The storm outside hasn't stopped. It never does. But in here, the air feels… different. Charged. Like the world itself is holding its breath for something absurd.
Scraps of parchment scatter across the table. My hands fumble with the folds, creases crooked, edges uneven. Each attempt looks more like a child's flash cards than anything respectable. Across from me, Konan's fingers move with surgical grace, folding with practiced precision. Every card she touches emerges perfectly squared, ink pressed with clean, sharp strokes.
I glance at her growing stack, then at my own lopsided pile. "Unbelievable," I mutter, holding up one of mine. It's warped, edges fraying already. "You're cheating."
Konan doesn't look up. "I am efficient." Her tone is flat, but the faintest spark lingers in her eyes.
I shake my head. "Efficient, huh? Sure. Let's call it that. Meanwhile, my cards look like they crawled out of the storm gutter."
She sets down another flawless piece. Doesn't even blink.
The scrape of metal interrupts us. I turn as one of the Paths — the Deva Path, broad-shouldered, silent — moves with eerie precision. Without a word, he drags a heavy table from the corner, the sound echoing like thunder in the chamber.
Another chair follows, placed neatly beside Konan's. Then the Deva Path turns back toward the throne.
The machine hisses. Tubes groan. Slowly, Nagato's emaciated form shifts forward, carried by the mechanical arms attached to his chair. Every movement is deliberate, inevitable, as though the world bends to allow him passage.
He is wheeled up to the table like a monarch to his court. The stormlight catches the pale skin stretched taut across his frame, the shadows of steel rods protruding from his back. His eyes open — endless ripples, calm, unblinking — and they fall upon the parchment scattered across the table.
Uno cards.
I suppress a laugh at the absurdity. The god of Ame, the wielder of the Rinnegan, is seated at a table to play a game no one here should even know exists.
I bow with mock formality, sweeping one hand across my chest. "Your throne awaits, my liege. Tonight, Ame will witness the first annual Shinobi Uno Championship."
Nagato does not answer. But his gaze lingers, heavy and unreadable, as Konan slides the last perfect card into place.
The table is ready. The game is about to begin.
I spread the freshly folded cards across the table, my crooked ones mixing with Konan's immaculate stack. From above, the storm drums faintly, its rhythm syncing with the quiet hiss of Nagato's machine.
"Alright," I say, clapping my hands together. "Time to explain the sacred text of Uno."
Nagato's Rinnegan tracks me, unblinking. Konan leans forward slightly, hands folded, her gaze fixed on the cards. Even the Deva Path stands behind us, a silent monolith.
I clear my throat. "So. The goal's simple: get rid of all your cards. First one out wins. If you've got one card left, you've gotta declare it by saying 'Uno.' Fail to do that, and you draw two as punishment."
Nagato tilts his head. "Why must one announce when only one card remains?"
I blink. "…Because it's the rules?"
His gaze sharpens, endless ripples focusing. "If the goal is to conceal strength until victory, why force players to reveal their advantage at the crucial moment?"
"Because… Is it fun?" I say, my grin stretching a little thin. "Drama. Suspense. You know—tension."
Konan's lips press faintly, like she's considering the logic.
I press on, waving the top card of the deck. "Now, special cards. This is a Skip. Play it, and the next player loses their turn. This is Reverse—flips the order of play. And this…" I hold up a card inked with a rough +4 symbol, "…this is the most dangerous weapon in the deck. A Draw Four."
Nagato's eyes linger on the card. "So you may force another to suffer… not by strength, but by chance?"
"Exactly." I grin. "Brutal, isn't it?"
For the first time, I catch it—Konan's eyes flicker, just a spark, like a glint of light on glass. She leans in. "Can they be stacked?"
I blink. "Stacked?"
She nods, gaze sharp, intent. "If you play a +4… and it is my turn next. Could I play another +4… and pass the burden further?"
I hesitate, then grin wider. "Oh, absolutely. And if the next player doesn't have a +4, they eat it all. Eight cards, gone."
For the first time since I've known her, Konan's composure shifts. Just slightly. The corner of her mouth doesn't quite curl, but her eyes light faintly with something I've never seen in them before—anticipation.
I point a finger at her, mock-accusing. "Oh no. That sparkle in your eyes? That's dangerous. That's not just strategy. That's malice."
Her gaze flicks to mine, cool, steady. "It is efficiency."
