Somewhere in the shinobi world, inside a completely sealed underground cavern.
An old figure sat on a cut tree stump. A cane lay beside him, polished smooth from years of handling.
He was barefoot. He wore a gray-black robe that looked like a sack. A withered frame hung beneath it. His cheeks were sunken and his lips cracked. He looked like a man on the edge of death.
Only that shockingly rebellious head of long white hair still hinted at the stubbornness of his youth.
This was where Uchiha Madara spent the last of his life—and where he had chosen to die.
Of course, he wasn't in a hurry to die yet.
To put it another way, he should've been dead by now. A small "tube-insertion" procedure kept him going. He was living off "oxygen," in the crudest sense of the word.
Behind him sat another, even larger dried-up figure.
Its hands were locked in enormous restraints, forced into a bizarre posture—forearms pressed together in front of its chest, palms lifted upward like cupped petals.
Its flared gums and the ring of sealed eyes on its forehead made it the kind of thing that drained your sanity just by looking at it.
The Demonic Statue of the Outer Path.
Madara had successfully stolen it out.
A tube ran from the statue into the back of Madara's head.
The statue itself was already a husk—what remained after chakra had been extracted. Now it was being squeezed for what little was left by an elderly Madara. Any bitterness it felt, only it could understand.
No one in the shinobi world would ever speak up for an old, dead tree.
Being able to summon the Demonic Statue meant Madara had finally "hatched" a pair of Rinnegan.
But if you looked closely, you'd notice something odd.
The eyes in his sockets right now were just ordinary three-tomoe Sharingan.
Madara didn't expect those to add any combat power. He only needed them to function like organs. His body had long since fallen past the point where he could fight.
His Rinnegan had taken too long to mature. He had grown so old that he could no longer execute the next stage of his plan himself. He needed an agent. He needed pawns to do the work and lay the foundation for his final, grand blueprint.
By this point, Madara could be sure of one thing.
In one sentence: he sucked at incubating eggs.
It didn't matter. A person always had things they were good at and things they weren't.
If Madara had gained anything over these years, it was patience.
"My time is running out," he murmured. "But the work still has to be done. One thing at a time…"
Madara's patience came from a simple reason.
He believed he already had pawns that were absolutely loyal—incapable of betrayal, and even more incapable of stabbing him in the back.
He had cut away a part of his own consciousness and produced a pitch-black "Black Zetsu." After that, he used the Demonic Statue to produce several "White Zetsu" with their own strange personalities.
With Black Zetsu and White Zetsu as the handles, and with other pieces scattered across the shinobi world as support, Madara couldn't personally charge into battle anymore.
But he could still become the man who moved the pieces.
Of course, all of that was purely his own subjective belief. It had nothing to do with any individuals, organizations, social groups, or—more importantly—actual reality.
Black Zetsu's origins were far too "noble" for it to be some sliced-off fragment of Madara's mind. That idea was a joke.
If you wanted a very rough analogy, Madara was an aging king.
Black Zetsu was a eunuch with questionable loyalty.
In that situation, could you really expect absolute obedience? Even basic "passing orders up and down the chain" could go wrong, let alone perfect execution.
Madara, however, believed Black Zetsu was simply another self.
And how could you betray yourself, right?
In this world, only you could truly understand you.
Madara still thought highly of himself. Even Senju Hashirama—someone he once considered "special"—no longer mattered much to him now.
Their "level of thought" wasn't even on the same plane.
Madara believed he knew the ultimate secret of the shinobi world. He believed he was preparing to "create the world" again and grant the shinobi world eternal sleep.
Compared to that, what was Hashirama's Konoha worth?
Frankly, Madara wasn't even proficient in Yin-Yang Release. How could he be so certain he had "created" Black Zetsu?
Was he Nüwa? Molding people out of mud?
Having Rinnegan didn't automatically mean you'd stepped onto the Six Paths tier. It didn't mean you could call yourself a god.
The Uchiha were good at genjutsu.
Apparently, they were also good at drowning in the genjutsu they wove for themselves.
