Naruto: I Am Itachi Uchiha!

"Is this what they call a ninja war?"

A small figure stood perched on a cliff, silhouetted against the chaos below. He had short black hair, dark eyes that seemed to pierce through the carnage, and a wardrobe that was almost entirely black—shirt, pants, boots, and the ninja pouch strapped to his thigh. The only exception was the red-and-white Uchiha crest emblazoned on his back, a stark contrast to his pale, porcelain skin.

His gaze was cold, detached, as he watched the battle raging beneath him. Ninjas fought like savage beasts, their eyes bloodshot and crazed. Their headbands were the only way to distinguish ally from enemy, but even that didn't stop the blind, frenzied killing.

The battlefield was a grim tapestry of death—bodies and body parts littered the ground, the earth soaked a deep crimson from the endless slaughter. Broken kunai and shattered blades lay scattered among the corpses, some still embedded in flesh, standing upright like grotesque monuments to the carnage.

Finally, the fighting subsided. The surviving forces retreated, leaving behind a battlefield claimed as a victory for Konoha. But victory came at a heavy price. Half the bodies strewn across the blood-soaked earth were Konoha's own.

"What do you think, Itachi?"

The voice came from behind him. The boy, no older than four, raised a small hand and pointed indifferently toward the battlefield.

"They're sloppy," he said, his tone casual, almost bored. "Some of them are still alive. If we don't finish the job, we'll regret it when the enemy patches them up and sends them back at us."

The man behind him froze. "What… what the hell?" He cleared his throat, trying to regain composure. "I wasn't asking about *them*. I meant—what do you think about this war?"

The boy turned, his expression innocent, almost playful. "Oh, that? I don't think much about it. Just fight and get it over with."

The man stared at him, dumbfounded. This boy… such incredible talent and a frighteningly mature perspective for his age. Yet, he was still a child, far too young to grasp the weight of war, despite living in an era where war was a constant reality.

But Itachi didn't care about the man's reaction. His gaze shifted back to the battlefield, a contemplative look in his dark eyes.

War? Fight for peace?

He chuckled softly, the sound bitter. In his previous life, people hid their true intentions behind fake smiles, waiting for the perfect moment to stab you in the back. But here? In this world? There was no pretense. Everyone wore their malice on their faces for all to see.

Peace? What a joke. Wars aren't fought for peace—they're fought for resources, for power. "Peace" is just a pretty word they slap onto it to make it sound noble.

But why should I care? As long as it doesn't threaten me, they can fight all they want. I'll just sit back and enjoy the show.

A hand landed firmly on his shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts. "Itachi," said the man, his voice serious. "As members of the Uchiha clan, we must remain clear-headed. This battlefield could easily become the Uchiha's graveyard if we're not careful. The village comes second—our clan's survival is the priority. You're smart, but I need you to be smart for the clan, not for the village. Do you understand?"

Itachi tilted his head, a sly grin creeping onto his face. "Got it, Fugaku-boy."

THWACK!

A fist collided with Itachi's head, leaving a large bump. His father, Uchiha Fugaku, glared at him, his forehead veins bulging in frustration.

"Itachi!" Fugaku bellowed. "Do you not take me seriously as your father?!"

"Oh, I take you seriously, alright," Itachi muttered, rolling his eyes and rubbing the lump on his head.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

Fugaku's fists delivered a few more decisive blows.

"Why did I have to be reincarnated as the son of a man who speaks with his fists?" Itachi grumbled under his breath.

Fugaku let out an exasperated sigh, crossing his arms as he turned to leave. No matter how many times he disciplined this boy, Itachi never seemed to take him seriously.

Itachi watched his father's retreating back, a mischievous glint in his eye. Reaching into his ninja pouch, he pulled out a handful of kunai and threw them with precision.

THUD! THUD! THUD!

Blood splattered as the kunai found their marks, striking down the still-breathing enemy ninjas on the battlefield below. Each hit was a fatal blow, delivered with surgical precision.

Fugaku turned, his Sharingan eyes activated, observing his son's handiwork. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, but then a faint smile tugged at his lips.

'He's got the resolve to kill at such a young age,' Fugaku thought. 'As expected of my son.'

Itachi wiped the sweat from his brow, his small body trembling slightly from the exertion. He was only four, after all, and high-intensity combat took its toll. But he was improving.

For a brief moment, his Sharingan activated—a single tomoe spinning in each eye.

*Killing? That's just how this world works. Either you kill, or you get killed. I've had four years to prepare for this reality. No point hesitating now.*

His eyes returned to their normal dark hue, and a sly smile crept onto his face once more.

"Hey, Fugaku-boy! Hurry up! Your grandpa here is too old to keep up!"

Fugaku's fists clenched as he turned, veins popping once again. "Itachi!"

Laughing, Itachi bolted, his mocking grin growing wider as Fugaku chased him.

Under the setting sun, the pair ran off the battlefield, their silhouettes a curious mix of chaos and camaraderie.

If anyone nearby had seen the scene, they might have smiled wistfully and thought,

Ah, to be young again.

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