System in Assassin's Creed

Chapter 367: Chapter 366: The Strings of the Puppet and the Gutsy Shinobi

Hidden Chamber - Beneath Amegakure Tower

The subterranean chamber was an enclave of stagnant, suffocating despair, entirely divorced from the roaring, apocalyptic devastation that had just scarred the sky above. Here, in the damp belly of the rain-choked city, the air smelled of rusted iron, stale blood, and the bitter, unmistakable scent of slow death.

”...”

Konan did not hesitate. The moment the heavy, reinforced vaulted door vanished into a shower of metallic shrapnel under Alaric’s casual command, she stepped forward. Her paper-infused robes rustled sharply in the damp air as she placed her slender body directly between the towering blonde anomaly and the crippled man suspended in the mechanical walker. Her amber eyes were wide, fierce, and utterly unyielding, radiating the desperate, protective ferocity of a cornered hawk shielding its broken nest.

”Stop,” Nagato coughed, the sound a wet, rattling gasp that shook his emaciated frame.

His chest heaved against the myriad of black chakra rods piercing his back and ribs. Blood leaked steadily from his empty, gouged eye sockets, tracking down his pale, sunken cheeks like crimson tears. He raised a frail, trembling hand, his voice little more than a hollow echo of the god he had pretended to be. ”Let him pass, Konan... I’m dying anyways. There is no point in throwing your life away for a shattered vessel.”

Konan looked over her shoulder at Nagato, her jaw tightening as she visibly warred with her own absolute devotion. She looked back at Alaric, her eyes searching the man’s relaxed, unthreatening posture for a trick. Finding only a calm, observant stillness, she finally, reluctantly surrendered. She let out a soft, shuddering breath and stepped slowly to the side, clearing the line of sight between the architect of their ruin and the fallen leader of the Akatsuki.

”Damn, you’re a skeleton,” Alaric commented, his blue eyes sweeping over the horrific, emaciated state of the man strapped into the mechanical walker.

There wasn’t a single tint of sarcasm or mockery in his voice; it was a blunt, clinical observation of a biological tragedy. ”Your body wasn’t really made to handle the immense, continuous strain of the Rinnegan. Those eyes practically cannibalized your life force just to keep themselves powered.”

Nagato’s frail hands twitched against the armrests of his walker. Despite the physical agony wracking his system, the casual, dismissive assessment of his divine gifts struck a deeply dissonant chord within his fractured psyche.

”What do you mean?” Nagato rasped, tilting his ruined face blindly toward the sound of Alaric’s voice. ”These eyes... they awakened in my youth. They were born from the crucible of my trauma. When my parents were slaughtered before me, and later, when I had to protect Yahiko... the pain unlocked the power of the Sage.”

Alaric merely sighed, reaching into the breast pocket of his flak jacket. He unsealed a fresh Celestial Cigar, placing it between his teeth. With a subtle pulse of his golden chakra, a spark ignited at the tip of his index finger, lighting the tobacco perfectly. He took a long, savory drag, allowing the rich smoke to fill his lungs as he considered how to systematically dismantle the man’s entire worldview.

But before Alaric could formulate the brutal truth, the heavy, echoing sound of footsteps breached the quiet cavern.

Jiraiya stepped through the ruined threshold of the vault.

The legendary Toad Sage walked slowly, his usual boisterous energy entirely absent, replaced by the crushing, gravitational weight of a father entering a morgue. He looked at the paper-winged woman standing defensively to the side, and then his dark eyes locked onto the frail, bleeding husk of the man suspended in the machine.

Konan and Nagato both stiffened, a profound wave of surprise washing over them. They hadn’t expected the Sannin to be here, but given that the apocalyptic battle outside had ceased, Konan didn’t raise her paper blades. The fight was over; all that remained were the ghosts of the Rain.

”Nagato... Konan...” Jiraiya breathed, his voice cracking under the immense strain of his guilt.

He stood there, his hands hanging uselessly by his sides. He had spent decades traversing the continent, searching for peace, writing tales of heroes, and yet, the children he had nurtured, the orphans he had desperately tried to save, had mutated into the very monsters he sought to destroy.

