Inside the dimly lit conference chamber, Nagato, bathed in the pale violet glow of his activated Rinnegan, sat like a deity enthroned. His overwhelming chakra pressure swept through the room like a silent tempest, making every Akatsuki member present instinctively tense.
Even Orochimaru's usual smirk twitched.
Once the atmosphere was fully subdued, Nagato began laying out his commands.
"Orochimaru," he intoned, "you will relay this intel to Konoha—quietly. No theatrics. No experiments."
Orochimaru arched a brow, but said nothing.
"You'll also be working with Sasori," Nagato continued. "Calculate everything—the meteor's speed, mass, trajectory, point of impact, and estimated casualties."
Sasori merely gave a cold glance at his partner. Orochimaru responded with a thin-lipped smirk and an audible, deliberate lick of his lips.
"And if we calculate it down to the last pebble, then what?" Orochimaru hissed, voice laced with cruel amusement. "Can we stop a planet-sized meteor from turning the earth to dust? Is that within even your... divine prowess?"
Nagato's Rinnegan flared like a forge at midnight.
"Do not question the power of a god," he said coldly.
The words were not a boast—they were a warning. His tone cut through the room like a blade drawn in judgment.
"This catastrophe will not be stopped by fear or sarcasm. Only the Rinnegan offers even a sliver of salvation. You will obey, or you will be left behind."
Orochimaru's grin faded. For once, the serpent fell quiet, though the hunger in his eyes remained.
Nagato turned away, unbothered. "The rest of you," he said, "will begin discreet information dissemination to the Five Great Nations—use black market channels, missing-nin networks, any route that avoids political red tape."
"Let them know a storm is coming. If the villages won't unite to protect their people, they will at least act to preserve their own pride."
None objected. The mood had shifted. The earlier mockery had evaporated, replaced by grim understanding.
Nagato's voice softened slightly as he turned to Konan. "Adjust our supply plans. Cut the acquisition of explosive tags. Prioritize long-term survival materials—food, chakra stimulants, barrier scrolls."
Konan's face stiffened. The explosive tags had been for her secret contingency against the Masked Man... But now wasn't the time to settle old scores. She gave a reluctant nod.
Within days, the black market value of explosive tags collapsed.
Nagato rose slowly, his mechanical legs humming beneath his robe.
"Remember this," he said. "Even if the world burns, the Rinnegan will stand. Akatsuki is not just a shadow group anymore—we are now the last hope of the world."
Silence blanketed the room. Then, quietly—
"Heh... As expected of our leader," Orochimaru muttered, voice unreadable, as he turned to leave.
Kakuzu exchanged a glance with Konan. If Nagato could really withstand this calamity, his treasure hoard might survive. Perhaps even grow.
Sasori remained silent. Art, not survival, was his obsession. And there was something poetic about immortal beauty created in the last days of the world.
Only Konan looked truly unsettled.
Nagato appeared stable—but she knew the cost of his power. His body was deteriorating. His soul burning away like candle wax.
But for now, he was holding everything together.
Scene Shift – Root Headquarters, Konoha
In the subterranean chambers of Root, dim yellow lights buzzed faintly over a cold steel table. Danzo Shimura stood in front of a mirror, methodically peeling away the thick bandages around his face.
What stared back at him was... younger.
Not dramatically. But noticeable.
The wrinkles were fading. His skin was firmer. The toll of age, momentarily reversed.
He traced a finger across his temple and smirked. "So even decay can be reversed... with the right sacrifice."
That night—the Uchiha massacre—had done more than destabilize Konoha. The chaos had stimulated the Hashirama cells in his body. His compatibility had grown, stabilizing where others had rotted or gone mad.
Even Shisui's Sharingan, though currently dormant from trauma, had synchronized better with his body.
He flexed his arm—the one brimming with hidden eyes—and felt something new. A greed. A hunger.
"I can hold more Sharingan now," he murmured. "Much more..."
Then, the sneer returned.
"The destruction of the world?" he scoffed. "Hiruzen. Hiashi. Fools, both of them. Jumping at shadows."
Let the sheep panic. Let the frightened weep. For men like him, disaster was opportunity.
"Collapse is for the weak. The strong shape the aftermath."
At that moment, a Root operative appeared, bowing low. "Lord Danzo. Urgent intelligence—multiple sources."
Danzo took the file, absentmindedly flipping through the first few pages—until his eyes caught on a line.
A planet-sized celestial body. Confirmed trajectory. Widespread extinction-level impact. Cross-referenced by independent sources.
Orochimaru. Black market. Rogue nations.
His eyes narrowed. The sources were unrelated—but the message was the same.
"A meteor... large enough to shatter the world," Danzo muttered, voice tight. "And it's not baseless rumor."
He read on. More data. Orochimaru's personal note. A name.
Uchiha Gen.
Danzo's lips curled in rage. "Again... again this cursed name appears!"
The massacre was supposed to be a clean break. One night to erase a threat forever. So why had it instead ignited a series of catastrophes?
Clenching the document tightly, Danzo's breath came shallow and sharp. He turned to his subordinate, voice steeled.
"Prepare a direct channel. I want to speak to Orochimaru—now."
As the ninja departed, Danzo looked once more at his reflection—his Sharingan arm twitching with suppressed thirst.
"This isn't the end of the world," he whispered, eyes darkening with greed. "It's just... a rebalancing."
"And I intend to be the one holding the scales."