In my memory, no one really objected to swapping out a pair of eyes—at least not in the shinobi world. The Uchiha clan? They practically normalized it. Madara Uchiha changed eyes more easily than others changed clothes—just pluck it out and stick another in. Simple.
Among those of the same bloodline, this sort of exchange could be rationalized, even accepted. But when others got involved, things got murkier. The Mist Village once attempted to snatch a Byakugan from the Hyuga clan. In the end, it was only for show. And then there were cases like Kakashi and Obito, where eye transplants became a staple of legacy.
Honestly, it's almost laughable. These Sharingan are treated like detachable batteries—universal fit, no warranty required.
Kakashi's eye feeling weird? What's that got to do with me? He can come find me if it's urgent. You expect me to chase him down? Get in line, Kakashi.
Andrew had long stopped caring about Kakashi's eye troubles. He'd spent the last day shuttling from Konoha to the Daimyo Mansion and back again with the Third Hokage. A whole day wasted, all because of the Third's political mess. And not even a place to sit in the Daimyo's palace? Ridiculous. If Andrew had any spare time, he'd rather rest—or better yet, drop by the police department and check on that fossil Danzo.
Since imprisoning Danzo, Andrew felt like 80% of his mental burden had lifted. It was crystal clear: Danzo was the main force trying to destroy the Uchiha clan.
When the Third Hokage returned to Konoha, a joint announcement was issued by both the village and the Daimyo's office. It clarified the recent attempted assassination of the Daimyo.
Unsurprisingly, none of Konoha's top brass were officially implicated. The fallout was minimal—just a dozen or so declared traitors. Danzo, despite his prior chaos, was merely charged with "lax supervision." His punishment? Stripped of high-level status and nothing more.
It was a farce.
Naturally, the Cloud and Stone villages were furious. This resolution meant Konoha took no real damage. Their enemies didn't get the blood they wanted; instead, they got a comedy.
"Why can't you be tougher, Daimyo of the Fire Country?" they complained. "If you needed help, you could've asked! We'd gladly bring war to Konoha!"
But diplomacy had prevailed. Even if the Cloud and Stone daimyos were unhappy, all they could do was grumble during the next official gathering.
Originally, the Daimyo's party had been about forming alliances. Now, it had become a family reunion. As is typical with family events, it wasn't about war—it was about one-upping your relatives.
To make a bold impression, the Fire Daimyo booked the Uchiha Grand Hotel, the one closest to his mansion. He brought with him an entourage of hundreds and thirty-one elite Uchiha shinobi.
Those Uchiha formed two neat rows, each a seasoned Jōnin. Even without flexing chakra, their presence alone was intimidating.
You could practically see the envy in the eyes of the other daimyos, especially those from the Land of Lightning and Land of Earth. Their guards were nothing more than glorified trios. Uchiha's squad looked like an invasion force.
And looks? Don't even talk about it. The Uchiha practically looked like models in flak jackets. The others? A rogue's gallery of uncombed hair and questionable hygiene.
"In the past, our gatherings were just cards and dances," the Fire Daimyo said gleefully, "But today, I'll show you something that will blow your minds!"
His relatives didn't even argue. How could they? They were already mesmerized by the luxury and power on display.
Of course, the Water Daimyo didn't show up, being across the sea and notoriously dismissive of land-based affairs. But the others—Thunder, Earth, Wind—they were there, and they couldn't hide their mixed feelings.
The Uchiha Grand Hotel was divided by class. Lower floors catered to the common people, offering humble but warm service. The upper floors? A paradise for the elite. Chandeliers, marble walls, specialty rooms themed after various aesthetics. Whether you wanted lavish or minimalist luxury, they had it.
The entertainment options overwhelmed the noble guests. It was far better than sitting around a card table all night. They couldn't pull themselves away.
In fact, the Fire Daimyo was so pleased that he sent a handwritten letter to Hiruzen praising Uchiha and urging Konoha to "learn from them"—and to stop asking him for money.
