Card Ninja From Uchiha - Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Ashes and Embers

The Uchiha compound was quieter than it had any right to be.

As Yami walked through the streets alongside the clan member who had collected him from the hospital, he couldn’t help but notice the eerie stillness that hung over everything like a burial shroud. It was well past midnight now, the moon hanging fat and pale in the sky, illuminating streets that should have been empty at this hour anyway. But this silence was different. Heavier. It carried the weight of fresh grief and barely-contained rage.

Many of the buildings showed signs of damage—cracked walls, broken windows, scorch marks from fires that had been hastily extinguished. The Nine-Tails’ rampage hadn’t directly struck the Uchiha compound, but the shockwaves of its destruction had reached even here. Or perhaps this damage came from the battle itself, from Uchiha clan members fighting desperately to protect their home and their village.

They passed a group of clan members working to repair a collapsed roof, their movements mechanical, exhausted. One of them, a woman with her long hair tied back in a practical bun, looked up as they walked by. Her eyes—dark, not activated Sharingan, but unmistakably Uchiha eyes—met Yami’s for just a moment. The sympathy in them was so raw, so genuine, that it made his chest tighten.

She nodded at him, a small gesture of acknowledgment and solidarity. Another orphan, her expression seemed to say. Another child who lost everything tonight.

Yami looked away, unable to hold her gaze.

“Not much further,” the clan member escorting him said softly. The man had introduced himself as Uchiha Takeshi, a chunin who worked with the police force. His face was streaked with dirt and what might have been dried blood—not his own, Yami suspected—and there was a weight to his movements that spoke of bone-deep exhaustion. How long had he been awake? How many bodies had he helped recover?

“The administration building is just ahead,” Takeshi continued, his voice gentle in a way that suggested he was trying to be comforting but wasn’t quite sure how. “We’ll get you sorted out there. Make sure you have somewhere to sleep tonight.”

Tonight. As if anything beyond the next few hours mattered right now.

They turned a corner, and the administration building came into view. It was one of the larger structures in the compound, built in the traditional style with a sloped roof and wooden architecture that had probably stood for decades. Unlike some of the surrounding buildings, it appeared undamaged, standing solid and unmoved despite the chaos that had swept through Konoha.

The interior was a hive of subdued activity. Clan members moved between rooms with quiet urgency, carrying documents, speaking in low voices. Yami caught fragments of conversation as they passed—discussions of casualty counts, damaged property, displaced families. The administrative machinery of the clan was in full motion, trying to organize and account for the aftermath of the attack.

Takeshi led him to a desk near the back of the main room, where a middle-aged woman sat surrounded by scrolls and ledgers. She looked up as they approached, and Yami saw the same exhaustion in her face that seemed universal tonight. Her eyes were red-rimmed, though whether from fatigue or tears, he couldn’t tell.

“Takeshi,” she acknowledged with a nod. Then her gaze dropped to Yami, and her expression softened into something that might have been maternal concern if it weren’t so saturated with pity. “And this must be one of the children.”

“Uchiha Yami,” Takeshi confirmed, placing a hand on Yami’s shoulder. The touch was meant to be reassuring, but Yami could feel the slight tremor in it. This man was barely holding himself together. “Five years old. Parents were Uchiha Hiroaki and Uchiha Mieko.”

The woman’s fingers moved across her ledgers with practiced efficiency, pulling out a specific scroll and unrolling it. Her eyes scanned the contents, and Yami saw the moment she found the relevant entry. Her jaw tightened, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“I see,” she said quietly. She looked up at Yami, and he saw her struggle for a moment, choosing her words carefully. “Yami-kun, my name is Uchiha Fumiko. I’m one of the administrators for the clan. I’m… I’m very sorry for your loss.”

The words were formulaic, the kind of thing people said because they had to say something. But there was genuine sympathy behind them, a shared grief that made them more than just empty platitudes.

Fumiko took a breath, steadying herself, and continued in a more professional tone. “Your parents, Uchiha Hiroaki and Uchiha Mieko, were recovered from the district near the eastern wall. They…” She paused, glancing at Takeshi as if uncertain how much detail to provide to a five-year-old child. “They didn’t survive their injuries. I’m sorry. They were buried this evening in accordance with clan traditions. Their grave markers are numbers 12351 and 12352 in the clan cemetery.”

Numbers. His parents had been reduced to numbers in a ledger.

