The year I transmigrated into Uchiha Itachi, I was five years old.
Sasuke had just been born, all wrinkled up like a kitten.
I knew I would slaughter the whole clan six years later.
But I couldn’t say it.
Whenever I tried to tell Fugaku, “The coup will fail,” my head would throb with unbearable pain.
Whenever I tried to warn Shisui, “Danzo is going to kill you,” I couldn’t get the words out.
This world wouldn’t let me change the ending.
All I could do was watch everything happen.
The day Shisui leaped from the cliff, I awakened the Mangekyo Sharingan.
On the night of the massacre, Fugaku didn’t resist.
He said, “Can’t a father die at his son’s hands?”
At last, I understood:
He knew I was coming.
He was waiting for me to kill him.
And the only thing I could do was make Sasuke hate me for the rest of his life.
