At 1 am, I was unable to sleep, living in the constant night of northern Norway. So, I grabbed a beer and sat at my computer. Now at 5 am, I found myself writing a new story. I don't have a proper structure for it yet, just some general ideas, but I like how it looks, so I'll just publish it. I was thinking about how Itachi deserves to live a 'normal' life—no Uchiha, no criminal, no constant sacrifices for others. Just him.

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Chapter 1

Itachi's consciousness returned like ripples on still water. His eyes opened to a canopy of leaves swaying gently above, their edges blurred and indistinct. The familiar weight of darkness pressed against his left eye - the price he'd paid in his final battle alongside Sasuke against Kabuto.

Pine needles crackled beneath him as he pushed himself to a sitting position. The forest around him held an unfamiliar quality, the trees too tall, their bark a shade darker than those near Konoha. His right eye strained to focus, the accumulated toll of the Mangekyo leaving his vision clouded like looking through frosted glass.

"Something's wrong." The words fell from his lips as he pressed his hand against his chest.

The familiar flow of chakra, the energy he'd wielded since childhood, refused to respond to his call. In its place, a wild current surged through his body, untamed and unpredictable. Unlike the orderly paths of his chakra network, this force saturated every fiber of his being.

Itachi raised his hand before his face, focusing on the sensation. Where chakra had once flowed like a controlled stream through designated channels, this new energy buzzed through him like lightning in a storm cloud. His entire body hummed with it, from the tips of his fingers to the core of his bones.

He attempted a basic hand sign, muscle memory guiding his fingers into position. The energy inside him lurched, refusing to be shaped or directed. It felt raw, primordial - as if someone had stripped chakra down to its most basic form and poured it directly into his cells.

"This body..." He touched his face, his fingers tracing the familiar lines beneath his eyes. "It's composed of this energy itself."

The realization struck him as he noticed how the power didn't flow through pathways - it was the pathways. Every part of him seemed constructed from this strange force, as if he'd been rebuilt using something fundamentally different from chakra.

His feet found purchase on the forest floor as he stood, his balance slightly off as he adjusted to this new sensation. The world around him felt both sharper and more distant, like viewing a painting through water. His remaining vision picked up details his shinobi training couldn't ignore - the unnatural stillness of the birds, the way shadows fell at impossible angles.

"The last moment with Sasuke..." The memory of his brother's face flickered through his mind, their final exchange still fresh despite the confusion of his current situation. He'd found peace in that moment, acceptance of his role in their shared story. Yet here he stood, in a body that felt foreign, in a place that shouldn't exist.

He pressed his fingers against the bark of a nearby tree, testing its solidity. Real enough to touch, yet something about it felt wrong, as if reality itself had shifted slightly out of alignment.

As Itachi's fingers pressed against the tree bark, a revelation washed over him. The energy signature emanating from the wood matched the wild force coursing through his own form - yet something was different. He shifted his focus to a nearby sparrow perched on a branch, its essence glowing with the same fundamental power, but again, altered in subtle ways.

His analytical mind dissected the sensation. The energy composing the living creatures held a more fluid quality, while that of inanimate objects felt rigid, crystalline. His own power existed somewhere between these states, neither fully solid nor completely ephemeral.

"This world..." He pulled his hand back from the tree, examining the way the strange energy flowed beneath his skin. The patterns reminded him of chakra circulation, but stripped of its physical constraints.

Following instinct, he attempted to push the power outward, as he once did with chakra. The energy responded, but not in the controlled manner he expected. It burst from him in waves, distorting the air like heat shimmer over desert sand. The forest warped around him, trees bending as if viewed through curved glass.

The sparrow dropped from its perch, its wings flapping uselessly against suddenly thickened air. Other birds followed, plummeting from their branches as if caught in an invisible net. Their bodies pressed against the ground, pinned by an unseen force.

Itachi immediately pulled the energy back, containing it within himself. The birds recovered, shooting back into the sky with panicked calls. The distortion in the air faded, but the experience left him with a crucial insight.

"The physical component..." His mind raced through years of shinobi training, recalling fundamental lessons about chakra's dual nature. "Yin and Yang - spiritual and physical energies combined. But here..."

He examined his hand again, watching the power pulse beneath his skin. Without a physical body to anchor it, his spiritual energy existed in its pure form, unbound by material constraints. The realization clicked into place - he wasn't trying to manipulate chakra anymore, but rather the raw essence of his spirit.

"This must be the pure world." He scanned the distorted landscape with new understanding. "Not death as we imagined it, but existence on a different plane."

The theory explained the strange qualities of everything around him. If this was indeed the afterlife, then all matter here would be composed of spiritual energy, manifesting in forms that mimicked the physical world. Yet his own energy felt different, more potent, as if he retained something of his original power while everything else was merely a reflection.

His genius mind cataloged the implications. If physical energy no longer existed in this realm, then chakra as he knew it couldn't function. The power he now possessed was pure spiritual energy - Yin in its most concentrated form, untempered by Yang's stabilizing influence.

"The imbalance explains the lack of control." He focused on the energy again, feeling its wild nature. Without Yang energy to provide structure, the power resisted traditional chakra manipulation techniques. It required a completely different approach.

Itachi observed a fallen leaf, noting how its energy signature maintained a consistent pattern despite being separated from its tree. Every object, living or dead, possessed its own unique spiritual frequency, like individual notes in a complex harmony. His power, by contrast, felt like a discordant chord - familiar elements arranged in an unfamiliar way.

Itachi glanced down at his attire - the familiar red cloak of his Edo Tensei form draped over his body, its fabric moving with an ethereal quality in the non-existent breeze. His hands traced the empty spaces where kunai holsters and equipment pouches should have been. The absence of his Konoha headband left his forehead bare, a phantom weight lingering where the metal plate once rested.

He closed his eye, focusing on the wild energy coursing through him. Without the physical constraints of chakra pathways, the power flowed more freely, responding to his will rather than predetermined routes. Like water finding new channels, it extended beyond his form, reaching out into the surrounding space.

The sensation overwhelmed him at first - a cascade of information flooding his consciousness. But his analytical mind adapted quickly, sorting through the chaos. He discovered that by directing his attention, he could filter the input, much like focusing his vision on a specific point in a crowded room.

North. A concentration of energy signatures pulsed in the distance, their resonance matching his own discordant frequency. Human souls, he realized, gathered in significant numbers. The distance was considerable, but their presence stood out like beacons against the background hum of this spiritual realm.

Itachi began walking, each step bringing new understanding of how to manipulate this strange power. He extended tendrils of energy, testing its properties. Unlike chakra, which required specific hand signs and careful molding, this force responded directly to his thoughts and intentions.

The absence of his Sharingan struck him most profoundly. His hand traced the space beneath his right eye, remembering the familiar burn of activation, the way the world would shift and sharpen as tomoe spun into existence. Now, that power lay dormant, or perhaps entirely absent.

"The eyes that brought both power and pain." His fingers lingered on his face, tracing patterns where the stress lines marked his features.

The Sharingan had defined every major turning point in his life. Its awakening during Shisui's death, the Mangekyo's birth in that moment of greatest loss, the gradual dimming of light as he paid the price for its power. The eyes that had allowed him to protect his village, to carry out that terrible mission, to ensure Sasuke's survival - they had also been the chains that bound him to his clan's curse of hatred.

As he walked, he contemplated how differently events might have unfolded without the Sharingan's influence. Would the coup have been possible without the confidence the clan drew from their doujutsu? Would he have been capable of carrying out his mission without those crimson eyes?

The power had been a double-edged sword, granting him the ability to protect what he loved while simultaneously marking him as an instrument of tragedy. Each evolution of his eyes had brought greater strength and deeper suffering. The Mangekyo, especially, had been both gift and curse - the ultimate power that demanded the ultimate sacrifice.

His footsteps carried him forward as he experimented with the new energy, finding it responded to subtle shifts in his intent. Where the Sharingan had required precise control and specific techniques, this power flowed more naturally, like an extension of his thoughts.

"Perhaps this is freedom," he mused, watching the energy swirl around his fingers. Without the weight of his clan's doujutsu, without the burden of its power and expectations, he felt oddly unburdened. The eyes that had shaped his destiny no longer defined his capabilities.

Yet he couldn't deny a sense of loss. The Sharingan had been more than just a tool - it had been part of his identity, a connection to his heritage and his brother. Through those eyes, he had witnessed both beauty and horror, had preserved memories with perfect clarity, had shaped the course of nations.

The energy signatures to the north grew slightly stronger as he continued his journey. Each step brought new mastery over this spiritual power, his genius mind quickly adapting to its unique properties. He found he could extend his awareness further, paint clearer pictures of the distant gatherings, all without the crutch of his doujutsu.

Itachi raised his palm, focusing on the wild energy that now composed his being. He'd witnessed the Rasengan numerous times - Naruto's signature technique, inherited from the Fourth Hokage through Jiraiya's teaching. His Sharingan had captured every detail of its formation, the precise way chakra spiraled and compressed into a perfect sphere.

