Madara did not respond. His face, impassive, offered no weakness, yet his crimson pupils still burned with a sovereign glow, as if they wished to devour the world itself. A long silence stretched across the moment, so heavy one could have sworn even the endless plain was holding its breath.
Then, suddenly, the scenery cracked.
A sharp sound, like shattering glass, split the air. The chair beneath Madara vanished, the table crumbled into ashes, and Echidna's smile was the last thing he carried in his mind before everything sank into nothingness.
A second later, he opened his eyes.
He was back, sitting on the cold floor of the tomb. The silence of polished stone pressed in around him once more, suffocating. In front of him lay nothing but an empty chamber, lit by the pale magical glow embedded in the walls. No cup, no table, no witch.
Only the bitter aftertaste of an unfinished conversation lingered on his lips like an invisible trace.
Madara rose slowly. No dizziness, no pain. And yet, somewhere deep within, he knew: something had changed.
He stared into the darkness of the corridor he had come through.
Madara (murmur) "…A contract, huh?"
A faint smile crossed his lips before he left the room.
Madara stepped out of the tomb with a calm gait. The cool night air wrapped around him instantly, a stark contrast to the oppressive silence of the stone corridors. Nothing had changed outside. The sky remained frozen in its nocturnal brilliance, the full moon casting a pale silver glow over the treetops. Even the quiet chirping of insects and the rustling of leaves seemed indifferent to the trial he had just endured.
It was as if nothing had happened at all.
As if the discussion with the witch had been nothing more than a dream—too vivid to ignore, yet too intangible to leave any mark on the world.
Madara moved deeper into the forest. His steps crushed the damp grass without a sound, each motion measured, fluid. He had no specific destination. He simply walked, guided more by an inner force than by the path before him.
Eventually, he stopped beneath a large tree. The wide trunk bore the marks of age, and its heavy branches reached high, searching for the invisible light of the stars. Madara leaned back against the rough bark, crossed his arms, and lifted his gaze.
The moon reigned above him, full and majestic, washing the clearing in pale light.
He remained there, motionless. His eyes fixed on the sky, expressing neither peace nor anger, but a cold meditation. Echidna's words still echoed in his mind—the contract, the fascination, the trap hidden in a teacup that wasn't tea.
But under the moonlight, Madara revealed nothing. No doubt. No fatigue. Only that fierce silence that had always followed him, that iron mask nothing could break.
A lone man, seated at the foot of a tree, eyes lifted to the moon—
as if even this world owed him answers.
The forest's silence grew denser, as though every creature around him was holding its breath. Madara, leaning against the tree trunk, did not move a muscle. His eyes still locked on the cold, distant moon, though the tension in his gaze gradually eased.
The air was fresh, saturated with the scent of earth and sap. A light breeze rustled the leaves above him. The night sky seemed suspended, endless, as if the world itself had stopped, trapped in a fragile eternity.
His breathing merged with the forest's whisper. His heavy eyelids finally drifted shut, slowly, as though he were aligning himself with this limitless night.
And there, under the moon's quiet glow, the once-unyielding warrior finally surrendered. Not in full trust, but in that wary sleep familiar to those who have survived forever at the edge of danger.
The tree became his rampart, the moon his only witness.
Cut off from the world, Madara fell asleep—
like a displaced relic from another era, swallowed by the artificial calm of this foreign forest.
His breath deepened, and little by little he slipped into slumber. Yet even asleep, his mind found no rest. The forest around him faded, but its echo remained, as if the scenery of his dream had rebuilt itself exactly as he had left it. The unmoving trees stood tall against a moon too large, too white, almost inquisitorial.
Madara felt the strange sensation of being watched. Not a precise gaze he could pinpoint with his sharpened senses—no, something else. A diffuse tension, suspended in the air of his dream. As if the silence itself were observing him. As if every invisible rustle were a foreign breath.
He stood alone, and yet everything around him suggested the opposite.
The shadows felt too deep, the moonlight too sharp, as if highlighting a hidden witness. But whenever he tried to focus on any point, there was nothing.