He looked at the horrific state of his former student, and a profound, agonizing pang of failure struck his heart. He didn’t know what to say. The apologies lodged in his throat felt entirely inadequate.

”Sensei,” Nagato murmured.

Though he lacked the visual prowess to see the man, the distinct, familiar warmth of Jiraiya’s chakra signature washed over him, triggering a torrential flood of memories... a small, warm cabin, the scent of roasting fish, and the hopeful, naive dreams of three orphans who believed they could change the world.

A heavy, incredibly awkward silence blanketed the subterranean room, thick with unspoken regrets and the bitter taste of paths permanently lost.

Nagato swallowed hard, violently forcing his mind away from the sentimental agony of the reunion. He turned his blind, bleeding face back toward Alaric.

”Answer me,” Nagato demanded, his voice regaining a fraction of its former, commanding resonance. ”What did you mean when you said my body wasn’t made for the Rinnegan? What did you mean by implying they were not mine?”

”I meant exactly what I said, Nagato,” Alaric replied evenly, his tone completely devoid of pity. ”The Rinnegan isn’t yours. You were merely holding them.”

Alaric took a step closer, pausing to look critically at the slow, steady stream of dark blood weeping from Nagato’s empty eye sockets. The sheer, visceral gore of it made the blonde anomaly’s nose wrinkle in profound distaste.

”Yeah... no,” Alaric grimaced, shaking his head as he walked directly over to the suspended man, a movement that caused Konan to instantly tense, her hands instinctively folding into paper seals. Alaric ignored her entirely. ”It’s incredibly uncomfortable trying to have a serious, philosophical conversation with a skeleton-looking man whose eye sockets are actively bleeding out onto the floor.”

Alaric raised his right hand, hovering his glowing palm mere inches from Nagato’s ruined face.

’Hourglass of Samsara.’

A brilliant, complex spherical matrix of golden sealing kanji materialized in the damp air. The temporal fuinjutsu aggressively seized the localized space around Nagato’s head, forcibly rewinding the catastrophic tissue damage inflicted by Obito’s crude extraction. Alaric couldn’t restore the Rinnegan... the physical eyes had been entirely removed from this specific set of coordinates and transported to another dimension... but the technique effortlessly re-knit the torn optic nerves, closed the severed blood vessels, and smoothly stitched the pale eyelids back together, erasing the horrific, bleeding voids.

Nagato gasped, coughing weakly as the searing pain in his skull abruptly vanished, replaced by a cool, soothing numbness.

Seeing that the gruesome bleeding had stopped, Alaric took a few deliberate steps backward, granting Konan the physical space she required to lower her guard. He then flicked his wrist, channeling a subtle pulse of Wood Release.

Creaaak.

A sturdy, polished wooden chair sprouted directly from the metal grating of the floor. Alaric sank into it, crossing his long legs at the ankle and resting his arm across the backrest, looking completely at home in the gloomy cavern.

”To answer your question,” Alaric sighed, exhaling a thin stream of gray smoke. ”The Rinnegan you possessed wasn’t a miraculous mutation born of your suffering. It belonged to Uchiha Madara.”

The revelation struck the room like a physical blow.

Despite his blindness, Nagato’s head snapped up. Konan’s amber eyes widened in absolute shock, and even Jiraiya, who had spent years hunting rumors of the Akatsuki’s origins, stared at Alaric in stunned silence.

”The Rinnegan does not simply activate because someone experiences profound emotional trauma,” Alaric explained, his voice taking on the rhythmic, academic cadence of a lecturer dismantling a flawed thesis. ”It doesn’t work that way. The Sharingan thrives on emotional catalyst, yes. But to awaken the eyes of the Sage, one must be a direct reincarnate of one of the Sage of Six Paths’ children, and subsequently fuse their chakra with the DNA of the other child’s reincarnate. It is a precise, biological alchemy. Emotional trauma just doesn’t cut it, Nagato. You were chosen as a vessel because of your immense Uzumaki life force, capable of sustaining the eyes without dying immediately.”