Nagato exhales, machine hissing with him. "…So victory is not determined by fairness, but by cruelty."
"Welcome to Uno," I say, throwing my arms out wide. "Where friendship goes to die."
The chamber is silent for a beat. Then Konan lifts a card from the pile, studying it with sharp interest. Nagato's Rinnegan does not blink.
And for the first time, I realize this might be the deadliest game of Uno in history.
The deck sits in the center of the table, neat and squared — Konan's folds, not mine. I shuffle them with exaggerated flair, slapping the stack down like a street hustler about to fleece tourists.
"Alright," I announce, dealing cards. "Seven each. Let the games begin."
Konan gathers her hand with sharp, efficient movements, her eyes scanning her cards once, twice, committing the entire spread to memory. Nagato lifts his own slowly, thin fingers trembling faintly as the machine hisses behind him, but his gaze is steady, rings fixed on the cards like he's dissecting them.
The Deva Path takes its hand without comment, pale fingers curling around the parchment. It doesn't blink. Doesn't twitch. Just… holds the cards, waiting.
I fan myself, trying to hide my grin. Okay, decent hand. Two skips, a draw two, a couple of colors. This might actually work.
I flip the first card onto the discard pile — blue six. "Konan starts."
Without hesitation, she slides a card forward. Blue Skip. Her eyes flick to Nagato.
He stares at the table, then at her. "…You denied me before I began."
"It is efficient," she says simply, her face calm, unreadable.
My grin falters. "Wait, already? That's—"
"Your turn," she cuts in smoothly.
I scramble, toss down a blue reverse. "Ha! Back to you, Konan."
She doesn't blink. Places another Skip. Straight onto me.
I gape. "Excuse me—what?!"
Nagato exhales sharply, leaning forward. "Play."
Deva Path moves silently. A red two hits the pile. The hollow ripple of his Rinnegan fixes on me, waiting.
I scramble for a match, fumbling. "Okay, okay, red two, I can—wait, no, it skips me—"
"Correct," Konan says flatly, already laying down a red +2. Her gaze shifts. "Nagato."
The god of Ame looks down at the pile, then at his cards. Slowly, he places another +2.
My eyes widen. "No, wait—does that—"
Konan's hand moves like a blade. Another +2. Her eyes never leave Nagato's.
"…Draw six," she says calmly.
The machine hisses. Nagato's fingers tighten around his cards. His eyes narrow, ripples contracting with quiet fury.
He draws. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
The cards look oversized in his skeletal hands. The storm outside rumbles like laughter.
I throw my hands in the air. "This is insane. I thought Uno was supposed to be about luck, but this—this is targeted assassination!"
Konan calmly adjusts her hand, perfectly squared, her gaze sharp. "It is efficiency."
The Deva Path lays another card. Silent. Merciless.
I lean back in my chair, staring at my useless hand, and whisper under my breath: "What the hell have I unleashed?"
By the third game, the storm outside sounds quieter than the chaos at the table.
I slump over my hand of cards, watching in horror as Konan dismantles us with mechanical precision. Her gaze never wavers, her movements crisp, efficient — every Skip, every Reverse, every +2 placed like a blade at the jugular.
Nagato sits stiff in his machine, the hiss of tubes sharp with every exhale. His hands clutch his cards tightly, too tightly for a man meant to embody divine calm. The ripple of his eyes narrows as though each concentric ring sharpens with his frustration.
The Deva Path, silent as always, has become the table's shadow executioner. When it plays, it's merciless — no hesitation, no pause. Just the cold inevitability of another card hitting the pile.
Me? I'm somewhere between entertained and traumatized.
"Alright, alright," I say, leaning forward as Nagato lays down his second-to-last card. "Big play from the god of Ame! Look at that form. Look at that confidence. This could be it—"
Nagato sets the card, breath steady, gaze fixed.
Then Konan's voice cuts in, cool and calm. "You did not say Uno."
The chamber goes silent.
Nagato freezes. His fingers twitch against the parchment. Slowly, he looks at her, those ripples contracting with sharp intensity. "…What?"
"Penalty," she says, sliding the draw pile toward him. "Two cards."
I slap a hand over my mouth, trying not to burst out laughing. My eyes water with the effort. "Oh my god—Nagato, the literal god of pain—forgot to say Uno."
The machine hisses louder as he draws. One. Two. Each card slid into his skeletal hands like nails hammered into a coffin.
