The room is quiet. Too quiet.
The storm outside slams against the tower walls, but in here it's muffled, like living inside a seashell. The machines hum faintly from some unseen chamber above, rhythmic, mechanical. The same sounds. Every day. Every night.
I lie sprawled on the floor, a scroll unrolled beside me, its inked characters staring back like they're mocking me. Third time through the same paragraph. Fourth, maybe. Doesn't matter. The words slide off my brain like rain off Ame's rooftops.
I sit up with a sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. "Well, congratulations. I've officially reached the point where kanji is less exciting than staring at the wall."
The paper rustles under my fingers. I close my eyes and whisper a name, any name — Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu. My lungs swell with chakra, heat pooling in my chest. When I exhale, a small ember flickers into life in front of me before I choke it back down, not wanting to set the room ablaze.
The flame dies with a hiss, leaving only the stink of smoke and the faint scorch mark on the floor. I wave at it half-heartedly. "Yep. Add arson to the résumé. Very impressive."
I flop backward onto the mat, staring at the ceiling. The word Arata floats in my head, heavy and strange. A name that isn't mine, but now is.
"Arata," I whisper, testing it. The syllables scrape against my tongue, unfamiliar. "New. Fresh. Rebirth." I let out a bitter laugh. "Funny choice for a guy who can't even finish a flower without it looking like roadkill."
I roll over, tugging another scrap of paper toward me. My fingers fold, crease, try to mimic Konan's impossible precision. But every line I make is crooked, every petal uneven. The shape collapses into something between a bird and a crumpled shoe. I toss it aside.
The pile of failed folds is growing in the corner — my little paper graveyard.
I sit up again, restless. The room feels smaller today, the walls pressing in tighter. Comfortable, yes. Food, warmth, shelter. But it's a cage all the same. A cage lined with origami corpses and unread scrolls.
"Peaceful imprisonment," I mutter. "How poetic."
I stand, pacing. My reflection flashes in the narrow window — a stranger's face, framed by Ame's endless rain. For a moment, I see the absurdity of it all: transmigrator, guest-prisoner, the newly christened Arata.
And the worst part? I'm bored out of my mind.
I stop at the door, hand brushing the frame. The hallway beyond is long, sterile, and shadowed. And down that hall, past the locked chambers, sits the man with the Rinnegan.
A grin tugs at my lips before I can stop it. "Howdy, neighbor," I murmur under my breath, rehearsing the idiocy already forming in my head.
Because if boredom doesn't kill me… curiosity might.
The thought takes root before I can talk myself out of it. My feet move on their own, carrying me down the hall.
The air grows colder here, heavier. Every step closer to that chamber feels like trespassing across some invisible threshold. The machines hum louder, their rhythm syncing with the pounding in my chest.
Still, my grin lingers. Stupid. Reckless. But maybe stupid and reckless is all I've got left.
I stop outside the door — that door. The one I swore I wouldn't step through again so soon. My fingers drum against the frame, heartbeat loud in my ears.
Then, with the subtlety of a burglar announcing himself, I lean in and poke my head around the edge.
"Howdy, neighbor."
The Rinnegan is already open. Waiting. Endless rings turn in their stillness, locking onto me with surgical precision.
For a long moment, Nagato doesn't move. Then, in that calm, inevitable tone, he says:
"That is the eighth time this week."
I blink, caught off guard. "Oh. Uh… you've been counting?"
"Yes."
His answer lands like a weight, final and absolute.
I rub the back of my neck, trying to keep my grin from cracking. "Well, consistency is important. Builds trust, right? Neighborly rapport."
The silence is deafening.
My eyes flick toward the shadows — and, of course, there she is. Konan, materializing like she's been there all along, her cloak folding softly around her. She doesn't speak, doesn't need to. The sharp look she gives me says enough.
I raise both hands, palms out. "Relax. Just passing through. Friendly check-in. No forbidden doors this time, I promise."
Nagato doesn't react. Doesn't blink. Just watches me like one might watch the rain — inevitable, meaningless, but persistent.