”So that man...” Konan murmured, the pieces of the puzzle violently rearranging themselves in her brilliant mind. She thought of the masked figure who had manipulated them from the shadows, the man who had ordered the extraction. ”...Tobi. He is Uchiha Madara.”

”No,” Alaric corrected, shaking his head.

He took another drag from his cigar, letting the ember glow fiercely in the dark. ”The man behind the orange spiral mask is not Madara. His name is Uchiha Obito.”

Jiraiya flinched, the name echoing painfully alongside the fresh, bleeding wounds of Kakashi’s earlier breakdown.

”Obito was rescued and trained by the actual, elderly Madara Uchiha right before Madara finally succumbed to old age,” Alaric continued, effortlessly laying bare the greatest conspiracy of the era. ”The timeline doesn’t match up with standard history, but as you know, Nagato, the Gedo Mazo acts as a massive life-support system. Madara used the demonic statue to artificially extend his miserable life long enough to find a suitable, malleable successor.”

Nagato’s hands gripped the armrests of his walker, his knuckles turning stark white. His voice, when it came, was a fragile, trembling whisper. ”So why... why does this Obito Uchiha run around wearing the mask and acting as Madara?”

”Because that was the core of Madara’s grand design,” Alaric replied, showing no mercy in his dissection of the truth. ”Madara needed a younger, highly mobile agent to traverse the continent, collect the Tailed Beasts, and ultimately manipulate you into using the Rinne Tensei to resurrect Madara’s prime body when the time was right. Obito utilized the guise of Madara because the sheer weight of that name commands absolute fear and respect across the ninja world. It gave your little organization immediate, terrifying credibility.”

The silence that followed was absolute, suffocating, and entirely devoid of hope.

Nagato slumped back against the cold, metal frame of his walker. The unyielding, divine conviction that had fueled his every waking moment... the belief that he was a god chosen by the universe to bring peace through shared pain... shattered into a million irreparable pieces.

He was not a god. He was not a savior.

”My whole life...” Nagato murmured, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping his pale lips. ”...I was nothing but a tool. A blind, arrogant pawn being manipulated on a board I couldn’t even see.”

”Yes,” Alaric agreed bluntly, offering no comforting platitudes. ”You were heavily manipulated.”

Alaric leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his piercing blue eyes locking onto the broken man.

”But,” Alaric added, his voice hardening into something sharp and unforgiving, ”you cannot simply blame Obito and Madara for everything you have done, Nagato. They only planted the eyes in your skull. Obito appeared much, much later in your life. The destruction you caused, the innocent lives you extinguished, the god-complex you wrapped yourself in... those beliefs and those actions were entirely your own.”

Nagato gritted his teeth, a desperate, defensive spark igniting in his chest. He could not let the suffering of his people, the death of Yahiko, be rendered meaningless.

”My beliefs are the only absolute truth in this cursed world!” Nagato countered, his voice rising, vibrating with the frantic energy of a drowning man clinging to debris. ”True peace can only be achieved when everyone intimately understands the exact same agony! Pain is the only equalizer!”

”Your philosophy is fundamentally flawed, Nagato,” Alaric cut him off smoothly, his tone slicing through the rhetoric with cold logic. ”Because you sought to stop the cycle of hatred by actively perpetuating that exact same cycle.”

Alaric gestured with his cigar, outlining the tragic paradox of the Akatsuki.

”You grew up as a war orphan. You lost your parents to collateral damage. You watched Yahiko die because of the political machinations of tyrants like Hanzo and Danzo. You have incredibly justifiable, perfectly understandable reasons for your views,” Alaric conceded, validating the man’s suffering without validating his actions. ”But your method was paradoxical. By forcing the world to experience shared pain under the threat of absolute annihilation, you weren’t creating a genuine, lasting peace. You were simply creating a global dictatorship ruled entirely by fear.”

Alaric shook his head. ”Fear is not peace. Fear is just a ceasefire waiting for the bomb to go off.”

