Mastering the Elements - Chapter - 53

The wind that passed through Konoha that morning was quieter than usual, as if the village itself understood the weight of loss that had fallen over one of its oldest clans. The Uchiha Compound gates were closed to all but their own, sealed with genjutsu and chakra markings that pulsed faintly under the midmorning light.

Inside the Pottaru Estate, the mood was subdued.

Takashi Uchiha had passed away.

He died two days after his final meeting with Itachi—peacefully, they said. In truth, there was nothing peaceful about the silence that followed. His departure left a deep ache, especially in the heart of Mikoto, his daughter.

She sat at the engawa of the estate, her usually firm expression hollowed by grief. A cup of tea sat untouched beside her as she stared into the koi pond, unmoving, the reflection of the rippling water in her eyes.

Harry came and quietly placed a soft woolen shawl around her shoulders.

“He loved you very much,” Harry said softly. “You know that, right?”

Mikoto didn’t respond at first. She swallowed, her voice barely audible.

“I didn’t speak to him for three years after I was kicked out of the clan.”

Harry sat beside her, waiting.

“And yet,” she added, “he still came. When Itachi was a baby. When Naruto started walking. When the seasons changed, and when he was lonely. He came.”

Harry placed a hand gently over hers.

“He never stopped being your father,” he said.


Naruto had taken it hard too.

The boy sat curled in a corner of the living room, arms wrapped around his knees, his goggles pushed up on his head. He wasn’t crying. But the silence was unusual. For Naruto, who was usually a storm of movement and voice, the quiet was loud.

Shizune sat next to him with her arm around his shoulders. “He loved you like his own grandson.”

Naruto nodded. “He said he was going to show me the old river shrine next time I finished a scroll without making a mess.”

Shizune smiled softly. “Then you’ll just have to remember it for him.”

Naruto wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, then stood. “I wanna go. To say goodbye.”


The Uchiha funeral was unlike any Naruto had ever seen.

They had been allowed to attend only because Mikoto was family—blood of the clan—and because Takashi, once the proud patriarch of the Uchiha, had made it known before his death that the Pottaru family was to be treated as kin.

And so, at dusk, the Potaru family crossed the Uchiha gates. Even Harry, who had little affection for clan traditions, wore a subdued black haori. Itachi walked beside Naruto in silence, his eyes heavy with reflection.

The Uchiha Shrine stood at the back of the compound, its entrance lined with flickering torches. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic chants of the clan elders who gathered in a circle around Takashi's body. Dressed in ceremonial white, the body was laid upon a thick wooden altar, his hands folded over his chest.

No coffin. No box. Just him and the fire.

The Uchiha believed in cleansing through fire, a release of chakra, hatred, and sorrow—purifying the soul before it joined the wind.

The flames rose slowly as the jutsu was cast.

Naruto reached for Itachi’s hand, and Itachi gripped it gently, silently grateful.

Mikoto stood beside her sons and husband, her expression unreadable, tears drying on her cheeks in the heat of the pyre.

When the flames turned blue, it meant the soul had been released.

And when only ash remained, the clan head stepped forward, scattering it into the wind with the prayer:

“Let the fire carry the pain, and the wind carry the soul.”

Itachi bowed low as tradition demanded, whispering under his breath:

“Goodbye… Grandfather.”


That night, back at the Pottaru Estate, Mikoto sat in the inner room with her children gathered around her. She had told no stories. She had said no words. But as she leaned back against the cushions, Naruto rested his head on her lap.

“I’ll remember his stories,” Naruto mumbled. “Even if no one else does.”

“I will too,” Itachi added.

Mikoto finally smiled faintly. “That’s all he ever wanted.”

Harry entered with a small tray of tea and sat with them in the quiet.

“In a world like ours,” he said, placing a cup in Mikoto’s hands, “living to old age is… a miracle.”

Mikoto nodded.

“And remembering the dead,” she whispered, “is how we honor that miracle.”

And so they sat there in stillness—not in mourning, but in remembrance. A family, wounded but whole. And in the quiet flicker of the estate’s lamps, Takashi Uchiha’s memory passed gently into legend.



The Potaru estate was quieter than usual.

In the central wing, thick drapes were pulled to darken the room, soft lamps casting a golden hue over the shelves of scrolls and herbs. This room—once used for potion-brewing and alchemical research—had been transformed into a surgical chamber.

Tsunade, though renowned for her mastery in the medical arts, had taken a step back for this particular operation.

This wasn’t just another transplant. It was an Uchiha secret. A bond of blood. And above all else, it was personal.