The next few turns go quickly — Konan mercilessly Skip-skipping me into oblivion, the Deva Path reversing the flow back onto Nagato, who fumbles with his overstuffed hand. The storm outside rattles the steel, but in here, the only storm is on the table.
At last, Konan lays down her final card with perfect calm. "Uno. Victory."
She sets her cards neatly aside. Eyes sharp. Face impassive. But for the faintest instant — faintest — I swear I see the glint of satisfaction in her gaze.
I collapse forward, laughing into my arms. "She's unstoppable. She's the Uno queen of Ame. We're just mortals in her empire."
Nagato's composure cracks. His hand slams the table, the machine clanging in protest. The Rinnegan burns into Konan, into me, into the very pile of cards.
"…Again," he says, voice sharper than steel.
I peek up at him, still grinning like an idiot. "Rematch, huh? Careful, neighbor. You're starting to sound addicted."
His gaze snaps to me. "Again."
The Deva Path silently begins reshuffling the deck. Konan squares her cards, unruffled, efficient as ever.
I lean back, still laughing, still in awe of the sheer absurdity. The god of Ame, breaker of nations, wielder of the Rinnegan — demanding rematches because he can't beat Konan at Uno.
Somewhere deep down, I think Yahiko would've laughed himself sick at this.
The deck is reshuffled. Cards dealt. The storm rattles faintly beyond the steel walls, but in here, the real storm is already brewing.
Konan plays her hand like she's weaving origami — precise, sharp, efficient. Every move slices the table into submission. She wins the next game. Then the one after. Then the next.
By the fifth round, I'm staring at her like she's not just folding cards, but folding reality.
"Unbelievable," I mutter, throwing my hands up. "She's not even human. She's a machine. An Uno machine."
Nagato's lips tighten, his gaze never leaving his growing pile of cards. His mechanical chair hisses louder with each inhale, each exhale.
Then it happens.
The Deva Path, silent as always, slides a +4 onto the pile with surgical calm. Its pale fingers retreat like nothing significant has happened.
Nagato's rings narrow. His thin chest rises. His gaze sharpens.
My grin cracks wide. "Oh-ho-ho, the shadow player strikes! The god gets punished! What's it gonna be, Nagato? Four cards or—"
But before I can finish, I lean forward, trembling, unable to hold back anymore. With the slowest, most dramatic motion I can manage, I slide my own +4 onto the pile.
The room freezes.
Nagato's Rinnegan locks on me. Unblinking. Cold. Eternal. For once, I think I've actually overstepped.
Then his gaze shifts, slow as a storm turning, to Konan.
A bead of sweat rolls down his temple.
I can't breathe. I'm shaking with barely contained laughter, waiting to see if this moment kills me or crowns me.
And then — Konan, without a word, without even a twitch of hesitation, slides down her own +4.
The sound it makes against the table is thunder.
I choke, laughter exploding out of me, tears stinging my eyes. "Oh my god—Nagato—you're dead! You're absolutely—"
"Draw twelve," Konan says, voice calm as rain.
Nagato stares at her. Stares at the pile. The machine hisses, louder, angrier. His skeletal hand trembles as it reaches for the draw stack.
One.Two.Three.Four.Each card scraped into his hand like another nail in his composure.
By the time he hits twelve, his stack bulges. By eighteen — because of course he already had six in hand — it looks like a damn scroll library.
I collapse against the table, clutching my stomach, howling with laughter. "Eighteen cards! The god of Ame with eighteen cards! I can't—Konan, you're ruthless! This is divine punishment, this is—"
Nagato's rings narrow, his pale lips pressed thin, fury trembling in the air around him. But behind him, Konan's blue eyes glint — sharper, but softer too, the faintest curl of something dangerously close to playfulness tugging at her face.
And me? I'm laughing so hard I think I might actually die.
The hiss of Nagato's machine cuts sharper. His Rinnegan narrows. And then—
Movement.
From the shadows, the Asura Path surges forward, mechanical limbs unfolding with a screech of metal. In a blink, its hands aren't hands anymore — they're clawed clamps, gears, a nd wires snapping into place.
Before I can react, it lunges across the table. A roll of duct tape unfurls from its arm with a violent hiss.
"What the—?!"
I scramble backward, but the Path slams me against the chair, one hand pinning my jaw shut as the other winds tape across my mouth with brutal efficiency.
