Batman in Konoha

The events of the following days unfolded exactly as Fugaku had predicted.

The Raikage screamed himself hoarse on the podiums of international summits, waving the obituary of a "respected diplomat," swearing on Konoha's treachery, and demanding sanctions. He urged smaller nations to turn their backs on the Land of Fire, isolate Konoha, boycott its trade, and terminate all military agreements.

Meanwhile, Hiruzen was doing what had to be done. He shouted back, accused Kumo of dirty politics, waved around investigation reports, and painted Konoha as the victim in the situation. In other words—he was buying time.

Hiruzen was far too old to sink his teeth into a provocateur's throat himself.

But he knew someone who could.

And he believed in him.

Fugaku intended to live up to that belief.

Since the day of the incident, he had put everything else on hold. All his free time in the flesh was spent in the gym or out on the training field. But his soul—embodied by shadow clones—was dedicated to drafting blueprints and working in the forge.

The walls reeked of coal and tempered steel. The air vibrated with the hammer's rhythm, echoing the pace of his breath. The furnace scorched his skin, branding red-hot imprints across his arms and shoulders.

There were no WayneTech systems here. No advanced polymers, Kevlar, or electronics. But the shinobi-smiths of this world were no savages. Centuries of brutal war had turned them into masters of practical defense. Armor here wasn't some heavy knight's plate — it was a careful compromise between mobility and protection. The standard shinobi outfit — lightweight pants, a long-sleeved top, and a flak vest with defensive plates — was ideal for chakra users. Nothing bulky. Nothing excessive. Speed and movement were paramount.

Full-body armor was rare. Too many jutsu could turn metal into a deathtrap — lightning, fire, avalanches of earth. The pursuit of invincibility often ended with a corpse. But Fugaku was not "everyone." Just like in his past life, he didn't believe in standardized military solutions. He believed in individuality. In personal accountability. And in armor that functioned as an extension of one's own body.

That's why he forged it himself.

He started with the foundation.

A metal that didn't yet exist in this world. A substance gathered deep underground and refined in a lab. Four times lighter than steel. Twice as strong.

Each plate was hand-forged. Every surface coated in matte black nano-carbon paint that absorbed light like a black hole — no reflection, no shine. In the dark, this man vanished completely.

No electronics. None needed.

Sharingan — the finest analyzer.

Raiton — the purest electricity.

Chakra — the ultimate power source.

No bat symbol. Here, fear wasn't inspired by a silhouette in the sky — but by eyes that glowed red. One glance, and you were already on your knees, drowning in your own terror.

No cape. Gotham needed a cape for gliding across rooftops. Here, shinobi covered distances in ten leaps — and landed without wrecking their knees.

But he kept the belt. Faithful, modified fuinjutsu, with new compartments. Inside its hidden capsules were carefully reconstructed formulas, recreated from memory:

Scarecrow's fear toxin — now airborne and absorbed through the skin.

Mad Hatter's hallucinogenic tea — in quick-dissolving tablet form.

Poison Ivy's floral pheromone — massively enhances genjutsu.

Mister Freeze's ice bombs — miniaturized, activated via chakra pulse.

Joker's acid — eats through anything.

Fugaku donned the armor.

He was ready.

///

Night stood still beyond the wide panoramic window of the office. Glittering Kumogakure lay restless in its sleep. Moonlight spilled across Raikage A's broad shoulders, gleaming against his skin and the sweat that rolled down his muscular torso.

He sat at his oak desk—but he wasn't working. One hand gripped a dumbbell, slowly curling it upward with steady, deliberate force.

There was a knock at the door.

Mabui entered—his secretary, advisor, and perhaps the only person in the entire building capable of enduring A's presence when he was in a foul mood.

She was, as always, impeccably composed: green business suit with a skirt, flawless posture, folder and tablet in hand. She didn't spare a single glance at his bare chest.

"I just received a response from the Hidden Keys Village," she reported in her usual calm, clipped tone. "They will not support us on the matter of sanctions against Konoha. Our spies confirm they had lunch with Hiruzen. It appears he bought their neutrality."

The dumbbell froze halfway through its arc.