Hiruzen, who was already up to his eyeballs cleaning up Danzo's mess, nearly coughed up blood. He sent Andrew over 20,000 feedback points in frustration.
But after a moment of clarity, Hiruzen realized: "If the Daimyo is writing me compliments, it means he's no longer angry about the incident." That alone spared him a few sleepless nights.
While Hiruzen dealt with paperwork and the elder advisors tried to patch up Konoha's budget, no one had time to monitor the Uchiha anymore. With the Daimyo's open endorsement, they had unprecedented freedom.
Andrew hadn't visited the police department in over two weeks.
He spent his time sleeping in, checking on Naruto and Sasuke's training, eating, and sleeping some more. Kakashi's situation completely slipped his mind. Even Danzo's cell hadn't seen his shadow in days. Only today, after being reminded by Fugaku, did he yawn his way over to the station.
Technically, the police department no longer belonged solely to the Uchiha. But Andrew was still the captain—and old habits die hard.
After Danzo's imprisonment, the Fifth Elder of the clan had borrowed additional manpower from the Fourth Elder to ensure Danzo received "special treatment." If that old snake so much as blinked the wrong way, the guards were ready to give him a first-hand lesson in mortality.
So when Andrew saw him, he was momentarily shocked. If not for the bandages around Danzo's head and limbs, he might not have recognized him. His body showed no wounds, but his visible eye was bloodshot and wild.
Clearly, his torture had been psychological.
"Uchiha Andrew! I'll kill you!" Danzo's voice was hoarse, his mental state shattered.
Despite not using Mangekyō-level illusion, the constant low-tier Genjutsu had pushed Danzo to his limits. And yet, he recognized Andrew instantly. Proof of how much Andrew haunted his thoughts.
Andrew scratched his head. "Tsk. Still got enough mind left to recognize me? Guess we need to increase the Genjutsu dosage."
He gave the guards a nod, telling them to keep up the "excellent care," then walked off toward the admin section. Might as well check up on Kakashi afterward.
It wasn't about pity. It was about face. Kakashi had been hospitalized too long, and if he had to come looking for Andrew again, it'd look bad.
As he walked through the halls, the on-duty shinobi stood at attention.
"Captain!" they called out together.
Andrew glanced at them, amused. He waved and entered his office.
"Didn't expect them to react so seriously," he muttered. "Must still be scared of Uchiha's reputation."
A year ago, they'd have brushed Uchiha off. Now? With Danzo in their dungeon and the Daimyo's support behind them, no one dared show disrespect.
Once inside, Andrew noticed two stacks of documents on his desk. He blinked.
"Seriously? Who's the genius who thinks I still do paperwork?"
Before he could complain further, someone knocked on the door.
"Come in."
He put on a leader's mask. He might be lazy, but he was still the head of this place.
A composed, beautiful kunoichi entered. She had a sharp gaze and a red hue to her eyes.
"Captain Andrew," she began, voice calm but cutting, "it's been difficult locating you lately. Even though we've established a contact system, you've been unavailable for days. That's not ideal."
Andrew narrowed his eyes.
"You are… Kurenai Yuhi, right? You seem to have… a very strong opinion of me. No, wait—there's resentment in your eyes!"
He blinked, surprised. With his sharp perception, he immediately caught onto her hostility. But it made no sense—he had no history with her.
Kurenai didn't falter. "I'm merely stating facts. You're the captain of the police force, yet you ignore your responsibilities. What about the village's safety?"
"No," Andrew said thoughtfully, "your opinion of me has nothing to do with the police department. You know my management is effective. You came to criticize me because you dislike me on a personal level. But why? We've never even crossed paths."
He leaned back, examining her. Something about this wasn't just professional discontent. It was personal. And it wasn't just aimed at him—it felt like he was caught in the crossfire of deeper resentment.
"There must be a reason you see me as a target. What is it?"
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