A dark shadow darted out from the thick canopy of leaves, diving rapidly toward Shinra’s shoulder.
Madara instantly raised his scythe, his newly awakened two-tomoe Sharingan spinning defensively.
But before the younger boy could strike, Shinra simply raised his left arm.
The small, winged creature fluttered its feathers, slowing its descent, and landed smoothly on Shinra’s leather bracer.
It wasn’t a Senju projectile.
It wasn’t a hidden weapon or an explosive tag.
It was a dark grey pigeon.
Tied securely to its scaly right leg was a tiny leather tube, stamped with the red and white fan crest of the Uchiha clan.
“A messenger bird,” Izuna let out a long, shaky breath.
The seven-year-old dropped his short sword into the mud, his tiny shoulders slumping in absolute relief.
Shinra gently unrolled the tiny scroll from the bird’s leg.
In this primitive, bloody era of the Warring States, instant communication across battlefields simply did not exist.
There were no radios, no earpieces, and no telepathic jutsu available to the standard troops.
The clans relied entirely on highly trained birds or fast-footed messenger summons to relay crucial orders between camps.
Shinra scanned the messy, hurried handwriting.
It was from the front lines, bearing the personal seal of their father, Tajima Uchiha.
The message was brief and frantic.
It asked for an immediate status update on the southern camp and demanded to know if Madara and Izuna were still alive.
Word of the Senju ambush squad slipping past the main army had clearly just reached the Clan Head.
“What are Father’s orders?” Madara asked.
He walked over, stepping carefully over the ruined earth.
He wiped a smear of mud and blood off his cheek.
His tone had changed.
He wasn’t whining or acting like a stubborn brat anymore.
Having just survived a near-death experience and witnessed his older brother obliterate a veteran Senju captain, Madara was looking at Shinra differently.
There was a hard, pragmatic respect in his eyes now—the kind a soldier gives to a seasoned general.
“He’s asking for a casualty report and confirming if we are breathing,” Shinra replied dryly.
He pulled a small, sharpened stick of charcoal from his utility pouch.
Turning the tiny paper over, he scrawled a quick, precise reply on the back.
Southern camp secured.
Enemy Jonin and Elite Chunin eradicated.
I have taken command.
We will hold the line.
Send cleanup crews and replacement guards by morning.
He rolled the paper tightly, slipped it back into the leather tube, and gave the pigeon a light upward toss.
The bird fluttered its wings heavily, climbing above the dark tree canopy and disappearing into the night sky, heading straight back to the main Uchiha forces.
Now that the immediate threat was gone and the message was sent, the sheer adrenaline that had been keeping the camp standing finally began to evaporate.
A ragged, wet cough broke the silence.
The single surviving Uchiha Chunin guard suddenly groaned, collapsing heavily onto his hands and knees.
He had taken a deep, jagged slash across his ribs while throwing himself in front of an earth spike meant for Izuna.
He was bleeding profusely, painting the damp grass a dark, sickly red.
“We need to patch him up.
Now,” Shinra ordered, his tone shifting instantly from combat mode to harsh reality.
He didn’t weave any hand seals.
He didn’t coat his hands in mystical green chakra to magically close the man’s wounds.
In this era, medical ninjutsu simply didn’t exist.
There were no hospitals, no glowing healing hands, and no miracle pills.
Healing in the Warring States period meant blood, sweat, and screaming through the agony of primitive first aid.
Shinra walked over to one of the overturned wooden supply crates, kicked the lid off, and dragged out a standard field medical kit.
He brought it over to the bleeding guard, kneeling in the mud beside the man.
“Bite down on this, soldier,” Shinra said, handing the guard a thick piece of boiled leather.
The guard nodded weakly, his face pale, and clamped his teeth down.
Shinra opened the kit, grabbing a heavy glass bottle of clear, strong-smelling alcohol.
Without any hesitation, he dumped a generous splash directly over the deep gash on the guard’s ribs.
The man let out a muffled, agonizing scream.
His entire body convulsed as the harsh liquid burned away the dirt, mud, and potential infection.
Shinra didn’t flinch.
His hands were completely steady as he reached into the kit and pulled out a tin of dark green herbal ointment.
It smelled horribly bitter, like crushed pine needles and ash.