The spiritual energy responded to his will, gathering above his palm. Unlike chakra's orderly flow, this power writhed and twisted, refusing to maintain the stable rotation necessary for the technique. The sphere began to form, then collapsed in on itself, dispersing in a shower of ethereal sparks.

He tried again, drawing on his perfect memory of Naruto's movements. The energy swirled faster this time, almost taking shape before destabilizing. Something fundamental was missing - a crucial element his analytical mind couldn't quite grasp. The pure spiritual nature of this power lacked the grounding force that chakra possessed.

The third attempt produced a briefly stable orb that spun like a miniature galaxy in his palm. But as he attempted to compress it further, the energy scattered, sending ripples through the air that bent light and shadow in impossible ways. The trees around him swayed as if caught in a phantom wind.

His brow furrowed as he examined the failed technique. The Rasengan required precise control over rotation and power - elements that should have been simpler without physical constraints. Yet this energy refused to behave like chakra, following different rules he had yet to fully comprehend.

The forest thinned ahead, giving way to an unexpected sight. A town sprawled before him, its buildings weathered and worn like those in the poorest regions of the Elemental Nations. Wooden structures leaned against each other, their paint peeling and faded. Thatched roofs sagged under invisible weight, and narrow dirt streets wound between the cramped buildings.

"This is death?" The words escaped him as he took in the scene.

His gaze swept left and right, finding no end to the settlement. The town stretched toward the horizon in both directions, its identical buildings repeating like reflections in opposing mirrors. The architecture reminded him of civilian villages he'd passed through during his years as a rogue shinobi - places untouched by the prosperity of hidden villages.

The energy signatures he'd sensed earlier emanated from within the town's endless sprawl. Each pulse carried the same discordant frequency as his own power, marking them as other souls in this strange realm. Their presence concentrated in clusters throughout the settlement, like stars scattered across a night sky.

He scanned the streets nearest to him, noting the absence of modern amenities. No power lines crossed between buildings, no vehicles lined the roads. Time seemed frozen in an era long past, as if this place had been constructed from collective memories of simpler days.

The spiritual energy flowing through him reacted to the town's presence, resonating with the power that composed its structures. Each building hummed with its own frequency, creating a complex harmony that his enhanced senses could barely process. The entire settlement felt like an instrument in some cosmic orchestra, playing notes his mortal mind struggled to comprehend.

Itachi studied the architectural patterns, his tactical mind automatically searching for strategic positions and potential threats. But the town's endless repetition defied normal analysis. Without boundaries or variation, traditional shinobi reconnaissance methods proved useless. The settlement's infinite expanse suggested this realm operated on rules far removed from physical reality.

The failed Rasengan attempts had proven that his understanding of chakra manipulation wouldn't translate directly to this new existence. Now, faced with this impossible town, he realized how little he truly knew about the nature of death. His experiences with Edo Tensei had offered no insight into this strange afterlife.

The dirt road before him led into the heart of the settlement, where the energy signatures pulsed more strongly. Other souls moved through those streets, their essences distinct from the background resonance of the buildings. Each one carried traces of the same wild power that now composed his form.

Itachi's senses expanded outward, analyzing the spiritual signatures around him. The difference struck him immediately - where his own energy blazed like an inferno, the souls in the town flickered dimly, barely maintaining their existence. The parallel to civilians in the Elemental Nations was unmistakable. Just as they possessed only enough chakra to sustain life, these souls contained the minimum energy required for consciousness.

He stepped into the town proper, his feet silent against the packed dirt. Bodies moved through the streets - souls, he corrected himself - going about tasks that mimicked mortal life. Women hung laundry between buildings, children chased each other through narrow alleys, men carried loads of firewood and produce. The scene could have been plucked from any poor district in his former world.

An elderly woman approached, her gray hair pulled back in a simple knot. Her spiritual pressure registered as little more than a candle flame compared to his blazing presence.

"You seem lost, dear. New arrival?" Her weathered face creased with concern.

Itachi's mind cycled through possible responses. Deception came naturally after years of living behind masks, but without understanding the rules of this realm, lies could prove dangerous. The truth, carefully measured, offered the safest path forward.

"Yes. I've only just died." His voice remained steady, matter-of-fact.

She nodded, unsurprised by his blunt admission. "Poor soul. And you ended up in the 80th district of Rukongai." She clicked her tongue. "That's terrible luck."

"Rukongai?" The unfamiliar term caught his attention.

"This is Soul Society - the afterlife. We're in the outermost ring of Rukongai." She glanced around nervously. "The most dangerous district. Criminals run wild here, and the Hollows..." She shuddered. "It's no place for a new soul."

"What are Hollows?" The term carried weight in her voice, suggesting a significant threat.

Her eyes darted to the shadows between buildings. "Not here. Come to my house - we can talk safely there." She gestured for him to follow. "New souls like yourself attract trouble. Your energy's too bright, too fresh. Makes you a target."

The observation aligned with his own analysis. His power level clearly marked him as different, drawing attention he'd prefer to avoid until he better understood this world's dynamics.

They wound through the maze-like streets, the old woman setting a surprisingly brisk pace. Other souls watched their passage with varying degrees of interest. Some gazes lingered too long, carrying predatory intent that Itachi recognized from years of shinobi work. The criminal element here operated openly, much like the lawless regions between hidden villages.

"This district," he said as they walked, "you mentioned it's the outermost?"

"The 80th district." She nodded. "Far as you can get from the Seireitei without falling off the edge of the world. Most souls who land here either toughen up fast or disappear faster."

Her casual mention of disappearing souls added another layer to his growing understanding. This afterlife operated on its own brutal hierarchy, with clear divisions between zones of relative safety and danger. The parallel to the shinobi world's structure wasn't lost on him - even in death, people created systems of power and control.

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Itachi sat cross-legged on the worn tatami mat, a chipped ceramic cup warming his hands. Steam rose from the green tea, carrying a familiar scent that reminded him of quiet moments in Konoha's tea houses. The old woman - Sachiko, she'd introduced herself - knelt across from him, her weathered hands wrapped around her own cup.

The information settled in his mind like pieces of a complex puzzle. Shinigami - death gods who maintained the balance between worlds. Their duties encompassed more than he'd imagined during his mortal life. The black-robed warriors she described bore little resemblance to the spectral figure shinobis had once summoned through forbidden jutsu.

Her explanation of Hollows painted a clearer picture of the threats in this realm. Corrupted souls driven by endless hunger, wearing bone-white masks and hunting the weak. The parallel to missing-nin was striking - both represented the darkness that emerged when souls lost their purpose and gave in to base desires.

"The tea leaves came from the 58th district," Sachiko said, breaking his contemplation. "Things are a bit better there. Some actual shops, fewer gangs. But the price..." She shook her head.

Itachi observed the simple room around them. Bare wooden walls showed signs of repeated repair, and the single window had been boarded up from the inside. A futon lay rolled in one corner, next to a small chest that likely contained all of Sachiko's worldly possessions. The house spoke of survival rather than living.

"You mentioned spiritual pressure determines one's strength here." He set his cup down. "And those with high spiritual pressure experience hunger."

"Yes, poor thing. You must be starving with that much power." Sachiko's eyes crinkled with sympathy. "I haven't felt hunger in decades. Most souls here don't need food at all."

The gnawing sensation in his stomach confirmed her words. He'd noticed it growing stronger since his arrival, but had dismissed it as a phantom of mortal habits. Now he understood - his high spiritual pressure demanded sustenance, unlike the majority of souls who subsisted purely on their minimal energy.

"The Shinigami Academy accepts those with sufficient spiritual pressure," he said, recalling that part of her explanation. "They provide food and training."

"They do, but..." Sachiko hesitated. "The academy's in Seireitei. That's seventy-nine districts away, through increasingly dangerous territory. Most souls who try the journey..." She left the sentence unfinished.

Itachi closed his eyes, processing the strategic implications. The journey would test not just his combat abilities, but his adaptation to this realm's unique powers. Without chakra or his Sharingan, he'd need to master this new spiritual energy quickly.

"There's something else you should know." Sachiko leaned forward, her voice dropping. "Your spiritual pressure... it's different. Stronger than any new arrival I've seen in my centuries here. The local gangs will notice soon, if they haven't already. They'll either try to recruit you or..." She glanced at the boarded window.

A familiar weight settled on his shoulders - the burden of power drawing unwanted attention. Even in death, it seemed, exceptional abilities marked one as either an asset or a threat. The criminal elements of this district wouldn't be so different from the organizations he'd dealt with in life.

"You've shown me great kindness." He inclined his head slightly. "Thank you for the tea and information."

"You remind me of someone - a grandson, perhaps. The memories fade after so long." Sachiko smiled sadly. "But I know I once cared for a quiet, serious boy like yourself."

Itachi set his cup down, studying the woman across from him. The pieces had fallen into place during their conversation, forming a picture he couldn't ignore.

"You haven't attacked because you're unsure of my true capabilities." He kept his voice neutral, watching her reaction. "My spiritual pressure makes you hesitate."

Sachiko's brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you-"

"The souls on our way here. Their movements, the silent signals exchanged. The gathering outside now." His gaze remained steady. "You lead them."

