“It’s precisely because I remember that I’m doing this.” Hashirama cut off his father.
“You taught me that true strength isn’t killing, but protecting.”
He stepped over the threshold, moonlight pouring down like water.
In the distance, the lanterns of the medical unit bobbed closer.
You could faintly hear Tobirama’s urgent questions and Itama’s teary replies.
Hashirama turned toward the dungeon, but at the corner he found Toka standing with her arms crossed.
“I brought some bedding and medicine.” She handed over a bundle, her voice barely above a whisper.
“The innermost cell of the dungeon sits against the hot-spring pipes.
It won’t be too cold.”
Hashirama took the bundle and shook his head with a wry smile.
“I’ve dragged you into this.”
Toka looked at him intently.
“Young clan head…
do you truly believe peace with the Uchiha is possible?”
Hashirama gazed toward the Naka Forest and didn’t answer.
But at that moment, the light in his eyes burned more fiercely than ever.
In the meeting hall, the elders filed out one by one.
The last shinobi to leave carefully slid the door shut, and through the closing gap he saw the clan head, known for his iron fist, slump his head in defeat—in that instant, he seemed to age ten years.
Blood-red moonlight poured down like viscous liquid, soaking into every inch of your skin.
Your eyes flew open.
You found yourself bound to a stone pillar by some invisible force, unable to move.
Looking down, you were wearing a black robe with red clouds—a garment you’d never seen before.
“Where…
is this?”
The surroundings were terrifyingly barren.
Cracked earth stretched to the edge of sight, and hanging in the sky was a red moon so huge it seemed unreal, its surface marked with clearly visible rinnegan-like patterns.
The air was thick with the rust-like stench of blood.
Screams rose and fell in the distance, yet not a single figure was visible.
“Found you at last.”
A voice cold as a blade exploded at your ear.
You whirled around and met a pair of scarlet Mangekyou Sharingan.
The pattern was dizzyingly complex—three tomoe twisted and linked in an eerie configuration, revolving slowly within the blood-red pupils.
The man with those eyes stood less than half a step away.
His face was pale almost to transparency, and two deep tear-trough lines ran from the corners of his eyes to his jaw, lending a sorrowful cast to that young face.
“Who are you?” You struggled, trying to activate your Sharingan, but found your Chakra frozen, impossible to move.
The man extended slender fingers and lightly touched the center of your brow.
In that instant, countless unfamiliar images flooded your mind like a torrent: the Uchiha compound in flames, young children fallen in pools of blood, sparks from clashing shuriken, and…
a moon even redder than the one now.
“The Eye of the Moon Plan needs your ability.” The man’s voice was terrifyingly calm.
“The kekkei genkai of Gold Release is the key to connecting this world with the Pure Land.”
Your temples throbbed, and the pain blackened your vision.
In the last moment before consciousness faded, you noticed a strange ring on the man’s left pinky, engraved with the character “Shu”…
“Ugh—!”
You shot upright from the tatami, cold sweat soaking through your thin sleepwear.
Outside the window, the night was still thick—at least two hours remained until dawn.
Trembling, you reached for your left eye.
You had activated your Sharingan in your sleep.
“That dream again…” You pressed your temple, where the pain was as fierce as if someone had driven a kunai through it.
Compared to the vague fragments before, tonight’s dream was terrifyingly clear.
You could even recall the stranger’s eyelashes trembling as he breathed.
The bronze mirror on the low table reflected your pale face.
Staring at yourself, you suddenly realized something: the man in the dream wore Uchiha clan clothes, yet a forehead protector you’d never seen—marked with a single horizontal scar.
An owl hooted outside the window.
You walked to the well in the courtyard and poured an entire bucket of ice-cold well water over your head.
The biting cold brought you fully awake, but the image of the red moon was still branded on your retinas, refusing to fade.
Morning light, like diluted gold leaf, slanted through the high vent window of the secret chamber.
Uchiha Madara sat cross-legged on a straw mat, his lashes casting fine shadows in the light.
When familiar footsteps sounded at the end of the stone corridor, his Mangekyou Sharingan had reverted to ordinary black eyes the instant they opened.
“So early?”
Your figure appeared outside the iron bars, a two-tiered lacquered food box in your hand.
Today, uncharacteristically, you weren’t wearing your death-warrior robe, but a white kimono, the ends of your hair still damp with morning dew.
“Afraid you’ll starve to death.” You jangled the key in your hand—the one Madara had slipped to you secretly when you parted last night.
The lock clicked open, startlingly clear in the silent chamber.
