Amegakure - Land of Rain - Elemental Nations
The sky over Amegakure wept with a rhythmic, indifferent persistence, the heavy raindrops drumming against the rusted steel and slick concrete of the towering brutalist spires. It was a cold, unending deluge, but for the first time in years, the rain was merely water. It no longer carried the oppressive, divine surveillance of a false god; it was simply the natural exhalation of a broken, grieving country.
For the past several days, Alaric Jonathan Kenway had remained sequestered within the highest echelon of the central tower.
The sprawling, shadows-drenched throne room had become a temporary sanctuary, though the air still tasted faintly of ozone and old blood. During the quiet hours, Alaric had systematically reversed the horrific physical toll the Rinnegan had exacted upon its host. He had channeled his restorative chakra, purging the necrotic atrophy from Nagato's skeletal frame. The withered, emaciated husk was entirely gone, replaced by the robust, imposing physique of an Uzumaki in his absolute prime. Nagato's crimson hair had regained its vibrant, fiery luster, and his chakra network, freed from the parasitic drain of the borrowed eyes and the Gedo Mazo, pulsed with an oceanic, terrifying density.
Yet, despite the miraculous physical restoration, Nagato's face remained marred by a profound emptiness. His eye sockets were completely hollow, the lids closed and slightly sunken over the voids where the legendary dōjutsu had once rested.
The primary reason Alaric and Jiraiya had lingered in the damp, depressing city rather than immediately returning to Konoha or going to the frontlines in Land of Grass was tactical anticipation. Alaric had been patiently waiting, casting his vast sensory net across the borders, curious to see if Obito would return to the scene of the crime to assess the wreckage or attempt to salvage any remaining assets.
Alaric knew that the masked man operated on a fundamental baseline of paranoia; Obito would never naturally assume that an anomaly of Alaric's caliber would simply spare the Akatsuki's figurehead out of the goodness of his heart.
But as the days dragged on, the reality of the situation settled in. The plan was logically sound, but fundamentally flawed by the mechanics of the enemy.
'Obito isn't going to show his face here,' Alaric had eventually deduced, leaning against the cold metal of the tower walls. 'He's a coward who survives by remaining untouchable. When he slips into his Kamui dimension, he exists entirely outside the geometric plane of this world. Even if my own Kamui and sensory perception are objectively vastly superior... if he merely peeks through a microscopic, intangible rift just to confirm that I'm still occupying this tower, I won't be able to lock onto him before he vanishes again.'
Obito was far too calculating to pick a fight with a man who had effortlessly swatted his god-tier puppet out of the sky.
Currently, Alaric was standing near the edge of the massive, open viewport that served as the throne room's balcony, overlooking the sprawling expanse of Amegakure. He rested his forearms against the chilled steel railing, letting the freezing mist wash over his face.
Looking down at the towering skyscrapers, the interwoven network of industrial pipes, and the neon lights bleeding weakly through the dense fog, a strange, creeping sense of nostalgia gripped his chest. The architecture of the Hidden Rain was a far cry from the traditional, low-slung wooden structures of Konoha; it was cold, vertical, and metallic. It profoundly reminded him of his old life, of the claustrophobic concrete canyons of the 21st century before he had been thrust into the past.
"Can I bother you?"
The voice was soft, carrying a quiet, resonant dignity that had been entirely absent during his tenure as Pein.
Alaric remained facing the sprawling, metallic skyline for a moment, a low, easy chuckle vibrating in his chest, before he slowly turned around.
Standing a few paces away was Nagato. He wore a simple, dark kimono that hung loosely over his newly restored, muscular frame. Despite the absolute blindness imposed by his empty eye sockets, the Uzumaki moved with a terrifyingly flawless grace. He didn't stumble, nor did he hesitate; his innate sensory perception, magnified by his pristine chakra coils, mapped the physical world around him with perfect, radar-like precision. He navigated the cluttered throne room as if he could see every rivet in the floorboards.
"Nagato..." Alaric greeted smoothly, gesturing vaguely toward the open space beside him at the window. "Go ahead."
Nagato walked forward with measured, silent steps, coming to a halt directly beside the blonde anomaly. He turned his face outward, leaning slightly toward the biting wind as if he could feel the skyline pressing against his skin.
"It is strange," Nagato murmured, his voice lacking its former, synthesized echo, sounding beautifully, tragically human. A faint, self-deprecating smile touched the corners of his lips. "I no longer possess eyes... yet, for the first time in my life, I feel as though I can finally see what is truly important."
Alaric raised a single, platinum-blonde brow, intrigued by the philosophical shift, though he remained perfectly silent, waiting for the man to navigate his own thoughts.
"For years," Nagato continued, gripping the steel railing with hands that no longer trembled, "I was entrusted with the eyes of the Gods. I believed that my vision encompassed the entire world, that I could perceive the vast, intricate tapestry of human suffering. Yet, I was so deeply blinded by my own hate. I let the staggering unfairness of this world twist my grief into a weapon for revenge."
Nagato lowered his head, the rain catching in his vibrant red hair.