A moment passed. Then another. The gentle grandmother's facade cracked as laughter spilled from her lips - not the warm chuckle from before, but something sharper, edged with steel.

"Oh, you are interesting." Her posture shifted, the frail old woman vanishing like morning mist. Though her appearance remained unchanged. "Most newcomers never notice. But you..." She tilted her head. "You saw right through it."

Itachi recognized the transformation. He'd witnessed similar changes countless times - the moment when a target dropped their mask, when the pretense fell away to reveal the predator beneath.

"I have to ask - why didn't you run when you had the chance?" She didn't wait for his response. "No, let me guess. You don't feel threatened here at all, do you?" Her smile turned knowing. "I've ruled this district for over a century. Led more raids than I can count. Killed more souls than I care to remember. And you..." She shook her head in admiration. "You almost had me completely fooled."

Steam continued rising from their cups, the tea growing cold between them. Outside, souls gathered like storm clouds, waiting.

"Your control is remarkable for someone so new. I've never seen anyone mask their emotions quite like you do. But..." She sipped her tea, the gesture deliberate. "There are things only age can teach. Little tells that give away youth. You're good - better than anyone I've seen in my life. But you're still too young."

Itachi nodded, acknowledging the truth in her words. His skills had been honed through intense training and brutal experience, but they paled against centuries of existence. The raw accumulation of time and knowledge she possessed was beyond his comprehension, despite all his years as a shinobi.

"Over a century of experience," he said. "Of leading. Of survival in this district. That's a foundation I can't match."

"Now that's refreshing - a young soul who understands the value of age." Her smile softened slightly, though the predatory edge remained. "Most newcomers with power like yours think they can take on the world. They never last long."

The spiritual pressures outside shifted, responding to subtle signals he couldn't detect. Years of ANBU training had taught him to read people, to spot the invisible threads of command and control. But this was different - relationships and hierarchies built over decades or even centuries.

"The way your people move," he observed. "It's more than just organization. They've fought together for years."

"Decades for some. Centuries for others." Pride colored her voice. "We've survived everything this district could throw at us. Hollow attacks, rival gangs, Shinigami raids." She studied him over the rim of her cup. "Which makes me very curious about what to do with you."

Itachi remained motionless, his posture relaxed despite the growing tension. The revelation of Sachiko's true nature hadn't shifted his assessment of the situation. If anything, it confirmed his initial readings of the spiritual pressures surrounding the house.

"Your confidence isn't arrogance, is it?" Sachiko set her cup down with a soft click. "At first, I thought you might be another foolish newcomer, drunk on power. But no..." Her eyes narrowed. "You've been trained. I see it in every movement, every carefully measured response."

"You've survived this long by choosing your battles wisely." Itachi's voice carried no judgment, merely stating a fact.

"And right now, every instinct I've developed over the past century is screaming at me to let you walk away." She laughed, a sharp sound that held no humor. "None of us can manipulate reiryoku - that spiritual energy you're practically drowning in. Using it draws too much attention from the Shinigami. We survive through numbers and experience."

The spiritual pressures outside shifted again, drawing slightly back. Not retreating, but redistributing their forces. Smart tactics, born from years of territorial warfare.

"You've been very helpful," Itachi said. "There's no reason for conflict between us."

Sachiko's weathered face broke into a genuine smile. "Oh, you're good. You've dealt with people like me before, haven't you? Criminals, territory bosses..." She waved her hand dismissively. "But you're not here to fight. You're gathering information, analyzing everything."

She stood in one fluid motion that belied her elderly appearance. Crossing to a hidden compartment in the wall, she retrieved a wrapped package.

"Food. Enough to get you through the next few districts." She placed it on the table between them. "Your reiatsu... I've never seen anything like it, not even from the Shinigami who patrol through here. You'll draw too much attention to my territory. The sooner you move on, the better for everyone."

Itachi recognized the practical wisdom in her assessment. His presence would destabilize the careful balance she'd established. Whether through direct confrontation or by attracting stronger opponents, staying would only lead to unnecessary conflict.

"The gangs in the neighboring districts," he said. "They're not as organized?"

"Brutal thugs, most of them. They fight like starving dogs over scraps." She shook her head. "But they won't be your problem. With that much spiritual power, you'll either make it to Seireitei or..." She shrugged. "Well, I doubt anything in between could stop you."

The wrapped package contained dried meat and fruit, preserved through methods that spoke of long experience with supply logistics. Another piece of evidence pointing to the sophistication of her operation.

"One last piece of advice?" Sachiko's voice took on that grandmotherly tone again, though now he caught the steel beneath it. "The next few districts are more densely populated. More souls means more eyes watching. And not everyone who offers help has my... practical nature."

Itachi rose smoothly, tucking the package into his clothes. The movement caused ripples in his spiritual pressure, and he noted how the souls outside tensed in response. Their reaction times were impressive - clearly veterans of countless battles.

"Thank you for the tea," he said, inclining his head slightly. The formal gesture acknowledged both her hospitality and her position of authority.

"Such nice manners." Sachiko's smile turned knowing. "Whoever trained you did an excellent job. Now, get out of my district before you attract something we'll both regret."

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The bustling streets of District 58 stretched before Itachi, a stark contrast to the desolate paths he'd traversed weeks ago. Merchants lined the roads, their stalls overflowing with fresh produce and crafted goods. Children darted between the crowds, their laughter echoing through the air.

Itachi paused at a fruit stand, exchanging a few coins he'd earned from odd jobs along his journey. The vendor's hand trembled as he passed over the apple, his eyes fixed on the ground.

"Thank you." Itachi kept his voice soft, but the man still flinched.

This reaction had become familiar. Even here, where the streets teemed with life and commerce, people gave him a wide berth. Their spiritual pressure, so much weaker than his own, seemed to recoil at his presence.

A group of children playing ball nearby scattered as he approached, their game forgotten. An old memory surfaced - Sasuke, young and carefree, playing in the Uchiha compound. Itachi pushed the thought aside.

He found a quiet spot beneath a cherry tree, its branches heavy with spring blossoms. The apple's sweetness filled his mouth as he observed the flow of daily life before him. Two women hurried past, their conversation drifting on the breeze.

"Did you feel that Shinigami patrol earlier?"

"Yes! They say more have been coming through lately. Something about strange spiritual pressures in the outer districts."

Itachi's fingers traced patterns in the dirt. Sachiko's words about the Shinigami echoed in his mind. These soul reapers, wielders of both sword and spirit, remained elusive. He'd sensed their presence at times - distinct flares of energy passing through the districts - but they'd never lingered long enough for an encounter.

A commotion drew his attention. A merchant's cart had overturned, spilling vegetables across the street. Without hesitation, Itachi moved to help, gathering the scattered produce.

"Please, sir, don't trouble yourself." The merchant's words came out rushed, panicked.

"It's no trouble." Itachi continued his task, placing each item carefully back in the cart. The merchant's fear was palpable, his spiritual pressure fluctuating wildly.

A small girl approached, clutching a fallen carrot. Her spiritual pressure, though weak, didn't waver like the others. She held out the vegetable to Itachi.

"You dropped this, mister."

Itachi accepted it with a gentle nod. "Thank you."

"Why is everyone scared of you? You feel different, but you're nice."

"Sometimes people fear what they don't understand." Itachi placed the carrot in the cart. "It's natural to be cautious of the unknown."

The girl tilted her head. "Like the Shinigami? They feel different too, but not like you."

"Have you met many Shinigami?"

"They pass through sometimes. They glow inside, like little flames. But you..." She squinted at him. "You're like a whole forest fire."

The merchant finally found his voice. "Yuki, come away from there!"

The girl - Yuki - gave Itachi a small wave before running back to what must have been her father. The merchant bowed repeatedly, ushering his daughter away.

Itachi watched them go, contemplating the girl's words. His spiritual pressure did feel different from what he sensed in others. Even without accessing it fully, it rolled off him in waves that seemed to suffocate those around him. Yet he'd felt no Shinigami presence that matched his own.

He rose, brushing cherry blossoms from his clothes. The sun had begun its descent, painting the district in shades of amber and gold. Street vendors started packing their wares, and the crowds thinned as people returned to their homes.

Itachi leaned against a weathered fence post, watching the sunset paint the sky in deep crimsons. His mind wandered back to Sachiko's teachings about the fundamental arts of the Shinigami. The old woman's knowledge had been surprisingly extensive - too extensive for someone who claimed to be a simple gang leader.

He flexed his hand, feeling the spiritual energy flow through his form. Unlike chakra's familiar warmth, this power felt ethereal, like trying to grasp mist. The basic principles Sachiko had outlined weren't so different from what he knew.

Hakuda matched the Taijutsu he'd mastered since childhood. His muscles remembered the countless hours of training, the precise movements that had become second nature during his ANBU days. At least in that regard, he wouldn't start from scratch.

His fingers traced the outline of a kunai he'd fashioned from local materials. Zanjutsu - the art of the sword. The weight felt different from his ANBU blade, but the principles remained the same. Cut, parry, thrust. The forms were universal, regardless of the world.