If you had to describe Madara's mental state right now…
You could at least say he had convinced himself.
"Madara," a voice said from the darkness, "if you need pawns, why not recall the people stationed at the old Uchiha site?"
Black Zetsu emerged from the shadow beside him, perched atop a White Zetsu like a mount.
White Zetsu numbers did decrease year by year, but there was no way they were down to only a handful. Black Zetsu was acting.
After all, Madara's "created" White Zetsu were supposedly limited in number. They were supposed to be short-staffed.
Madara frowned instantly.
Black Zetsu and White Zetsu were "his creations," yet every time he saw them creep in and out without a sound, the impulse to attack surged up in him.
There was no deep reason for it.
That sneaking method looked familiar.
And it disgusted him.
"Absolutely not," Madara said flatly. "Don't make me explain it again."
He still held onto one last thread of hope.
No one was allowed to extinguish it.
Not even a slice of his own consciousness.
He refused to discuss it. He refused to let that topic contaminate the last patch of "clean ground" in his heart.
He changed the subject.
"How are my eyes? Protect my eyes. There can't be any mistakes."
"Relax," Black Zetsu said. "Tobi and the others have been watching him the whole time. Your eyes are 'evolving.' Konoha's shinobi still have their uses."
"Tobi" was an enhanced, special White Zetsu—one of the few combat-oriented models. It could provide protection.
As for the so-called "Rinnegan evolving," what was really evolving was the pawn. Under someone's instruction, the pawn had begun to grasp that power.
Black Zetsu had hidden in the shinobi world for a thousand years. The pawns in its hands far outnumbered Madara's. They were simply better concealed.
When Madara told it to select a pawn—someone capable of bearing the power of the Rinnegan—Black Zetsu found one quickly.
That task wasn't easy.
The Rinnegan weren't light bulbs. You couldn't just screw them into any socket and expect them to shine.
With that kind of "wattage," a normal circuit would be burned out instantly.
"Is that so…" Madara breathed. "Good. That's very good."
He sounded satisfied. Then his voice thinned.
"My time is limited. The guarantees I can provide are limited. I can only hope he grows quickly."
They exchanged a few more lines. Madara learned the latest of the outside world.
Then he slowly closed his eyes.
He fell into sleep.
To live a little longer, Madara had to switch back and forth between "power-saving mode" and "deep power-saving mode."
…
Kikyō Castle.
The night before.
War was undeniably a disaster. But the front lines were outside the Fire Country's borders, so Kikyō Castle—before tasting disaster itself—had become more prosperous than ever.
War profits.
Easy to understand.
Somewhere in a narrow alley, a loud bang rang out.
A figure slammed onto the brick road.
The impact meant almost nothing to him. You could even call it a "safe landing."
He rolled and sprang up at once. A short blade snapped into his grip. His eyes swept the surroundings with extreme caution.
The sounds of fighting that had filled his ears earlier had somehow faded into the distance. Aside from the night wind, there was nothing.
Only then did he remember what had just happened.
He had left the battlefield—this wasn't desertion. He had been protected by Shichimi Uchiha's Sharingan ability.
The boy who had been spat out from a space-time passage was none other than Uchiha Zhijian, the one who vanished during the battle of Kikyō Castle.
When he disappeared, Zhijian was a teenager.
Now that he had returned to the present world, he was still a teenager.
It was hard not to say it felt like something out of a dream—wake up, and the axe handle had rotted.
Zhijian understood Shichimi Uchiha's Mangekyō Sharingan ability better than most. This wasn't the first time he had experienced it.
But this time was different.
When he was thrown into the space-time passage, his consciousness and thoughts had been frozen too.
That was why he hadn't gone insane inside that dead-silent, eternal space-time.
"How long has it been?" he muttered. "A week? A month? A year?"
He stayed half-kneeling and slowly lowered the arm holding the blade.
No matter how long it had been, one thing was certain.
That war was over.
When he guessed, he instinctively hoped it was a short time.
And like always, the more you hoped for that, the more reality liked to spit in your face.
"The Uchiha shinobi should be gone," Zhijian said quietly. "First priority is getting out of here."
