Player Uchiha - Chapter 5

Chapter 5: The Weight of Faces

The morning dawned gray and somber, as if the sky itself mourned alongside the village. Clouds hung heavy overhead, threatening rain but never quite delivering, leaving the air thick with humidity and tension. Yami stood at his small window, watching the compound slowly come to life with an unusual quietness. Even the typical sounds of training had been muted—today was a day for remembrance, not martial practice.

A soft knock at his door pulled him from his thoughts.

“Yami-kun?” Hanako’s voice was gentle, careful. “The funeral procession begins in an hour. Are you… are you planning to attend?”

Yami opened the door to find Hanako dressed in formal black mourning attire, her hair pinned back simply, her face composed but pale. Beside her, Yui wore a similar dark kimono, her eyes already red-rimmed though she was clearly trying to maintain her composure.

“Yes,” Yami said quietly. “I’ll go.”

Something like relief crossed Hanako’s features. “Would you like to walk with us? It might be easier together.”

The truth was, Yami had planned to attend regardless of the invitation. This wasn’t just about paying respects to parents he’d never truly known, or even about the Fourth Hokage whose death had set the entire Naruto timeline in motion. It was about seeing them—the people who until now had only existed for him as animated drawings on a screen, as fictional characters in a story he’d consumed from the safety of another world.

Now they were real. Flesh and blood. Living, breathing people who bled and died and grieved.

He needed to see that reality with his own eyes.

“I’d like that,” he said, and meant it. “Give me a few minutes to get ready.”

The formal clothes the clan had provided were simple but well-made—a dark yukata with the Uchiha fan symbol embroidered subtly on the back, a black obi, traditional sandals. Yami dressed carefully, his small fingers struggling slightly with the unfamiliar fastenings until muscle memory from the original Yami’s experiences kicked in to guide him.

He studied himself in the small mirror. The child looking back appeared solemn, older than his five years in expression if not in body. The weight of two lives sat behind those dark eyes, invisible but present.

When he emerged, Hanako and Yui were waiting in the hallway. Without words, they fell into step together, joining the growing stream of Uchiha clan members making their way toward the village center.

The compound gates opened onto streets already filled with people. Civilians and shinobi alike, all dressed in mourning clothes, all moving in the same direction with the slow, inevitable flow of a river. The silence was profound—thousands of people walking together, yet hardly anyone spoke above a whisper.

Yami found himself studying the faces around him with an intensity that surprised him. These weren’t extras or background characters. Each person carried their own grief, their own losses from the Kyuubi attack. An elderly woman being supported by her daughter, tears streaming silently down weathered cheeks. A young man in chunin vest, his arm in a sling, staring straight ahead with blank eyes. Children clinging to their parents’ hands, not fully understanding but sensing the gravity of the occasion.

The village had suffered. Truly, deeply suffered. And this funeral was the collective exhale of that pain.

They reached the memorial site as the crowds began to gather in earnest. A massive open area in the heart of Konoha had been prepared—rows upon rows of wooden markers bearing names, arranged in careful order. At the center, elevated on a platform, stood a large monument dedicated to the Fourth Hokage, Namikaze Minato, whose sacrifice had saved the village from complete destruction.

The sheer scale of it took Yami’s breath away. So many names. So many lives ended in a single night.

“This way,” Hanako murmured, guiding them toward the section reserved for Uchiha clan members. They found spots near the middle, close enough to see the central platform but not so close as to feel exposed.

As they settled into place, Yami’s eyes began to wander across the gathering crowd, searching for familiar faces—or rather, faces that should be familiar from memories that weren’t quite his own.

Near the front, standing with rigid military bearing, was a group of high-ranking shinobi. And there, at the center of that group, stood a man who could only be Sarutobi Hiruzen—the Third Hokage, pulled from retirement to lead the village once more in its darkest hour.

He looked older than Yami had expected. The anime had shown him as elderly, yes, but seeing him in person was different. The lines on his face seemed carved deeper, etched by responsibility and loss. His Hokage robes sat heavy on his shoulders, and despite his composed expression, there was a weariness in his eyes that spoke of burdens no one should have to carry.

This was the man who would have to guide Konoha through its recovery. Who would have to make impossible decisions in the years to come. Who would, eventually, die fighting to protect the village he loved.