Madara’s gaze fell on the food box.
“Did you make it yourself?”
Your fingers, mid-motion as you bent to work the box’s clasp, paused. This story is hosted at g.com.
You shook your head, loose strands of hair brushing your cheek.
“Izuna asked me to bring it.”
Lifting the lid, rows of three-colored inari sushi sat neatly arranged, their edges gleaming with an enticing sheen of oil.
“That kid has been waiting in the kitchen since before dawn…”
“I see.” Madara’s voice was half a tone lower than usual.
He didn’t even notice the faint disappointment in it himself.
He reached for the sushi, only to find you had already picked up a piece with bamboo chopsticks and brought it to his lips.
“Izuna says this is your favorite.” You lowered your eyes.
Madara leaned forward and bit into the sushi.
The vinegar rice was perfectly sweet-and-sour, the tofu skin soaked through with the savory essence of the broth.
“Yes,” Madara swallowed and asked abruptly, “And what do you like to eat?”
“Me?” You chuckled and deliberately tapped the tip of the chopsticks against Madara’s nose.
“I still prefer someone’s red bean dumplings.”
Madara choked violently, coughing until the chains rattled…
The heat at his ears betrayed him, and he had to pretend to adjust his collar to cover it up.
“By the way,” Madara cleared his throat, “what did you want to say to me?” He noticed that although you wore a smile, the vertical crease between your brows never relaxed.
“Madara.” You changed your address suddenly, your voice as light as a falling leaf.
Setting down the chopsticks, your fingertips unconsciously traced the cherry-blossom pattern on the edge of the box.
“If…
if one day you discovered that your ideals would lead to terrible consequences, what would you do?”
The chamber fell so quiet you could hear the dust dancing in the beam of light.
Madara gazed at the brightening sky beyond the vent window, where a flock of early birds swept across the indigo clouds.
“I would correct my methods, but I would not abandon my ideals.” Madara answered at last, and when he turned back he found you watching him with a complicated expression.
“Why do you ask?”
You shook your head, the sleeve of your kimono slipping to reveal the old scars on your wrist.
You reached to tidy the food box, only to arrange the sushi even more haphazardly.
“Nothing.
It’s just…
sometimes, when I’m with you, I see terrible visions.”
Madara suddenly seized your wrist.
The instant your skin touched, your left eye flashed gold beyond your control.
“What visions?” Madara’s voice was taut.
“A blood-red moon…” Your pupils dilated slightly, as if staring into some distant nightmare.
“Endless war…
people trapped in illusions…
living like puppets on strings…”
Madara’s fingers tightened unconsciously.
The description was too close to the “Mugen Tsukuyomi” recorded on the Uchiha stone tablet—the ultimate illusion that could bring eternal peace.
His throat went dry.
“It sounds like…”
“Like some kind of powerful illusion, right?” You smiled bitterly and finally withdrew your hand.
The gold in your left eye grew more pronounced.
“I don’t know what it is, but I feel…
it has something to do with your ideals.”
By now the morning light had climbed to Madara’s knees.
He watched the golden lines gradually forming around your eyes—a pattern resembling the Sage of Six Paths’ magatama, yet carrying sharper, more angular edges.
“Do you think my ideals will lead to that?” Madara’s voice trembled without his noticing.
He had imagined countless obstacles, but never expected the doubt to come from his closest lover.
You suddenly leaned forward, not even noticing the food box knocked over.
Cradling Madara’s cheeks in both hands, your foreheads almost touching.
At this distance, Madara could see the fine cracks in your golden pupils—as if some seal were dissolving.
“I don’t know.” Your breath brushed his lips.
“But Madara, promise me one thing.”
Your thumb unconsciously traced the dark circles under his eyes, born of long sleeplessness.
“Whatever you decide, don’t lose yourself.
Okay?”
From afar came the drum of morning training, and the chamber’s stone walls trembled faintly.
In that vibration Madara stared into your eyes and saw countless possibilities of parallel worlds flowing through them.
In some worlds you stood side by side; in some you crossed blades.
But at the end of every world lay that blood-red moon.
“I promise you.” Madara nodded slowly and covered the back of your hand with his own.
At that moment, your Chakra resonated strangely.
The dust in the chamber suddenly hung suspended in midair, forming a tiny spiral.
You let go first, and as you lowered your head to gather the spilled food box, Madara noticed a small patch of skin at the nape of your neck had turned pale gold, its shape resembling some ancient symbol he’d seen in his dreams.