"Mmmphh! MMPHHH!" My protests are muffled, my laughter choked into garbled wheezes.
Nagato's voice cuts through the chaos, calm but edged. "…You laugh too loudly."
My eyes widen. He's serious. Deadly serious.
Instinct kicks in — I slam my cards against my chest, curling my arms around them like a gambler protecting a jackpot. No way in hell am I letting Nagato's god-eyes see my hand through the Asura Path.
The machine-hand tightens on my shoulder, and panic surges. If he sees these cards, if he knows… I'm finished.
Then — a blur of movement.
Konan.
She moves faster than I thought possible, vaulting over the table in a sweep of paper wings. Her cloak flares, scattering faint slips of parchment as she lands between me and the Asura Path, one hand pressing over my cards, shielding them.
Her blue eyes lock with the puppet's ripple-pattern gaze. Cold. Defiant.
"Enough."
The Asura Path freezes, mechanical whine cutting off mid-grind. Its head cocks, expression unreadable.
But Nagato can see through it. I know he can. Which means right now, those Rinnegan eyes aren't just watching me — they're watching her.
My heart pounds. Konan's hand is still braced against mine, covering the cards, holding them against my chest. Protective. Absolute.
The silence stretches. The hiss of Nagato's machine fills it.
Then, slowly, the Asura Path withdraws. Its limbs fold back, duct tape hissing as it retracts. It steps into the shadows once more, vanishing like a nightmare half-swallowed by the dark.
Konan pulls her hand away, smooth and deliberate, then straightens. Her face is composed again, impassive, but her eyes flicker with something sharp as she looks at me.
"Protect your hand," she says, voice even. "That is the rule."
I rip the tape from my mouth with a hiss of pain, coughing, laughing weakly through the sting. "Well, damn. Uno's never been this intense."
Nagato doesn't answer. His eyes linger, unreadable, eternal.
But as I gather my cards again, chest still pounding, I swear the faintest tremor of amusement hides behind the storm in those ripples.
The silence doesn't hold.
Nagato's machine hisses louder, the tubes trembling like veins ready to burst. The ripple of his eyes sharpens, narrowing on me, then on Konan, then back again.
And then — the air shifts.
The Deva Path moves first. Its hand rises, palm out, chakra distorting the air in ripples. "Shinra Tensei."
The pressure slams into the table, shoving me back in my chair so hard I nearly topple. Cards scatter from my grip — but the deck, the pile, the game itself? Perfectly still, not a single slip out of place, as though the laws of physics have agreed not to touch it.
"Seriously?!" I bark, coughing as I scramble upright. "You're nuking me over Uno?!"
My own hands flash through signs before my brain can argue. "Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu!"
I exhale, and a roaring fireball launches across the chamber toward Nagato's frail body. For a heartbeat, horror seizes me — oh shit, I just tried to barbecue god.
But the Preta Path steps forward, calm as stone. Its hands rise, absorbing the flames into nothingness. Smoke hisses out, leaving the chamber scorched but intact.
Nagato's expression never shifts.
"Okay," I pant, fanning my singed cloak, "that was a friendly tap, I swear. Just—uh—UNO rage."
The air shivers again. Paper rustles.
Konan's hands unfold, wings flaring, sheets of parchment tearing into shuriken that slice through the air with precision. They whistle past me, embedding in the wall near the Asura Path, which shifts forward again in response.
Steel claws whirr. A cannon arm begins to unfold with a shriek of gears.
And me? I dive under the table, clutching my hand of cards to my chest. "Everyone, calm down! This isn't the finals of the Chūnin Exams—this is Uno!"
Explosions rumble. The storm outside howls. Shuriken bite into steel. Fire and chakra crackle in the air.
And yet — in the center of it all, the discard pile remains untouched. Cards stacked neatly, the top showing a mocking red +2, as if daring someone to keep the round going.
The chaos finally stills. Konan stands poised, papers fluttering around her like feathers. The Paths withdraw to their posts, mechanical limbs folding back. Nagato's eyes never leave me, their eternal ripples unreadable.
Smoke curls in the chamber. My cloak is half-singed. My throat is raw.
And there, between us all, the Uno deck waits patiently.
I peek over the table, grin cracking through my ash-streaked face. "Sooo… whose turn is it?"