Standing slightly apart from the main group of leaders was a figure that made Yami’s heart clench unexpectedly. Silver hair defying gravity, a mask covering the lower half of his face, a hitai-ate worn at an angle to cover his left eye. Kakashi Hatake.

The Copy Ninja. The man who would become Team 7’s sensei, who would guide Naruto and Sasuke and Sakura. But right now, he was just a teenager—perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old—standing alone despite being surrounded by people. His visible eye was distant, unfocused, and even from this distance, Yami could see the grief radiating from him like heat.

Kakashi had lost his sensei. Lost Minato, who had been like a father to him after Sakumo’s death. And from what Yami knew of the timeline, Rin’s death was still a fresh wound as well. This boy—because that’s what he was, really, just a boy—had lost so much already.

The weight of that realization sat heavy in Yami’s chest.

His gaze continued scanning, and landed on another group that made his breath catch—the Uchiha clan leadership, standing together with the proud bearing characteristic of their bloodline.

At the front stood a man who could only be Uchiha Fugaku, the clan head. Tall, stern-faced, with the sharp features common to the Uchiha but carried with an authority that commanded respect. He wore formal attire marked with the symbols of his position, and his expression was controlled, measured. But Yami could see the tension in his jaw, the slight tightness around his eyes.

This was the man who would lead the clan toward rebellion. Who would plan a coup that would never come to fruition. Who would, in the end, allow his own son to strike him down for the sake of the village.

But right now, he was just a clan leader trying to navigate the political aftermath of a disaster that many in the village were already beginning to blame on the Uchiha.

And beside Fugaku, standing with perfect posture despite his small stature, was a child who made Yami’s blood run cold with the sheer weight of recognition.

Uchiha Itachi.

Five years old, the same age as Yami himself, but already carrying himself with a gravity beyond his years. Even in formal mourning clothes, even standing among adults, there was something about him that drew the eye. His face was composed, almost serene, but his dark eyes—those eyes that would one day awaken the Mangekyo Sharingan through unspeakable trauma—were sharp, observant, taking in everything around him with an intelligence that seemed almost unnatural in one so young.

This was the boy who would be called a prodigy. Who would graduate the Academy at seven, activate his Sharingan at eight, become ANBU captain at thirteen. Who would slaughter his entire clan at thirteen to prevent a civil war, sparing only his younger brother.

Who would die at twenty-one, having lived an entire lifetime of pain compressed into less than two decades.

Yami found he couldn’t look away. There was something magnetic about Itachi, even now. Something that whispered of the tragedy that was already in motion, the gears of fate turning toward their inevitable conclusion.

Their eyes met across the crowd.

For just a moment, Itachi’s gaze focused on Yami with an intensity that was almost physical. Those dark eyes seemed to see through him, past the child’s body to something deeper. Yami felt exposed, vulnerable, as if all his secrets were laid bare under that scrutiny.

Then Itachi’s attention moved on, sweeping across the rest of the crowd, and the moment passed. But Yami’s heart was racing, his small hands clenched into fists at his sides.

That’s him, Yami thought, a complex mix of emotions swirling in his chest. That’s the person who will kill everyone here. All these Uchiha, all these families, all this grief and love and community—he’ll end it all in a single night.

But could he really blame Itachi for that? The boy was a victim as much as anyone, manipulated by Danzo, backed into an impossible corner by the village’s paranoia and his clan’s growing radicalization. He would make the choice he thought was right, the choice to save his brother and prevent a civil war.

It didn’t make it hurt less. Didn’t make it right. But it made it… understandable, in a horrible way.

“Yami-kun?” Yui’s soft voice pulled him from his spiraling thoughts. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

He forced a smile, though it felt brittle. “I’m fine. Just… a lot of people.”

Hanako placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, misunderstanding his distress for simple overwhelm. “It is crowded. But it will be alright. We’ll pay our respects, and then we can go home.”

The crowd continued to grow as the appointed hour approached. Yami spotted other faces he recognized from the anime—Might Guy, standing with his father, both in formal attire but still somehow radiating energy even in grief. Kurenai Yuhi, young and beautiful, her red eyes distant with sorrow. Asuma Sarutobi, standing near his father the Hokage, trying to maintain composure.

And there, in a section reserved for the most honored guests, he caught a glimpse of a woman with distinctive blonde hair holding a small bundle. Uzumaki Kushina? No—she’d died in childbirth during the Kyuubi attack. But then who…?