Shinra packed the thick paste directly into the wound to help the blood clot, before tightly wrapping the man’s torso in clean, coarse linen bandages.
He pulled the knot tight, tying it off securely.
“Sit against that crate and do not move,” Shinra instructed, clapping the man lightly on his good shoulder.
“You did the clan proud tonight.
You protected my brothers.
You will be rewarded.” The guard swallowed hard, spitting the leather out of his mouth.
“T-Thank you, Shinra-sama.” With the guard stabilized, Shinra turned his attention to his brothers.
Madara and Izuna were covered in scrapes, shallow cuts, and dark bruises.
Their clothes were torn to shreds.
“Sit down,” Shinra told them, walking over with the bottle of alcohol and the roll of bandages.
Izuna immediately plopped down onto a dry piece of firewood, holding out his scraped arms obediently.
Shinra quickly cleaned a nasty cut on the seven-year-old’s forearm, applied the bitter paste, and wrapped it up.
“Thanks, big brother,” Izuna smiled tiredly, his eyelids already drooping from chakra exhaustion.
Shinra turned to Madara.
The nine-year-old had a deep, bleeding gash across his right bicep and a nasty scrape on his cheek.
“I can do it myself, brother,” Madara said firmly, holding his hand out for the bandages.
“You just fought a Jonin captain.
You used a massive amount of chakra.
You should rest and focus on guarding the perimeter.
I am capable of wrapping a simple cut.” It was a very pragmatic, logical response.
Madara was trying to act like an equal on the battlefield.
He recognized Shinra’s strength and didn’t want to burden him with trivial tasks.
“Your dominant arm is bleeding, Madara.
You can’t tie a tight knot with one hand,” Shinra replied smoothly, entirely unimpressed by the tough-guy logic.
“Sit down.” Madara frowned, looking like he wanted to argue the tactical merits of self-reliance, but he ultimately let out a huff of breath and sat down on the log next to Izuna.
He held out his injured arm.
“Just don’t treat me like a toddler,” Madara grumbled, looking away.
Shinra poured a small amount of the harsh alcohol onto a clean cloth and pressed it firmly against the gash on Madara’s bicep.
Madara hissed sharply, his body jerking slightly, but he forced himself not to pull his arm away.
He gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles popping.
“Your tactical retreat was sloppy,” Shinra noted casually as he applied the ointment and began wrapping the arm.
“You over-committed to the scythe swing and left your right side completely open.
If that Senju was slightly faster, this cut would have taken your arm off.” “I knew the guard was behind me to cover the blind spot,” Madara argued back, defending his logic.
“It was a calculated risk.” “Calculated risks get people killed in this era,” Shinra countered, tying the bandage off tightly.
“Next time, don’t rely on someone else to cover your mistakes.
Rely on your own eyes.” Madara looked down at his newly bandaged arm, rubbing the linen softly.
He didn’t snap back this time.
He just nodded slowly.
“Understood.” Once the bleeding was stopped and the camp was completely secured, Shinra finally allowed himself to relax.
He walked over to a large, intact wooden crate near the center of the clearing and sat down.
Izuna had managed to start a small campfire using a few dry twigs and a tiny spark of fire chakra, casting a warm, flickering orange glow over the muddy battlefield.
Only now, in the quiet crackle of the flames, did the familiar blue screen finally pop up in Shinra’s vision.
The system was smart.
It had delayed the mission rewards until the combat was entirely over and the host was in a secure state to receive them.
[Ding!] [Mission: Protect the Uchiha Camp and Save Your Brothers.] [Status: Completed.] [Calculating Rewards…] [Reward: A-Rank Ninjutsu – Chidori has been distributed to host’s inventory.] Shinra closed his eyes, hiding the sudden flash of surprise and excitement.
Instantly, a sharp, electric shock traveled directly into his brain, branching out through his nervous system.
The muscle memory for the Chidori downloaded perfectly into his body.
He didn’t just understand the theory behind the jutsu; he could physically feel the exact way to mold pure, wild lightning chakra.
He knew exactly how to condense the lightning into the palm of his hand, how to shape it until it chirped loudly like a thousand birds, and how to thrust it forward at blinding speeds to pierce right through solid steel.