"That rotten bastard!" A roared, slamming his palm onto the desk with a loud crack. The oak split like a dry twig and collapsed into two jagged halves.

Mabui didn't even flinch. Silently, she made a note on her tablet: Order new desk. Reinforced.

"I'll report on the results of the other negotiations later," she said briskly, turning on her heel and exiting, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Raikage growled, downed an entire bottle of water in one gulp, and grabbed the dumbbell again.

He didn't manage a single repetition.

He was no longer alone.

From the corner of the room—out of the shadow itself, like death—two eyes stared at him, glowing with a blood-red light. Sharingan.

A figure stood in the darkness, clad in black armor that devoured light. As if it had always been there.

"Uchiha!" A shot to his feet, muscles tense. "You're the one who maimed my shinobi! How did you get in here?!"

"Isn't it obvious?" Fugaku replied, voice quiet, almost lazy. "I forced your envoy to give up the location of the secret passage. Right before I burned his mind."

"Think you'll scare me?" A snorted, stepping forward. "Here? In my own damn house? What now—you planning an attack? That would be an act of war, Uchiha. One more reason to wipe Konoha off the map."

"You think you're a politician, A," Fugaku said, stepping closer, eyes flashing brighter for a moment. "You sent a diplomat to steal an innocent child. If he succeeded—you'd have the Byakugan. If he failed—you'd paint Konoha as the aggressor. A win-win setup. Clever."

He drew even closer, voice hardening.

"But you know what? You're not a politician. You're not even a soldier. You're just a thug in uniform."

A's eyes filled with fury. He didn't reply with words.

He hurled the dumbbell.

It flew like a missile—but Fugaku only tilted slightly, and the heavy metal crashed into the wall with an explosion, leaving a deep crater.

"I'll kill you!" A roared, lightning armor exploding around him, chakra blazing like a wildfire. "I'll rip those cursed eyes out of your skull!"

He lunged—then instantly recoiled.

Because Fugaku now held a knuckle-duster, glowing with blistering heat. Heat radiated from his body like an open furnace. The floor beneath him cracked. The air shimmered like it hovered above molten lava.

"I know all about your nintaijutsu, A," Fugaku said calmly. "You fuse lightning with your strikes. I decided to try something similar."

He stepped forward—and struck.

A dodged, but the heat wave from the punch still seared his skin. Blisters bubbled on his arm. The wall behind him… melted, like wax under flame.

"You see?" Fugaku's voice held a grim, satisfied smirk. "I've created my own version. Uchiha-style. We're masters of fire. It's our element. Our armor. Touch it—and you burn."

"Bullshit!" A barked. A vein bulged on his forehead like a rope. "You might burn, but you still have to land a hit! And I'm the fastest shinobi alive!"

"Not anymore."

Fugaku formed the hand seals.

"Gate of Opening... open."

Chakra burst from his body like a vortex. The ground trembled. Dust surged into the air.

"Gate of Healing... open."

The heat tripled. The plates of his armor began to glow, overloaded with chakra.

A second later—he vanished.

They collided.

A tornado of fire against lightning.

Armor against armor.

The battle had begun.

Fugaku didn't fall behind in speed. If anything, his movements were sharper—calculated. Where A struck with fury, Fugaku struck with precision.

"Let's see how your fire armor handles lightning!" A roared, launching arcs of lightning forward—blazing, warped chakra lashes that cracked through the air like divine whips.

Fugaku responded without a trace of panic. One motion—precise, economical—and he flowed between the strikes as if he were made of the same current. A flip, a smooth landing—ready again.

"As long as I have these eyes," he pointed to the crimson Sharingan blazing in the dark, "none of your attacks will touch me."

A clenched his teeth. Sweat streamed down his temples. Nothing was going according to plan. The damn Uchiha wasn't just dodging—he was reading every move like an open scroll.

The fight became truly ferocious. Lightning tore through walls and floor. Fire melted metal and stone. Every blow turned the Raikage's office into a battlefield, the building itself into wreckage. But A wasn't stupid. He understood now—the key to victory.