His thoughts were interrupted by a deep bell tolling, its sound reverberating across the memorial grounds. The crowd fell into complete silence, thousands of people becoming still as statues.

Sarutobi Hiruzen stepped forward onto the central platform, his presence commanding despite his age. For a long moment, he simply stood there, his eyes sweeping across the assembled masses—civilians and shinobi, young and old, all united in grief.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried clearly across the grounds, enhanced by some technique Yami didn’t recognize.

“People of Konohagakure,” the Third Hokage began, his tone measured but heavy with emotion. “We gather here today not in defeat, but in remembrance. We gather to honor those who gave everything to protect this village, this home we all share.”

He paused, letting the words settle.

“One week ago, our village was attacked by the Nine-Tailed Fox—a calamity of unimaginable power. In a single night, we lost hundreds of our brothers and sisters, our mothers and fathers, our children and friends. Buildings can be rebuilt. Walls can be repaired. But the lives lost…” His voice caught slightly. “Those we can never replace.”

The crowd remained silent, but Yami could hear soft sounds of crying from various points around him. Hanako’s hand on his shoulder tightened slightly, and he felt Yui shift closer to her mother’s other side.

“Among the fallen,” Hiruzen continued, “was our Fourth Hokage, Namikaze Minato. A man of extraordinary skill, unshakeable conviction, and boundless compassion. He gave his life performing the ultimate sealing technique, sacrificing himself to save us all.” The Hokage’s eyes seemed to shine with unshed tears. “He was my student. My successor. My friend. And though he is gone, his will of fire burns on in each of us who remain.”

Yami felt something twist in his chest. He knew the fuller truth—knew that Minato had sealed the Kyuubi into his own son, that Naruto was out there somewhere, an infant bearing the burden of the very demon that had killed his parents. The tragedy of it, the cruel irony, was almost too much.

“But Minato was not alone in his sacrifice,” Hiruzen said, his voice growing stronger. “Hundreds of shinobi and civilians gave their lives that night. They fought not for glory or recognition, but because this village is worth fighting for. Because the people within these walls are worth protecting.”

He gestured to the rows upon rows of memorial markers.

“Each name you see here represents a life lived, a story cut short, a family forever changed. Some were shinobi who died in battle. Some were civilians caught in the destruction. Some were medics who worked until they collapsed. Some were parents who died protecting their children.”

The last words hit particularly hard, and Yami felt his throat tighten. His—Yami’s—parents were among those markers. Uchiha Ryota and Kasumi, who had thrown themselves between their son and oblivion.

“In the coming days, weeks, and months,” Hiruzen continued, “we will rebuild. We will recover. We will grow strong again. But we must never forget the price that was paid. We must never forget those who gave everything so that we might have a tomorrow.”

The Third Hokage’s gaze swept across the crowd once more, seeming to make eye contact with each person individually.

“To honor their memory, we must live. We must protect this village they died to save. We must nurture the next generation, teach them the lessons we’ve learned, prepare them to carry on the will of fire that has been passed down through generations. We must ensure that their sacrifice meant something.”

He raised one hand, placing it over his heart.

“So today, we grieve. We remember. We honor those we’ve lost. And tomorrow…” A slight pause, heavy with significance. “Tomorrow, we begin again.”

Hiruzen stepped back, bowing deeply toward the memorial markers. Immediately, everyone in the crowd followed suit—thousands of people bowing in unison, showing their respect to the fallen.

Yami bowed along with them, his small body bent at the waist, his eyes fixed on the ground. Around him, he could hear the sounds of crying growing louder—people who had been holding themselves together through the speech now allowing their grief to flow freely.

Hanako was crying silently, tears dripping onto the ground. Yui was sobbing into her mother’s side, her small shoulders shaking. Throughout the crowd, similar scenes played out—families clinging to each other, individuals standing alone with tears streaming down their faces, friends supporting each other through shared loss.

The sheer weight of collective grief was almost overwhelming. Yami felt it pressing down on him, making his chest tight, his breathing shallow. These weren’t just statistics or plot points from a story. These were real people experiencing real loss, their pain as valid and profound as anything he’d ever felt.

And he was part of it now. Not an observer from another world, but a participant in this tragedy. One of the orphans created by the Kyuubi attack, one of the thousands trying to make sense of senseless loss.