It was the ultimate assassination tool.
The technique’s only flaw was that the user had to run so fast they developed tunnel vision, leaving them open to counter-attacks.
But with his fully matured 3-Tomoe Sharingan reading the kinetic movements of everything around him, that blind spot was completely erased.
Before Shinra could even enjoy the feeling of his new lightning jutsu, the blue screen flashed again.
This time, the edges of the digital box glowed with a bright, shining gold.
[Ding!] [Hidden Achievement Unlocked: Altering the Legend’s Fate!] [Details: In the original flow of history, Uchiha Madara was destined to suffer severe physical and mental trauma during this ambush.
By stepping in and altering the timeline to save a major cornerstone of this world’s destiny, you have proven your ability to break the chains of fate.] [Calculating Special Reward…] [Reward: B-Rank Ninjutsu – Shadow Clone Jutsu (Master Level).] Shinra’s breath caught slightly in his throat.
Suddenly, a rush of complex tactical knowledge and precise chakra formulas flowed directly into his brain.
It wasn’t an elemental attack; it was something far more versatile and game-breaking.
In this primitive era, basic clone techniques hadn’t even been conceptualized yet.
Ninja relied on moving extremely fast to create mere afterimages.
But this jutsu didn’t create a simple optical illusion.
It divided the user’s chakra, creating a solid, physical copy that could think, bleed, fight, and even cast its own jutsu independently.
Even more terrifying, whatever the clone experienced or learned would instantly transfer back to the original body once it dispersed.
With this reward, Shinra didn’t just get a new attack.
He received the ultimate battlefield diversion, an untraceable scouting tool, and the greatest training cheat code in shinobi history.
The Rasengan for smashing defenses.
The Chidori for piercing hearts.
And solid physical clones to guarantee I am never outnumbered, Shinra thought, his heart pounding with raw, heavy excitement.
I am actually becoming a monster.
He opened his eyes, the red Sharingan fading back to his normal, pitch-black pupils.
He found both Madara and Izuna staring directly at him across the campfire.
The adrenaline of the battle had finally worn off, and Madara’s genius-level intellect was working in overdrive.
The nine-year-old was analyzing everything he had just witnessed.
Madara leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
He didn’t look angry, but his face was incredibly serious.
“Alright.
The fighting is over.
The camp is safe,” Madara said, his voice dropping into a low whisper so the resting guard wouldn’t hear them.
“Now explain.” Shinra tilted his head, acting clueless.
“Explain what?” “Don’t play dumb with me, brother,” Madara demanded, his dark eyes demanding the truth.
“Yesterday, they carried you back to the compound on a stretcher.
You were bleeding from your eyes.
The medics said your chakra pathways were completely burned out from the strain.
They said you might be crippled.” Izuna nodded slowly from his spot by the fire, looking at Shinra with a mix of awe and deep curiosity.
“Yeah…
old Ryota said you wouldn’t be able to walk for a month.” “But tonight?” Madara continued, pointing a bandaged finger toward the massive, scorched crater where the Senju Jonin had died.
“Tonight, you show up moving faster than my eyes can even track.
You didn’t even look tired after running all the way from the compound.
Your physical strength was enough to match a Senju captain in close combat.” Madara swallowed hard, remembering the terrifying spinning blue sphere.
“And that jutsu,” Madara stated, his analytical mind dissecting the impossibility of it.
“You cast a highly condensed chakra attack with absolutely zero hand seals.
That goes against everything we have ever been taught.
Plus, your chakra feels…
different.
It’s so heavy and dense it makes it hard to breathe.” Madara took a breath, holding Shinra’s gaze with absolute intensity.
“What happened to you, Shinra?” Madara asked, his tone a perfect mix of brotherly worry and sharp suspicion.
“How did you suddenly become this strong?” Shinra looked at his two younger brothers.
He couldn’t exactly tell them he was a transmigrated soul from another dimension with a magical video game system installed in his brain.
They would lock him in the clan asylum before morning.
But he had to tell them something.
He needed an excuse that fit the lore of this world, something that would stop them from asking too many dangerous questions while also establishing his absolute authority over them.
Shinra leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
He looked directly at Madara, a mysterious, serious smile slowly forming on his face.
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