System in Assassin's Creed

Chapter 346: Chapter 345: The Outlier and the Cure

Konoha - The Kenway Compound - The Living Room

The grandfather clock in the corner of the expansive living room chimed a low, resonant note, marking the hour as two in the morning.

The quiet of the Kenway estate was suddenly pierced by a sharp, crackling flash of golden light. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind the distinct scent of ozone and the figures of two profoundly exhausted men.

They had only just managed to extricate themselves from the Hokage Tower. Tsunade Senju, fueled by adrenaline and the sheer, earth-shattering magnitude of the intelligence dropped on her desk, had subjected Itachi to hours of relentless, surgical questioning.

She had grilled him on the internal hierarchy of the Akatsuki, the encrypted contents of Danzo’s treasonous scrolls, and the intricate logistics of the shadow war they were now officially fighting. Itachi had answered every inquiry with his usual stoic precision, but even a prodigy of his caliber possessed physical limits.

Because of how much time they took, Alaric only dropped a couple of scrolls on Tsunade’s desk. Daimyo’s letters about the nullification of Konoha’s fund reduction, the thirty percent increase on the annual funds, and war funds that stated of the Daimyo’s support whenever Konoha goes to war. One of the scrolls also contained Alaric’s mission report that contained a brief explanation of what he did for the Fire Daimyo to fix the situation. Tsunade was nagging at how Alaric’s mission report was unprofessional since the contents of his mission report were: ’Jonin Alaric Jonathan Kenway made a deal with the Fire Daimyo to fix the famine. Jonin Alaric Jonathan Kenway fixed the famine. Fire Daimyo satisfied and promised to remove thirty percent annual fund reduction.’.

Standing in the center of the plush, softly lit living room, Alaric let out a long, heavy sigh. He rolled his broad shoulders, working out the stiffness of standing through a political interrogation, before his blue eyes drifted over to the Uchiha.

Itachi stood perfectly still, his posture impeccable despite his condition. He was still half-naked, clad only in his dark shinobi pants and worn sandals.

”Right,” Alaric muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he gestured loosely toward the grand, arched corridor to their left. ”That way’s the left wing of the house. Pick any available room and crash there for the night... or however long you want, really. It doesn’t matter to me. There are fresh clothes in the wardrobes, so find something that fits and change out of... well, that. I’ll have some personalized clothes tailored for you later on.”

Itachi turned his head, his dark, onyx eyes tracking the length of the opulent hallway before returning to Alaric. He didn’t offer a word of gratitude or complaint, merely dipping his chin in a slow, stoic nod of acknowledgment.

As Itachi pivoted on his heel, fully intending to disappear into the quiet solitude of the guest wing, a sudden spark of realization flashed across Alaric’s face.

”Ah! Wait, I completely forgot,” Alaric called out, raising a hand to stall the Uchiha’s departure. ”I still need to properly treat whatever’s wrong with you. The temporal rewind patched the battle damage, but chronic illnesses are stubborn things. Follow me for a bit.”

Itachi paused, a singular, elegant brow rising slightly toward his hairline. He slowly nodded his head, adjusting his trajectory to fall into step behind the towering blonde.

As they walked in silence, Itachi’s analytical mind turned its focus entirely onto the man leading him. Something about Alaric Jonathan Kenway was profoundly, unnervingly contradictory. Itachi knew, with absolute certainty, that the man was a walking cataclysm.

The sheer, suffocating density of his dormant chakra and the casual way he had dismantled the Akatsuki’s ritual spoke of a power that rivaled the myths of old. Yet, despite being an apex predator, Alaric possessed an aura of extreme, almost insulting laidbackness. He moved not like a warrior constantly scanning for threats, but like a man who had simply forgotten that threats existed.

Alaric led him past the main living areas and toward a discreet, reinforced doorway that opened into a stairwell leading underground. They descended into the cool, subterranean depths of the estate, finally arriving at a heavy oak door.

As Alaric reached out and pressed his palm flat against the wood, Itachi’s eyes narrowed. He watched as multiple, hyper-complex rings of black fuinjutsu ink flared to life, bleeding through the grain of the timber. The intricate security matrix scanned the chakra signature, glowing with a soft, validating light before the heavy locks disengaged with a series of heavy, metallic thunks.

Pushing the door open, Alaric stepped inside, and Itachi silently followed.

”Ah, shite,” Alaric groaned, coming to an abrupt halt as he surveyed the interior of his private sanctuary.

The office was a sprawling, chaotic disaster. Towering stacks of high-grade parchment teetered on the edges of tables, discarded sealing tags littered the expensive rugs, and heavy, leather-bound ledgers were haphazardly piled on every available surface. It looked less like the command center of a billionaire Jonin and more like the aftermath of a localized hurricane.

”I completely forgot to clean this place up...” Alaric sighed, shaking his head as he navigated the clutter.

”...”

Itachi did not offer a verbal comment, but as he stepped carefully over a discarded scroll, a faint, subtle twitch disturbed his usually impassive expression. He possessed a strict, meticulous need for order... a mild OCD regarding cleanliness that made the chaotic state of the room deeply bothersome to him. However, acknowledging that he was a guest in a home that had just offered him asylum, he firmly suppressed the urge to start organizing the documents by size and date, keeping his discomfort locked safely behind his teeth.