--
(Nagato's Perspective)
The chamber breathes with smoke. The walls are blackened, scorched in jagged arcs where fire licked steel. Shredded parchment lies like snowdrifts across the floor. The air tastes of ash and ozone.
My machine hisses as it sustains me, its metallic arms groaning faintly as the tubes throb with every shallow breath I take. Through the eyes of my Paths, I watch the wreckage. They move without sound, without hesitation — Deva lifting a broken table leg, Preta sweeping smoldering scraps, Asura retracting its weapons as gears lock back into place. Efficiency. Order.
But my true eyes — my own rippling rings — linger on the scene at the center.
Arata.
His cloak is half-destroyed, one sleeve burned to ribbons. His face is streaked with soot, hair wild from the blasts. And yet… he laughs. His grin is wide, reckless, unbroken. He clutches his crooked cards to his chest like treasure, even as the room still smolders around him.
I do not understand him. But he does not bend.
And Konan—
She still holds a paper shuriken clone in her hand, its edges sharp, precise. But her shoulders are looser than I have seen in years. Her lips curl faintly, a sound slipping from her that has been buried beneath the storm for so long—laughter.
It is not loud. It is not wild. But it is joy.
And I have not heard it since Yahiko.
The memory cuts through me like a blade. Yahiko's laughter — easy, unguarded, warm like the sunlight we never saw in Ame. I hear it again now, layered faintly beneath Konan's quiet joy, as though the two overlap in my ears.
My chest tightens. The storm outside howls against the tower walls, but for once, it does not drown her out.
I shift faintly in my machine, watching her. Watching him. Wondering.
If Arata had been here before… if his chaos, his irreverence, his refusal to bow had crossed our path earlier… would Yahiko have laughed louder? Would Konan have smiled more freely? Would the world have been different?
The question lingers, bitter, dangerous. But then it fades, replaced by something quieter.
No.
The past is carved in blood and rain. Yahiko is gone. That will not change.
And yet—
Even in Ame. Even in this tower of steel and storm. There can be moments like this. Small ones. Fragile ones. Good ones.
I let my eyes close briefly, the machine hissing, my body weightless in its grip. The chamber is still ruined. The storm still rages. Pain still binds me.
But Konan laughs.
And for the first time in so long, I do not resent the sound.
--
The hours bleed together. The storm outside is a constant drum, a backdrop to the rise and fall of voices, the sharp slap of cards on the table, the hiss of Nagato's machine.
I've lost count of how many games we've played. Konan's won most of them — no surprise there. She's ruthless, efficient, unbeatable. The Deva Path, silent as ever, claimed one victory when none of us saw it coming. I've snuck in two, maybe three wins, my triumphs loud enough to shake the rafters.
But this time—
Nagato lays down his last card with steady fingers. His chest rises, machine hissing. The ripple of his eyes fixes on the pile.
"Uno," he says softly. Then, with finality: "Victory."
For a moment, the chamber is silent.
Then I slump back in my chair, throwing my hands up. "Finally. Took you long enough, neighbor."
His face doesn't change — no smile, no outward shift. But something is there. A faint stillness. A weight lifted. Satisfaction that doesn't need to be spoken.
I rub my eyes, exhaustion catching up with me. My clothes are half-burned, my throat raw from laughing too much, my head pounding with fatigue. But for the first time since Ame pulled me in, I don't mind.
"Well," I groan, standing, "I'm beat. Gotta crash before Konan skips me into the afterlife again. But hey—" I grin, waving a card lazily in the air, "—that was fun. Maybe next time, we can play something better."
Konan arches a brow, calm, curious. "Better?"
"Yeah," I say, already heading for the door. "Like… Monopoly."
Her gaze sharpens, blue eyes narrowing faintly at the foreign word. But I don't explain. I just grin wider and slip out, leaving the storm behind me.
The chamber falls quiet again. The Paths resume their silent vigil.
Konan turns, watching Nagato. His hands rest empty now, his chest rising steady against the machine's hiss. His eyes, eternal ripples, linger on the table where his last card still lies.
For the first time in so long, he looks… at peace. Not whole. Not healed. But content in a small, fragile way.
Konan's gaze softens. The warmth in her eyes eases something deep in him that has been cold since Yahiko's death.
Nagato exhales, voice low, steady, almost gentle.
"Even in a world like this… there are still opportunities for good moments to exist."
The storm rumbles outside, endless as ever. But within these walls, for the first time in years, there is something other than pain.