"The most important thing to me, from the very beginning... the only thing that ever truly mattered... was simply protecting my friends," Nagato confessed, his voice thick with a raw, bleeding regret. "I possessed the power to protect them, to shield Konan and honor Yahiko's memory. I didn't necessarily have to embody Yahiko's grand, impossible dream of forced world peace. That was his dream, born of his unyielding optimism. It was never truly mine."
Alaric listened to the profound, quiet unburdening of a broken tyrant. He didn't immediately reply.
Instead, Alaric reached into the inner pocket of his flak jacket, pulsing a microscopic fraction of chakra into the storage seal resting over his shoulder. From the thousands of premium reserves that Kami had graciously gifted him in the white void, he retrieved a pristine Cigar. He placed it between his teeth, raising his index finger to generate a tiny, golden spark that ignited the tobacco with a sharp crackle.
He took a long, savory drag, closing his eyes for a second as the rich, earthy taste flooded his palate, grounding him in the present moment.
"Sometimes, we get blinded by emotions, be it joy and all the way to hate..." Alaric began, his voice a smooth, resonant anchor in the damp air as he exhaled slowly, watching the thick plume of gray smoke curl and dissipate into the rain.
"…but what's really important," Alaric continued, his tone calm, almost distant, as if viewing the tragedy of the world from a thousand miles above, "is what you choose to do after you finally realize it."
He tapped the cigar lightly against the edge of the stone frame, the glowing ash detaching and falling silently into the abyssal drop below.
"Most people never get that moment, Nagato. They live, they suffer, they die... still absolutely convinced they were right. Still convinced the world owed them something for their pain."
Alaric shifted his gaze, glancing at the blind man standing beside him... not with pity, not with the harsh judgment of a victor, but with a quiet, profound acknowledgment of survival.
"You?" Alaric posed the question rhetorically, a faint, ironic edge entering his voice. "You were given the eyes of a god… and then had them violently taken away. The funny thing is... as you said, only now you can actually see."
Alaric leaned his shoulder heavily against the metal frame, his posture entirely relaxed, but there was an undeniable, gravitational weight behind his gaze now.
"Yahiko's dream wasn't wrong," Alaric added, his voice dropping slightly, stripping away the philosophy to expose the bare, bleeding bone of the issue. "It just wasn't yours to carry the way you tried to."
He took another drag. Slower this time, letting the embers burn bright against the gray backdrop of the city.
"You tried to force peace through fear. Through pain. You thought if the world suffered enough, if you burned enough villages to the ground, humanity would finally understand each other."
A faint, heavily cynical exhale of smoke drifted between them.
"That's not peace, Nagato. That's just exhaustion."
Alaric let the brutal, unvarnished truth sit in the air for a second… not as a harsh rebuke intended to wound, but as an undeniable reality laid bare before a man who was finally ready to accept it.
Then, his tone softened, almost imperceptibly, shedding the mantle of the judge.
"But protecting the people you actually care about?" Alaric said, looking back out at the sprawling, metallic village. "That's real. That's something tangible that you can actually hold onto in the dark."
"And here's the thing…" Alaric added, a faint, almost teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, though it carried no mockery. "You don't need godhood for that."
A quiet, profound beat passed between them, the sound of the rain filling the silence.
"You just needed clarity."
Alaric lifted his hand, casually flicking the remaining half of his cigar out the open window. The glowing ember tumbled through the mist, disappearing almost instantly into the vast, watery expanse below. He turned his body slightly, resting his back against the railing as he looked directly at the blind Uzumaki.
"So what now?"
Alaric's question wasn't accusatory, nor was it a commanding demand from a superior. It was simply open. A blank canvas offered to a man who had spent his entire life painting with someone else's blood.
"Now that you can finally see… what are you going to protect?"
Nagato listened to the question, the weight of the anomaly's wisdom settling deep into his soul. Slowly, a gentle, beautifully tragic smile graced his lips, and he shook his head with a quiet, self-deprecating grace.
"What can I protect?" Nagato asked, the rhetorical question laced with a profound, lingering exhaustion.
He uncrossed his arms, gesturing vaguely to his own face. "Apart from the lost Rinnegan, I do not have anything of true value left. I might possess the incredible, enduring life force of an Uzumaki, and thanks to your miraculous intervention, I have massive, overflowing chakra reserves once again... but that is the extent of my worth."
Nagato turned his face back toward the rain, his expression serene but tinged with an inescapable sorrow.
"I explain to myself that I can now see the truth," Nagato murmured softly, "but that clarity is just for realizing my sins, not for fighting battles. A blind man cannot shield anyone from the horrors of this world. It would have been great... a true blessing... if I had just possessed normal, ordinary eyes. That way, I wouldn't need to be a constant, helpless hassle for Konan to look after."
Alaric stood perfectly still, letting the man's quiet resignation wash over him. He stared at the empty, sunken eye sockets of the former god, his brilliant mind processing the tragic irony of the request.
A long, silent moment passed.
Then, Alaric let out a low, rich chuckle that broke the melancholy atmosphere of the throne room entirely. He pushed himself off the railing, slipping his hands casually into the pockets of his dark trousers as he took a slow, deliberate step toward the blind Uzumaki.
"Do you want another Rinnegan?"
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