Even in dreams, his instinct remained that of a warrior: he knew something—or someone—was watching him. But here, no tangible threat. Only that cold, persistent sensation…
of being followed even within his sleep.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves when Madara finally opened his eyes. The night had dissolved without a sound, swallowed by a single blink. He had slept deeply—strangely deeply for him—yet as he stood up, he realized no fatigue weighed on his shoulders. His senses were clear, his body light, as though the forest had cradled him rather than oppressed him.
He stretched slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the morning brightness. The fresh wind slipped between the branches, carrying the damp scent of dew still clinging to the grass. But what caught his attention most was the quiet murmur of water—somewhere nearby, a stream was flowing.
Following the sound, Madara walked through the underbrush until he found a narrow stream winding between stones. The clear water reflected the morning light, inviting him with its freshness. He crouched by the bank and dipped his hands into the current. The icy contact made his skin shiver, though he did not flinch. He brought the water to his face, washing himself slowly as if wiping away the invisible remnants of the night.
The liquid mirror returned his reflection:
a man foreign to this world, yet whose gaze remained unshakable.
The red pupils of the Sharingan, dormant only moments prior, flared briefly before fading again.
A reminder: vigilance, always.
Madara rested his sword against the tree trunk, a silent statement that it was always within reach. Then, unhurriedly, he loosened each strap of his armor. The metal plates dropped onto the damp grass one by one with a muted clatter. Every motion calm, deliberate, as if he wished not to disturb the stillness of this quiet morning.
Beneath the armor, he removed his dark garments, wrinkled by dust and travel. At last, he stood naked before the stream, his body marked by the scars of countless battles. Memories carved into flesh—old wounds, yet none able to break the pride that shaped his posture.
He stepped slowly into the clear water. The cold bit at his skin instantly, but Madara betrayed nothing. A deep breath, and he submerged himself up to the shoulders. The current slid against him like an unfamiliar caress, washing away dust and easing the tension in his muscles. His black hair, heavy with water, clung to his back as he closed his eyes, savoring this rare sensation.
He plunged his hands again, rubbing them over his face, erasing exhaustion like one wipes away an old painting. Then he let the water trail down his torso, meditative and still. Here, alone in the quiet where only wind and water spoke, he looked less like a warrior and more like a shadow returned from another age.
But even now, vigilance remained.
Through the calm, his senses stayed awake. His half-closed gaze still scanned the horizon, attentive to the slightest shift, the faintest breath not born of the stream.
A different shiver ran through him—not from the cold, but from that ancient instinct, warning him of a presence before his eyes could catch it. Without haste, he opened his eyelids slightly, his gaze sliding toward the shore.
There, standing between the trees, was a feminine silhouette.
Light-pink hair catching the morning sun.
Arms crossed.
Expression closed.
Ram.
He recognized her instantly.
The servant who had not spared Subaru her barbed remarks.
He could have covered himself, stepped out of the water, or ignored her.
He did none of those things.
His crimson eyes remained fixed on her, glowing beneath the water's reflection.
No challenge.
No embarrassment.
Just a quiet certainty: she was not a threat.
The current slid along his body, and he remained motionless, as still as the stones beneath his feet. Only his slow breathing disturbed the scene.
Ram did not flinch. Perhaps she was measuring this stranger in the red armor, this man whose aura was unlike anything she had seen. But Madara's silence gave her a strange impression—not of someone caught off guard, but of a lord who, even stripped and alone, conceded nothing of his dignity.
Their gazes met for a long moment.
No words.
None needed.
"She doesn't know I'm assessing her just as much as she is assessing me."
Ram finally broke the silence, her sharp voice slicing through the morning calm:
Ram : So… you're the mysterious companion of Barusu?
Her eyes lingered on him, half-hidden by the water.
Ram : I still thought it was one of his ridiculous lies.
A faint, almost mocking gleam flashed in her eyes, testing him.
Madara remained perfectly still in the stream.
The shadow of a smile curved his lips—barely there, yet unmistakable.
His red eyes locked onto hers, not with embarrassment or annoyance, but with a quiet mix of amusement and challenge.
He didn't answer immediately, letting silence dissolve her words. Far from being a weakness, this silence weighed like a declaration:
he owed no explanation—neither for his presence, nor for Subaru.
Ram held his gaze, irritated by his muteness. Her foot brushed the damp grass at the riverbank, her arms crossing over her chest to hide her growing impatience.
Ram : So you choose silence? she snapped.