A group of children played nearby, their bare feet kicking up dust as they chased each other. Itachi observed their movements, noting how their spiritual pressure fluctuated with each step. Hoho seemed simple on the surface - mere footwork - but its separation from Hakuda suggested hidden depths. Perhaps it held secrets similar to the Body Flicker Technique.

Kido presented the greatest challenge. His attempts to manipulate spiritual energy through familiar hand signs had proved fruitless. The power was there, vast and untapped, but it slipped through his fingers without the proper incantations. The frustration of knowing the potential but lacking the key to unlock it reminded him of his early days learning jutsu.

"A century of training," he murmured to himself, recalling one of Sachiko's teachings. The idea had once unnerved him—how could he compete with warriors who had trained for centuries? But Sachiko had reassured him, explaining that time worked differently for souls. A century of a Shinigami's training, she had said, was like a decade of training for a human. Their long life spans gave them the luxury of a slower, steadier pace, stretching time into something more manageable.

He closed his eyes, sensing the spiritual pressures around him. The children's energies flickered like candle flames, while somewhere in the distance, stronger presences moved with purpose - likely another Shinigami patrol. Their power levels varied, but none approached the intensity of his own spiritual pressure.

The realization brought both comfort and caution. His power might match or exceed theirs, but without proper control, it was as dangerous as an untamed fire. He needed to learn their arts, to understand how to channel this new energy effectively.

A memory surfaced of training with Shisui, learning to master the Body Flicker Technique. His cousin had always emphasized understanding over mere imitation. Perhaps that approach would serve him here as well.

Itachi straightened, dust falling from his clothes. The children had stopped their game to watch him, their eyes wide with curiosity rather than fear. One boy held a stick like a sword, attempting to mimic what he imagined to be Shinigami movements.

Their innocence sparked another memory - teaching young Sasuke the basics of shurikenjutsu. The fundamentals remained constant, regardless of the specific technique. Master the basics, understand the principles, then adapt and grow.

The patrol's spiritual pressure grew stronger, moving toward his location. Itachi melted into the shadows of a nearby alley, not yet ready for that encounter. He needed more time to understand, to adapt. Sachiko's knowledge had given him a framework, but the practical application would require careful study and practice.

.


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The midday sun beat down on District 42's central marketplace. Itachi moved through the crowd, his steps measured and purposeful. The locals still gave him a wide berth, but their fear had diminished compared to the outer districts - here, powerful spiritual pressures weren't uncommon.

A sudden shift in the atmosphere made him pause. Three distinct spiritual pressures approached, their signatures different from the usual patrols he'd avoided. These burned brighter, more focused.

The crowd parted as three black-clad figures emerged. Their black shihakusho marked them as Shinigami. Their hands rested on their zanpakuto, and their spiritual pressure pulsed with barely contained excitement.

"Well, well. So this is the source of that massive spiritual pressure everyone's been talking about." The tallest Shinigami stepped forward, his scarred face twisted in a predatory grin. "Doesn't look like much, does he?"

Itachi remained still, analyzing their movements. Their stance, their grip on their weapons - these weren't ordinary patrol members. They carried themselves like veterans, hungry for combat.

"Hey, you. You've been causing quite a stir in the outer districts." The second Shinigami, shorter but broader, circled to Itachi's left. "Captain's been curious about reports of someone with captain-level spiritual pressure moving through the Rukongai."

The third Shinigami, lean and quick-eyed, completed their triangle formation. "And here we find you, looking like some common soul. But that spiritual pressure..." His eyes narrowed. "That's no ordinary power."

The marketplace had emptied, leaving them in an impromptu arena. Dust swirled in the warm breeze, and somewhere in the distance, a door slammed shut.

"I have no quarrel with you." Itachi kept his voice level, his body relaxed but ready.

The scarred Shinigami barked a laugh. "Hear that? No quarrel, he says. That's not how the 11th Division works, friend. We live for the fight."

Itachi studied the three Shinigami, noting the eagerness in their spiritual pressure. Unlike the fear he'd encountered in others, their energy surged with anticipation, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Your spiritual pressure..." The scarred one grinned wider. "It's even better up close. Come on, show us what you can do."

"I seek only to enter the Academy." Itachi kept his voice measured, though something about their battle-hungry demeanor stirred old memories. "There's no need for conflict."

The broader Shinigami laughed, a deep, genuine sound. "No need? Fighting is the whole point! We're from Squad 11 - the strongest combat division in the Gotei 13."

"When we heard rumors about some monster spiritual pressure in the outer districts," the lean one added, "we just had to check it out. Been tracking you for days."

Their enthusiasm, their complete disregard for the gap in power - it reminded Itachi of Kisame. His former partner had always sought out the strongest opponents, finding joy in the challenge itself rather than the outcome.

"The marketplace isn't suitable for combat." Itachi glanced at the abandoned stalls and scattered goods.

The scarred Shinigami's face lit up. "He gets it! Hey, there's a clearing just outside the district's west gate. Perfect spot for a proper fight."

"What do you say?" The broader one shifted his weight, excited but disciplined. "Show us what that spiritual pressure can do?"

Itachi considered their offer. These weren't thugs looking to prove something, nor were they trying to harm civilians. They were warriors seeking the thrill of combat, pure in their intentions if not their methods.

"You crossed half of Rukongai just to find me?"

"Worth every step if you're as strong as you feel." The lean one adjusted his zanpakuto. "Besides, where's the fun in just letting talent like yours walk into the Academy without testing it first?"

The scarred one started walking backward toward the west gate, never taking his eyes off Itachi. "Think of it as an unofficial entrance exam. Squad 11 style."

Their spiritual pressure pulsed with barely contained excitement, but Itachi detected no malice. Like Kisame, they lived for the art of combat itself. The purity of their motivation, while different from his own philosophy, held its own kind of honor.

"Very well." Itachi nodded slightly. "Lead the way."

The three Shinigami exchanged grins, their spiritual pressure spiking with joy. They moved as a unit, keeping Itachi in the center of their formation more out of habit than suspicion.

"I'm Katashi," the scarred one called over his shoulder. "The big guy's Renzo, and our quick friend here is Shin. Remember those names - you'll want to know who gave you your first real fight in Soul Society."

They passed through narrow streets, their black uniforms stark against the earthen walls. Civilians peeked out from doorways and windows, watching the procession with a mixture of fear and curiosity.

"Those Academy instructors," Renzo said, his heavy steps kicking up dust, "they'll teach you all sorts of fancy techniques. But nothing beats learning through combat."

Shin nodded enthusiastically. "Theory's fine for some squads, but in the 11th, we believe in practical experience."

The west gate appeared ahead, its wooden frame weathered but solid. Beyond it, Itachi could see the clearing they'd mentioned - a flat expanse of packed earth surrounded by scattered trees.

"Perfect spot," Katashi declared, his hand already on his zanpakuto's hilt. "No buildings to worry about, no civilians to get in the way. Just us and that monster spiritual pressure of yours."

Itachi watched as the three Shinigami spread out across the clearing. Their spiritual pressure thrummed with excitement, creating ripples in the air around them.

"We'll test you one at a time," Katashi announced, stepping forward. "Fair's fair. First, draw your zanpakuto."

"I don't have one." Itachi kept his voice level, observing their reactions.

Renzo's jaw dropped. "No zanpakuto? How are you supposed to fight without a sword?"

"That's... that's not right." Shin shook his head.

Katashi's scarred face twisted in disappointment. "Well, this is awkward. We came all this way for-"

"I am proficient in Hakuda," Itachi interrupted, noting how their expressions shifted from disappointment to intrigue. "Hand-to-hand combat should suffice."

"Hakuda?" Renzo's eyebrows shot up. "Without any formal training?"

Shin stepped forward, his hand leaving his sword hilt. "I'll take this one. Might as well see what he can do." His spiritual pressure flared as he squared his shoulders. "I'm the 6th Seat of the 11th Division. That means I'm the sixth strongest fighter in the strongest combat division in the Gotei 13. I can match most 3rd Seats in other divisions."

Itachi settled into a defensive stance, his body remembering years o training. The spiritual energy flowing through him felt different from chakra, but the principles remained the same.

Shin grinned, then vanished.

Itachi's eyes widened. The movement wasn't like Body Flicker - it was something else entirely. He sensed the displacement of spiritual pressure behind him and turned, blocking a punch aimed at his head.

"Surprised?" Shin appeared several feet away. "That's Shunpo - Flash Step. It's one of the fundamental Shinigami arts." He disappeared again, this time reappearing to Itachi's left. "We use our spiritual pressure to temporarily transcend normal movement speed."

He tracked Shin's spiritual pressure as the Shinigami circled him, analyzing the flow of energy.

"Most souls can't even see us move when we use Shunpo," Shin continued, his voice carrying traces of respect. "But you're tracking me, aren't you?"

Instead of responding, Itachi focused on the subtle shifts in spiritual pressure that preceded each Flash Step. The energy gathered in Shin's feet and legs, compressed like a spring before release. It wasn't unlike the chakra manipulation he'd once used for enhanced movement.