Nagato stayed utterly silent. The remaining fight drained out of him, leaving him completely, devastatingly empty. The logic was sound, the reality undeniable. He had built an empire of corpses to mourn a single friend, and in doing so, he had become the very tyrant he despised.

Konan looked at the man she had loved and protected for decades, her heart breaking as she saw the absolute defeat settling over him. She turned her amber eyes toward Alaric, her voice trembling but demanding.

”If Nagato’s ways are incorrect,” Konan challenged, seeking a lifeline in the dark, ”then what is the right way? How do you sever the chain of hatred in a world built on blood?”

Alaric took a long, slow drag from his cigar, exhaling the smoke into the stagnant air of the cavern. He didn’t answer her. Instead, he turned his head slowly, motioning with his hand toward the silent, grieving man standing near the doorway.

”What is your answer to that, Jiraiya-san?” Alaric asked, his voice carrying a sudden, respectful gravity.

Jiraiya, who was still drowning in the guilt and sorrow of seeing his students reduced to this tragic state, blinked, genuinely surprised that he was suddenly thrust into the center of the philosophical debate.

The Toad Sage took a long moment, looking at the broken, eyeless face of Nagato, and the desperate, pleading gaze of Konan. He let out a deep, heavy sigh, reaching up to rub the back of his neck as the weight of his years settled heavily upon his broad shoulders.

”I... I honestly don’t know the exact answer,” Jiraiya admitted, his voice rough, stripped of all bravado and ego. ”The world is vast, and the hatred runs deeper than the roots of the trees. But all I can say is that... I will never stop looking for it.”

Jiraiya took a step forward, his dark eyes shining with a profound, unyielding conviction that had survived three wars.

”Revenge was never the answer. A one-world order governed by fear will never be the answer,” Jiraiya said, his voice steadying, carrying the wisdom of a man who had seen the absolute worst of humanity and still chose to hope. ”Rather than inflicting our suffering upon others, it is vastly better to simply endure the pain ourselves, so that the next generation does not have to carry it.”

A sad, nostalgic smile touched the Sannin’s lips.

”That is exactly why my very first book... The Tale of the Utterly Gutsy Shinobi... was such a huge inspiration to myself,” Jiraiya continued, looking directly at Nagato. ”Because it was the story of a hero who never, ever gives up on the pursuit of peace, no matter how much the world breaks him. It is infinitely better if people were to have faith in each other, rather than to fear each other.”

Alaric nodded his head slowly in profound, silent agreement, taking a final drag from his cigar as he watched the philosophical culmination of the tragedy.

Nagato stared blindly in the direction of his former master. He took his time, the silence in the cavern deafening as the words washed over him, stripping away the heavy, suffocating armor of his godhood.

Slowly, a weak, genuine chuckle escaped his frail body.

”It seems...” Nagato whispered, a beautiful, tragic serenity settling over his ruined features, ”...that everything I believed in was just fundamentally wrong in the end.”

He rested his head back against the cold metal of his chair.

”I should have remembered your teachings, Sensei,” Nagato murmured, his voice softening into a peaceful, exhausted surrender. ”I should have never forgotten them. But... it was only ever Yahiko who truly, deeply listened to you.”

Nagato smiled, the expression completely devoid of the malice and arrogance that had defined Pein. It was the smile of a broken boy finally finding rest. He turned his sightless face toward the paper-winged angel standing faithfully by his side.

”...I’m sorry, Konan,” Nagato whispered, offering his oldest friend a final, profound apology for the hell he had dragged her through.

His breathing slowed, his body preparing to yield to the agonizing, systemic failure that had been kept at bay only by his sheer, tyrannical will. He was finally ready to die.

However, the solemn, tragic atmosphere of the final farewell was abruptly, aggressively shattered.

Alaric raised a platinum-blonde brow, pushing himself up from the wooden chair with a sharp, exasperated sigh. He raised a hand toward the dying man.

”Oh... I am incredibly sorry to interrupt this beautifully poignant moment of closure,” Alaric stated, his voice ringing with a cheerful, highly inappropriate pragmatism that completely derailed the dramatic tension of the room. ”But you’re absolutely not dying here, my friend.”

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