Itachi brushed the dust from his pants, took a few slow steps toward the fire, and sat down cross-legged. With practiced ease, he began trimming branches into makeshift skewers to roast their catch.
"Don't try that again," Obito warned, his tone casual but with an unmistakable edge. "Next time, your so-called genius might not be enough to save you."
Standing over Itachi, Obito looked down at him as if gauging his intentions. Itachi, sensing that the murderous tension in the air had eased, quietly exhaled in relief.
He had taken the shot because he calculated an 80% chance of success—high enough to act without hesitation. But the moment it failed, he knew to pull back. Obito still needed him, still saw value in keeping him alive. That knowledge was his safety net, his leverage.
Still... if there ever came a time when their goals diverged too sharply—especially with someone as obsessively driven as Obito—he wouldn't hesitate to send him to see Rin early.
'But what are my goals, really?' Itachi wondered. 'What do I stand for?'
Obito, as if reading his thoughts, chuckled under his breath.
"Interesting…" he muttered, choosing not to pursue the fight any further. Instead, he lowered himself to the ground, sitting across the fire from Itachi, watching him tend to the roasting meat with quiet focus. It was as if their deadly exchange moments ago had never happened.
Then, in a softer voice, Obito spoke.
"If one day I create a world without war… a world where the dead can return… what would you do then?"
Itachi froze for a moment, the branch in his hand motionless. Obito's words were spoken gently, but their meaning was anything but light. It wasn't just a question—it was an invitation.
'An upgraded form of brainwashing,' Itachi thought bitterly.
"That's something only a god could do," he replied evenly, neither mocking nor accepting.
Obito's offer confirmed something: he thought Itachi's actions were driven by revenge—by grief over Izumi. Itachi remembered the line from earlier, about her calling his name as she died.
'So that's what he thinks this is all about… He's drawing parallels between me and him,' Itachi mused, a flicker of clarity passing through his mind.
"Who says it isn't?" Obito said softly, almost to himself.
There was doubt in his voice now. Even he wasn't sure whether he believed in the dream he clung to. But it was the only thing he had left. The only hope that made the bloodshed feel worthwhile.
A delicious aroma began to drift through the air as the meat finished roasting.
"Let's trade," Obito said, accepting the skewer from Itachi. But instead of eating it, he held it out, offering his own in exchange.
Itachi raised an eyebrow, momentarily surprised. Then, without a word, he smiled faintly and made the swap.
That smile annoyed Obito.
He turned away, the lower half of his mask shifting just enough to reveal his mouth. He bit into the meat, but even as he ate, his chakra remained tightly coiled, ever vigilant.
It had always been this way. Always prepared, always cautious. Perhaps that's why Itachi hadn't been able to land a killing blow.
He wasn't sure when he had developed this habit of constantly being on guard, but it served him well. He'd been watching closely the entire time Itachi cooked—there had been no chance for poison. In fact, he'd even let Itachi believe he feared poison, creating just enough of an opening to study his reactions.
But truthfully? Thanks to the Hashirama cells in his body, poison was a non-issue.
Still, if Itachi were foolish enough to try again, Obito would prefer it be through deception, genjutsu—anything but those damn black flames.
After all, geniuses like Itachi were rare. And the organization… was always short on real power.
'If you want to benefit from someone's talents,' Obito thought, 'you have to be willing to tolerate their flaws.'
As Obito began eating, the rich aroma of roasted meat drifted through the air. The scent alone was enough to make Itachi's stomach grumble in protest.
Without hesitation, he took a bite, savoring the flavor. His earlier tension quickly melted away as he ate with surprising enthusiasm, the illusion of control giving way to a simple, human need—hunger.
"So, what role do I really need to play in all this?" Itachi mused between bites, his tone half-serious, half-mocking. "When the time comes, I'll revive my parents, train Sasuke, enjoy good food, and live a peaceful life. Sounds like a dream, doesn't it?"
The warmth of the meal seemed to steady something in him. With his questions answered—at least for now—Obito's mind grew calm, the unease from earlier fading like smoke.
Soon, Itachi finished the last of the meat, licking the grease from his fingers with satisfaction. He pulled a folded napkin from his pouch and dabbed at his mouth before reaching for a fallen twig nearby. With his kunai, he began carving it with slow, deliberate strokes.
No toothpick? Then he'd make one. Simple.
Across from him, Obito, now full and surprisingly content, gave a soft grunt of satisfaction. 'Lucky,' he thought. 'If Itachi had tried something while we were eating, that would've really ruined the mood.'
Wiping his mouth casually on his sleeve, Obito adjusted his mask as it slowly shifted back to its normal form. He turned—and paused for a moment, watching Itachi carve the twig with an almost absurd seriousness.
Obito snorted, unimpressed. He turned away and walked a few steps to lean against a nearby tree, hands tucked behind his head, letting the food settle.
"Tell me, Itachi," he called over his shoulder lazily. "Don't they teach how to kill at the ninja academy anymore? Or is it all homemaking and survival skills now?"
There was a teasing note in his voice—mocking, but not entirely hostile.
"Yeah, using a senbon just to pick my teeth would be a waste," Itachi replied without looking up. "And keeping it in my mouth after using it... that just feels gross."
He paused, then added with a dry laugh, "The village has grown soft. It's kind of pathetic, really."
Obito looked up toward the sky. The clouds drifted slowly across the horizon, painted gold by the setting sun. His expression turned blank.
He said nothing, but his silence said more than any joke could.
Whatever he was thinking, it pulled him somewhere far away.
Though it seemed like a conversation, their words drifted in different directions—two people speaking, yet never truly connecting.
"Had enough rest? Time to move," Obito said, breaking the lingering silence that had settled like a fog between them. He stood up and brushed the dew and dust from his cloak, mimicking Itachi's earlier gesture.
"Okay," Itachi replied curtly, his words as sparse as ever.
With nothing left to say, the two fell into silence once more and resumed their journey.
They traveled at a measured pace, and it took nearly two days to reach the borders of the Land of Rain.
Once there, Obito brought Itachi directly to Pain, then vanished again—returning to the shadows, content to remain the unseen mastermind.
Since Obito had introduced himself as Uchiha Madara and presented Itachi as an ally, Pain offered no resistance. He accepted Itachi's arrival with little question.
Without ceremony, Pain handed him two sets of Akatsuki robes and a ring bearing crimson kanji.
A subordinate was called to escort Itachi to his quarters.
Inside the sparse room, Itachi let his gaze sweep over the surroundings before his eyes settled on the ring resting in his palm. The deep red inscription gleamed against the cold metal.
He tested the ring on several fingers before finally settling it on his thumb—it was the only one thick enough to hold it securely.
Then he turned to the robe.
With its black fabric and signature crimson clouds, the Akatsuki cloak exuded a dark elegance. It fit him perfectly, as though it had been tailored in anticipation of his arrival.
Whether coincidence or calculation, it didn't matter.
It suited his style—and his purpose.
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