The second village had been hit just yesterday, the fires still smoldering when I arrived. Here, the damage was even more extensive, and the psychological impact on survivors seemed deeper. They spoke of the attacker with a mixture of terror and confusion, describing behavior that seemed designed specifically to invoke the worst stereotypes about the Uchiha clan.
"He laughed while the buildings burned," a young man told me, his hands still shaking from the encounter. "Not with joy, exactly, but like he was proving some point to himself. Like the destruction validated something he believed."
"Did he say anything about why he was doing this?"
"He talked about legacy," the man said. "About how some bloodlines were destined for darkness, and how trying to fight that destiny only made the eventual fall more dramatic."
The words felt like arrows aimed specifically at my heart. This wasn't random terrorism—it was a targeted psychological attack designed to undermine everything I'd been working toward. Every village burned was a statement about the inherent evil of the Uchiha bloodline. Every innocent killed was evidence that redemption was impossible for someone born into a clan of killers.
As I camped that night in the ruins of the second village, I found myself staring into my own reflection in a piece of broken glass, searching for signs of the corruption the witnesses had described. My Sharingan looked normal when I activated it—the familiar pattern of tomoe spinning in response to my emotional state. But was there something I couldn't see? Some fundamental flaw in my genetic heritage that made violence and destruction inevitable?
No, I told myself firmly. That's exactly what he wants you to think. That's the whole point of this campaign.
But doubt lingered, fed by years of guilt and self-recrimination. How many times had I been told that the Uchiha were inherently violent, that our power inevitably corrupted anyone who wielded it? How many people had looked at me with fear and revulsion simply because of my family name?
I pulled out my writing materials and began composing a letter to Yuki, needing her perspective to anchor me against the psychological assault I was facing.
Dear Yuki,
I'm writing this from the ruins of a village that was destroyed two days ago by someone claiming to be my brother. The attacker used Uchiha techniques with frightening precision, but something about his presence felt fundamentally wrong to the survivors who witnessed the assault.
I think this is connected to Orochimaru's legacy—another experiment using stolen genetic material to create a mockery of what I once was. But knowing the likely origin doesn't make it easier to bear witness to the destruction being carried out in my family's name.
The hardest part isn't the physical damage, though that's certainly horrific. It's the way this impostor seems designed to validate every negative stereotype about the Uchiha bloodline. Every witness I've spoken to describes him as cold, cruel, and inherently destructive—everything I've been trying to prove I'm not.
I find myself wondering if there's some truth to what he's demonstrating. Are we really cursed, as so many people have claimed? Is the capacity for redemption something that exists for everyone except those born into my clan?
I don't expect answers to these questions, but writing them helps me process the doubt that's been growing in my mind. Tomorrow I'll continue following his trail, and eventually I'll have to confront him directly. When that happens, I'll be facing more than just an enemy—I'll be facing a distorted mirror of everything I fear I might still become.
Please don't worry if my next letter is delayed. This situation requires my full attention, and I won't be able to write regularly until it's resolved.
—Sasuke
As I sealed the letter and prepared to send it with the next messenger service, I reflected on how much my perspective had changed since beginning this journey. Months ago, discovering that someone was impersonating me would have triggered rage and a desire for immediate violence. Now, my dominant emotion was a deep sadness for the innocents caught in what was clearly a deliberate campaign to destroy my progress toward redemption.
This is what growth looks like, I realized. Not the absence of challenges, but a different response to them.
The impostor wanted me angry, wanted me to revert to old patterns of solving problems through overwhelming force. But I'd learned too much about the value of measured responses and careful consideration to give him that satisfaction.
When we finally met—and I had no doubt that was his ultimate goal—I would face him not as the vengeful Uchiha he expected, but as someone who'd learned that true strength came from protecting others rather than destroying enemies.
The trail led north toward the border with Hot Water Country, and with each mile I traveled, the weight of anticipation grew heavier. Somewhere ahead, a distorted reflection of my past was waiting for a confrontation that would test everything I'd learned about redemption, forgiveness, and the possibility of escaping the sins of one's bloodline.
Blood remembers, he'd told the survivors. But I was beginning to believe that blood could also learn, could choose to remember different things and forge different paths.
The real question was whether I'd have the strength to prove that belief when it mattered most.