Months ago...
The northern reaches of the continent were a desolate expanse, where jagged cliffs loomed over barren valleys and the wind howled.
Deep within a dark cave, hidden from the world's prying eyes, Madara Uchiha sat hunched over a wooden desk.
The air was damp and heavy, thick with the musty scent of stone and the faint metallic tang of ink. A single flickering lantern cast long shadows across the cavern's walls, its light barely reaching the jagged stalactites overhead. The desk in front of him was covered in curling papers of scientific research. Diagrams of organs, charts of cellular growth, and formulae that twisted into illegible complexity spilled across the table. His eyes moved slowly over the words, though much of it was beyond him.
Madara's spiky hair, once black as the night, had begun to fade, and his skin, wrinkled and sallow, hung loosely over his once-powerful frame.
Though he was only in his sixties, he looked easily a decade older. That was the price of awakening the Rinnegan- the eyes of the Sage of Six Paths. His vitality had been drained away, leaving him a shadow of the warrior he once was. The grafted Hashirama cells and the Gedo Statue kept him alive, held him tethered to this world, but even they could not halt the cruel toll of time.
Madara sometimes allowed himself a bitter smile. Once, his name alone had been enough to still armies. Once, the sight of his Sharingan had made Kage tremble. If it were just a few decades earlier, the villages would have cowered before him, eager to hand over their tailed beasts. Conquest would have been as easy as taking dango from a child.
But now, those days were gone.
He pushed the thought aside. Madara Uchiha was not a man who lingered long on regrets. What-ifs and dreams of what could have been were worthless. He was a man of action, and there was still work to be done. There was always work to be done.
The battle with that girl- Kushina Uzumaki- and her fox had drained him further than he cared to admit. He could still feel the ache from their hits. But so long as he held the Rinnegan, there was still a way forward. Everything would work out. It had to, for the sake of the world.
A knock echoed against the stone walls. His purple-ringed eyes lifted, narrowed.
"Enter," he commanded, his voice hoarse but carrying the weight of a tyrant.
The door creaked open. A slender man stepped through, his pale white skin almost luminous in the darkness. Yellow eyes, slitted like a serpent's, gleamed as he bowed.
This was Orochimaru, one of the Three Sannin of Konoha. Although he was little more than fodder in front of the Ghost of the Uchiha.
He moved with a serpentine grace, and his long black hair framed a face that seemed both youthful and unnaturally ageless.
Madara's lips curled faintly as he watched the man approach. He had found Orochimaru skulking in the shadows of that wretched village, Konohagakure. The very thought of that place was enough to ignite his ire. It was supposed to be the dream he had once shared with Hashirama, a village strong enough to end the chaos of the warring states.
Instead, it had become a weak, bloated relic clinging to ideals that were already rotting. The new generation was nothing more than a disappointment.
If Hashirama had only listened, if he had only cooperated, then everything would have been better.
But that was the past, and Madara had no use for what-ifs. In Orochimaru, he had found something useful- a twisted, but brilliant mind. He had discovered the snake conducting forbidden research, and rather than condemn him, Madara had extended his hand. The thought irritated him, but Orochimaru's intellect reminded him of that bastard Tobirama Senju. The man's genius was undeniable, and Madara, more than anyone, understood the value of a useful tool.
"How is the research?" Madara asked, his tone clipped but expectant.
Orochimaru bowed, a gesture that felt more performative than respectful. "It's well, Lord Madara," he said, his voice smooth and sibilant.
He slithered closer and laid down another sheaf of papers upon the desk. His long, abnormal tongue flicked out to wet his lips. "In time, I believe I will find a way to restore you to your prime. Your power, your vitality… all of it will be yours once more." His voice dropped into a whispering hiss. "Not to mention, I have a new upgrade in mind. Something I am sure will please you."
Madara's eyes narrowed. Orochimaru's eccentricities were unsettling, but his brilliance was undeniable. Why Konoha had cast him out, branding his forbidden research as taboo, baffled Madara. Hadn't Tobirama, the Second Hokage and mentor to the Third, dabbled in similar dark arts? The hypocrisy of the Leaf was a boon for Madara, delivering Orochimaru into his hands. "Work fast," he said briskly. "This is urgent."
Orochimaru bowed again, a sly glint in his eyes as he retreated. Madara watched him go, fully aware of the snake's schemes. He didn't know the details, but Orochimaru's ambitions were palpable.
That was why Madara demanded precise research notes, ensuring he could track every step. He would not be outplayed, not by some upstart who thought himself clever.
For a moment, he considered putting Orochimaru under genjutsu. But no. This work required clarity. A muddled mind would only hinder progress. He would let the snake play his games, so long as the results were satisfactory.
Returning his gaze to the research, he flipped through diagrams of cellular grafts, notes on chakra, and pages upon pages of forbidden techniques. Over his lifetime, Madara had collected countless jutsu, many too dangerous for anyone else to wield. Now, Orochimaru was tasked with unraveling them- and with studying the strange White Zetsu soldiers birthed from the husk of the Gedo Statue.
The shadows beside him bulged, then split apart as a black substance emerged, rising from the ground like thick tar. It solidified into the shape of a pitcher plant, one half pale white, the other dark as midnight.
Zetsu, his will, bowed low. "Lord Madara," the black half intoned, its voice deep and serious. "I've received intel that the Five Great Hidden Villages are forming an alliance. A pact to protect each other against the Uzumaki."
The white half wiggled its head and added brightly, "If I eat dirt, does that make me part earth style?"
Madara's expression did not so much as twitch. He had long since perfected the art of ignoring the white half's inane comments. He focused on the words of the black half.
"An alliance…" he muttered, voice low. "Keep me updated."
"Yes, my Lord," Black Zetsu replied. "Should I dispatch any Zetsu to spy on the Uzumaki?"
"No," Madara said sharply. His gaze hardened. "I have told you before- their leader can already sense you. Do not forget."
His face darkened, a bitter edge to his voice. "Mito had the same ability. I've seen it before." The memory of Mito Uzumaki, Hashirama's wife and the first Nine-Tails jinchuriki, was sore.
Zetsu nodded solemnly, the white half humming a tuneless sound before the form melted back into the ground, leaving Madara alone with his thoughts.
Kushina Uzumaki.
The name itself was an irritation. She was the largest threat to his grand design- perhaps even greater than Hashirama himself had been. With her Uzumaki vitality, her sealing arts, and her bond with the Nine-Tails, she was something no ordinary successor could ever surpass. A perfect jinchūriki. A girl with the potential to endure for decades, perhaps even centuries. Longer than he could ever hope to survive in his current shell.
Kushina Uzumaki was a problem unlike any he'd faced, rivaling even Hashirama in potential. Her Uzumaki vitality, combined with her status as a Perfect Jinchuriki, made her a near-immortal force. She could outlive him by decades, perhaps centuries, her power growing while his waned.
No successor he could cultivate would ever defeat her. The realization gnawed at him, fueling his resolve.
That left him with only one option.
If no one else could achieve it, then he would return to his prime and accomplish it himself.
The world was vast. There had to be a jutsu, buried somewhere in its depths, capable of restoring him. And with his knowledge, his resources, and Orochimaru's twisted brilliance, he would uncover it. He would rise again.
Madara's hand curled into a fist, the veins on his wrist standing out like cords.
He would bring peace to this world. Not a fleeting truce or a fragile compromise, but true peace.
Eternal peace.