The observation cut deeper than I wanted to admit. Despite all my growth and self-reflection, despite the bonds I'd formed and the lessons I'd learned, I was still fundamentally approaching this situation the same way I'd always approached problems—through the application of superior force.
"Tell me, little brother," the impostor said, his voice dropping to the intimate tone Itachi had used during our private conversations, "what will you do if I refuse to be saved? What happens to your compassionate new philosophy when faced with someone who actively chooses darkness?"
It was the question I'd been avoiding since this confrontation began. If he truly couldn't be redeemed, if the programming and modifications had destroyed everything human about him, then what was my moral obligation? Was it more compassionate to end his suffering, or to allow him to continue causing harm to innocent people?
"You're hesitating," he observed with satisfaction. "Good. That means you're finally confronting the reality of what power means. It's not about protecting people or building bridges or writing letters to lonely girls in remote villages. It's about making impossible choices and living with the consequences."
"Yuki isn't lonely," I said automatically, then realized I'd revealed more than I'd intended.
"Isn't she?" His smile was pure Itachi—patient, knowing, devastating in its implications. "A young woman whose parents were killed by ninja violence, who spends her days healing others because she can't heal the fundamental wound in her own soul? Who sees you as a symbol of redemption because she desperately needs to believe that forgiveness is possible?"
Stop talking about her, I thought, feeling rage building in my chest.
"She's using you, little brother," he said gently. "Not maliciously, but inevitably. You represent the possibility that her parents' deaths had meaning, that their sacrifice contributed to someone's journey toward goodness. If you fall back into darkness, her entire worldview collapses."
"That's not true," I said, but doubt was creeping into my voice.
"Isn't it? Think about the pressure that puts on you. The weight of carrying someone else's hope for meaning in a fundamentally meaningless world. How long before that burden becomes unbearable?"
The psychological manipulation was masterful, each observation precisely calculated to exploit my deepest insecurities. But as the impostor continued his assault, something unexpected happened—I began to recognize the techniques he was using.
This is exactly what Orochimaru used to do, I realized. Find someone's psychological weak points and exploit them relentlessly until they broke.
And suddenly, I could see the situation more clearly. This wasn't Itachi speaking to me—it was a weapon programmed with my brother's mannerisms but lacking his genuine love and sacrifice. The real Itachi, despite his terrible methods, had always been trying to protect something. This creature was only trying to destroy.
"You're not my brother," I said with growing conviction.
"Of course not," he agreed easily. "I'm something much more honest. I'm what he would have become if he'd stopped lying to himself about the nobility of his actions."
"No," I said firmly. "You're what Orochimaru wanted him to become. A weapon without conscience, purpose, or genuine emotion."
For the first time since his transformation, uncertainty flickered across his features. "That's... not... I am the logical evolution of—"
"You're a lie," I interrupted. "A sophisticated one, designed by someone who understood Itachi's surface behaviors but never comprehended what motivated them."
I activated my Sharingan again, but this time I looked past the artificial programming to the fundamental structure of his modified consciousness. What I saw there confirmed my suspicions—beneath all the conditioning and neural manipulation, the original personality was still present, trapped and screaming silently for release.
"I can free you," I said quietly. "The modifications aren't permanent. They're complex, but they can be undone."
"Even if that were true," he said, but his voice had lost its Itachi-like confidence, "what would be the point? The person I was before is gone. Dead. You'd be freeing a stranger."
"Maybe," I admitted. "But that stranger deserves the chance to choose who they want to become."
"And if they choose to continue my work? If they decide that burning villages and terrorizing innocents is an acceptable way to express their trauma?"
"Then that's their choice to make," I said simply. "Free will means the freedom to choose wrongly. But it also means the possibility of choosing something better."
The impostor stared at me for a long moment, his corrupted Sharingan spinning in patterns that suggested internal conflict between his programming and something deeper.
"Blood remembers," he said finally, but now the words carried sadness rather than menace.
"Yes," I agreed. "But blood can also learn to remember different things."