"Konoha's White Fang…"
Uchiha Madara's crimson eyes lingered over the report, a rare flicker of interest in his expression.
"The strongest in Konoha right now," Black Zetsu murmured beside him. "He's already close to your level, Madara."
White Zetsu had been observing from beneath the battlefields. The intel was fresh.
"Close to my level?" Madara's lips twisted into a sneer. "Do you even understand my strength?"
To him, slicing apart a mountain was nothing impressive. Child's play. His power could level far worse.
White Fang? A talented junior, nothing more.
Black Zetsu chuckled darkly. "Close enough, at least to be worthy of comparison." He knew better than to overstate. Not even Madara could dismiss that single blade. But White Fang could only unleash it once before his body gave out. Madara, by contrast, could wield his overwhelming strength endlessly.
In Madara's eyes, the whole shinobi world was filled with nothing but chickens and dogs. Toys. The only true rival he had ever known was Senju Hashirama.
Still, his smirk lingered. "Interesting. Perhaps this world won't be so dull after all. If I crush only weaklings on the way to my dream, it would be far too boring. Let a few strong ones rise—it makes the game more fun."
Black Zetsu's tone shifted. "The root of White Fang's strength lies in Uchiha Jinzō's foundation technique."
Madara's eyes narrowed at the name. He had been watching that boy for some time. Even had copies of Jinzō's three-tier internal strength method in his own hands, courtesy of White Zetsu's infiltration.
Konoha hadn't noticed. How could they, when even Danzo possessed a copy outside the sealed scrolls? It had been laughably easy to obtain.
And through it, Madara extended his lifespan. That crude technique concealed a rare, almost accidental life-prolonging effect.
"Are you grooming Jinzō as your heir?" Black Zetsu asked, his voice half-innocent, half-calculating. Jinzō's ability to create and deduce ninjutsu made him a dangerous chess piece.
But Madara shook his head slowly.
"No. Uchiha Jinzō carries darkness too naturally. He cannot awaken the Mangekyō."
Madara's gaze sharpened. "The Mangekyō blooms only when a bright heart is torn into despair. For Jinzō? Darkness is home. He wouldn't even notice the descent."
Madara's voice was half scorn, half awe. In all his years, he had never seen such a twisted Uchiha.
"But without the Mangekyō, he's useless. No better than that Senju cur, Tobirama."
Black Zetsu pressed on. "What about Fugaku?"
"Fugaku?" Madara snorted. "A coward. A man who bows his head and bears the village's weight like a mule. Even if he awakens the Mangekyō, he'll accomplish nothing. He'd be crushed by politics before he ever touched greatness. Easier to control, perhaps. But in the end? A waste."
Madara closed his eyes. "No. For an heir… we'll keep waiting. If this generation yields nothing, then the next will. The chakra I've built through Jinzō's method will hold me long enough."
Black Zetsu's voice dropped lower, like poison seeping into cracks. "But Konoha's strength is swelling too fast. White Fang. The Sannin. Hiruzen and Danzō. Even that brute Maito Dai. Seven elite-level fighters already, and who knows what else they hide? If it continues, no alliance of villages will stop them. The world will crawl back to Hashirama's peace."
Peace. The word burned like acid.
Madara's eyes opened, glowing red. Peace meant failure. It meant the end of his dream.
"In that case," he murmured, "we'll balance the scales. Spread Jinzō's technique. Not from us—from Kirigakure. In the Mist's name, gift it to the other villages. Force them to grow stronger."
Black Zetsu bowed, his grin unseen in the dark. "As you command."
For the dream of Infinite Tsukuyomi… all sacrifices were acceptable.
The Land of Rain.
A rolling wave of purple poison mist devoured the battlefield.
From atop the colossal body of his salamander summon, Hanzo loomed like death itself, his mask hissing as it filtered the toxin.
Everywhere, shinobi fell back—Sand, Stone, even Konoha. Those who lingered too long coughed blood and collapsed, bodies twitching before they went still. The Rain ninja swarmed in their wake, burying kunai in necks and chests.
Of all the great villages, Konoha suffered least—many of their shinobi managed to endure long enough to drag their comrades to safety. But not all of them.
One Konoha ninja, his leg shredded and no allies nearby, fell to his knees before Hanzo's looming figure.
"Hanzo! Do you mean to make yourself Konoha's enemy? If you kill us, the White Fang will come for you!"
Hanzo's scythe glinted in the mist as he peered down from his summon's back.
"White Fang?" His voice was steady, cold. "Your great villages invade my land, drive my people from their homes, and reduce the Land of Rain to rubble. And you threaten me?"
The chain rattled as he hurled the scythe.
"Then let him come. I want to see if his blade is sharper than mine!"
The sickle tore through the mist and into the Konoha shinobi's skull. His body crumpled lifelessly at Hanzo's feet.
Hanzo's voice carried like thunder across the choking battlefield.
"Konoha! Iwa! Suna! The age of your arrogance ends today! You want war? Then Amegakure will give you war!"
The rain poured harder, as if the sky itself was crying for the Land of Rain.
One by one, figures emerged from the ruins—Rain ninja, forehead protectors gleaming through the mist. They surrounded the retreating remnants of all three great villages.
Their voices rose in unison.
"You want a fight? Then we'll fight!"
The poison mist surged outward like a living tide.
And in that moment, Hanzo of the Salamander—the Demigod of the Shinobi World—declared war on the Three Great Villages.