the gates of the Uchiha compound.
The lights inside were still on.
Dim yellow light seeped through the paper doors, carrying a warmth that felt painfully out of place on this night.
His parents' room.
His father—Uchiha Fugaku, head of the clan—was likely sitting upright on the tatami, methodically wiping the ninja sword that never left his side.
His mother—Uchiha Mikoto—was probably worrying about her eldest son, who had yet to return home.
Itachi placed his hand on the cold door handle.
This single push would separate the living from the dead.
This single push would condemn him forever.
It had to be fast.
It had to be merciless.
He could not give his father a chance to fight back—even if Fugaku possessed the Mangekyō Sharingan.
He could not give his mother a chance to speak—that would shatter what little resolve he had left.
This was the final night.
Forgive me… Father. Mother.
He spoke the farewell only in his heart.
His wrist tensed, and he pushed the door open—opening the gates of hell.
Click.
The sound of the lock echoed sharply through the silence.
But there was no familiar entryway waiting for him.
No dignified figure of his father seated within.
The moment the door opened, a tyrannical white light erupted without warning.
It was not chakra.
Not ninjutsu.
Not genjutsu.
His vision twisted violently, the world stretching into warped, grotesque lines. Itachi's Sharingan spun madly, desperately trying to track the source of the power—but all he could perceive was endless white.
An ambush by Danzo?
Or another move by that masked man?
Instinct overtook thought. He was just about to form hand seals for a Substitution Technique—
When the white light surged with terrifying suction.
Space warped.
Time thickened, turning viscous and distorted.
All sensation was stripped away, leaving only the nauseating dizziness of weightlessness.
Then—
Thud.
His feet hit solid ground.
But something was wrong.
The ground was moving.
In an instant, the world shifted from absolute stillness to violent motion.
Boom!!
A deafening roar crashed into his ears like a tidal wave.
Rough, overlapping voices shouted all at once.
Before his vision fully recovered, his nose was assaulted by powerful smells—the sharp bite of cheap rum, the sizzling aroma of roasted meat, and the salty stench of seawater that clung to everything.
"Drink! Drink! Drink!"
"Thatch! Bring out two more barrels! This isn't even enough to fill the gaps in my teeth!"
"Jozu, you bastard! You stole my meat again!"
"Hahahahaha!"
Wild, unrestrained laughter rang out again and again.
Uchiha Itachi stood frozen.
He was still in the posture of pushing a door open—his right hand gripping empty air, his left hand clenched around the hilt of his sword.
Above him stretched a vast, endless star-filled sky, dazzling enough to feel unreal.
One glance was enough for Itachi to understand.
This was not Konoha.
The sea wind howled, whipping his long black hair backward.
Massive oil lamps hung all around, illuminating the area as bright as day.
Beneath his feet—
A ship.
A colossal vessel, like an island moving across the sea.
And he had appeared abruptly at the very center of its deck.
All around him sat hundreds of men, gathered in a raucous banquet.
Some were bare-chested, their bodies covered in brutal scars.
Some lifted entire barrels of wine, drinking straight from them.
Others tore into massive chunks of meat, bones and all.
The vitality pouring off them was wild, primal, and utterly unconstrained.
Completely different from the cold, restrained, ever-ready-to-die atmosphere of the ninja world.
But that wasn't what unsettled Itachi the most.
What truly sent a chill down his spine—
There was no chakra.
He couldn't sense chakra flowing through any of them.
And yet, every single one possessed physical strength that rivaled a taijutsu-specialized jōnin.
Itachi's sudden appearance was like a drop of ink falling into a boiling pot of oil.
The deck fell silent.
Starting from him, the noise vanished outward in an instant.
In less than a second, all laughter, clinking cups, and chewing stopped dead.
Hundreds of eyes locked onto the "outsider" who had appeared out of nowhere.
A young man in an ANBU vest, wearing a mask, carrying a ninja sword—utterly out of place.
"…Hey."
A man with a distinctive pompadour was the first to set his plate down.
Thatch, commander of the Whitebeard Pirates' 4th Division, tilted his head.
"Where'd this guy come from? Fall outta the sky?"
"No idea," Jozu replied in a deep voice, scratching his rock-hard muscles. "He just popped in. Thought someone uncorked champagne."
"An assassin?" someone scoffed. "Doesn't look like much."
A low whistle sounded—but the man's hand had already settled on the flintlock at his waist.
Killing intent quietly spread through the air.
Itachi ignored all of it.
His gaze pierced through the crowd, passing one pirate captain after another—
Until it stopped at the very front of the deck.
There stood an enormous throne.
And upon it sat a man who could only be described as a monster.
A true giant.
Even seated, his size was at least three times that of a normal man—like an unscalable mountain.
Bare-chested, broad-shouldered, his body bore the marks of countless battles. IV tubes were embedded in his chest, connected to medical equipment behind him.
Yet they didn't make him seem weak.
Instead, they lent him a tragic, majestic aura—the dignity of a hero in his twilight years.
A massive naginata—Murakumogiri—rested casually at his side.
And most striking of all was the crescent-shaped white mustache curving proudly across his face.
Whitebeard.
Edward Newgate.
The strongest man in the world.
Itachi had never seen anyone like him.
Just sitting there, the pressure he radiated caused the chakra in Itachi's body to slow, almost as if it were being suppressed.
This was power beyond the Hokage.
Beyond even "Uchiha Madara."
"Gurarararara…"
A deep laugh rumbled from the giant's chest, vibrating with a soul-shaking frequency. Even the deck trembled faintly beneath their feet.
Whitebeard slowly lifted a wine bowl the size of a small vat and tipped it back.
Wine spilled down the corners of his mouth, flowing over his scarred chest.
"Hoo…"
He set the bowl down, every movement bold and commanding.
Then his golden eyes lowered, looking down at Itachi standing tensely in the center of the deck.
There was no hostility in that gaze.
No arrogance.
Instead—
It held a strange warmth. Almost like the indulgent amusement of a father looking at a troublesome child.
That alone made Itachi even more wary.
This complete disregard—this casual dominance—was far more dangerous than open hostility.
Quietly, Itachi tightened his grip on his sword. The three tomoe in his crimson eyes spun, fusing into a windmill once more.
Tsukuyomi.
Amaterasu.
Susanoo.
Every trump card stood ready.
If this man made even the slightest hostile move, Itachi would burn this entire ship to the ground—even if it cost him his sight.
Sasuke was still waiting for him.
No matter where this place was—hell or the Pure Land—he had to return.
Just then, a lazy yet dangerous voice spoke beside him.
"Hey, kid."
Marco, commander of the 1st Division, half-lidded eyes glowing as blue flames danced at his fingertips, smiled faintly.
"Pulling a weapon in front of Pops is pretty disrespectful."
Itachi didn't respond.
His sword slid from its sheath in an instant—the sharp metallic ring cutting harshly across the deck.
The air froze.
"Gurararara—"
Whitebeard laughed again.
He raised a massive hand, stopping his sons from moving.
Leaning forward slightly, his towering shadow engulfed Itachi.
His gaze pierced straight through the mask, locking onto the cursed, ominous Sharingan beneath.
He looked at the boy.
At the blood clinging to him.
At the soul that was screaming in silence.
The corners of Whitebeard's mouth lifted into a broad, tolerant smile.
"Kid," he said calmly,
"are you lost?"