Shin vanished again, but this time Itachi was ready. He pivoted, catching the Shinigami's wrist mid-strike and redirecting the force. Shin's eyes widened as he stumbled forward, his momentum used against him.

"Impressive reflexes," Shin recovered his balance, rolling his shoulder. "But can you keep up with this?"

The Shinigami's spiritual pressure spiked. He launched into a series of rapid Flash Steps, appearing and disappearing in quick succession. Each movement was faster than the last, creating a complex pattern of attacks from multiple angles.

Itachi's body moved on instinct, years of combat experience guiding his responses. He blocked, dodged, and countered, his movements becoming more fluid as he adapted to the rhythm of Shin's technique. The spiritual energy within him responded naturally, enhancing his speed and strength without conscious thought.

"How are you-" Shin's voice cut off as Itachi slipped past his guard, landing a precise strike to his solar plexus. The Shinigami staggered back, breathing heavily. "You're actually learning Shunpo just by watching me, aren't you?"

Itachi watched as Shin drew his zanpakuto in a fluid motion, the steel catching the sunlight. The Shinigami's spiritual pressure shifted, becoming more focused and controlled. While impressive, it still fell short of what Itachi had faced.

"You're good at hand-to-hand, I'll give you that." Shin adjusted his grip on the sword. "But let's see how you handle a real blade."

The sword whistled through the air as Shin attacked. Itachi sidestepped, noting how the Shinigami's movements became more predictable with the weapon. Like many skilled fighters, Shin relied too heavily on his tool of choice, sacrificing versatility for familiar comfort.

A horizontal slash came toward Itachi's midsection. He ducked under it, closing the distance before Shin could recover. His palm struck the Shinigami's chest, sending him stumbling backward. The blow wasn't meant to hurt - just to demonstrate the gap between them.

"Impossible," Shin gasped, regaining his footing. "Your speed... without Shunpo..."

Itachi remained silent, analyzing Shin's fighting style. The Shinigami's technique reminded him of the Cloud Village's sword masters - skilled, but lacking the lethal efficiency of ANBU training. In terms of raw combat ability, Shin would have struggled against even the weaker members of Akatsuki.

Shin launched another series of attacks, his blade becoming a blur of motion. Itachi weaved between the strikes, each movement precise and economical. Where Shin expended energy on elaborate sword techniques, Itachi responded with simple, effective counters.

A kick connected with Shin's wrist, nearly dislodging the zanpakuto. Before the Shinigami could recover, Itachi's elbow found his solar plexus. Another strike to the shoulder, a sweep of the legs - each hit landed exactly where intended.

"How are you reading my movements so easily?" Shin's breathing had become labored, his attacks growing desperate.

The question brought back memories of training sessions with younger ANBU recruits. They too had struggled to understand how their techniques could be so thoroughly countered. But where those recruits had been learning to kill, Shin fought with the enthusiasm of someone who enjoyed combat for its own sake.

A vertical slash came down toward Itachi's head. He caught Shin's sword arm at the wrist, redirecting the blade into the ground. His other hand struck the Shinigami's chest with an open palm, sending him sprawling.

Katashi and Renzo watched from the sidelines, their spiritual pressure fluctuating with excitement rather than concern for their comrade.

Shin charged again, his zanpakuto trailing blue spirit energy. The power boost was noticeable, but still within the range Itachi had expected from a B-rank opponent. He remembered similar encounters - skilled fighters who, while formidable against normal opponents, lacked the edge needed to truly challenge someone of his caliber.

"Your sword techniques are solid," Itachi said, deflecting another strike with his bare hand, spiritual energy protecting his palm from the blade. "But you telegraph your intentions."

As if to prove his point, Itachi slipped inside Shin's guard again. A precise strike to the shoulder, followed by a sweep of the legs, sent the Shinigami tumbling. The zanpakuto clattered against the ground, its spirit energy flickering.

Shin's laughter caught Itachi off guard. The Shinigami pushed himself up, blood trickling from a cut on his lip, yet his spiritual pressure radiated pure joy.

"You're not even trying, are you?" Shin wiped the blood with the back of his hand. "Taking it easy on me like I'm some Academy student."

Itachi studied the change in Shin's demeanor. The playful enthusiasm from earlier had transformed into something deeper, more primal. It reminded him of Kisame's bloodlust, but cleaner somehow - pure in its dedication to combat.

"In the 11th Division, we live and die by the sword." Shin's spiritual pressure began to rise. "Every fight is a chance to reach our limits, to push beyond them. How can I face my squad mates knowing I didn't give everything against someone like you?"

"This isn't training anymore," Itachi realized, feeling the shift in Shin's intent.

"It never was." Shin raised his zanpakuto, his eyes blazing with determination. "You know what this is?" He held the blade before him. "It's not just a sword. A zanpakuto is part of our soul, a living entity born from our spiritual pressure."

Itachi's attention sharpened. The sword's energy had changed, resonating with Shin's spiritual pressure in a way he hadn't noticed before.

"Every zanpakuto has a name, a true form." Shin's grip tightened. "When we learn that name, we can release its first form - Shikai. The strongest among us can even achieve a second release called Bankai, but that's beyond me... for now."

The spiritual pressure around Shin intensified, making the air thick with energy. "I've been holding back too, trying to gauge your strength. But that ends now." His voice dropped to a whisper, yet carried across the clearing. "Strike, Hageshi Kaze."

The zanpakuto pulsed with light. Its blade transformed, splitting into three curved segments connected by chains. Each segment gleamed like polished steel, their edges rippling with spiritual energy.

"This is my Shikai - Fierce Wind." Shin spun the segmented blade, creating a whistling sound that cut through the air. "No more playing around. Show me everything you've got, or I'll take your head."

The weapon's transformation fascinated Itachi. Unlike chakra-enhanced tools, this was a true manifestation of Shin's spiritual energy, an extension of his very being. The three segments moved like living things, responding to their wielder's will with perfect synchronization.

"In the 11th Division, we believe in fighting to the death." Shin's spiritual pressure continued to climb. "Not because we want to kill, but because that's the only way to truly know ourselves and our opponents."

The segmented blade whirled through the air, its chains creating complex patterns of movement. Itachi could see why this release suited a member of the combat division - it was straightforward yet deadly, designed purely for battle.

"A fight without risk isn't a fight at all." Shin launched forward, his Shikai singing through the air. "So come on. Stop holding back. Show me what that monster spiritual pressure of yours can really do!"

The segments of Hageshī Kaze extended outward, each blade following a different trajectory. Itachi noted how the chains allowed Shin to attack from multiple angles simultaneously, while the whistling sound made it harder to track individual segments by ear alone.

This was no longer a simple test of skill. Shin's eyes held the look of a warrior committed to pushing past his limits, even if it meant death. It was a familiar expression - one Itachi had seen countless times during his years as a shinobi. The pure dedication to combat that transcended reason or self-preservation.

The segmented blade danced through the air, its killing intent unmistakable. This was the true nature of the 11th Division - warriors who found meaning in the clash of steel and spirit, who measured their worth in battles fought to the absolute limit.

The segmented blades whistled through the air, their paths unpredictable yet purposeful. Itachi moved between them with fluid grace, his spiritual energy responding to his will just as chakra once had. Each dodge was precise, each counter measured.

"Binding Serpent!" Shin's blade segments curved inward, the chains between them glowing with spiritual energy. They wrapped around in a spiral pattern, designed to trap and constrict.

Itachi slipped through the gap between segments, noting how the technique sacrificed striking power for control. The chains passed harmlessly by as he closed the distance, landing another precise strike to Shin's shoulder.

"Storm of Steel!" The segments separated again, spinning faster until they became blurs of motion. They struck from multiple angles, each hit carrying enough force to shear through stone.

But Itachi had faced worse - much worse. He'd stood against attacks that could level mountains, dodged attacks that bent space itself. His body moved on pure instinct, finding the patterns within chaos, exploiting the milliseconds between strikes.

Shin's breathing grew heavier, his movements more desperate. Sweat dripped from his brow as he poured more spiritual energy into each technique. "Dancing Wind Blades!"

The segments took on a life of their own, moving independently like guided missiles. They curved through impossible angles, their paths defying normal physics. It was an impressive display of control and power.

Yet to Itachi, who had faced Sage techniques and Tailed Beast attacks, it felt almost gentle. He weaved between the blades, each movement economical, each counter precise. Where Shin expended massive amounts of energy, Itachi responded with minimal force applied at exactly the right points.

Blood trickled from several cuts on Shin's arms and chest - not from Itachi's strikes, but from the backlash of his own desperate techniques. His spiritual pressure fluctuated wildly, signs of exhaustion setting in.

The Shinigami lowered his weapon, his shoulders heaving. "Before you finish this..." He met Itachi's gaze without fear. "Tell me your name. I want to know who granted me this perfect death."

Itachi recognized the look in Shin's eyes - he'd seen it before in shinobi who'd found themselves hopelessly outmatched yet refused to yield. It wasn't despair or resignation, but acceptance of a warrior's fate. The pride of someone who'd fought with everything they had and found peace in their defeat.