Yami felt something crack inside his chest. It was an odd sensation, like ice breaking under pressure. His adult mind tried to maintain emotional distance—these weren’t really his parents, he hadn’t known them, this was a different person’s grief—but that distance was an illusion. The memories he had inherited weren’t just data uploaded into his brain. They carried emotional weight, emotional context. They were real to him in a way that transcended logic.

He remembered his mother’s hands, gentle as they combed through his hair. His father’s rare smiles, precious because they were so hard-earned. The safety he had felt in their presence, the absolute certainty that they would protect him no matter what.

And they had. They had died to protect him, throwing him clear of danger at the cost of their own lives.

“Their house was destroyed in the collapse,” Fumiko continued, her voice carefully neutral. “But we have recovery teams working through the rubble. Anything salvageable—personal effects, valuables, anything we can find—will be gathered and delivered to you.”

She pulled out another scroll, this one newer-looking, and began writing with swift, economical strokes. “As an orphaned minor of the Uchiha clan, you’re entitled to clan support. We’re assigning you to apartment unit 347-B in the eastern residential block. It’s a one-bedroom unit, modest but adequate for your needs.”

A one-bedroom apartment. For a five-year-old child. The absurdity of it struck Yami even through his grief. On Earth, in the world he had come from, the idea of a kindergarten-aged child living alone would be unthinkable. Child services would be called, there would be investigations, foster care arrangements.

But this wasn’t Earth. This was a world where children trained to be soldiers, where academy students younger than ten learned to kill. Independence, even at a young age, wasn’t just accepted—it was expected.

“The rent will be waived until your twelfth birthday,” Fumiko continued, still writing. “Additionally, you’ll receive a monthly stipend of 10,000 ryu to cover living expenses. This will continue until you either turn twelve or graduate from the Academy, whichever comes first.”

She finished writing and stamped the document with an official seal before rolling it up and setting it aside. From a drawer in her desk, she produced a key—simple, brass, attached to a wooden tag marked with the number 347-B.

“This is yours,” she said, holding it out to him. “The apartment is ready for occupancy. There’s basic furniture already in place, and we’ll make sure the salvaged items from your parents’ house are delivered within the next few days.”

Yami reached out with his small hand and took the key. It felt heavy, weighted with significance beyond its physical mass. This key represented his new life, his independence, his survival in this dangerous world.

“If you need anything—food, clothing, medical attention—come back here or find any member of the clan police force,” Fumiko added. “We take care of our own, Yami-kun. You’re not alone in this.”

The words should have been comforting, but they felt hollow. He was alone. His parents were dead, buried under numbered markers in a cemetery. He was inhabiting a body that wasn’t originally his, carrying memories and grief that belonged to a child who no longer existed as a separate entity.

But he nodded anyway, because that’s what was expected. “Thank you,” he managed to say, his voice small and rough.

Takeshi squeezed his shoulder again. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your apartment, make sure you get settled.”

The walk through the compound was longer this time, taking them deeper into the residential areas. Yami paid attention to the route, his adult mind already cataloging landmarks and turns despite his emotional turmoil. Survival meant being aware of his surroundings, knowing his environment.

They passed more clan members going about their grim work. He saw a man sitting on his porch, head in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. A group of children, older than Yami, huddled together near a fountain, speaking in whispers. An elderly woman sweeping debris from her doorstep with slow, mechanical movements, her face blank with shock.

The Uchiha compound felt like a place in mourning. And yet, there was something else too. Something he hadn’t expected based on what he knew from the anime and manga.

There was solidarity here. Community. People checking on each other, sharing resources, offering comfort where they could. He saw a family inviting a lone clan member into their home for a meal. Heard quiet conversations of support and encouragement. Witnessed small acts of kindness—a blanket offered to someone shivering in the night air, a strong arm helping someone carry a heavy load.

This didn’t match the image of the Uchiha clan he had formed from watching the series. In the anime, they had been portrayed as proud to the point of arrogance, isolated, suspicious even of each other. A clan consumed by rivalry and the curse of hatred that came with the Sharingan.

But what he was seeing now… these people cared for each other. They were a family, bound by blood and tradition, and they were hurting together. Supporting each other through shared tragedy.

Had the anime been wrong? Or was this just one facet of a more complex truth?

“Here we are,” Takeshi said, stopping in front of a modest apartment building. It was three stories tall, well-maintained if somewhat plain. “Third floor, unit B.”