The formal ceremony continued for some time after Hiruzen’s speech. Individual clan leaders came forward to speak about their fallen members. Civilian representatives honored those who had died in the evacuation efforts. Medical nin were recognized for their tireless work during and after the attack.

Through it all, Yami found his eyes returning again and again to Itachi. The young Uchiha prodigy stood perfectly still throughout the entire ceremony, his expression never changing, his posture never wavering. He looked like a statue—beautiful, cold, untouchable.

But there was something in his eyes when his father spoke about the Uchiha who had fallen. A flicker of something—pain, perhaps, or determination. It was there and gone so quickly that Yami might have imagined it.

What are you thinking? Yami wondered, studying that composed young face. What’s going on behind those eyes?

Did Itachi already see the path stretching before him? Could he sense, even now, the tragedy that would define his life? Or was he still just a child, trying to understand a world that had suddenly shown its cruelest face?

Yami would probably never know. They moved in different circles—Itachi was the clan head’s son, a recognized prodigy, destined for greatness. Yami was just another orphan, notable only for the tragedy of losing both parents.

Unless he changed that. Unless he grew strong enough to matter, to make a difference, to alter the fate that he knew was coming.

The ceremony finally began to wind down as the afternoon wore on. People started to disperse slowly, making their way to specific markers to pay individual respects to their lost loved ones. Hanako, Yui, and Yami joined the flow, moving toward the section where the Uchiha casualties were memorialized.

Finding the markers for Yami’s parents was easier than expected—the clan had kept them together, just as they’d been buried together in the memorial gardens. Uchiha Ryota and Uchiha Kasumi, their names carved into wood that would eventually weather and fade.

Temporary markers, Yami realized. Eventually, permanent stones would replace these. But for now, this was what they had.

Hanako and Yui stood quietly beside him as he knelt before the markers. What was he supposed to say? How did you honor the memory of people you’d never truly met, whose lives you only knew through inherited memories?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered finally, the words feeling inadequate but necessary. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you. I’m sorry I was too weak. But I promise…” His small hands clenched into fists. “I promise I won’t stay weak. I’ll become strong. Strong enough that no one else has to die protecting me.”

It was a child’s promise, perhaps naive and impossible. But it was all he had to offer.

They stayed for a few more minutes, then moved to find the marker for Hanako’s husband—Uchiha Takeshi, a chunin who’d died in the eastern district. Hanako placed a small bundle of flowers before his marker, her lips moving in silent prayer while Yui clung to her side, crying openly now.

Watching them, Yami felt the full weight of what this world demanded. Strength wasn’t just about personal survival or fulfilling contracts. It was about protecting moments like this—the chance to grieve, to remember, to honor those who’d been lost. It was about making sure there were fewer of these ceremonies in the future.

As they finally made their way back toward the Uchiha compound, the gray sky finally made good on its earlier threat. Rain began to fall—light at first, then gradually heavier, as if the heavens themselves were weeping for Konoha’s losses.

People hurried for shelter, but Yami found himself walking slowly, letting the rain soak into his clothes and hair. It felt appropriate somehow, this cleansing water washing over the village, over all of them.

“Yami-kun!” Hanako called, holding her hand out. “Come on, you’ll catch cold!”

But he’d already caught something far more dangerous than a cold. He’d caught a glimpse of the real stakes in this world, the true cost of the conflicts and battles that would unfold in the years to come.

And he’d seen the faces—Hiruzen’s weariness, Kakashi’s grief, Fugaku’s tension, Itachi’s eerie composure. Real people with real pain, not just characters in a story.

This was his world now. These were his people, whether he’d chosen them or not.

And somehow, impossibly, he had to find a way to save them from the tragedies he knew were coming.

The rain fell harder, and Yami finally ran to catch up with Hanako and Yui, joining them under the umbrella Hanako had produced. They walked together through the wet streets, just another family among thousands, all trying to find their way forward in a world forever changed.

Behind them, the memorial grounds slowly emptied, leaving only the markers standing silent vigil in the rain—wooden testaments to lives ended too soon, to sacrifices that would shape the village’s future in ways both seen and unseen.

And somewhere in that crowd, Uchiha Itachi walked beside his father, his young mind already beginning to grasp the complicated web of loyalty, duty, and survival that would eventually demand everything from him.

But that was a tragedy for another day.

Today was simply for remembering. For grieving. For acknowledging that the world had changed, and nothing would ever be quite the same again.