Throne Of The Uchiha

The Art of Shackles

In the rocky terrain of the southern Land of Earth, four bloodied figures struggled forward, their movements resolute despite torn uniforms and pale faces. Every step was a testament to survival and willpower.

These were none other than Hyūga Ning and his three companions, desperately retreating under the cover of the jagged landscape. With expert use of the region's natural topography, the team managed to lose their pursuers—at least temporarily.

"I thought I was strong," Moonlight Shuichi muttered bitterly, "but this mission proved I'm far from it. I couldn't even hold my own for long."

The team fell into brief silence, their minds drifting back to when they first formed this squad—how they doubted Uchiha Fugaku's appointment as their leader. Now, the battle they had just experienced had shattered their illusions. Fugaku hadn't just earned their respect—he had redefined the ceiling of what strength truly meant.

"Ning," Shuichi said, casting a glance at the pale figure beside him, "how's Shancheng Qinghe holding up?"

Ning turned to Qinghe, whose breath was shallow, his Byakugan flickering weakly.

"Qinghe, can you go on?"

"I'm fine… don't worry," Qinghe replied with a forced smile, wiping cold sweat from his temple. "We need to keep moving."

"Don't push it," Ning insisted, stepping forward. "Let me carry you. You're still maintaining the chakra link with your crows—Fugaku needs that guidance. If you collapse, we're all blind."

Qinghe paused, then nodded reluctantly. "Unless I die, my crows will fly."

---

Meanwhile, back near the outer border of the Land of Earth:

The thick water vapor—remnants of a mist-based diversion—finally faded. Out of the haze, Uchiha Fugaku reappeared, calm and composed. Before him, a growing force of Iwagakure shinobi stared him down. Of the Konoha squad that had retreated ahead of him, not a single trace remained.

Fugaku's expression sharpened. "If you want to go after them… you'll have to go through me."

One of the Iwa shinobi, a tall man with stern features and a glinting short blade, stepped forward. His hitai-ate was scratched—a mark of a hardened veteran. "I've read your file," he said. "Uchiha Fugaku, son of the Uchiha clan head, Konoha's rising star. Several of our squads have gone missing, and you're the common factor. Killing you here… would be a gift to the Tsuchikage."

Fugaku smirked faintly. "You must be Huang Yan. I've read your dossier too. Iwagakure elite jōnin. Arrogant. Overconfident. I see the report wasn't wrong."

But his eyes, crimson and spinning with the Sharingan's tomoe, remained cautious. Elite jōnin were never simple opponents. And arrogance in a shinobi of such rank was often a mask for deeper, tactical cunning.

The memory of Uchiha Madara, whose mere name still loomed across the shinobi world, shadowed them both. Though Madara had vanished two decades ago, the fear of his Sharingan remained. Fugaku, bearing that same bloodline, felt the weight of legacy.

"Let me see," Huang Yan said, his blade gleaming, "what kind of genius the Uchiha clan has produced."

In a blur, he vanished—and reappeared right in front of Fugaku. His short blade slashed at a deadly angle, like the strike of a ghost.

So fast. Fugaku's heart raced. He had never witnessed Konoha's White Fang in battle, but Huang Yan's speed and killing intent echoed the legendary momentum.

But unlike before, Fugaku now wielded his Mangekyō Sharingan. He saw everything.

With a clash of steel, Fugaku's black kunai—marked with special chakra-binding fūinjutsu—met the blade and deflected it.

They disengaged in an instant. Fugaku flipped backward, fingers forming seals mid-air.

"Fire Style: Great Fireball Technique!"

A blazing sphere of fire roared toward Huang Yan. It was not meant to kill, only to force movement and buy time.

Huang Yan twisted to the side, evading with skill, while also weaving his own jutsu.

"Earth Style: Rock Coffin!"

The ground beneath Fugaku's feet trembled. Earth Release techniques, subtle and deadly, were what Fugaku feared most. They struck from blind spots—delayed even a second, and you were crushed.

He launched into the air, avoiding the forming stone prison. Time. He needed more time.

Huang Yan's next strike came almost immediately. His white blade was a blur, aiming directly at Fugaku's heart.

But the Mangekyō saw through it all. Fugaku twisted, drawing dual kunai—one slicing toward Huang Yan's throat, the other toward his abdomen.

Clang!

Sparks flew. Huang Yan deflected both attacks in one clean motion. The two danced again in deadly rhythm—strike, dodge, parry—neither able to land a fatal blow.

On the sidelines, Iwagakure jōnin watched, stunned.

"Who is this Uchiha kid?! He's fighting Huang Yan to a standstill!"

"They say the Sharingan is powerful—but this... this is something else."

More Iwa-nin prepared to join the fight. Fugaku noticed immediately.

"You're not the arrogant fool the reports claimed," Fugaku said between breaths. "You've been feigning weakness. I see now—you're drawing me into a trap."

"Too late," Huang Yan smirked. "You might have the Sharingan, but even the Uchiha can't fight a whole squad."

He raised his voice: "Now! Everyone, attack!"

They surged forward.

Fugaku knew it was time.

The tomoe in his eyes rotated, then shifted into the Mangekyō's unique, kaleidoscopic pattern.

"Genjutsu: Demonic Illusion – Shackling Stakes Technique."

The moment their eyes met, Huang Yan's world changed. In an instant, his body was impaled by massive spectral stakes—limbs frozen, vision blurred, chakra flow shattered.

He tried to resist. He had trained against illusions. But this—this wasn't a simple Genjutsu. It was Mangekyō-tier. The kind even seasoned jōnin weren't prepared for.

He couldn't move.

He couldn't even scream.

Uchiha Itachi had used this technique against Orochimaru years later, but even now, it was terrifying. A Genjutsu that simulated paralyzing pain, used not just to disable—but to dominate.

Fugaku's hand flickered.

Shunshin no Jutsu.

The next instant, his black kunai was buried deep in Huang Yan's chest, precisely piercing the heart. The elite jōnin's eyes widened—shock, regret, and fear flooding in.

Death was already there.