“Tomorrow the elders will vote on whether to raid the Senju compound.” You rose, the hem of your kimono brushing Madara’s knees.
Madara didn’t answer.
When your figure vanished at the end of the corridor, he looked down at his own palm.
He suddenly recalled a line Hashirama had said by the Naka River: “True power should not be used to create an illusory peace, but to protect the real people before you.”
Sunlight finally filled the whole chamber.
Madara tilted his head back and closed his eyes in the dazzling brightness.
The stone chamber of the Hawk faction’s stronghold was always cold and damp.
As you pushed open the heavy oak door, the wind chime above the lintel gave a dull clang—someone had been here.
Your fingers were already on the kunai’s handle, your Sharingan shifting to its Mangekyou state in the dimness.
There was no one.
Only on the ebony table where you always sat sat a new blackwood box.
The box was about the size of a palm, its surface traced in gold powder with the Uchiha fan crest.
But on closer look, the fan’s ribs had been deliberately reshaped into the form of chains.
Your fingertips had just touched the cold lacquer when that voice—always carrying a hint of mockery—sounded behind you.
“Your medicine must be running out.”
The voice came from the shadows at your back.
Reikei moved along the wall like a ghost, his complexion rendered even paler, the bandage over his right eye lending his handsome face a sinister cast.
You didn’t turn.
You lifted the lid very gently, but the hinge still squealed.
Inside the box lay twelve amber pills arranged in neat rows, strange golden patterns floating on each one’s surface—identical to the designs that occasionally appeared around your eyes.
“Last month there were fifteen.” You finally turned, your left eye glowing faint gold in the dim light.
“Has the effect weakened?”
“It’s the thing inside you growing stronger.” Uchiha Reikei took two steps forward, the soles of his boots grinding unknown insect shells into the floor.
“When do you plan to leave?”
The water clock in the corner of the chamber dripped.
You closed the box very slowly, as if leaving room for the other to reconsider.
“Hard to say.” You tossed the box up and caught it, the lacquer smacking dully against your palm.
“Depends how long the medicine holds.”
It was plainly a brush-off.
Reikei seized your wrist, his grip hard enough to crush bone.
“Don’t play dumb!
You’ve clearly already—”
“Let go.” Your left eye turned gold in an instant, some ancient pressure spreading from your pupils.
Reikei lurched back as if burned, knocking over the candlestick behind him.
The flame guttered twice on the floor and went out.
In the darkness you faced each other in silence.
In the end it was Reikei who spoke first, his voice hoarse beyond recognition.
“Does the young clan head know your plan?”
“That doesn’t seem to concern you.” As you raised your eyes, your left eye had fully become a golden vertical pupil, chain-like patterns coiling around it.
The air began to twist.
Cold sweat seeped from Reikei’s temples, but his voice stayed level.
“The clan head has already begun to suspect your reasons for returning to the Uchiha.
If he discovers you intend to search for Hannya’s ruins…”
“So what?” You smiled suddenly, your golden pupils contracting to thin slits.
“Turn me in to the clan head?
Or use this to blackmail me?”
You pointed at your left eye.
“Don’t forget—who was it who dug you out of the pile of corpses back then!”
“Ha!” Reikei jumped back with a short, cold laugh.
He turned toward the weapon rack, his fingers running over a row of shuriken.
“You had that exact same expression when you dug me out of the corpses.”
Reikei was the only person in the Hawk faction you trusted even grudgingly—which made him all the more dangerous.
You set the box down hard, knocking over the ink bottle beside it.
Black liquid spread across the parchment map, swallowing the red circle marking the Senju compound.
A short blade suddenly buried itself in the wooden pillar beside your ear, its hilt humming with the vibration.
Reikei’s face was indistinct in the shadows.
“You’d better pray the young clan head doesn’t go mad over this.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
Your breath condensed into white mist, and you felt the Cold Poison creeping up your spine—but colder still was the implication in Reikei’s words.
The possibility that Madara might lose control over your departure frightened you more than any poison.
“He’s Uchiha Madara.” You spoke at last, your voice calm in a way that didn’t seem like your own.
“Not as fragile as you think.”
Reikei gave a derisive snort.
On his way to the door he deliberately bumped your shoulder, and in the instant you passed each other, he said in a voice only the two of you could hear, “I’ve already fixed the patrol roster for the full moon.”
The wind from the door’s opening and closing blew out the nearest candle.
You stood where you were, your right hand’s nails having sunk deep into your palm without your noticing.
Blood dripped along the lines of your palm onto the blackwood box, and was greedily absorbed.