"Itachi Uchiha."

"Itachi..." Shin tested the name, a smile crossing his blood-stained lips. "You're not just strong. You're on a completely different level. I never stood a chance, did I?"

Memories of past battles flickered through Itachi's mind - countless lives ended by his hand, some deserving, others merely in his way. He'd killed for duty, for peace, for the greater good. Each killing hadn't been essential, not every soul sacrificed had aligned with the scales of his mission.

The weight of those choices settled around him like an old friend. He was no hero, no paragon of virtue. His hands were stained with the blood of innocents, his soul marked by necessary evils. He'd learned long ago that sometimes mercy meant granting a clean death rather than leaving someone to live with the shame of defeat.

Shin raised his weapon one final time, his spiritual pressure steady despite his exhaustion. "Thank you, Itachi Uchiha. This is how a warrior of the 11th Division should die - standing, weapon in hand, against an opponent worthy of respect."

Itachi gathered his spiritual energy, focusing it into a single point. It wasn't chakra, but the principle remained the same - precise application of force to end things quickly and cleanly. No wavering, no remorse. Simply one more conclusion in an endless succession of finalities.

Shin's blade whistled through the air one last time. Itachi moved with practiced precision, the kunai he'd fashioned finding its mark between Shin's ribs. Blood bloomed across the Shinigami's black robes as he stumbled backward, his zanpakuto returning to its sealed form.

"Perfect..." Shin's lips curved into a smile, blood trickling down his chin. "Take it." He held out his sword with trembling hands. "My Hageshi Kaze... he likes you. Can feel it resonating... with your spirit."

Itachi grasped the offered zanpakuto, feeling an immediate connection - a pulse of energy that reminded him of the first time he'd awakened his Sharingan. The sword seemed to hum in his grip, its spiritual pressure intertwining with his own.

"Through you... I'll keep fighting." Itachi watched as the light faded from Shin's gaze, the Shinigami's essence slipping away. The lifeless form slumped against the ground, crimson spreading beneath him.

Itachi picked up the sheath, sliding the zanpakuto home with a soft click. The weight felt natural in his hands, different from the ANBU sword he'd once carried, yet somehow familiar.

"Well, that was something else." Katashi stepped forward, his hand resting on his own zanpakuto. "Eight Seat Katashi of the 11th Division."

"Ninth Seat Renzo ." The other Shinigami drew his blade in one fluid motion. "Looks like you'll need some proper sword training. We could help with that."

"Can't let Shin have all the fun, even in death." Katashi's blade rasped free of its sheath. "Lucky bastard, getting to keep fighting through someone like you."

Their spiritual pressure rose in tandem, weaker than Shin's had been. Neither showed any fear - only the same wild excitement he'd seen in their fallen comrade's eyes. The 11th Division's warrior spirit ran deep, transcending even death itself.

Itachi sighed, his fingers tightening around his new sword. The zanpakuto's energy pulsed in response, eager for battle. He'd hoped to avoid more bloodshed, but these men had made their choice. Like so many others before them, they'd chosen to test themselves against death itself.

Katashi's blade ignited with crimson energy. "Burn-"

"Pierce-" Renzo's zanpakuto glowed with an icy blue light.

Their Shikai releases were cut short as Itachi burst forward, his Zanpakuto singing through the air. Steel met steel in a shower of sparks, the clash of blades echoing through the clearing.

.


.

Itachi sat cross-legged beneath a weathered oak tree, the borrowed zanpakuto laid across his lap. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the blade's surface. The sword had transformed over the past month, its once ornate tsuba now plain and unadorned, the wrappings faded from deep crimson to a muted brown.

He ran his fingers along the blade's edge, feeling none of the resonance that had marked his first contact with Hageshi Kaze. The spirit within had departed with its true wielder, leaving behind only cold steel.

"A sword is just a tool," he mused, remembering countless battles with his ANBU blade. Yet this was different - zanpakuto were born from their wielder's soul, as Shin had explained in his final moments.

Rising to his feet, Itachi stretched muscles that felt lighter than they had in years. The chronic pain that had plagued him in life had vanished, along with the crushing fatigue that had made every breath a struggle. His right eye, once growing dim from illness and the strain of the Mangekyo, now saw with almost crystal clarity.

He tested his vision, tracking a falling leaf as it spiraled down. The loss of his left eye was a fair trade for this renewed strength. After years of declining health, the simple act of breathing without pain felt like a gift.

A burst of Shunpo carried him to a nearby rooftop. The flash step technique had come naturally to him, his genius mind breaking down its principles after just a few observations. Each day brought greater mastery, his speed increasing until the world blurred around him.

He pushed off again, crossing several blocks in the blink of an eye. The 40th District spread out below, its buildings growing more orderly than the chaos of the 80th, though poverty still marked many streets. He'd taken his time moving through the districts, learning the rhythms of this new world.

Another flash step. Another. The technique reminded him of the Body Flicker, but relied on spiritual energy rather than chakra. His reserves of this new power grew daily, untapped potential awakening with each practice session.

Landing in a small clearing, Itachi drew the nameless sword. Its weight felt different now, more like an extension of his arm than the living weapon it had been. He moved through the forms he'd developed, blending the precision of ANBU sword techniques with what he'd observed of Shinigami zanjutsu.

The blade sang through the air, each strike precise and controlled. He'd always excelled at weapons, but this was different - building something new from the foundations of his past training.

"The Academy will have to wait," he spoke to the empty air. The sword gleamed in response, catching the afternoon light. "Until I understand this power fully."

His right eye tracked phantom targets as he continued his practice, compensating for his blind left side with subtle adjustments to stance and footwork. The limitation forced growth, demanded adaptation. Like everything else in his existence, he would turn this apparent weakness into strength.

A month of training had given him speed enough to reach Seireitei within days, yet he held back. There were lessons to be learned in these districts, insights to be gained before entering that world of power and politics. He had worn enough masks in his previous life to recognize the value of preparation.

The sword flashed once more as Itachi completed his routine, sliding it home in its sheath with practiced ease. Whatever challenges lay ahead in Seireitei, he would face them on his own terms, with his own strength - not borrowed power, but something forged anew from the spirit that had carried him through life and into this strange afterlife.

Itachi settled into seiza position, resting his hands on his thighs. The familiar posture brought back memories of long meditation sessions in the Uchiha compound, though the energy flowing through him now felt vastly different from chakra.

He closed his right eye, focusing inward. The reiryoku pulsed through his spirit body in patterns both familiar and alien. Where chakra had been like a river flowing through defined channels, this spiritual energy moved more like ocean currents - vast, deep, and following laws he was still discovering.

The sword at his side hummed with a faint resonance, not the living connection he'd briefly shared with Hageshi Kaze, but something more basic. Raw potential waiting to be shaped. Itachi let his awareness sink deeper, past the surface movements of power to the underlying rhythms.

His consciousness drifted deeper still, past the boundaries of physical sensation. The world fell away piece by piece - first the sounds of wind in leaves, then the pressure of ground beneath his knees, finally even the weight of his own body. All that remained was the pure awareness of energy flowing through space.

Time lost meaning as Itachi explored this inner landscape. His thoughts grew distant, detaching from normal awareness like leaves scattered by an autumn wind. Even his iron discipline couldn't maintain full consciousness as he sank deeper into the meditative state.

The boundaries between self and energy began to blur. His carefully maintained sense of identity started to dissolve, merging with the flowing currents of power. Where once he'd been able to track every thread of chakra with perfect clarity, now he found himself adrift in an ocean of spiritual energy.

Fragments of memory floated past - the weight of his ANBU mask, the taste of his mother's cooking, the sound of Sasuke's laughter. Each one faded like mist as his awareness continued to disperse. The meditation had taken him beyond any state he'd experienced in life.

His last coherent thought was a distant observation that this dissolution felt neither threatening nor peaceful - it simply was. Then even that faded as consciousness slipped away entirely, leaving only the endless flow of reiryoku through the void.

.


.

Itachi's awareness snapped back like a drawn bowstring. Gone was the meditation clearing - instead, ancient walls rose around him, their weathered stone surfaces draped with climbing ivy. A gentle breeze carried the sound of wind chimes, though he couldn't locate their source. Mist curled around his feet, and golden light filtered through clouds above.

His right hand moved to where his sword should be, but found nothing. His practiced calm warred with the strangeness of the situation. This place felt both foreign and familiar, like a half-remembered dream.

Water trickled somewhere nearby. He followed the sound, bare feet silent on smooth stone paths that wound between drifting veils of translucent fabric. The veils shifted in patterns that defied the breeze, creating ever-changing corridors through the space.

A koi pond came into view, its surface mirror-still despite the water he could hear. The reflection showed his face, unchanged from what he'd grown used to in this afterlife, though his blind left eye drew his attention more than usual.

"You've finally arrived." A woman's voice, warm and measured, broke the silence.

Itachi turned, compensating for his blind side with practiced efficiency. On a wooden veranda beside the pond sat a figure in flowing lavender robes. Her right eye was covered by an ornate patch, while her left - a striking gold - regarded him with quiet interest.