Harry Pottaru sat beside the operating table, dressed in clean white robes, his eyes focused, movements steady. He adjusted the sterilized tools on the tray beside him and looked over at his son.

Itachi lay still, his black hair tied back, the Mangekyō Sharingan in his eyes dimmed by anesthetic herbs. His expression was calm, as if he were simply meditating.

“You’re sure about this?” Harry asked softly, holding the sealed jar that contained Takashi Uchiha’s preserved Mangekyō Sharingan.

“I am,” Itachi said, voice steady. “He was proud of his eyes. If I wear them, I honor that pride.”

Harry nodded, understanding the weight behind those words. The Pottaru bloodline had always been unpredictable—its energy ancient, its legacy powerful. But this was something rooted in love. In memory.

“All right,” Harry murmured, drawing a deep breath. “Let’s begin.”


The surgery took hours.

Harry’s hands moved with unshakable grace, fingers glowing with his unique fusion of chakra and wandless magic. Runes shimmered faintly over Itachi’s closed eyelids. Chakra threads held vessels in place while sealing charms kept the transplanted nerves from rejecting the foreign Sharingan.

And finally—after precise placement and slow integration—Takashi’s eyes were in his grandson’s sockets.

Harry exhaled and wiped his brow, whispering, “It’s done.”

He placed Itachi’s original Mangekyō Sharingan carefully into a magically warded compartment in his trunk—preserved in case one day, another Pottaru child might need them.


Itachi awoke the next morning to Naruto hovering over him with a grin.

“Hey, hey! You still blind? Or can you see me looking awesome?” Naruto poked his head into the room, a fish snack in hand.

Itachi groaned slightly. “You’re not helping.”

Mikoto entered a moment later and gently scolded her youngest. “Naruto, leave your brother alone. His eyes need time.”

“But what if he opens them and sees me first? Wouldn’t that be great?” Naruto grinned. “First sight with new eyes—it’s gotta be me.”

Itachi smirked faintly under the bandages. “If that’s the case, I might ask Father to put my old eyes back.”

“Oi!”

Harry chuckled from the doorway. “Enough teasing. The surgery was a success, but you’ll need three days of rest before removing the bandages.”

Itachi nodded. “I already told the Hokage I’m not accepting missions for now. Just said it was an eye injury.”

“Good,” Harry said, folding his arms. “No one outside this estate needs to know about the Eternal Mangekyō. Not yet.”


On the fourth morning, Itachi sat cross-legged in his room, sunlight peeking through the window. Mikoto sat nearby while Harry gently undid the bandages around his eyes.

“Ready?” Harry asked.

Itachi said nothing but opened his eyes.

What was expected was the blood-red Mangekyō pattern of Takashi’s eyes. What greeted them was something else entirely.

Itachi blinked.

His irises shone with a deep, vibrant green, patterns rippling through them like waves of energy. The concentric circles of the Rinnegan—not purple like the legends, but green, vibrant, and alive.

“What…” Itachi murmured, his voice trembling for the first time in years.

Mikoto gasped softly.

Harry stared, stunned. “No… that’s not normal.”

Naruto burst in just in time to shout, “Whoa! Is that the Rinnegan? But it’s green!”

Itachi turned slowly to face the mirror.

Two glowing green Rinnegan.

Harry stepped forward, scanning Itachi’s chakra carefully with both chakra sense and magical detection. His eyes widened.

“It’s happening again,” Harry whispered. “The Pottaru bloodline… it’s mutating.”

“What do you mean?” Mikoto asked, gripping the edge of the bed.

“Takashi’s Mangekyō should’ve given Itachi Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan. But instead… his bloodline accepted the eyes, enhanced them, and transformed them.”

Itachi stood, the power humming in his veins.

“I can feel it,” he said. “My Mangekyō abilities… they’re still here. But they’ve changed. Evolved. And there’s more… something deeper.”

Mikoto placed a hand on her son’s shoulder. “Your grandfather would be proud. You carry more than his eyes now. You carry his legacy.”

Harry stared at Itachi with awe—and the quiet dread of possibilities unspoken.

“I don’t know what abilities those eyes will give you, son. But one thing is clear…”

He paused.

“You are no longer just any Shinobi. You’re something new.”



The world within the trunk was timeless.

As the lid creaked open, a cool wind rushed past Itachi's face—unnatural and eternal. Inside was a vast realm, nothing like the cramped space the object suggested from the outside. It was a separate dimension, frozen in time and overflowing with knowledge, artifacts, and boundless potential.

Itachi stepped through the entrance behind his father and into a towering marble hallway illuminated by glowing orbs. The walls were lined with shelves brimming with scrolls, books, weapons, and magical relics—some humming with raw power, others quietly pulsating with enchantments from Harry’s former world.