I force a two-fingered salute, backing out of the room as casually as I can. "Anyway. Don't let me interrupt the god-business. Catch you later."
The doorframe swallows me back into the hall, the weight of their eyes burning between my shoulder blades until I'm out of sight.
Once I'm safely around the corner, I exhale hard, muttering under my breath. "Yep. Nailed it. Real smooth. Next step: bake him a pie."
By the time I shuffle back into my room, I feel like the walls are laughing at me.
Same scrolls. Same paper scraps. Same storm outside, hammering endlessly against steel. I pace the length of the room twice, three times, before dropping onto the mat and burying my face in my hands.
"This is it," I mumble. "This is how I die. Not in battle. Not by God's eyes, laser-beaming me into dust. Just… slowly rotting from terminal boredom."
I flop backward, arms sprawled out, staring at the ceiling like it owes me answers. "I've read the same scroll twelve times. My origami collection looks like a graveyard of deformed birds. And don't even get me started on training — I know the names of a hundred jutsu, but I can't exactly test half of them without blowing a hole in the tower."
I groan and roll over onto my stomach. My reflection stares back at me from a warped metal plate leaned against the wall. Hair is a mess. Eyes dull. A stranger named Arata.
The name rattles around in my head. New. Fresh. Rebirth. Sure. But if this is "new life," I'd hate to see the old one.
I sit up sharply. "Okay. No. Not doing this. I am not going to be the guy who folds paper and stares at walls until I'm fifty. If I'm bored, then—" I pause, blinking, an idea sparking. "Wait. If I'm bored…"
A slow grin creeps onto my face.
"…maybe god is bored too."
The thought is ridiculous. Insane. But it sticks.
I scramble for parchment, scattering scraps across the floor. Ink stains my fingertips as I start sketching crude grids and circles, drawing arrows, scribbling notes that look less like rules and more like the ramblings of a lunatic. My handwriting's a mess, but my brain is moving too fast to care.
"Alright, think. Simple. Strategic. Something Ame-themed… no, no, too depressing. Maybe… shapes? Paths? Oh! Capture rules!"
The more I scribble, the more it takes form. Not good form — more like a Frankenstein's monster of half-remembered games from my old world stitched together with nonsense. But it doesn't matter. It's something.
I sit back on my heels, parchment smudged and crumpled in my hands, grinning like I've just reinvented fire.
"Perfect. My magnum opus. Step one: survive Nagato's glare. Step two: convince him to play. Step three…" I trail off, chuckling. "Step three: pray he doesn't kill me for wasting his time."
I stand, parchment rolled under my arm. My heart's already hammering, but this time it's not just nerves — it's anticipation.
Because if I'm going to live in the shadow of godhood, I might as well try to teach god how to play a board game.
The door slides open with a groan of metal.
The chamber beyond is darker than I remember. Shadows cling to the walls, broken only by the harsh glow of Nagato's machine. The hiss of the tubes is louder here, steadier, filling the air with the cadence of life prolonged by steel.
And then I notice them.
All six Paths of Pain.
They stand against the far wall like statues, silent, unmoving, their eyes the same endless ripple as Nagato's own. Each body is a sentinel, watching but not watching, present yet hollow.
Nagato himself rests slumped in his mechanical throne, thin frame dwarfed by the cage of pipes and rods feeding into his back. His eyes are half-lidded, but when the door creaks wider, they open — and those ripples settle on me with the weight of inevitability.
Konan sits to his right, a book in her hands, the light catching strands of her indigo hair. She doesn't look up immediately, as if even my intrusion isn't enough to break her calm. Only when I step fully inside, parchment tucked under my arm, does she raise her gaze. Blue eyes narrow.
I swallow once, then grin. "Evening. Hope I'm not interrupting… divine council time."
Nagato doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. The weight of his stare pins me harder than the six silent guardians ever could.
So I press on. Because I'm either brave or too stupid to stop now.