Fugaku was burning through chakra with every second. His heat, the Eight Gates technique, the Sharingan—each of them draining his life force. But A... A was thunder. His lightning armor ate chakra, yes—but not as fast.

Slow Fugaku down. Force him to defend. Press the assault. Wait.

A hurled barrage after barrage—storm spears, explosive bolts, thundering blasts. The air shook. The sky beyond the window cracked. He bombarded the entire room, giving Fugaku no space to aim or breathe.

The Uchiha's flames began to fade. His heat armor no longer melted stone—it only charred it. Fugaku's lungs worked hard. His breathing grew loud and strained.

"Got you now, Uchiha!" A roared, lunging forward and seizing the weakened man by the throat. His fingers closed, ready to crush the life from him.

"I'll tear your eyes out!" A hissed.

And then—the world shattered.

A blinding light cracked like broken glass. And suddenly...

…A was on his knees.

Chakra drained.

As if his entire body had been scorched from within. He couldn't move a finger.

Fugaku stood by the wall. Unharmed.

Cold. Emotionless.

Looking at him with the gaze of someone who already knew everything.

Outside, through the gaping hole in the wall—screams.

Crying.

Burning Kumogakure. Half the village in ruins. Flames engulfing the Raikage's residence, rooftops ablaze, buildings collapsing.

What...?

He felt something warm on his fingers. Looked down.

Blood. Sticky. Fresh. Real.

And then he saw.

Mabui. Lying near the door. His faithful Mabui. Dead. Her head crushed—by that same dumbbell he'd thrown in rage.

Nearby lay the severed bodies of Kumogakure jonin, sliced apart by his own lightning rings. The ones he had trained himself. Darui. Nii Yugito. His students. His hope.

"Wh...what kind of nightmare genjutsu is this?!" A rasped.

Fugaku looked at him with icy calm.

"Quite the opposite," he said. "Our battle was the genjutsu. This... is reality."

He walked forward slowly and nudged an overturned water bottle with his foot. It rolled, dripping the last of its contents. The label was slightly smeared.

"You shouldn't have drunk the water I laced with hallucinogens.

You shouldn't have looked into my eyes."

Fugaku had been standing in the same spot the entire time.

"All this time, you were fighting yourself," his voice sounded like a sentence passed by a judge. "You destroyed your own village. You killed your own people, your students, your woman. You destroyed yourself."

A gasped for breath.

The faces of the dead swam before his eyes.

Their screams echoed in his ears.

The world tilted.

"Kill me..." he choked out. "Please..."

Fugaku was silent for a moment.

Then came the blow. Fast. Brutal. Right to the jaw.

"Death would end your agony. Free you from guilt. I won't let you off that easily."

Fugaku lifted the Raikage above his head like a broken trophy.

"I've already shattered you from within. But it's not enough."

His voice turned to steel.

"For everything you've done... I will break you."

He dropped to one knee and slammed A down across it with punishing force.

The crack of a spine echoed through the ruined office.

A, once the unbreakable, unstoppable Raikage began to sob before losing consciousness from the pain.

///

Kumogakure did not sleep that night.

Fires burned everywhere. Streets, rooftops, storehouses all alight.

Jonin, chunin, and civilians struggled to fight the blaze, but no one understood why the Raikage had attacked his own.

Why everything had gone to hell.

And then—on the highest point of the village, atop the half-destroyed Raikage Residence a figure appeared.

The wind whipped his black cloak. Sharingan glowed in his eyes.

"People of Kumo!" His voice boomed like thunder. He held the unconscious Raikage in outstretched arms. "Behold your champion! Behold your protector!"

The crowd gasped. Someone covered their mouth in horror.

"A pushed me too far, and I—Uchiha Fugaku—broke him!" he shouted. "Take this trash as a reminder of my power."

He hurled the Raikage's body down like a sack of meat. It hit the stones with a dull thud. Blood slowly pooled beneath it.

Jonin rushed toward the rooftop, but Fugaku was gone.

Only a slowly fading cloud of smoke remained on the tiles.

A shadow clone.

The riots and destruction weren't even caused by the original.

But Kumo remembered his face.

Remembered his name.

And remembered what it meant to anger an Fugaku.

/////

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