Ram : As expected… Subaru always attracts strange company. Whatever. Roswaal-sama wishes to see you.
She took a step closer, her pink eyes still locked on him.
Ram : So hurry and stop playing in the water. I don't have all morning to watch over a drifter.
Her voice carried that distant arrogance, that mix of command and disdain. Yet a slight tension in her expression betrayed something else:
Ram didn't truly know what to make of this man who, unlike Subaru, showed no fear, no awkwardness, no rush.
Madara, still submerged, did not move.
His gaze, smooth as a mirror, studied her calmly.
His silence was unsettling—almost deliberate—exposing more about Ram than about him.
Annoyed, Ram clenched her jaw.
Ram : Don't make me repeat myself. Roswaal-sama is waiting.
Her eyes sharpened, her arm rising in a swift motion.
Ram : Enough! she barked, and the air around her suddenly vibrated.
A blade of wind sliced the space—
tearing the water where Madara had stood a second earlier.
But he had already moved.
His body slipped aside with unreal fluidity; the cold splash fell behind him.
Ram blinked—surprised he had anticipated her attack so easily.
Standing in the water up to his shoulders, Madara stared at her, the Sharingan reflecting the newborn sun. Then, with a faint smirk, he let fall, in a mocking tone:
Madara : So this is the strength of the famed servant of the Mathers manor?
He tilted his head.
Madara : I expected… more.
Ram felt heat flush her face—her pride struck. Before she could cast another spell, Madara raised a hand to halt her.
Madara : Don't get worked up.
His tone was calm, almost bored.
Madara : I provoked you only to measure your worth. To see if yesterday's words were backed by more than arrogance.
He walked out of the water slowly, without the slightest sign of discomfort, grabbed a cloth to cover himself, then retrieved each piece of his armor with unwavering calm.
Once he strapped his sword to his hip, he added, in a neutral tone:
Madara : Very well. Since your master wants to see me, lead the way.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Madara : Just remember: I chose to follow. You didn't force me.
Ram's glare hardened further, though behind her irritation, a new wariness took root. This man was playing with her—and worse, he had never truly taken her seriously.
They walked side by side, the damp ground cracking softly beneath their steps. Morning light filtered through the trees, drawing shifting patterns across Madara's impassive face. He said nothing, his gaze fixed on the path ahead as if Ram's presence were no more than a passing breeze.
Unable to bear the silence any longer, Ram finally spoke, her voice sharp as her magic:
Ram : Those scars…
She cast a sidelong glance at him, eyes trailing the marks visible beneath the half-fastened armor.
Ram : Who are you really? Where do you come from?
"Always the same questions… where are you from, who are you. Never: what do you want."
Madara didn't even turn his head. His steps remained steady, his breathing perfectly controlled.
Madara : …
Ram clenched her fists, her next words sharper, almost disdainful:
Ram : A man that sure of himself… that proud… you can't be a nobody. Whether from Kararagi or even Vollachia, I should have heard of you.
Madara stopped abruptly.
Just long enough for his crimson eyes to fall on her.
A spark of mockery flickered within them.
Madara : You should have, perhaps.
He began walking again without adding anything, as if his single sentence already contained all she could hope to know.
Ram's lips tightened. Another provocation. Another wall. Yet deep down, a small part of her—the part that never stopped evaluating strength—felt unsettled. Every scar she'd glimpsed on his body spoke of a past no record from Kararagi or Vollachia had ever mentioned.
Ram frowned, dissatisfied.
Ram : That's not an answer.
She quickened her pace to walk beside him. Her usually cold pink eyes carried a faint spark of curiosity.
Ram : These scars… they don't belong to a simple traveler. They speak of battles. Wars even. You're not from nowhere.
Madara turned slightly, amusement flickering across his features.
Madara : Why this curiosity, servant?
His tone cut clean.
Madara : Do you think labeling me "from Kararagi" or "from Vollachia" would help you understand what I am?
Ram stayed silent for a moment. For the first time, uncertainty slipped into her gaze. Still, she held his stare.
Ram : No… but at least I'd know whether you are a danger to Lady Emilia.
A faint, imperceptible smile brushed Madara's lips.
Madara : You only confirm what I thought.
He glanced forward.
Madara : You're not afraid for yourself… but for them.