Alaric waded through the sea of paper, walking toward his massive mahogany desk. Instead of taking the heavy leather chair, he simply hoisted himself up, sitting casually on the edge of the polished wood, letting one leg swing freely.

He looked at Itachi for a long moment, a strange, almost boyish amusement dancing in his bright blue eyes.

”You know,” Alaric started, leaning forward slightly, ”I’d really like to say... I’m your fan.”

”...”

”...I’m not being gay or whatever...”

”...”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Itachi stared at the blonde man, his mind, which operated at the speed of a supercomputer, violently derailing. It took him aback quite profoundly. Someone as unfathomably strong as Alaric... claiming to be a fan of a disgraced, dying clan killer? To the Uchiha prodigy, the statement was sheer, unadulterated nonsense.

”...And that relates to?” Itachi finally asked, his voice smooth, though entirely devoid of comprehension.

”...” Alaric let out a short, awkward chuckle, realizing how bizarre the meta-knowledge sounded out loud. He shook his head, waving a hand to dismiss the tangent. ”Never mind. Anyways, before I do anything... you need to understand the ground rules. Whatever happens in this room, stays in this room. No matter how impossible or unbelievable it may seem.”

Itachi’s dark eyes locked onto Alaric’s, searching for deceit or malice. Finding only absolute seriousness, he offered a calm, measured nod. ”I understand.”

”...Man, you really are a man of few words,” Alaric smirked, shaking his head in quiet amusement before his expression sobered into something far more ancient.

What happened next genuinely shook the unflappable genius, and for the very first time in recent memory, Itachi’s mouth parted slightly in sheer, unfiltered shock.

The bright, cerulean blue of Alaric’s eyes suddenly bled away, consumed by a rich, bloody crimson. The irises shifted, locking into an intricate, geometric pinwheel pattern that radiated an overwhelming, suffocating visual prowess.

”Mangekyo Sharingan?” Itachi breathed, the words slipping out without his permission.

He fought desperately to remain calm, but his brilliant mind was swiftly spiraling through a dozen horrifying possibilities. Had Alaric stolen those eyes from a fallen Uchiha? Had he harvested them from the massacre? However, logic instantly rejected the theory. Alaric had activated the Sharingan seamlessly, transitioning from normal blue eyes to the Mangekyo just as a natural-born Uchiha would. If the eyes had been stolen and surgically implanted, they would have been permanently locked in their active state, impossible to deactivate.

But how was it biologically possible? With Alaric’s towering stature, platinum blonde hair, striking blue eyes, and pale skin, he was the complete, categorical antonym of everything the Uchiha bloodline represented.

Caught in the overwhelming gravity of the revelation, Itachi didn’t even realize that his own Mangekyo Sharingan had instinctively flared to life, the three black pinwheels spinning rapidly in his dark eyes as a primal, defensive response.

”Nope. Eternal Mangekyo Sharingan,” Alaric corrected gently, a knowing smile touching his lips as he observed Itachi’s stunned expression. However, he dismissed the heavy tension with a light shake of his head. ”I’m someone you would classify as an ’Outlier.’ I possess a lot of abilities... abilities you’d find fundamentally impossible for a single mortal to have unless they were the Rikudo Sennin himself. However, I assure you, I’m not him... and that is exactly why whatever happens in this room stays in this room.”

A single, cold bead of sweat broke out along Itachi’s hairline, tracking slowly down his temple. It wasn’t born of fear, but of the violent clash between his insatiable curiosity and a deeply ingrained, rational nervousness. Standing before a man who effortlessly wielded the pinnacle of his clan’s dojutsu without a drop of their blood was a paradigm shift he was struggling to process.

”Like I said...” Itachi replied, his voice recovering its steady, velvety cadence through sheer force of will. ”...I understand.”

Seeing Itachi force himself back into a state of precarious calm, Alaric nodded his head in satisfaction.

’Vulcan,’ Alaric commanded silently.

The crimson geometry of Alaric’s EMS flared slightly. He raised his right hand, his palm facing the ceiling.

Itachi watched in utter fascination as the ambient minerals in the air and the trace elements of the room were violently commanded to coalesce. A swirl of dark, molten metal manifested directly above Alaric’s palm, cooling and shaping itself in a fraction of a second into a small, elegantly crafted silver goblet.

’So his Mangekyo possesses an ability to create and manipulate some sort of metal,’ Itachi analyzed silently, his spinning eyes tracking the dense flow of chakra. ’The tactical questions are endless... how large of an object can he create? What is the absolute radius of his control? Can he utilize other variations of metal? Can he violently manipulate the existing metal on an opponent’s body?’

Alaric didn’t mind the intense, calculating scrutiny; he expected nothing less from the prodigy. Without breaking eye contact, Alaric effortlessly shifted his elemental affinity, utilizing Water Release without a single hand seal. He converted a fraction of his own raw chakra directly into pure, crystal-clear water, allowing it to pool and fill the silver goblet to the brim.