His mind was clear. He remembered he was in enemy territory. He was alone. He couldn't rely on anyone.
He needed to leave fast.
Clarity, however, didn't change the fact that the world had changed.
It wasn't just Kikyō Castle that belonged to the enemy now.
The entire Fire Country belonged to the enemy.
Where was he supposed to run?
He checked his body quickly. Nothing seemed wrong. He started moving toward the edge of the city.
At first, he was cautious to the point of paranoia. Every shadow looked like an ambush.
Then he saw a lively night market.
Vendors were setting up stalls. Customers were eating, drinking, talking.
That human, everyday warmth froze him in place.
He didn't know why, but the whole world suddenly felt unfamiliar.
Or maybe it wasn't that the world was unfamiliar.
Maybe it was that he no longer belonged in it.
At least he could confirm one thing.
The area was safe. He didn't need to creep around like a hunted animal.
He pushed down the nameless unease in his chest, thought for a moment, and walked to a stall in a quieter corner of the market.
"Boss. One bowl of soup noodles."
He spoke like an ordinary customer. At the same time, he flicked a small gold koban onto the counter.
"Sure, sure… huh?" The shopkeeper glanced at him and started chatting. "You're pretty young to be wandering around this late. Whatever. Eat your noodles and go home. What kind of flavor do you want?"
Then the shopkeeper looked up.
He saw a pair of crimson Sharingan.
"Second Shinobi World War… First Shinobi World War… Fire Country… Konohagakure…" Zhijian used genjutsu and pulled information as gently as he could.
What could a small vendor even know?
Only broad, surface-level trivia.
And yet that was enough to make Zhijian go rigid.
"The Uchiha joined Konoha?" he whispered. "Madara defected… and was killed?"
It felt like his brain had been set on fire.
Normally, a street vendor wouldn't know anything about Uchiha Madara. Madara's strength didn't matter. It was ancient history. Common people didn't care.
But wasn't it a perfect coincidence?
Konoha had recently started a "wonder project."
The story of the First Hokage's battle with Uchiha Madara was circulating again.
"Boss, check please!"
Another customer's shout snapped the shopkeeper out of the genjutsu. The man blinked, confused, already forgetting what had happened.
Huh?
Why did I zone out?
"Coming," the shopkeeper said. "That'll be fifty ryō."
Paper currency had already become mainstream. The speed at which the ryō had devalued was obvious.
Zhijian left Kikyō Castle alone.
Outside the city, he fell into a daze.
On one hand, he couldn't accept that the Warring States era had ended forty or fifty years ago.
He couldn't accept that the Uchiha had been the losers.
He couldn't accept that even Madara had died by Hashirama's hand.
On the other hand, he had no idea what to do next.
Where was he supposed to go?
"Impossible," he muttered. "I don't believe it."
Almost on instinct, Zhijian ran toward the old Uchiha site.
…
Konohagakure.
Most people didn't care about "wonders" at all. Even most of the Uchiha only felt irritated. They didn't actually understand what the Third Hokage was trying to say.
Hiruzen was flirting with the blind.
Uzumaki Mito's small courtyard.
Her children and grandchildren had grown up. She no longer needed to watch over them. Mito had finally become idle.
Old age came with loneliness. She needed something to do.
She had stepped down from her adviser position. With her current identity, she obviously couldn't meddle in village affairs anymore.
So she shifted her attention to caring for—and cultivating—the younger generation of the Uzumaki.
She didn't worry about the Senju.
Senju Tobirama had made complete arrangements for the Senju before his death. By now, the Senju of the forest had already "hidden in the woods." They were essentially invisible.
Mito's concern for the Uzumaki youths had two reasons.
One was simple: take care of the empty-nest elderly. Don't let waiting become regret.
The other was deeper.
Mito's life had been full. At this point, she only had one task left unfinished.
She needed to pass on the fox she had carried for decades.
She had to prepare.
She was old enough now that she even had to arrange her own "aftercare."
That afternoon, a girl of thirteen or fourteen walked into Uzumaki Mito's courtyard.
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