He assessed her presence, noting how she seemed both solid and ethereal, as if she existed between states of being. No killing intent radiated from her, yet power emanated from her form like heat from a banked fire.

"Where is this place?" Itachi kept his voice level, though questions multiplied in his mind.

The woman smiled, the expression gentle but knowing. "A reflection of truth, seen through different eyes." She gestured to the space beside her on the veranda. "Will you join me, Itachi?"

His name on her lips carried no surprise, as if she'd known him all along. The situation demanded caution, yet something in her manner sparked recognition - not of her specifically, but of her nature. She reminded him of the wisest teachers he'd known, those who guided through questions rather than commands.

Itachi approached with measured steps, noting how the veils parted before him like curtains drawn by invisible hands. The wooden boards of the veranda creaked softly as he sat, maintaining a respectful distance.

"You know who I am," he observed. "Yet I don't know you."

"Names hold power," she replied, her golden eye catching the ethereal light. "But perhaps more important is understanding what we represent." She turned slightly, and Itachi noticed how her blind side mirrored his own, creating a strange symmetry between them.

The mist swirled at their feet, and in its patterns Itachi caught glimpses of familiar scenes - the Uchiha compound, the forests of Konoha, the streets of Rukongai. Each image dissolved before he could focus on it fully.

"This isn't genjutsu," he said, his right eye confirming the absence of any illusion technique he knew.

"No," she agreed. "This is something far more fundamental." She lifted her hand, and one of the drifting veils floated down between them. Through its translucent surface, Itachi saw distorted reflections of himself - not just his current form, but echoes of who he'd been: the ANBU captain, the clan prodigy, the dying brother.

The woman's presence carried a weight of wisdom that pressed against his senses. Every movement she made seemed to ripple through the air like stones dropped in still water. The golden light caught in her eye reminded him of something essential, just beyond his grasp.

"You seek truth," she said, not a question but a statement of fact. "Yet truth has many layers, like these veils. What seems clear from one angle becomes clouded from another."

The chimes sounded again, closer now, their notes forming patterns that almost resembled words. Itachi felt the space responding to his thoughts, the mist thickening or thinning with his focus, the light shifting with his attention.

"What is this place?" he asked again, but this time the question carried deeper meaning.

The woman's gaze held steady, but she didn't answer his question. Instead, she turned the conversation with the skill of a master swordsman redirecting a blade.

"What drives you toward the Gotei 13, Itachi? Do you seek to don another uniform, to stand in formation once more?"

The questions struck deeper than he expected. Itachi's right hand tightened imperceptibly on his knee. The mist around them darkened, responding to the tension in his thoughts.

"I need to understand this world's power structure," he said, but the words felt hollow even as he spoke them.

"Do you?" Her single golden eye seemed to pierce through his carefully constructed reasoning. "Or is that simply the path of least resistance? The familiar route of the soldier, the subordinate, the blade wielded by others?"

Images flickered through the veils around them - his ANBU mask, the Akatsuki cloak, each uniform that had defined and confined him. Each role he'd played, each mask he'd worn.

"This isn't my world," Itachi acknowledged, the truth of it settling like stones in still water. "Not my intended afterlife."

"Yet you move through it as if following a script written in your previous life. Trading one uniform for another, one set of orders for the next." She gestured to the pond, where his reflection rippled despite the surface remaining still. "You know this is not where you were meant to be. Why then do you seek to bind yourself again?"

The question resonated through the courtyard, setting the wind chimes trembling. Itachi felt the weight of his past choices pressing against him - each time he'd surrendered his will to a greater authority, each sacrifice made in the name of duty.

"I've always served something larger than myself," he said, but even as the words left his mouth, he heard their weakness.

"Have you?" She lifted one of the translucent veils between them. Through it, Itachi saw himself as a child, watching his father give orders, learning to sublimate his own desires beneath the needs of clan and village. "Or did you simply never learn another way to exist?"

The mist swirled more thickly now, reflecting his inner turbulence. He'd spent his entire life being what others needed - the perfect son, the loyal shinobi, the double agent, the villain. Even his final role as Sasuke's stepping stone had been chosen to serve a greater purpose.

"The Gotei 13 maintains order," he said, but it sounded like an excuse even to his own ears. "They protect the balance between worlds."

"And you believe you must be part of their structure to make a difference?" Her voice carried no judgment, only gentle questioning. "You, who has already broken free of one world's boundaries, seek to chain yourself to another's?"

The golden light dimmed slightly, casting longer shadows across the courtyard. In the distance, the wind chimes took on a melancholic tone.

"Then what would you have me do?" Itachi asked, allowing a rare note of uncertainty to enter his voice.

"I would have you do nothing," she replied. "The question is what would you do, if you stopped trying to be what others expect? If you stepped away from the familiar path of the soldier, the subordinate, the tool?"

The veils shifted around them, and in their movements Itachi caught glimpses of possibilities - paths not taken, choices not made. Each one wavered like heat haze, insubstantial but full of potential.

"I've never..." he paused, the admission difficult even in this strange space. "I've never simply been myself."

"No," she agreed softly. "You've always been someone's son, someone's brother, someone's captain, someone's enemy. Even now, you seek to become someone's soldier again."

The truth of her words settled over him like autumn frost. He'd arrived in this afterlife unburdened by his past duties, free from the web of obligations that had defined his life. Yet his first instinct had been to seek out new authorities, new structures to serve.

"Freedom," she said, "can be more terrifying than any cage."

The truth of her words pierced deeper than any blade. Itachi's chest tightened as memories flooded back - not of battles or missions, but of quiet moments. Teaching Sasuke to skip stones across the river. His mother's smile when he helped with dinner. The peace he'd felt watching clouds drift across Konoha's sky.

"I told Sasuke to be free," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "To forge his own path, not be bound by clan or village." The irony struck him then, sharp and clear as morning frost. "Yet here I am, seeking new chains."

The woman's golden eye softened. "You gave him permission to live truly, while denying yourself the same freedom."

Mist swirled around their feet, and in its patterns Itachi saw his final moments with Sasuke - not the battle, but the truth that came after. The walls he'd maintained for so long crumbling away, leaving only love and regret and hope.

"I thought..." Itachi paused, searching for words to match the revelation building in his chest. "I thought purpose required structure. That peace needed guardians, soldiers willing to sacrifice themselves."

"And did that belief bring peace?" She gestured to the veils, where shadows of his past flickered like autumn leaves in wind. "Or did it simply perpetuate cycles of sacrifice and pain?"

The question struck home. How many times had violence bred more violence? How many sacrifices had led only to greater tragedy? Even his own actions, meant to prevent bloodshed, had instead sown seeds of hatred and revenge.

"When I died," he said slowly, "I finally showed Sasuke who I truly was. Not the killer, not the prodigy, not the perfect shinobi. Just..." His voice caught. "Just his brother who loved him."

"And in that moment of truth, you were stronger than you'd ever been wearing any mask." The woman's words carried the weight of wisdom earned through ages. "Yet now you seek to don new masks, to hide behind duty once more."

Itachi looked down at his hands - hands that had taken so many lives in the name of peace, hands that had poked Sasuke's forehead in gestures of affection he'd never been able to fully express.

"I've never known how to live without a mission," he admitted. "Without someone else's purpose guiding my actions."

"Perhaps that is your true mission now." She lifted one of the drifting veils, letting it dissolve between her fingers like morning mist. "To discover who Itachi is when he serves no master but his own heart."

The courtyard's golden light seemed to pulse with his heartbeat. Each breath brought new clarity, as if layers of armor were falling away from his spirit. He remembered the peace he'd found in simple moments - tending his mother's garden, sharing dango with Sasuke, watching birds wheel across endless skies.

"I told Sasuke that no one is perfect," Itachi said, understanding blooming like dawn. "That we all fail, make mistakes, lose our way. I accepted my own failures then. Why am I now trying to return to a path that demanded perfection?"

The wind chimes sang softly, their notes carrying echoes of laughter - his own, he realized, from moments so rare and precious they'd almost been forgotten. Times when he'd simply been himself, before duty and sacrifice had buried that truth under layers of necessary lies.

Itachi studied the woman before him, questions crystallizing in his mind like frost on glass. The golden light caught the edges of her kimono, making the lavender fabric shimmer with each movement.

"Who are you?" His voice carried the weight of deeper meaning. "How do you know these things about me?"

She rose from her seated position with fluid grace, her movements rippling through the air like stones dropped in still water. The veils around them shifted, creating patterns that mirrored her motion.

"I have always been here, Itachi." Her voice held warmth and ancient wisdom. "Time flows differently in this place - past, present, future blur like watercolors on silk." She gestured to the space around them, where memories continued to drift through the translucent veils. "I was there when you first opened your eyes, when you awakened the Sharingan, when you made your greatest sacrifices."

The wind chimes sang softly as she moved closer, her single golden eye reflecting his image back at him. "Space and time hold no meaning for our connection. I have watched you grow, suffer, love, and die. I have seen every truth you've hidden, even from yourself."

Something stirred in Itachi's chest - recognition perhaps, or understanding just beginning to take root. The mist swirled around their feet, responding to the shift in his awareness.

