Madara returned to the Quileute village, his armor slightly torn in places, but otherwise completely unharmed.
The werewolves—the Quileute clan—had sensed his presence from the moment he was a kilometer away. Two guards stopped him at the entrance, but a single cold glance from him made them stiffen. They let him pass without resistance.
Not that they didn't know he was an ally… at least, for now.
Kagashi stood at the front, with the elder behind him between the two guards. Behind them were various clan members of differing builds—tall, short, lean, broad.
The elder, shocked and wary, spoke."You… what are you really? And what is it that you truly seek?"
Madara didn't reply. He simply tossed a severed head—Vasili's—at the elder's feet.
Gasps rippled through the group.
"Now that I've established my power," Madara said coldly, "Where are the other vampire covens? Supernatural factions? Even… the Volturi. Though I doubt the high-ranking ones would be in Japan."
The elder, stunned for perhaps the hundredth time since Madara's arrival, finally managed to speak."We don't know how to express our gratitude… Madara Uchiha. You helped us eliminate an entire vampire den. We can't thank you enough. Perhaps a feast? A celebration?"
"No. Not needed," Madara replied. "I'm heading to my quarters. Until next time."
He walked past them, waving them off dismissively. As he passed by a firepit, he saw a slab of cooked meat roasting above it. He grabbed it without pause, ignoring the heat as he took a bite. By the time he reached his room, only a bare bone remained, which he tossed aside.
Hunger—satisfied.Thirst—quenched by chakra-infused water.
The next morning, he rose calmly. Standing at the tribal window, he observed the village.
The Quileute werewolves no longer seemed moody or stressed. He saw more smiles. Happiness. Hope?
Turning away, he opened the door and stepped outside. Some of the clan members noticed him. Their gazes held traces of fear, yes—but also something else.
Gratitude.
Interesting feeling… Madara thought.
He approached one of the Quileute."Where do your elders reside? Is there a chief elder—or how is your leadership structured?"
The man tensed, then answered cautiously."Our elders meet in the longhouse—right there," he pointed. "And Kagashi is our chief. Though… he answers to the council."
So a hierarchy, after all, Madara mused.
He didn't spare another glance. Striding to the longhouse, he stepped in front of the door and entered without knocking. Inside, three elders sat in a circle. Among them was the one he had already met, and Kagashi stood nearby.
Madara entered boldly, without humility. Yet none reacted violently—they knew they couldn't defeat him, even if they tried.
Kagashi glanced at him, calmer than before."Sir Madar—"
"I'm leaving," Madara interrupted. "To another country. Probably Europe, with its many nations."
Kagashi nodded with a mixture of relief… and disappointment."Understood, Sir Madara. We are grateful for your help…"The elders muttered disapprovingly—they had hoped to offer him their daughters.
Without another word, Madara left the village. His pace quickened from a walk to a run. Hands behind his back like a shinobi, he leapt from branch to branch, moving swiftly toward Japan's new capital—Heian-kyō, now known as Kyoto.
He stopped on a tree branch, looked down, then leapt silently onto a jagged cliff, landing smoothly like a snake. Wind whipped through his long hair like a war banner.
Below him was the capital.
The heart of an empire…His face remained emotionless.
He began walking down the cliff—upside down, like a ninja walking on walls.
Upon reaching the base, he approached the entrance gate—massive stone walls guarded by twelve soldiers: four melee fighters atop the gate, six archers in towers, and two officers at ground level.
As he neared, both officers noticed him. One stepped forward, wearing armor similar to Madara's—though his was intact.
"Who are you? Identify yourself!" the officer demanded.
The soldiers and archers couldn't see clearly, but the officers could. Madara's Sharingan activated. His eyes locked onto theirs—and they went dull, hypnotized.
They stepped aside."Open up!" one shouted.The gates creaked open. Madara entered. The gates closed behind him.
His first glance fell on aristocrats in silken junihitoe, faces painted white, whispering behind folded fans. Peasants scurried about, burdened by goods, bargaining in shops. Monks chanted distant sutras.
No one noticed the shinobi gliding through their midst.
Except one.
A vampire in disguise—posing as a wealthy noblewoman—observed from the shadows of a dark shop. Her red eyes narrowed.
"Not a vampire… nor a wolf?" she whispered.
Her claws twitched beneath her skin, but she didn't move. Not yet. It wasn't time.
The streets were alive with the sound of wooden sandals on packed earth. Distant music drifted through the air. A child selling persimmons blinked in confusion.
"Did that man's eyes just glow red?"
He looked again—Madara was gone. Just the usual crowd remained.
A group of drunken samurai stumbled into the street, laughing loudly, hands resting on katana hilts out of habit. One bold man staggered directly into Madara's path.
Madara casually sidestepped. The samurai sneered.
"Oi, you pretty bastard, where's your—"
Their eyes met. Madara's Sharingan flared.
The man collapsed, clawing at his throat, choking on an illusion of burning fire. His companions dragged him away in panic.
Madara walked on.
The vampire woman—still watching from above—gasped when she saw him glance directly at her window from far below. His onyx eyes pierced through the shadows.
She recoiled, turned, and disappeared into the darkness, rushing to warn her coven.
But Madara ignored her. He heard the clatter of hurried footsteps.
Three fully armed samurai approached. One stepped forward.
"Who are you?"
Madara stared."You ask who I am?... I am Madara Uchiha."
"You're under arrest! Witchcraft—your eyes!"
Madara raised an eyebrow, unimpressed."Come, then."
The leader drew his katana and swung at Madara's neck. The blow clanged harmlessly off Madara's armored forearm.
Two more samurai lunged. Madara kicked the leader aside—he flew like a ragdoll, rolling across the ground, coughing.
The others' blades were caught by Madara's glowing hands. He snapped their swords like twigs, leapt into the air, split mid-air, and struck both of them on the head with each foot.
They crumpled. Even their helmets didn't dull the impact.
The leader staggered up again, determined. He slashed horizontally. Madara sidestepped, landed a knee into his stomach, and followed with a sharp kick to the jaw. The man collapsed, face-first into the dirt.
"So this is the samurai? I expected more," Madara muttered.
An arrow whistled past—he caught it in mid-air. His eyes snapped toward the archer.
The soldier—staring in disbelief—readied another arrow. Before he could fire, Madara threw the first one. It pierced the archer's shoulder. He fell, clutching the wound, armor slick with blood.
"Shit…" the archer muttered.
In the blink of an eye, Madara was beside him.he kicked the archer into stomach as he knockbacked into the stone wall
The archer did not rise again.