The transition from the world of living grief to the realm of primordial scheming was not a gentle one.
It was a descent into the planet's cold, silent bowels, deep within a vast, ancient cave system that wound like stone intestines beneath the mist-shrouded mountains of Kirigakure. The air was frigid and stale, thick with the mineral scent of wet rock and millennia of undisturbed darkness.
The only sounds were the eternal, melancholic drop of water seeping through fissures in the ceiling and falling into shallow, icy pools below, each drop echoing with a loneliness that seemed to stretch back to the world's creation. The darkness was not empty; it was a physical presence, a velvet blackness that pressed against the eyes and skin. Yet, within this absolute stillness, there was a deeper, more terrible stillness—a consciousness so vast and cold it made the surrounding rock feel ephemeral.
Madara Uchiha was still as ever in the cave, that one could almost think he was already dead.
From a patch of shadow that seemed no different from any other, a form peeled itself from the wall. It was Black Zetsu, his body the colour of crude oil and dried moss, his yellow, slitted eyes glowing with malevolent awareness. He did not approach; he simply manifested, a living part of the cave's malignant ecosystem, already watching, already knowing.
A voice spoke from the deeper gloom, a sound like dry stone grinding against stone. It held no curiosity, only the flat demand of an expectant master.
"Has the boy awakened?"
Black Zetsu's response was a smooth, oily ripple in the heavy air.
"Not yet. The physical trauma was… extensive. White Zetsu is still tending to the reconstruction. The right side remains… integrated with the donor material. Consciousness is reluctant to return to such a reshaped vessel." The report was delivered without pity, merely noting the complex, grotesque biology of the project.
A low hum, almost a vibration, acknowledged the information. There was no concern in it. The boy—Obito—was a tool, a cracked pot being meticulously glued back together. His suffering was irrelevant; his functionality was all.
"The moment he awakens. I will meet him then," Madara stated, the words final. He paused, and when he spoke again, it was with a chilling, transactional clarity. "I will give myself six months. After that, whether the plan is ready or not, I will commit suicide."
The statement hung in the cavern, more terrifying for its absolute lack of emotion. This was not a lament or a threat; it was a logistical note. His own life, his legendary, century-spanning existence, was a resource with an expiration date, to be spent efficiently. He was a weapon priming its own final detonation.
He turned slightly, the faintest outline of his massive, armoured form discernible against a pale, ghostly luminescence coming from a bed of strange, pulsating flora—the source of the White Zetsu.
"You will adhere to the plan. In all particulars."
Black Zetsu's lips curled into a smirk that was ancient and knowing. "Of course. Everything is proceeding… as intended."
The phrasing was deliberate, a thread of irony woven into the assurance that only he could appreciate. He was the guardian of a plan far older and more intricate than even Madara's monumental bitterness.
"And Kirigakure?" Madara's voice rumbled. "Yagura?"
"Settling in," Zetsu replied, his head tilting. "The Mizukage's hat is heavy, and the mind beneath it is… resilient. The integration is progressive, but complete control requires finesse. The village is in chaos, which serves as excellent camouflage. The Daimyō of the Land of Water has sent a message to the new regime."
A faint scoff, like escaping dust, came from the darkness. Madara's contempt for the surface world's political pageantry was boundless. "What does the landlord want?"
"To convene a summit. The Five Kage, or their representatives, to discuss the 'post-war landscape' and 'ensure lasting peace.'" Black Zetsu's tone was mocking, perfectly mirroring Madara's disdain.
"Hiruzen," Madara spat the name, the first hint of true emotion—a sharp, familiar contempt. "That sentimental old fool. Clinging to his talking-shops and treaties while the world rots. He believes dialogue can mend a foundation of corpses." He dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand, the motion stirring the stagnant air.
"Monitor it. Let the puppets chatter. Their words are wind. But ensure nothing interferes with our preparations."
"Naturally."
Madara's gaze, unseen but palpable, seemed to turn inward, towards the distant, wounded boy fused to the cave's wall. "When he wakes… we will take him on a journey. A small trip." The words were soft, almost paternal, and all the more horrifying for it.
"We will show him Konoha. Let him see it from a new… perspective. Let him understand how small it is. How fragile. How utterly trivial the bonds he wept for truly are in the face of the world's hollow reality."
Black Zetsu's smirk widened, a gash of approval in the dark. "A vital lesson. To see the garden from above, one must first be lifted from the mud."
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It was late evening, the deep indigo of night having fully claimed the sky over Konoha. The solemn crowds from the memorial were long dispersed, leaving the streets quiet and empty, washed clean by the earlier drizzle but now holding a penetrating chill.
Renjiro's body moved with the heavy, leaden gait of absolute exhaustion. Each step from the cemetery gates to his modest apartment in the Uchiha district had been an act of will. The emotional armour he'd worn all day—the respectful listener, the stoic clansman, the comforting friend—had cracked and now hung off him in heavy, painful pieces. His mind was a numb buzz, a beehive drowned in honey.
He pushed open his door, but he didn't light a lamp. The faint silver glow from the window was enough for his Sharingan to navigate, and he craved the anonymity of shadows.
As he mechanically removed his sandals and draped his jacket over a chair, the faces of the day replayed behind his eyes in a relentless, mournful loop.
'Sama.'
He saw her again, clutching Hiro's portrait, her body vibrating with a silent, seismic grief. He had stood with her until Minato and Kushina gently guided her away, her steps unsteady, her gaze still locked on that smiling, frozen face.
'Fujioka.'
He had sought out Obito's father afterwards. The man had stood alone by the clan's memorial stone, his back ramrod straight, his face a mask of carved granite. No tears. Only a profound, desolate stillness. Renjiro had approached, bowed low, and uttered the same useless words.
"I am sorry. I failed my promise." Fujioka had not looked at him. After a long moment, he had merely said, "The war failed him. You were just a shinobi in it." The forgiveness in the statement was worse than blame. It acknowledged Renjiro's insignificance in the face of the machine that had 'Sora and her family.'
Kaito's younger sister. He found her with her parents, their grief a quieter, more bewildered brand of sorrow. Kaito had been the loud, promising one. His death felt like a theft of potential more than a tearing of flesh.
Renjiro had offered stiff condolences, remembering a boisterous boy from the Academy, now reduced to a name on a scroll. Their tears were genuine, but their pain felt distant to him, separated by years and the sharper, more intimate blade of Hiro's loss. He felt a pang of guilt for the hierarchy of his own grief.
He was the one left standing. The comforter. The rock. And the weight of that role, after a day of absorbing the silent screams and shattered hopes of others, felt like it would press him straight through the floorboards. His own grief for Hiro was a raw, private nerve, but he'd had no time to tend to it. It had been buried under the duty to hold others upright as they faltered.
Finally, he moved to his bed, the simple futon in the corner of the room. The fabric was cool against his skin as he lay down, still fully dressed. The silence here was different from the cave's—it was the silence of a paused life, of a heartbeat in the dark, not the silence of ancient, waiting malice.
In that quiet, on the precipice of sleep, a single thought formed, not as a bold declaration, but as a simple, stubborn fact emerging from the fog of weariness. It was a testament to a shinobi's conditioning, to the human spirit's dumb, resilient refusal to be completely extinguished.
"There is still tomorrow."
The words held no optimism, only acknowledgement.
Tomorrow would bring its own burdens, its own battles—the political fallout of the war, the mystery of his new Mangekyō, the looming threat of a shifted timeline, the unending need to be strong for a village that was still bleeding. But it would come.
And so must he.
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