"You speak as if you know me better than I know myself." He tracked her movement with his right eye, noting how she seemed to exist in perfect harmony with this strange space.

"Because I am part of you, as you are part of me." She lifted her hand, and one of the veils wrapped around her arm like living silk. "I am the sight you lost, the vision you sacrificed, the clarity you've always sought." The golden light intensified, making her eye glow like a captured star. "I am Tōhime, the Princess of Transparency."

The name resonated through Itachi's being like a struck bell. The courtyard responded, light and shadow dancing in patterns that seemed to echo the sound.

"Your purpose has never been to serve as another's weapon," she continued. "But to see - truly see - beyond the veils of deception, including those you've wrapped around your own heart." She gestured to his blind left eye. "I am your zanpakuto, Itachi. Through me, you will find not just sight for the outside world, but vision to perceive your own inner truth."

The revelation settled over him, each droplet of understanding adding to a greater clarity. The connection he felt to this place, to her, suddenly made perfect sense - not as something new, but as something that had always existed, waiting to be recognized.

"A zanpakuto," he said, the word carrying new meaning now. Not just a weapon, but a reflection of his own soul, a partner in his journey. "You've been with me all along."

"Through every mask you've worn, every role you've played." She moved closer, her presence both familiar and mysterious. "I am the truth behind the illusions, the clarity within confusion. Together, we can see what others cannot - not just techniques and deceptions, but the deeper realities that shape both worlds."

The golden light seemed to pulse between them, connecting his blind left eye to her seeing one. In that moment, Itachi felt the boundaries between them blur - not losing himself, but expanding to include this new awareness, this deeper understanding of who and what he truly was.

"Show me," he said, the words emerging not as a command but as an invitation to shared discovery.

.


.

Itachi opened his eyes slowly, awareness returning like ripples spreading across still water. The forest clearing materialized around him, unchanged yet somehow different. His perspective had shifted, as if viewing the world through a lens that revealed deeper truths beneath surface appearances.

The weight in his lap drew his attention. Where Hageshi Kaze had rested, a different blade now lay across his knees. The katana possessed an understated elegance that resonated with his own nature. Its blade caught the filtered sunlight with a soft, misty sheen - not the harsh gleam of polished steel, but something more subtle, as if perpetually viewed through one of Tōhime's translucent veils.

He lifted the sword, studying the oval tsuba. The pale gold surface bore intricate wave patterns that seemed to shift as he turned it, like thoughts flowing beneath the surface of consciousness.

The lavender silk wrapping the hilt felt familiar under his fingers, the same shade as Tōhime's kimono. Silver threads woven through the wrapping caught the light in unexpected ways, creating patterns that reminded him of the drifting veils in his inner world. A white tassel hung from the pommel, swaying with each movement of his hand like a pendulum marking moments of clarity.

Power radiated from the blade, but not in the way he was accustomed to feeling it. Instead of the sharp edge of killing intent or the overwhelming pressure of raw spiritual energy, this emanation felt like stepping into a pool of cool water on a hot day - refreshing, clarifying, calming.

The sword's presence in his hands felt right in a way that transcended mere physical comfort. It was an extension not just of his arm but of his consciousness, a bridge between inner truth and outer reality. Through it, he sensed the world with new depth, as if each moment contained layers of meaning waiting to be uncovered.

The white tassel brushed against his wrist as he rose from his seiza position, each movement flowing with natural grace. The blade moved with him as if it had always been part of him, its weight perfectly balanced, its presence an anchor in this unfamiliar world.

"See through the veil," Tōhime's voice whispered in his mind, clear as temple bells at dawn. The words carried more than sound - they resonated with purpose and possibility, offering not just sight but insight.

"See through the veil, Tōhime." The words left Itachi's lips with quiet certainty. Instinct guided him to close his right eye, and in that moment, his blind left eye blazed with golden light.

The world transformed.

Every particle of spiritual energy became visible, flowing through the air like luminous rivers. The trees, the ground, even the smallest blade of grass radiated with intricate patterns of energy that he could track, analyze, and understand in perfect detail. Time seemed to slow, yet his mind processed everything with crystalline clarity.

"Through my sight, you will perceive the truth in all things," Tōhime's voice resonated within him. "Every technique, every deception, every flutter of spiritual pressure - nothing can hide from our shared vision."

Colors took on new dimensions, each shade carrying information about the spiritual composition of what he observed. The air itself seemed alive with data - pressure differences, energy currents, the lingering traces of past techniques. It was overwhelming yet perfectly ordered, like reading an infinitely detailed map where every element made perfect sense.

The forest around him revealed layers of truth he'd never imagined. He saw how spiritual energy flowed through the ground, how it gathered in certain points and dispersed in others. The very fabric of reality seemed laid bare before his golden eye, showing him the underlying patterns that governed everything from the smallest particle to the largest technique.

"This is true sight," Tōhime explained, her voice carrying notes of quiet pride. "Not just the power to see through illusions, but to understand the very essence of what you observe. Every technique has its foundation, every deception its truth, every strength its corresponding weakness."

His perception extended beyond the physical. He could see the subtle threads of intention and emotion that colored other's spiritual pressure, read the complex interplay of their thoughts and feelings in the fluctuations of their energy. Nothing escaped his enhanced vision - every micro-expression, every slight shift in stance, every flicker of doubt or determination.

The golden eye didn't just see - it understood. Each observation came with instant comprehension, as if Tōhime's centuries of wisdom filtered directly into his consciousness. Complex spiritual techniques revealed their mechanisms to him like open books, their strengths and vulnerabilities clear as daylight.

Even the air currents carried meaning now, showing him how spiritual energy flowed and gathered, how it could be manipulated or disrupted. The world had become a vast tapestry of interconnected truths, each thread visible and comprehensible through his enhanced perception.

"Remember," Tōhime cautioned, "seeing truth requires more than just power - it demands the wisdom to understand what you observe, and the judgment to act on that knowledge."

Itachi absorbed this new way of seeing, letting his mind adjust to the overwhelming influx of information. Every moment brought new revelations, yet his consciousness expanded to contain them all, processing each detail with perfect clarity. Through Tōhime's golden eye, the world had become both infinitely more complex and surprisingly simple - a place where all truths were visible to those who knew how to look.

The flood of information crashed against Itachi's consciousness like waves on a rocky shore. His enhanced vision revealed even the smallest detail, every whisper of spiritual energy, every subtle fluctuation in the environment - but the sheer volume threatened to overwhelm him.

Pain lanced through his temples as his brain struggled to process the torrent of data. The world spun in dizzying patterns of energy and truth, each revelation competing for his attention. Closing his right eye had seemed natural at first, but now the lack of depth perception made even simple movements challenging. The trees around him flattened into a confusing tableau of overlapping spiritual signatures.

"Focus," Tōhime's voice steadied him. "Direct your attention like a stream, not a flood."

Itachi drew a deep breath, channeling his concentration. Years of Sharingan use had taught him the importance of filtering visual input. He applied those same principles now, narrowing his awareness to specific elements rather than trying to absorb everything at once.

His spiritual energy - reiryoku, he reminded himself - drained steadily with each passing moment. The golden vision demanded a constant flow of power, like maintaining a complex genjutsu. Unlike his Sharingan techniques, however, Tōhime offered no direct offensive capabilities. She showed him truths, revealed weaknesses, but the action itself remained his responsibility.

"Understanding is its own form of power," she reminded him. "But yes, the application of that knowledge requires your skill and judgment."

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he maintained the technique. His enhanced vision showed him everything - the complex matrix of energy flowing through the clearing, the lingering traces of his earlier meditation, even the subtle ways his own spiritual pressure affected the environment. But each observation taxed his stamina, each revelation demanded more of his strength.

"A double-edged sword," he murmured, understanding flowing between them. "Like all true power."

He released the technique, his golden vision fading back to darkness in his left eye. The world snapped back to normal perspective as he opened his right, though the absence of that deeper sight left him feeling almost blind.

The katana in his hands remained unchanged, despite having released and sealed his Shikai. No dramatic transformations, no altered appearance - just the same elegant blade with its misty sheen and lavender wrappings. The simplicity suited him.

"Our strength lies in truth, not spectacle," Tōhime's voice carried a hint of amusement. "Though I notice you appreciate the aesthetic."

"It reflects its wielder," Itachi replied, running his fingers along the pale gold tsuba. "Both in form and function."

"As it should. We are partners in this journey, after all." Her presence in his mind felt warm, supportive. "Though you might want to work on that depth perception issue before your next fight."

A slight smile touched his lips at her practical observation. She was right, of course. Like any tool, any technique, mastery would require practice and adaptation. He would need to learn her limits as thoroughly as he knew his own.

Itachi rose smoothly to his feet, sliding Tōhime into the sheath at his waist. The weight felt natural there, balanced and ready. Whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them together - his skill and her insight combining to reveal paths through deception to truth.

"The journey continues," she said simply.

He nodded, oriented himself, and stepped out of the clearing. Each movement carried purpose now, guided by new understanding and partnership rather than mere necessity.