The madness of the Masked Man grew worse with each passing moment.
Black Zetsu watched in grim silence. He had lived for centuries, slithering in shadows, witnessing countless tragedies and wars—but what was unfolding now filled even him with unease.
Uchiha Gen's power… it wasn't normal.
No, it wasn't just an ability anymore.
It was like a virus—something infectious, capable of seeping into another's eyes, twisting their thoughts, rewriting their will. Even the mighty Sharingan was not immune.
And now, holding Gen's Mangekyō Sharingan tightly against his chest, the Masked Man—Obito—seemed consumed by it. His aura pulsed with instability, his chakra surging and distorting like a storm on the verge of breaking.
Just as he prepared to vanish into the void, two figures stepped into his path.
Tendo Pain.
Uchiha Itachi.
The Akatsuki leaders had come together.
Without hesitation, Pain acted first. His hand rose, and the air itself bent to his command. A crushing wave of repulsive force swept outward, rippling like a tidal surge, tearing earth and air alike as it engulfed everything before him.
At the same time, Itachi moved like a shadow at dawn. Standing behind the Masked Man, his Mangekyō ignited. With a single glance, black flames—Amaterasu—erupted, scorching reality itself, devouring air, space, and everything they touched.
The Masked Man's body blurred. His figure became ghostly, intangible, slipping through the flames. For a breathless instant, space itself seemed frozen, the oppressive heat clawing at his cloak.
Then he struck back.
His hands blurred through seals, and a violent ripple of chakra exploded outward, countering both Pain's gravitational tide and Itachi's inextinguishable flames.
"Are you two," his voice growled from beneath the mask, "challenging Uchiha Madara?"
The title fell heavy into the air.
But Itachi's eyes narrowed, unshaken. "Do not waste words with him," he said flatly, his tone leaving no room for debate.
The moment the words left his lips, his form dissolved into a swarm of crows. Feathers filled the air in a storm of black wings, and then—just as suddenly—they coalesced behind the Masked Man.
Another wave of Amaterasu roared forth, searing the battlefield in living darkness.
Again, Obito phased, his body intangible, escaping the consuming blaze by a thread.
But this time, Pain was ready.
"Vientiane Ten'in," he intoned, and a crushing gravitational pull erupted from his palm. The world itself seemed to bend toward him. Rocks, soil, debris—all were ripped from the ground, dragged helplessly toward the pull.
And among them—
The small glass bottle clutched by Obito, containing Uchiha Gen's Sharingan.
The bottle quivered in the Masked Man's grip, straining against Pain's overwhelming gravity.
Before Obito could tighten his hold, a blur of motion cut across the battlefield.
Itachi.
He moved like a phantom, his hand flashing past the Masked Man's grasp. In a heartbeat, the bottle was gone. Firmly, silently, Itachi held it in his palm.
"Uchiha Itachi!"
The Masked Man's voice fractured into a frenzied roar. His body trembled with an unnatural desperation, his words edged with madness.
"Put it down! That eye… that eye is her hope!"
Her?
The word froze in the air.
Itachi's gaze sharpened, but he said nothing. He would not risk a reply—not when he suspected a trap, a curse hidden in language itself. To answer might be to surrender.
Instead, he sealed his silence like iron.
One truth was clear to him now: the Masked Man was no longer in control of himself. The influence of Uchiha Gen had already spread, wrapping around Obito's mind like chains.
Izumi's ability had been terrifying enough—another version of Kotoamatsukami, bending the will without resistance. But this… this was something else. A power to corrode and overwrite completely.
"You don't understand…"
The Masked Man's Sharingan spun wildly. Distorted waves rippled through the air, space bending as if about to tear open. His form flickered, fading, preparing to slip into another dimension.
"Don't let him escape!" Pain commanded, his voice like stone. He thrust his palm forward, another surge of force slamming outward.
Itachi was already there. He stepped into the Masked Man's path, Mangekyō blazing.
Tsukuyomi.
Their gazes met. In that instant, Obito's consciousness was yanked from his body and hurled into the prison of Itachi's world.
---
Endless darkness.
The sky was void. The ground was liquid—a vast, scarlet lake, its surface thick and viscous, reeking of blood. The stench filled the air, suffocating, oppressive.
In the lake's center stood the Masked Man. His spiral mask reflected faintly in the red water as he looked down at his feet in silence.
