In a place where light dared not enter…
The chamber reeked of damp stone and something older than rot. At the very center sat a man who should have been dust long ago, his hair a wild mane of spiked white, his face a map of deep wrinkles carved by both age and hate. His frame sagged in a throne-like chair, yet his presence filled the cavern like a suffocating storm.
Behind him loomed a grotesque statue, towering and monstrous — a figure of despair with nine hollow eyes shut in eternal slumber. Black tubes extended from its stomach into the frail body of the man before it, tethering him between life and death.
Uchiha Madara.
The Ghost of the Uchiha. The legend who had once stood against Senju Hashirama, the God of Shinobi himself. Though his body was withered, his aura was crushing, as though the cavern itself dared not rebel against him.
From the earth, something slithered upward with a sickening sound. A form half-shadow, half-flesh emerged, skin like tar, eyes a burning yellow slit, and a mouth curved into a mocking grin.
Black Zetsu.
"Lord Madara," the creature whispered, voice dripping with amusement. "Are you not concerned… about the two Uzumaki brats? They grow at an alarming pace, like weeds sprouting in poisoned soil."
Madara did not move at first. His chest rose and fell slowly, each breath a struggle against the weight of time. When he finally spoke, his voice was deep, cold, and utterly unconcerned.
"They are not my concern. Without the eyes to read the Sage's tablet, they are blind. Powerful perhaps, but pawns nonetheless. They cannot touch the true plan."
The black creature tilted its head, as though disappointed but unsurprised. "If you say so, Lord Madara." It began to sink into the earth again, its body breaking into ripples of shadow.
As the last trace of Zetsu vanished, Madara allowed his scarred lips to curl ever so slightly.
"…What I need is not them. I need an Uchiha. Someone worthy to bear the weight of the Moon's Eye Plan. And I have already found one who interests me." His voice lingered in the air, heavy with menace.
On the road — two figures in disguise
Far from the shadows of Madara's cavern, the world continued to spin. Two cloaked travelers walked through winding paths and narrow trails, moving steadily north.
Kaito and Soka.
Their faces, however, were not their own. With a Transformation Jutsu, they wore the appearances of two dark-haired teenagers, their crimson heritage hidden behind borrowed masks. The disguise was necessary; the bounty on their heads was now the talk of every tavern, every black market, every bounty guild. Fifty million ryō each. Enough to make even friends turn to knives.
Their destination was the Land of Iron, home of the samurai and their unparalleled steel.
Kaito carried Kibō to Shinkō — his tanto, his partner. The blade had been with him since he began carving his place into this cruel world. Over the years, something had changed. The weapon had slowly absorbed his chakra, becoming more than steel, becoming alive with his essence. Yet even so, its edge was dulling, unable to channel the storm of power he demanded of it.
If Kaito was to step beyond his current limits, his blade had to evolve as he had.
For days they traveled, through forests wrapped in mist, across rivers cold as glass, and finally into mountains whose peaks pierced the clouds. Snow fell softly as they entered the Land of Iron — a land where shinobi were forbidden, where neutrality was law, and where swordsmen held sway.
Kaito's golden eyes scanned the quiet towns built of timber and stone. Samurai in armor of muted iron patrolled the streets, their swords glinting faintly beneath the pale sun. For a brief moment, the Uzumaki felt like they had stepped into another world, one untouched by the shinobi's endless wars.
The whispers of steel
They wandered through narrow alleys until hushed voices reached their ears. Samurai gathered in twos and threes, their words slipping into the cold air.
"…a forge in the heart of the town… unlike any other…"
"…the old smith, they say he forges with soul fire itself…"
"…if you want a blade worthy of legends, you go to him."
Kaito's eyes lit with interest. He and Soka followed the trail of whispers until they found it — a humble building with smoke rising from a chimney, the ring of hammer on steel echoing faintly within.
The forge smelled of burning coal and tempered iron. Inside, sparks danced in the air as a broad-shouldered man hammered at glowing metal. His face was weathered, lined by decades of heat and work, but his eyes burned with a craftsman's intensity.
He looked up when the two entered. "Travelers, eh? What brings you to my forge?"
Kaito stepped forward, undoing the clasp of his cloak. Slowly, he revealed his blade. The tanto gleamed faintly, but the aura it exuded was unmistakable. Chakra seeped from the steel like heat from a furnace — wild, untamed, almost feral.
The smith's eyes widened. For a long moment, he simply stared, then carefully took the weapon into his calloused hands. His brows furrowed as though he were holding not steel, but a living beast.
"This sword… it has been changed. No… it has been fed. Years of chakra have fused into its steel. This is not just a weapon. This is… a fragment of your soul."
Kaito remained silent, only nodding once.
The smith's gaze sharpened. "I can work it. But reforging a blade like this… will not be easy. It will take time. Four days, at least."
Kaito reached into his cloak and pulled out a pouch, heavy with ryō. He placed it on the table with a muted thud — seven hundred thousand ryō. Money earned from blood, from the heads of bounty hunters foolish enough to come after him.
The smith blinked, then let out a low whistle. "With this… I can do more than reforging. I can breathe new life into it. The edge will sing again."
Kaito inclined his head. "Do it."
The man's hands tightened around the tanto, as though it were both burden and honor. "Four days. Return then."
Kaito and Soka exchanged a glance, then turned toward the door. The cold wind bit their cheeks as they stepped back into the snow-laden street.
For the first time in weeks, their shoulders eased. Here, in this land of steel and silence, they could breathe — if only for four days.
A quiet reprieve
They found a modest inn nearby, its lanterns glowing warmly against the white streets. Inside, they shared a small room, one bed each, and a single wooden table where their meals were laid. For once, they ate without urgency, without looking over their shoulders.
Soka stretched her legs beneath the table, her lips curling into a small smile. "It feels strange," she murmured.
"What does?" Kaito asked, sipping his tea.
"This peace. No hunters. No shinobi watching from the trees. Just…" She gestured to the quiet outside the window. "Snow. Lanterns. Normal people."
Kaito's gaze softened. For all the storms he carried, moments like this reminded him what he fought for — not only vengeance, but the fragile beauty of a world that could still laugh, eat, and live.
But deep inside, he knew peace never lasted. Not for people like them.
"Enjoy it while we can," he said quietly.
And in the back of his mind, the tanto's whisper lingered. Four days… and you will cut differently.
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I saw that most of the votes were for Kaito to be a villain and to explore the world or form his organization, so I'll do that. I'll see if he will form his organization or not depending on your votes.
If you review or give a Power Stone, I'll give you an extra chapter.
A Power Stone: an extra chapter.
A positive review: an extra chapter.
This would help me a lot and would also attract more people, so I'd make more chapters per day.