With his left hand, Alaric hovered his index finger directly over the lip of the goblet. A microscopic manipulation of the water’s surface tension created a razor-thin, pressurized edge that sliced cleanly across the pad of his finger.

A single, heavy drop of blood welled up. It possessed a strange, incandescent golden undertone that spoke of ancient, primordial vitality.

The drop fell, striking the surface of the water with a soft plink, sending a ripple of faint, rosy energy through the liquid.

Itachi saw everything, his Sharingan capturing the precise, impossible mechanics of the exchange, including the fact that the moment the blood had fallen, the laceration on Alaric’s finger had already completely sealed itself, leaving unblemished skin behind. Yet, true to his nature, Itachi said nothing of the anomaly. There were countless weird, terrifying things in the shinobi world; this was simply the newest addition to the list.

”Are you aiming to make me drink that goblet as some sort of blood pact?” Itachi asked, his tone measured and cautious.

Alaric’s brow rose before he let out a rich, echoing chuckle, shaking his head in the negative. ”No, nothing so dramatic. My blood carries absolute, unparalleled regenerative properties. Diluted in water, it will violently counter and purge any kind of systemic disease, cellular degradation, or physical injury.”

Itachi looked at Alaric for a long, searching moment, evaluating the truth in the man’s eyes, before shifting his stare to the goblet. Seeing that Alaric was gently urging him to take it, the Uchiha stepped forward, navigating the cluttered floor until he stopped just a meter away from the desk.

He reached out and took the cool metal goblet, looking down at the slightly pink, diluted water within.

”Drink it, and the disease liquefying your organs goes away,” Alaric smiled encouragingly. ”But it’s entirely up to you if you don’t want to... it’s not like I’m here to force you into salvation.”

Itachi’s stare lingered on the surface of the water for a few seconds more. He thought of his failing lungs, the coughing fits that left him tasting copper, and the inevitable, creeping darkness that threatened to claim him before his task was complete.

Without another word of hesitation, Itachi raised the goblet to his lips and chugged the entire contents down in one fluid motion.

As he swallowed the last drop, he stood perfectly still, half-expecting to be disappointed when nothing immediately happened.

But then, his eyes widened.

A sudden, overwhelming surge of heat exploded from his stomach, rushing through his vascular system like a tidal wave of pure life force. He gasped, his hands dropping to his sides as he felt something deeply, fundamentally broken inside him beginning to mend. The agonizing, persistent tightness in his chest vanished, allowing him to draw a deep, unobstructed breath that didn’t rattle with fluid. He looked down at his hands; the sickly, ashen pallor that had haunted his complexion for years was rapidly fading, replaced by the healthy, vibrant flush of restored circulation.

Spotting a tall, antique mirror resting against the far wall of the messy office, Itachi turned to look at his reflection. He noticed immediately that the gaunt, sunken contours of his face had filled out, his entire body settling into a state of absolute, peak physical condition.

”What...” Itachi’s voice was stolen from his throat.

But the physical restoration was merely a prelude. As he stared into the mirror, a cool, soothing sensation washed over his optic nerves. The dark, blurry edges that constantly fringed his peripheral vision began to recede. The persistent, agonizing ache that throbbed behind his eyes every time he blinked was scrubbed away, until the world snapped into a state of flawless, razor-sharp clarity he hadn’t experienced since he was a teenager.

”D-Did you fix my blindness?” Itachi asked, the profound shock making him stumble over the words.

Alaric pushed himself off the edge of the mahogany desk, stretching his arms high above his head with a loud, contented yawn. His crimson Mangekyo faded, returning to his natural, electric blue.

”Yeah... but consider it a biological reset,” Alaric clarified, rolling his shoulders. ”Your optic nerves and pathways are pristine right now, but the underlying curse of your dojutsu remains. You’ll still slowly go blind again if you continuously overuse the Mangekyo. If you don’t want to lose your light permanently, you’re going to have to switch eyes with Sasuke when he eventually awakens his own.”

Alaric finally walked past the Uchiha, heading toward the heavy oak door that led out of the private office. As he grasped the handle, he paused, turning his head to look back at Itachi for a brief moment.

”Well, I could always just heal your eyes over and over again...” Alaric mused thoughtfully, before offering a sly, knowing grin. ”...but getting the Eternal Mangekyo Sharingan is a blessing of power that you’ll always be grateful for when you finally acquire it.”

With that cryptic piece of advice, the heavy door swung open, and Alaric stepped out into the corridor, leaving the Uchiha alone in the quiet sanctuary.

Itachi stood in the silence of the office, staring at the empty doorway where the anomaly had just vanished. He slowly turned his gaze back to his own reflection in the mirror, marveling at the vibrant, unclouded onyx of his eyes even after his Sharingan was deactivated.

When he looked down to examine the silver goblet in his hand, his eyes widened slightly. The metal was disintegrating, turning into a fine, sparkling dust that slipped through his fingers and dissolved into nothingness, as if the vessel had never existed at all.

He slowly closed his empty hand, feeling the absolute, flawless strength radiating through his muscles, before he could only think one, solitary thought...

’Just who is he?’

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