"I, uh… I brought something." I unroll the parchment with a dramatic flick, nearly tearing it in my eagerness. The scribbled grids and arrows look absurd in the heavy glow of the chamber, like a child's doodles held up before kings.
Nagato's eyes track the paper. Konan's book closes with a soft snap.
"…What is that?" she asks, her voice even.
"Glad you asked," I say, rolling the parchment flat on a nearby table with exaggerated care. "Ladies, gentlemen, and uh… assorted demi-gods—what you are looking at… is the future of entertainment in Ame."
I gesture with a flourish. "Board games."
The silence is deafening. Even the machines seem to pause, hissing softer, as though the tower itself is embarrassed for me.
Konan's brow lifts a fraction. Nagato's expression doesn't change, but I swear one of the Paths tilts its head the tiniest bit.
"I designed a few options," I continue quickly, pulling out more parchment scraps from under my cloak. "Strategy-based, of course. Nothing too mindless. We've got… 'River Crossing,' kind of a territory-control thing. 'Storm's End,' where you race to outlast the rain. And…" I hesitate, then grin wider, "My personal favorite: 'Pain's Path.' Six pieces, six rules, and whoever controls the board controls the world."
The pun lands like a kunai to the foot. Dead silent.
I clear my throat, forcing a shrug. "So… what do you say? Pick one. I'll teach you the rules. Beats staring at walls, right?"
Nagato's gaze lingers on me, unreadable. Then, at last, his lips move.
"…And what is the purpose of victory?"
The question is calm, inevitable, but I can feel the faintest pull of something beneath it. Curiosity.
I lean on the table, meeting his gaze with a grin I don't quite feel. "To pass the time without losing your mind. Simple as that."
Konan's eyes flicker between us. The Paths remain statuesque. And Nagato… doesn't dismiss me.
Which, in this room, feels like the biggest win I've had all week.
Nagato's gaze lingers on the scattered parchments like they're relics from another world. His voice, when it finally cuts through the chamber, is low and steady.
"…Why do you want to play a board game?"
The question isn't rhetorical. It lands like an interrogation, every syllable demanding justification.
I scratch the back of my head, then smirk, raising two fingers in exaggerated air quotes. "Well, if I'm supposed to be a 'guard'—" my voice dips into mock solemnity, "—then I've gotta keep my eyes on what I'm guarding, right?"
The silence deepens. Even Konan's eyes sharpen, measuring every word.
I press on, leaning forward with a grin that feels far braver than it is. "Besides… don't tell me the Almighty God can't beat little ol' me in a board game."
The words echo, ridiculous against the hiss of machines. My chest tightens — half-expecting a black rod to lance through me right then and there.
Nagato's eyes narrow, the faintest shift in his stoic expression. The room feels heavier, the storm outside pressing harder against steel.
Then, at last, he exhales. Not a sigh. Something sharper. Annoyance.
"Fine," he says. "Let us play."
The words almost knock me over more than any threat could. My grin breaks wide as I spread the parchment across the table like a dealer laying out cards.
Nagato studies the crude sketches with an intensity that makes sweat bead at my temple. Konan sets her book aside fully now, her blue eyes glinting in the glow, half curious, half incredulous.
His gaze moves from one set of scribbles to another, then stops. One corner of my sheet has doodles of stylized kunai, shuriken, and chakra symbols arranged in crude colors. I'd labeled it with bold, messy kanji: Shinobi Uno.
Nagato lifts his gaze back to me, unreadable. "This one."
I blink. "Wait—really? Shinobi Uno?"
"Yes." His tone leaves no room for argument. "We will play… this one."
A laugh bubbles in my throat before I can stop it. "God wants Uno. Alright then." I clap my hands together, dragging parchment scraps toward us like cards. "Strap in, Nagato. I promise you — this is gonna be way more cutthroat than the cycle of hatred."
The silence after is taut. Konan doesn't react, but I swear the corner of her mouth twitches. Just barely.
Nagato leans forward in his machine, his eyes rippling with focus as though he's about to wage war.
And I realize, with equal parts terror and delight, that I may have just started the most dangerous game of Uno in history.