Chapter 116: The Weight of Truth

Silence. It was a heavy, tangible thing that hung between the two brothers as they moved through the dense, sun-dappled forest. The only sounds were the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant calls of unseen birds.

After exiting the intense mental landscape of the Tsukuyomi, Sasuke had not uttered a word. Ren, for his part, allowed the quiet to persist. The truth he had just unloaded onto his younger brother—the full, unvarnished story of Itachi’s sacrifice, the Konoha elders’ conspiracy, the disease that was slowly claiming their brother’s life, and the intended finale where Sasuke would be the hero who struck down the villain—was a world-shattering burden. It was a poison and an antidote mixed into one, and Sasuke needed time for it to course through his system, to break down the foundations of his old life so a new one could be built.

They walked for what felt like miles, the tension a living entity between them.

Finally, Sasuke spoke, his voice hoarse from disuse and emotion. “What do you plan to do?”

Ren stopped, turning to face him. A cold, mirthless smile played on his lips. “What do you think? Revenge.”

He let the word hang in the air, its sharp edges cutting through the forest’s peace. “The Uchiha clan held the highest honor. We stood as equals with the Senju at the founding of Konoha. But what was our reward? Under Tobirama Senju, we were sidelined, given the dirty work of the Military Police Force—a role designed to make us enforceors of order while being systematically stripped of any real political power. We became the village’s convenient scapegoats. And when the fear and suspicion of Konoha’s elders grew too great, they gave the order. Our clan wasn’t planning a coup out of ambition; they were fighting for their very survival against a system that had already condemned them. Konoha’s debt is paid in blood, and I intend to collect.”

Sasuke listened, his face an unreadable mask, though a storm raged behind his dark eyes. “What’s the plan?” he asked, his tone flat, analytical.

“First,” Ren said, resuming his walk, “we visit a few of Orochimaru’s hidden bases. There are people there we need.”

“Orochimaru’s men?” Sasuke questioned, a hint of skepticism in his voice.

“Not his loyalists. I’ve identified several capable individuals who serve him out of fear or necessity, not devotion. Their skills are promising. With the right… motivation and guidance, their power can be refined. They will be useful assets. To take on Konoha and an organization like Akatsuki, we cannot do it alone.”

Sasuke fell silent for a moment, then gave a curt nod. “Do what you want. As long as they don’t slow me down.”

“And speaking of slowing down,” Ren said, casting a sidelong glance at his brother, “your strength… it’s still lacking.”

A flash of anger crossed Sasuke’s features, but he bit back a retort. He knew it was the truth. Measured against the monsters like Itachi, Kisame, or even the man walking beside him, his current power was insufficient.

“I had hoped that learning the truth would be the catalyst, that the emotional shock would be enough to awaken the Mangekyō within you. It seems it was not.” Ren paused, studying Sasuke intently. “But I have an alternative method. A way to potentially force the evolution.”

Sasuke’s head snapped up, his composure shattered. “What? You can make me awaken the Mangekyō?”

“The Mangekyō Sharingan is the ultimate evolution of our clan’s kekkei genkai,” Ren explained, his voice taking on a lecturing tone. “Itachi was partially correct; it is born from immense trauma, from the deepest wells of negative emotion. Killing one’s closest friend is simply the most direct way to plunge the psyche into that abyss of grief. But the core requirement is the trauma itself, the absolute peak of sorrow. I have… acquired a unique power. When applied, it can induce an extreme, concentrated emotional state in the target. I call it the ‘Power of Grief.'”

“The Power of Grief?” Sasuke echoed, his heart pounding against his ribs.

“Yes. However, there is a prerequisite for this method to have any chance of success.” Ren’s gaze was piercing. “The user’s Sharingan must already be fully matured. Both eyes must possess the three tomoe.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Sasuke’s eyes shifted. The crimson hue bled into his irises, and in each eye, three tomoe spun slowly, a testament to his mastered Sharingan.

“As I thought,” Ren said, a slight, approving smirk on his face. “Your eyes are ready.”

Simultaneously, Ren reached out with his mind. *’System. Exchange for the Power of Grief.’*

**Ding! Exchange successful. Points deducted: 50,000. Host’s remaining points: 1,000.**

A small, transparent glass jar materialized in Ren’s palm. Inside, a wisp of smoky, grey energy swirled and pulsed with a faint, melancholic light.

“This is it,” Ren said, holding the jar up for Sasuke to see. “The concentrated essence of sorrow.”

Sasuke stared at the contained energy, a mixture of hope and apprehension in his eyes. “This… this will truly allow me to awaken the Mangekyō?”

“I cannot guarantee it. The awakening is a deeply personal journey. This power will only provide the key; you must be the one to turn the lock. There is a significant risk. The experience will be… agonizing. It will force you to relive your deepest pains, to feel them as if for the first time, amplified a hundredfold. Are you certain you wish to proceed?”

Sasuke’s jaw tightened. He looked from the jar to Ren’s face. “You… you used this, didn’t you? This is how you awakened your eyes.”

Ren didn’t confirm or deny. He simply stared back, his expression unreadable. To Sasuke, the silence was confirmation enough.

“Give it to me,” Sasuke said, his voice firm with resolve. “If you could endure it, then I will not only endure it—I will succeed. I will not be left behind.”

“A bold claim,” Ren replied, but he handed the jar over. “Simply break it. The energy will do the rest.” He then turned and began to walk away, leaving Sasuke alone amidst the ancient trees.

Sasuke held the cool glass in his hands, his heart a drumbeat of anticipation and dread. He looked at the swirling grey mist, seeing within it the promise of the power he so desperately craved—the power to change his destiny. With a final, steadying breath, he clenched his fist and smashed the jar against the thick root of a nearby tree.

The glass shattered with a sharp *crack*. For a split second, the grey smoke hung in the air, formless. Then, as if guided by an unseen will, it coalesced into a dart and shot straight into Sasuke’s chest.

There was no physical impact, no wound. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then, it hit.

A wave of pure, undiluted agony—not of the body, but of the soul—engulfed him. It was the night of the massacre, the smell of blood and rain more vivid than any memory. It was the feeling of Itachi’s finger tapping his forehead, the lie of “maybe next time” now twisted into a cruel, loving farewell. It was the profound loneliness of years, the weight of a forgotten clan, the betrayal of a village, and the terrifying, looming shadow of his brother’s planned death, all crashing down on him at once.

A raw, guttural scream tore from Sasuke’s throat, a sound of such profound grief and despair that it silenced the forest itself. He collapsed to his knees, clutching his head as the world dissolved into a maelstrom of remembered and amplified pain.

Ren, now some distance away, did not look back. He simply paused for a moment, listening to the echo of his brother’s anguish fading among the trees.

“The path to power is paved with suffering, little brother,” he murmured to himself, his own Mangekyō Sharingan unconsciously flickering to life in his eyes. “Now, let us see if you are strong enough to walk it.”

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