#eida

The first thing Indra registers upon awakening is summoning.

A summoner.

A force daring to pull him back from the abyss of time.

His form materializes in the present, body reconstructed by the unnatural force of the Reanimation Jutsu, and his eyes—his ancient, indomitable eyes—snap open.

He is not alone.

Beside him, Madara’s presence is undeniable, radiating power even in this mockery of resurrection.

Izuna follows, always at his brother’s side.

And then, the newer generations—Obito, Shisui, Itachi—all bound to the same forced return.

They do not speak, not at first.

The gravity of their summoning presses down upon them, their revived eyes scanning the warped reality that stretches before them.

A world distorted, rewritten by a power none of them have ever encountered.

And then—they see her.

A girl.

Standing before them, her small frame rigid with defiance, the unmistakable Uchiha fire burning behind her glasses.

Their eyes lock, and in that instant, they understand.

She is the one who called them.

Itachi's sharp inhale is the first sound among them, his hand flexing instinctively.

His gaze flickers over Sarada’s form, then past her—to the broken state of the world around them, to the unnatural pull of an ability that defies even the Sharingan’s comprehension.

And then, it hits.

—Sasuke…— The name falls from his lips, a whisper laced with disbelief.

Shisui stills beside him. His expression goes through a hurricane of emotions, but there is something undeniable in the way his gaze lingers on the girl.

—You’re... his daughter. What's... what's your name?— Shisui voices, way too soft for what's happening around them.

She lifts her chin, unwavering. —I am Uchiha Sarada. And I need your help.—

Obito lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. —Sasuke has a kid? Guess we really were gone too long.—

Shisui swallows, an unreadable tension in his throat. His mind reels. Sasuke—the boy he once knew, the boy he died for—has lived, has grown, has become a father. There is relief in that thought, but also a twisting in his gut, an ache he does not yet know how to name.

Itachi remains shocked, and beneath the surface, something shifts—something that only those who truly know him would recognize.

The weight of time bears down upon them, heavy with all that has been lost.

Indra observes silently, arms crossed, mind already dissecting the situation. His descendants, different generations, the level of power and chakra accumulated in bodies that should no longer exist. An absurd and realistic look into the future he could not witness through his own eyes.

—A power that rewrites reality itself.— Indra’s voice is cold, analytical.

—A nuisance,— Madara corrects. He steps forward, his towering presence casting a long shadow over Sarada. His Rinnegan flickers to life, appraising her with something caught between curiosity and annoyance.

—You reanimated us to deal with this mess? A mere child using the power of the dead to fix what the living could not?

Sarada does not flinch. —You’re the only ones who can counter her Senrigan with a powerful enough genjutsu. I need you to help me set things right.—

Izuna scoffs, but there is something dangerously amused in his expression. —And what makes you think I care for your version of right?

Shisui says nothing, but his gaze remains sharp. Calculating.

The Uchiha stand at the precipice of war against a power none of them fully understand.

Eida’s Senrigan is absolute—an ability that twists reality itself, rewriting the very nature of hearts and minds.

But the Uchiha are genjutsu.

They are the masters of illusion, the wielders of sight beyond sight.

And so, when they move—it is together.

Indra and Madara lead, their ancient power carving into the fabric of reality itself, their eternal eyes defying even the laws of nature.

Izuna’s presence flickers like a shadow, a deadly counterpart to his brother’s overwhelming force.

Obito’s Kamui bends space, weaving a distortion within a distortion.

Shisui and Itachi—their Mangekyō Sharingan synchronize, the Kotoamatsukami and Tsukuyomi intertwining, forming a counterweight against the Senrigan’s manipulation. Their power seeps into the fabric of the rewritten world, challenging the falsehood Eida has imposed.

Sarada stands at the center, her own Mangekyō flaring, her lineage culminating in the union of past and present.

And then—

The clash.

A battle not of weapons, but of wills. Of illusions layered upon illusions, of rewritten realities collapsing under the weight of something even stronger:

The undeniable truth of the Uchiha’s gaze.

When the battle ends, when the world settles back into its rightful shape, the Uchiha find themselves standing at the crossroads of time once more.

Their purpose fulfilled.

Their existence—a borrowed moment.

Shisui and Itachi’s gazes linger on Sarada, on the last thread of their lineage still left in the world.

Obito exhales, glancing up at the sky, a ghost of something bittersweet in his eyes. —Guess it’s time to go, huh?—

Madara, ever himself, huffs. -You’re lucky I was in a good mood.—

Izuna laughs -Yeah, cause you'd always avoid a good fight instead of facing it, right?-

Indra says nothing, merely watching.

Observing.

And then, one by one, they begin to fade.

Sarada watches them go, her heart heavy with something she cannot name.

But before they vanish completely—

Itachi speaks.

—Take care of him.

A simple request.

A whisper of a legacy left behind.

Sarada clenches her fists.