Itachi appeared before him. He wasted no words. His Mangekyō flared, and the lake boiled.
Waves rose higher and higher, the crimson surface swelling like a living abyss. The water clawed upward, surging to swallow the Masked Man whole.
But something was wrong.
The world twisted. Reality itself turned inside out.
And suddenly, Itachi was no longer in control.
He and the Masked Man had swapped places.
Now Itachi stood at the lake's center, the waves crashing toward him with monstrous force. His body sank beneath the surface as the blood-red flood consumed him.
"...Itachi."
The voice that followed was not Obito's.
It was colder. Deeper. So devoid of warmth it bordered on inhuman.
"Do you intend… to slaughter the Uchiha again?"
The words pierced Itachi's chest like blades.
He clenched his fists, fighting to hold his composure. His Mangekyō flared brighter, pouring every ounce of power into reshaping the space, forcing the illusion back under his control.
But the Masked Man stood unmoved, untouched by Tsukuyomi's grasp.
Impossible.
Itachi's eyes narrowed. He knew the strength of his genjutsu. Few in history could resist it. Yet the man before him stood calm, unaffected.
Then, in the darkness behind the Masked Man, lights began to appear.
One pair. Two. Ten. A hundred.
Eyes.
Scarlet Sharingan, opening one after another, glowing in the black void. They multiplied endlessly, until countless eyes stared down upon Itachi, cold and accusing.
His chest tightened. His breath caught.
These eyes… they were familiar. Too familiar.
Memories surged back—the night of the massacre. His clan's faces. His parents. The brothers, sisters, children, elders. All the Uchiha he had cut down with his own hands.
Now their eyes gazed at him once more.
Not with warmth. Not with love.
With judgment.
The Masked Man raised a hand. And in the center of his palm, yet another Sharingan opened, glaring at Itachi like a curse.
"How… how is this possible?"
Itachi's mind reeled.
And then, the Masked Man reached up and removed his mask.
The face revealed was not Obito's.
It was Danzo.
Itachi's heart lurched. His mind blanked.
Danzo's single eye gleamed coldly. His body was grotesque—covered, head to toe, with Sharingan, as if his very flesh had been consumed by them.
"Danzo…?"
His voice faltered. His thoughts fractured.
This couldn't be real. And yet the illusion pressed down with unbearable weight.
Danzo's voice was calm, arrogant. "Why so surprised, Itachi?"
Itachi's breath hitched. "Who… who are you really?"
Danzo did not answer. Instead, he spread his arms. Behind him, the countless Sharingan lit brighter, all focusing their collective, suffocating gaze on Itachi.
"The power of your clan is truly magnificent," Danzo sneered. "And now, it belongs to me."
The lake surged with him, waves towering higher, rushing forward. Itachi braced himself against the oppressive flood.
Danzo's voice grew sharper, mocking. "You once annihilated your clan for Konoha's sake. And yet, here you are, resisting me. Do you not see the irony? Your pain, your power—it all belongs to me now!"
"Shut up!" Itachi's voice cracked with fury. For the first time in years, he raised his voice, his composure shattering.
Danzo's laugh echoed coldly. "Struggle all you like. But you cannot change what you are. A murderer. A traitor. A pawn."
The countless eyes burned brighter, their weight crushing down on Itachi. He felt the pressure mount, his Mangekyō's light flickering.
But then—
Itachi roared, his will igniting.
From deep within, his Mangekyō unleashed a wave of power unlike any before. The world trembled. The lake cracked. The countless eyes shattered into fragments of red light.
Darkness splintered.
And then—
Itachi's eyes snapped open.
The battlefield returned.
The Masked Man stood before him, Uchiha Gen's Mangekyō once more clutched in his hand. His body flickered, reforming.
Itachi's breath came heavy. He stared at the figure before him. "Are you… Uchiha Madara? Or Danzo Shimura?"
Nagato and Black Zetsu froze. The name rang out like a curse.
"…!?"
And far away, in the depths of Konoha's Root base—
Danzo awoke.
His single eye opened.
For a moment, he remained still. Then slowly, his expression hardened.
Strange…
He had dreamed. And in that dream, he had faced Uchiha Itachi.
But it had been so vivid. Too vivid.
Danzo clenched his hand. His Sharingan arm twitched beneath its bandages.
Could it be… because he had taken too many eyes?
The dream felt less like a dream—and more like a warning.
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