Naruto: The Shameless Uchiha Tycoon

The Uchiha brother complex was not a myth. It was a terrifying, biological reality, and Ren was officially infected.

A week after the crib incident, the clan elders decided it was time to formally assess their new ”prodigy.” Ren was sitting on the nursery floor, building a highly structurally sound tower of wooden blocks, when the sliding door opened.

His dad walked in, accompanied by a senior clan elder with a face like a dried prune.

”His chakra pathways should be settling by now, Fugaku,” the elder rasped, moving toward the crib like a vulture spotting a fresh meal. ”We must ensure his coils are adequately formed for early fireball training.”

Ren dropped his wooden block.

Fireball training? He’s a week old, you psychotic fossil.

The elder reached his wrinkled, chakra-glowing hand into the crib to aggressively examine baby Itachi’s chakra potential. Itachi immediately let out a distressed wail.

Ren didn’t even think. He simply reacted.

He scrambled off the floor, launched his tiny body toward the crib, and clamped his teeth down hard on the elder’s wrist.

”GAAAH!” The elder shrieked, stumbling backward and frantically shaking his arm to dislodge the six-year-old attached to him like an angry tick.

”Ren!” his dad roared, rushing forward and peeling Ren off the elder’s arm by the back of his collar. ”What is wrong with you?!”

Ren dangled in the air, glaring at the elder with absolute venom. ”He is under my protection!” Ren declared loudly. ”No unauthorized probing without a signed warrant!”

The elder clutched his bleeding wrist, his face purple with rage. ”This... this boy is a feral disgrace!”

His mom hurried into the room, her eyes widening at the scene. She quickly bowed to the elder to apologize, but as she took Ren from his dad’s grip, Ren saw her hide a deeply moved, affectionate smile behind her sleeve.

In the crib, Itachi was still crying.

Ren squirmed out of his mom’s arms, marched over to the crib, and crossed his eyes while sticking his tongue out.

Itachi instantly stopped crying, staring at Ren’s stupid face, and let out a happy little gurgle.

His dad rubbed his temples, a migraine clearly forming, while the elder stormed out of the room. Ren simply crossed his arms, looking down at his baby brother.

If they think they are turning you into a disposable weapon, they are dead wrong, Ren promised himself. If the clan wants a prodigy, I am going to give them a capitalist gremlin instead.

Two Years Later

Ren was eight years old. Itachi was two.

And the anti-ninja brainwashing was officially underway.

It was a bright, sunny afternoon. His dad was standing in the courtyard, holding a small, smoothly carved wooden kunai. Toddler Itachi stood in front of him, blinking his large, dark eyes with the profound, terrifying intelligence that made him a canon genius.

”Grip it firmly, Itachi,” his dad instructed, trying to introduce the toddler to basic grip training. ”A shinobi’s weapon is an extension of his own arm.”

Itachi reached out his tiny hand.

Whoosh.

Ren swooped in from the porch like a bird of prey. He snatched the wooden kunai right out of his dad’s hand and seamlessly swapped it for a freshly roasted skewer of sweet dango.

Itachi blinked, looking at the sticky, sugary treat in his hand. Without a moment of hesitation, the prodigy took a bite and chewed happily.

”Ren!” his dad barked, his Sharingan threatening to spin to life. ”What are you doing?!”

”Civilian excellence tour, Dad,” Ren replied smoothly, grabbing Itachi’s free hand. ”I am taking my market research assistant into the village for reconnaissance. It builds character.”

Before his dad could argue, Ren dragged the happily chewing toddler out of the compound.

Ren strictly avoided all training grounds. He took Itachi on a highly curated tour of the village’s civilian sector, pointing out the food stalls, the clothing merchants, and the sleepy parks.

Eventually, they found a shady spot under a large oak tree.

”Alright, Itachi,” Ren said, lying back against the grass and crossing his arms behind his head. ”Pay attention. I am going to teach you a highly advanced, S-rank civilian technique.”

Itachi sat down beside him, his face perfectly serious. ”S-rank?”

”Yes. It is called the ’Strategic Napping Jutsu’.”

Ren closed his eyes, demonstrating the technique. Itachi, being a sponge for knowledge, immediately laid down beside him and perfectly mimicked Ren’s breathing pattern.

They rested for a few minutes before a squad of exhausted, dirt-covered shinobi sprinted past the tree, clearly rushing toward the Hokage tower to deliver a mission report.

Itachi opened his eyes, watching them go. He was already too smart for his own good.

”Brother,” Itachi asked, his young voice soft but impossibly analytical. ”Why do shinobi risk death for mission pay, when the merchants charge more money just for snacks?”

Ren sat up instantly. A massive, cynical grin spread across his face.

Oh, this kid is a goldmine, Ren thought, wiping a tear of pure pride from his eye. He’s two, and he’s already questioning the macroeconomics of the hidden village system.

”I am so glad you asked, little brother,” Ren said. He grabbed a stick and smoothed out a patch of dirt in front of them. ”Let me explain the greatest scam in human history.”

Ren drew a crude diagram in the dirt. He drew a stick figure of a ninja, a bag of money, and a gravestone.

”This,” Ren pointed to the diagram, ”is the Will of Fire Cost-Benefit Analysis.”

Itachi leaned in, deeply focused.

”The Hokage tells us that fighting for the village is glorious,” Ren explained, drawing an arrow from the ninja to the money bag, and then a much larger arrow from the money bag to the Hokage tower. ”But look at the margins, Itachi. You get mission pay. But then you have an injury risk. Then you have medical bills. Then you pay an ’emotional manipulation tax’ in the form of patriotism.”

Ren tapped the stick against the gravestone.

”Then, you die in a ditch at age fourteen. Who gets your money? The village. Who gets your eyes? The village. Who gets the glory? The Hokage.” Ren looked at his brother dead in the eye. ”Never work overtime for free, Itachi. The Will of Fire is just a government scheme to avoid paying health benefits.”

Itachi stared at the diagram. His genius-level brain processed the variables, the risk-to-reward ratio, and the mortality rates.

”So,” Itachi muttered, his brow furrowing in deep calculation. ”The Will of Fire has terrible retirement benefits.”

Ren threw his hands up in triumph. ”Exactly! The math mathematically proves it!”

Snap.

A twig broke behind the tree.

Ren froze. He slowly turned his head.

His dad stepped out of the shadows. Fugaku’s face was an unreadable mask of absolute horror, having overheard just enough of the conversation to realize his eldest son was actively turning the clan’s second heir into a cynical accountant with a Sharingan.

His dad slowly raised his hands and cracked his knuckles.

Ren dropped the stick, scrambling to his feet. He pointed an accusatory finger at his father.

”I have the right to free speech!” Ren shouted, backing away. ”I am a political prisoner! Help! I’m being oppressed by a military dictatorship!”

His dad lunged.