The confrontation came at dawn, in a clearing that felt deliberately chosen for its symbolic weight. Ancient trees formed a natural amphitheater around a space where wildflowers grew in patterns that reminded me uncomfortably of the Uchiha clan symbol. Standing in the center of it all was a figure that made my breath catch in my throat.
From a distance, he could have been my reflection—same height, same build, same distinctive spiky black hair that marked our bloodline. But as I drew closer, the differences became apparent and deeply unsettling. His skin had an unhealthy pale cast that spoke of laboratory conditions rather than natural sunlight. His movements carried a subtle wrongness, as if his nervous system operated on slightly different principles than normal human physiology.
And his eyes... his eyes were a mockery of everything the Sharingan represented.
The tomoe pattern was there, but it flickered erratically, sometimes showing two tomoe, sometimes three, occasionally revealing glimpses of a pattern I didn't recognize. The red iris held flecks of other colors—purple, gold, unnatural hues that suggested artificial enhancement rather than natural evolution.
"Brother," he said, his voice carrying harmonics that no human throat should produce. "You're smaller than I expected."
"I'm not your brother," I replied, my hand resting on my sword hilt but not yet drawing the weapon. "And you're not Uchiha."
"Aren't I?" He smiled, the expression disturbingly familiar despite the wrongness underlying it. "Same DNA, same techniques, same inherent capacity for destruction. What makes family, Sasuke, if not shared blood?"
"Shared experiences. Shared bonds. Shared choices," I said, thinking of Team 7, of Yuki and her grandfather, of all the people who'd chosen to see me as family despite my lack of blood connection to them.
"How... sentimental," the impostor said, his corrupted Sharingan spinning faster. "But you can't escape what you are through the power of friendship. The Uchiha legacy is written in our genes, brother. Violence, betrayal, the inevitable descent into darkness—it's what we do."
"It's what I did," I corrected. "But it's not what I am anymore."
"Prove it."
The challenge hung in the air between us like a blade waiting to fall. Around us, the morning birds had fallen silent, as if nature itself recognized the wrongness of this confrontation.
"What's your name?" I asked, genuinely curious about the identity behind the stolen face.
"Name?" He laughed, the sound carrying notes that made my teeth ache. "I had one once, I think. But Orochimaru-sama preferred to call his subjects by their experimental designations. I was Project Uchiha-7, the seventh attempt to successfully integrate your genetic material into a compatible host."
"Seven attempts," I said quietly, the implications hitting me like physical blows. "What happened to the first six?"
"They died screaming," he said with casual indifference. "Most couldn't handle the Sharingan integration—their brains simply... overloaded. The few who survived the initial implantation suffered complete psychological collapse within days."
"And you?"
"I was the success story," he said with pride that was clearly artificial, programmed rather than genuine. "I survived the process, integrated the abilities, even developed some enhancements that surpassed the original specifications."
He gestured to his flickering eyes. "These can see chakra pathways with greater clarity than any natural Sharingan. They can predict movement patterns three steps ahead instead of just one. They can even, with sufficient concentration, copy techniques that the original bloodline couldn't replicate."
"At what cost?" I asked, though I suspected I already knew.
"Sanity, mostly," he admitted with that same disturbing smile. "The neural pathways required to support enhanced Sharingan function don't integrate well with normal human consciousness. I experience reality somewhat... differently than you do."
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to understand what you really are," he said, beginning to circle me like a predator sizing up prey. "I want you to see that your little journey toward redemption is nothing but self-deception. Deep down, you know what we're capable of, what we're designed for."
"We're not designed for anything," I said, matching his movement but keeping my distance. "We make choices. Every day, every moment, we decide who we want to be."
"Do we?" His corrupted Sharingan locked onto mine, and I felt a strange resonance, as if our techniques were trying to synchronize despite their fundamental differences. "Tell me, brother, when you sleep at night, what do you dream about?"