They climbed the external stairs, their footsteps echoing in the quiet night. Yami’s legs were tired—his child’s body wasn’t used to this much activity, especially after being hospitalized—but he pushed through. He would have to get used to physical limitations and work to overcome them.

The apartment door was painted a faded red, the number 347-B stenciled in black. Yami fitted the key into the lock and turned it. The mechanism clicked, and the door swung open.

The interior was dark. Takeshi reached in and found a light switch, illuminating a small but functional living space. The main room combined a tiny kitchen area with a living space, furnished with a small table, two chairs, and not much else. A doorway led to what must be the bedroom, and another to what was presumably a bathroom.

It was sparse, utilitarian, and suddenly it hit Yami just how alone he was.

“It’s not much,” Takeshi said, sounding almost apologetic. “But it’s yours. Safe. Secure.”

Safe. The word felt like a bitter joke. Was anywhere in this world truly safe?

Takeshi showed him where things were—the futon stored in the bedroom closet, how to work the small stove, where the bathroom was. Basic information delivered in a gentle tone, as if speaking to a child who might break at any moment.

Which, Yami supposed, wasn’t far from the truth.

“Will you be alright?” Takeshi asked when the tour was complete. He looked uncertain, uncomfortable with the idea of leaving a five-year-old alone but also clearly needed elsewhere. “I can… I can try to find someone to stay with you, if you need.”

Yami shook his head. “I’ll be okay,” he said, and was surprised to find he meant it. Or at least, he would survive the night. That would have to be enough.

Takeshi looked relieved and guilty in equal measure. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch, placing it on the table. “Emergency money,” he explained. “Just in case you need something before the stipend gets processed. And remember—if you need help, find any clan member. We look after our own.”

There was that phrase again. We look after our own.

After Takeshi left, closing the door softly behind him, Yami stood in the center of the small apartment and felt the enormity of his situation crash over him like a wave.

He was alone. Truly, completely alone.

His legs gave out, and he found himself sitting on the floor, then lying down, curling into a ball. And then the tears came.

They weren’t dignified tears, weren’t the controlled grief of an adult. They were the raw, gasping sobs of a child, and maybe that’s what he needed to be right now. Because he was a child, at least physically. And that child had lost everything.

He cried for parents he had never really known but whose love he could feel in every inherited memory. He cried for the life he had lost on Earth—mundane and unremarkable as it had been, it had been his. He cried for the original Uchiha Yami, a five-year-old boy who should have had years of life ahead of him, who should have grown up with his parents, who had been robbed of his future.

He cried until he had no tears left, until his small body was exhausted and aching. And then he just lay there on the floor, staring at the ceiling, feeling empty and hollowed out.

Time passed. He wasn’t sure how much. Eventually, his body’s needs asserted themselves. He was hungry, painfully so. When had he last eaten? Before the attack? That would have been over a day ago.

With effort, he pushed himself to his feet. The kitchen area beckoned, but when he checked the small refrigerator and cupboards, he found them empty. Of course. The apartment had been vacant, prepared for emergency housing. There was no food.

The pouch Takeshi had left caught his eye. Emergency money. Right.

But going out to buy food at this hour seemed daunting. He was five years old, unfamiliar with the compound’s layout, exhausted, and emotionally wrung out.

Then he remembered—in the memories he had inherited, there had been some basic survival training. Uchiha children were taught early to be self-sufficient. And there were clan facilities, communal resources. He vaguely recalled a store near the administration building that served clan members.

He would have to try.

Yami washed his face in the bathroom, trying to make himself presentable. The mirror showed him a small boy with dark hair and red, puffy eyes. His face was still soft with baby fat, his features not yet sharpened into the distinctive Uchiha look.

For a moment, he considered activating his Sharingan just to see it. But caution held him back. Not yet. Not until he understood exactly how it worked and what risks it might carry.

The journey to the clan store took longer than he expected. His sense of direction was decent, but everything looked different at night, and his short legs could only move so fast. By the time he found the small building—still open, staffed by a tired-looking elderly man—Yami was almost ready to collapse again.

The old man took one look at him and seemed to understand immediately. “Lost your parents tonight?” he asked gruffly, but not unkindly.

Yami nodded.

“Terrible business. Terrible.” The man shook his head. “What do you need, boy?”