“I still remember the first time you brought me here,” Itachi said, his voice calm but filled with nostalgia. “It felt like walking into the minds of ten Hokage at once.”

Harry chuckled. “That was the goal. A legacy of knowledge. I didn’t build this place just for myself. It’s for you—and someday, for your siblings.”

They walked past the library and the artifact chambers until they reached a set of obsidian doors. With a wave of his hand, Harry caused the intricate runes etched into them to glow and slide open.

Beyond was a colossal training arena—stone platforms suspended over water, hovering rings of terrain that floated mid-air, and glowing sigils across the ceiling that absorbed and reflected chakra.

Itachi stepped inside and inhaled deeply. “This is where you trained your Rinnegan.”

Harry nodded, folding his arms. “And now, it’s your turn.”

He turned toward his son, eyes serious behind his messy hair.

“The Rinnegan isn’t like other dōjutsu. It doesn’t just see—it understands. Space. Time. Life. Death. Gravity. The soul. All of it. But it won’t reveal itself fully unless you push it.”

“Push how?” Itachi asked.

Harry raised his hand. A sudden pulse of force rippled through the arena, lifting debris and water in a dome around him. “Push with intent. You don’t use the Rinnegan… You let it become a part of you.”

Itachi closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the green Rinnegan flared.

Immediately, he felt something stir—a floodgate of understanding. His surroundings shifted, slowed, became sharper. He could feel his father’s chakra signature, see the lines of gravity crisscrossing the floating islands of stone, and he could almost touch the connection between his body and the world.

“I can see it,” he whispered.

Harry nodded. “Good. Now let's start with what you’ve inherited.”

He flicked his wand toward the arena center, conjuring a dozen chakra-formed opponents—clones armed with weapons and defensive seals. They took fighting stances, each perfectly designed to test a specific ability.

“Don’t focus on winning,” Harry said. “Focus on learning.”

Itachi didn’t hesitate.

In a blur, he moved into position and raised his hand—and instinctively, repelled the first wave of attackers with a focused gravitational blast. The air rippled outward like a shockwave, and the clones were thrown back across the arena.

“So the Deva Path responds to emotion,” Itachi murmured, stepping back. “Repulsion. Like instinctual breath.”

“Exactly,” Harry confirmed, watching closely. “And now... try summoning.”

Itachi raised both hands. “Summoning… as in…?”

Suddenly, pain stabbed into his spine—not from injury, but from an overwhelming, alien pressure. He clenched his jaw and thrust his hand into a hand seal that came to him not by study, but by memory embedded in the Rinnegan.

Poof!

A cloud of smoke erupted, and standing before him was a six-armed figure with a hulking frame, masked like a samurai and surrounded by spectral blades.

“Is that—?” Itachi began.

“The Asura Path,” Harry confirmed. “It channels the mechanized potential of chakra. A war machine given form.”

The figure lunged.

Itachi dodged swiftly, sliding across the floating platforms and summoning his chakra blades to his hands. They clashed violently in a storm of movement, sparks dancing across the arena.

“You’re adapting faster than I did,” Harry admitted, standing at the edge of the arena with a calm, proud gaze. “Your chakra control is almost flawless.”

“But I can’t use Sharingan,” Itachi said through gritted teeth as he kicked the Asura figure away. “I can’t toggle it anymore. Not even Mangekyō.”

“No,” Harry said gently. “The Rinnegan absorbed them. The Mangekyō abilities are still yours. Just hidden within.”

Itachi landed on one knee, exhaling. “Then how do I awaken those powers again?”

Harry stepped forward. “You’ll have to remember the emotion that first unlocked them. Only then will the Rinnegan reveal its full form.”


They spent what felt like days in that world—though only minutes passed in the real world.

Itachi tested gravity manipulation, summoning, chakra absorption, and illusionary pathways. Each time he pushed, the Rinnegan responded—not as a weapon, but as a guide. A mirror to his soul.

By the end of it, he stood soaked in sweat, but his movements were sharper. His mind, calmer. His eyes, burning green with control.

He turned to Harry, who handed him a towel and a bottle of water conjured from thin air.

“You’re ready for the next step,” Harry said. “The one I never took.”

“What is it?” Itachi asked.

Harry looked up at the ceiling, his voice distant.

“The Rinnegan doesn’t just give power. It offers understanding. You’ll start seeing things others can’t. Truths that go beyond nations. Beyond bloodlines.”

Itachi’s hand tightened around the bottle.

“I’m ready.”