OBD: Chapter Thirty-Eight: Death Dance

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Death Dance

Fugaku Uchiha’s gaze remained fixed, unwavering, as the dust and smoke of battle hung heavy in the air. His fingers were relaxed by his side, ready to weave the next sequence of seals, his Sharingan flickering in anticipation. Before him, Obito Uchiha stood—bloodied and ragged, a mere shell of the man he once was. The rogue Uchiha's body was battered from their exchange, the mask he wore even more cracked and warped with the marks of battle.

It was a moment Fugaku had long awaited, yet something in his chest remained tight, a gnawing frustration. Despite the injuries that painted Obito’s form, despite the many opportunities Fugaku had found to strike, the pest had evaded nearly every blow.

Fugaku’s eyes narrowed in focus. Kamui. A troublesome jutsu, indeed. But even it had limits. 

But before he could make a move, the air around him seemed to vibrate. A presence. Six of them, emerging from the shadows, their chakra swirling in the night like the cold wind before a storm.

Fugaku’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the figures. For a moment, Fugaku’s mind raced. Six. The Six Paths. His thoughts came back to Itachi’s warning. The boy had spoken much of them with a quiet caution that Fugaku had not fully understood at the time. 

Fugaku allowed himself a single breath, his mind already calculating. His resolve solidified then. He could not allow these figures to roam freely. They would pose an insurmountable threat to the rest of the clan if left unchecked. 

Before he could act, however, the Deva Path spoke.

"Madara," he said, "Go. Assist the others. We will deal with Fugaku."

Obito’s battered form shifted slightly, but the hesitation was clear. "What?" Obito's voice was strained, filled with disbelief. "We’re not in a position to—"

"We understand the danger but still believe you would be of greater use elsewhere. Go, we will handle him." His tone was calm, almost dismissive. Obito’s mouth twisted into a frown, the faintest spark of annoyance flickering in his eyes. But that was all it was—flicker. A moment’s hesitation before he turned away, his mask hiding the uncertainty that Fugaku had glimpsed.

Without his prior hesitation, Obito complied, stepping back from the battlefield and moving toward the others. His presence, for now it seemed, would not be the deciding factor.

Fugaku considered striking down the traitor, at this moment of distraction, but then he hesitated. He knew well enough the technique that Obito wielded—an ability that made every attack Fugaku threw at him seem like air.

No. Obito could wait. The true threat stood before him.

His gaze swivelled, fixing firmly on the Deva Path. The others fell into formation around Fugaku, a silent, synchronized movement that suggested perfect coordination. Fugaku’s sharingan flared, spooling up as his instincts kicked into overdrive. If Itachi’s warnings were correct, this was no ordinary group. They were more than a team—they were a singular unit of a singular mind; a state that made them far more dangerous than they appeared.

Fugaku’s mind sharpened with ruthless clarity. One by one, he analyzed them. The Deva Path, with his gravitational powers, could control the flow of the battle. The Asura Path, with his mechanical body, was a terror in close combat. The Human Path could rip away souls—nothing but death in its wake. The Animal Path could summon creatures of overwhelming strength. The Preta Path, a constant drain on chakra. The Naraka Path, capable of restoring life… and perhaps much worse. The boy wasn’t entirely certain.

Regardless, they were all credible threats. 

But, unfortunately for them, that did not make them invincible.

***

Obito scaled the edge of a rooftop, the cool air hitting him like a slap as he leaned against the rough stone tiles, steadying his breathing. The sharp thrum of his pulse in his ears was like a drumbeat, much louder than was ever normal for a shinobi of his calibre, and his chakra reserves were running dangerously low. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on the thought, however, compartmentalizing it as he turned his attention outward.

His hands, slick with blood and sweat, gripped the edge of the rooftop, eyes narrowed, gazing across the sprawling scene. Below him, the streets of the Uchiha district had become a blood-soaked canvas, painted with the violent strokes of shinobi caught in the inferno of war. The clang of steel, the crackle of jutsu, the screams of the fallen—these sounds bled into one another like an unholy symphony. Through the haze of smoke and flame, on the blood-soaked earth, he saw him—Itachi.

The younger Uchiha stood alone, a figure of quiet resolve amidst the chaos. His black cloak fluttered slightly in the breeze, his eyes shadowed beneath his hair. He was drenched in sweat, his face etched with exhaustion, but his presence was undeniable. With a fluid motion, he swung his chakra-coated palm in a deadly arc, decapitating the fallen figure of Danzo—an act so swift and efficient that it seemed almost choreographed.

The head of Danzo fell from his body with a silent thud, rolling to the ground like an unwanted object. Itachi stood over the corpse, his breathing uneven, chest rising and falling faintly with the effort. His Sharingan spun still, slower now, but even then, the weight of his gaze felt suffocating. His baleful eyes swept across the battlefield—his gaze pausing, then shifting upwards, locking with Obito's.

For a moment, there was no movement, no sound. Itachi’s eyes were cold, unreadable, but Obito could feel the weight of that stare like a dagger pressed against his throat. 

Obito's hand twitched, fingers aching to summon a jutsu, to retaliate, to lash out. His heart hammered in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He had been cornered once, and he would not make the same mistake again. They stared at each other across the distance. 

 The last thing a part of him wanted was to fight this boy, not here, not now. But Itachi did not hesitate.

There was no warning, no hint of intent. One moment he was standing, almost statuesque, and the next he was a blur, a shadow lashing alleys and across rooftops. 

Obito sighed, then rose to meet the pest. Instincts kicked in, and he phased into intangibility. A kunai sliced through his body to little effect, and with a practised flick of his wrist, Obito retaliated. His foot caught on the edge of the rooftop, and he spun into another kunai throw. 

Ding! Ding!

The next moment, Itachi was upon him, blade in hand, the tip, once again, aimed to kill.