Yami bought simple things—rice, some vegetables, instant miso soup, a few pieces of fruit. Basic supplies to last a few days. The old man packed everything into a bag and refused to take the full amount of money Yami offered.

“Discount for orphans,” he said firmly. “Consider it my contribution to taking care of our own.”

There it was again. That phrase.

Back in his apartment, Yami managed to cook a simple meal. Just rice and miso soup, nothing elaborate. But as he sat at the small table and ate, the warm food in his stomach helped ground him, made everything feel slightly more manageable.

After cleaning up—a habit from his previous life that carried over—Yami finally allowed himself to explore something he’d been curious about since the information had downloaded into his mind.

His Mangekyō Sharingan.

He went to the bathroom and stood before the mirror. Taking a deep breath, he focused on his eyes, on the power he could feel coiled behind them like a sleeping dragon.

The activation was instinctive, as natural as blinking. He felt the change rather than saw it at first—a slight warmth, a tingling sensation. Then his vision sharpened dramatically, the world suddenly rendered in perfect clarity.

In the mirror, his eyes had changed. Three tomoe appeared in each eye, spinning slowly around the pupil. The three-tomoe Sharingan, the standard awakened form of the dojutsu.

But he pushed further, accessing the Mangekyō level. The tomoe blurred and reformed, and his pupils elongated, becoming vertical slits like a predatory animal. The pattern was distinctive, reminiscent of Naruto’s eyes when he channeled Kurama’s chakra—beast-like, fierce, marking him as something other than human.

He stared at his reflection, at these eyes that held such power, and felt a chill run down his spine. If anyone saw this pattern, if anyone knew he possessed Mangekyō Sharingan at age five…

Danzo would come for him. The Uchiha clan elders might try to “protect” him by taking his eyes for safekeeping. Orochimaru would be interested. Even allies might view him as a resource to be controlled rather than a person to be protected.

But as he focused on the ability, on understanding its mechanics, he discovered something interesting. He deactivated the Sharingan completely, letting his eyes return to their normal dark color.

Then he concentrated on the CARD ability specifically, on the extraction function.

And he could still sense it. Faintly, like a sixth sense operating at reduced capacity, but it was there. He walked to the window and looked out at the compound. In the distance, he could see a clan member walking between buildings.

No cards appeared above the person’s head—they were too far away. But Yami could feel the potential, the ability waiting to be used. He understood intuitively that if someone came within a meter of him, even without his Sharingan active, he would be able to see their cards and potentially extract them.

The range was reduced to one-tenth of what it would be with his Mangekyō active—just one meter instead of ten. But this was invaluable. It meant he could use his ability in secret, without revealing his Mangekyō Sharingan to the world.

He tested the transformation ability next, picking up a pencil from the small desk in the bedroom. Focusing his chakra without activating his Sharingan, he tried to transform it into a card.

The pencil glowed faintly, and he felt chakra drain from his reserves—not much, given the object’s small size, but noticeable. The pencil shimmered and compressed, folding in on itself in impossible ways until it became a playing card-sized object that floated in the air before him.

The card itself was blank white with a simple image of a pencil on it. When he focused on it, willing it to return to his hand, it flew to him and disappeared. He could feel it now, stored in a space that existed somewhere beyond normal reality, accessible only to him.

With another thought, he retrieved the card. It appeared in his hand, and when he willed the transformation to reverse, the pencil reformed, identical to how it had been before.

Yami sat heavily on the futon, his mind racing. The ability worked. Both aspects of it. And he could use the extraction function without revealing his Mangekyō, though with reduced effectiveness.

This was his advantage, his golden finger for surviving in this world. But it came with enormous risks. If discovered, it would paint a target on his back that he couldn’t possibly defend against. Not yet.

He needed to be careful. Strategic. Patient.

Yami lay back on the futon, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, he should visit his parents’ graves. Pay his respects. It was what the original Yami would have wanted, what the memories he carried demanded.

And after that… he would need to plan. To think about his next steps in this dangerous world.

But tonight, he just needed to sleep.

As his eyes closed, exhaustion finally claiming him, his last thought was of his mother’s smile and his father’s protective presence.

I’ll survive, he promised them silently. I’ll honor your sacrifice by living.

In the darkness of the apartment, in the grieving Uchiha compound, in the wounded village of Konoha, a five-year-old boy carrying the soul of another world drifted into uneasy sleep.

The future was uncertain, filled with dangers he knew were coming.

But he had been given a second chance.

And he would make it count.