System in Assassin's Creed

Chapter 384: Chapter 383: The Gift of Sight and the Ghost of the Uchiha

Amegakure - Land of Rain - Elemental Nations

The sky above the Hidden Rain Village was uncharacteristically calm. The perpetual, suffocating deluge that had drowned the city’s brutalist architecture for decades had finally broken, leaving behind a thin, drifting mist that clung to the steel spires like a silver shroud. High above the highest tower, breaking the silence of the stratosphere, a brilliant, crackling flash of golden light momentarily rivaled the pale glow of the moon.

Alaric Jonathan Kenway materialized in the frigid, high-altitude air.

He didn’t plummet; he immediately asserted his absolute dominance over gravity, floating gracefully a few meters above the apex of the central tower. He took a moment to look left and right, his sharp blue eyes sweeping over the quiet, metallic labyrinth below. The city felt different. The oppressive, god-like surveillance that used to saturate every falling raindrop was entirely gone, replaced by the mundane, rhythmic breathing of an ordinary metropolis recovering from a long, dark era.

Satisfied that no immediate threats had besieged the city during his absence, Alaric slowly drifted downward. He bypassed the cold, steel exterior of the structure, descending steadily until he reached the massive, open viewing portal on the top floor of the tower.

As he glided silently through the open window, the soft thud of his polished black combat boots against the floorboards was the only sound announcing his arrival.

The top floor was bathed in the pale, gloomy luminescence of the moon. Standing perfectly still in the center of that milky light, bathed in shadows and silver, was Nagato. The Uzumaki was entirely alone, dressed in a simple, dark kimono. He was staring out toward the horizon with his empty, sunken eye sockets, his posture carrying a melancholic, profound stillness that resonated with the quiet night.

”Yo...”

The lazy, drawling greeting cut through the serene atmosphere.

”Huh?” Nagato flinched, his head whipping violently toward the source of the voice with the ingrained, defensive reflex of a shinobi. However, the moment his heightened sensory perception registered the unimaginably dense, completely unmistakable chakra signature of the blonde anomaly, the tension melted from his broad shoulders in a split second. He let out a long, heavy exhale.

”Oh, Alaric...” Nagato murmured, his voice lacking any true irritation, though a dry, sarcastic edge colored his words. ”Your promised ’couple of hours’ turned out to be a couple of days.”

Alaric chuckled, reaching into the pocket of his olive-green flak jacket. ”Well, you know how it is, mate,” he replied smoothly, unsealing a small, heavily warded glass jar filled with a specialized, chakra-infused preservation fluid. Floating gently within the liquid was a flawless, pristine pair of purple, ripple-patterned Rinnegan eyes. ”It’s not exactly easy to casually stroll into a market and acquire a perfect pair of divine eyes without a few logistical hurdles.”

Nagato did not reply to the dark humor, simply turning his sightless face back toward the window as he absorbed the presence of his new employer.

”How many days was I gone, exactly?” Alaric asked, stepping further into the moonlit room as he inspected the glass container in his hand.

”It has been perfectly four nights,” Nagato answered, his tone carrying a soft, almost poetic resonance.

Alaric paused, a singular, platinum-blonde brow inching upward. He had explicitly asked how many days he had been gone, yet the former god of the Rain had reflexively measured the passage of time by the number of nights. It was a subtle, fascinating linguistic choice.

’That’s quite something,’ Alaric thought, a genuine smile touching his lips as he looked at the red-haired man. ’To measure time by the darkness rather than the light... it seems that Nagato is quite a dramatic character beneath all that tragic stoicism.’

Shaking off the psychological analysis, Alaric walked closer. ”And how is Jiraiya-san faring? I can sense the old Gama-sennin’s chakra lingering in the lower levels of the tower, but I prefer asking.”

Nagato let out a soft, exasperated sigh, though a faint, undeniably fond smile broke across his face.

”Sensei is fine,” Nagato replied, shaking his head slowly. ”Though he has been slightly annoying. For the past four nights, he has been relentlessly trying to instill some grand, heroic narrative into both Konan and myself. He lectures us on redemption, the Will of Fire, and the pursuit of true peace over dinner.”

Alaric grinned broadly, shrugging his shoulders as he placed the glass jar onto a nearby stone pedestal. ”Well... that’s Jiraiya for you. He’s a writer; he lives for the dramatic arcs of redemption.”

Without waiting for further conversation, Alaric seamlessly tapped into his Wood Release. A precise pulse of golden chakra flowed from the soles of his boots into the floorboards. With a soft, organic creak, a sturdy, perfectly smoothed wooden stool sprouted from the ground directly behind Nagato’s legs.

”Alright, take a seat and get ready,” Alaric instructed, his voice shifting from casual banter to the crisp, clinical authority of a master surgeon. He popped the cork off the glass jar. ”I’ll make this transplant as painless as I possibly can.”

Nagato’s empty eye sockets widened to an almost comical degree, his entire body stiffening in profound shock. He half-turned toward the sound of the popping cork, his hands rising defensively.

”Wait, we’re going to do it now?” Nagato asked, his voice pitching up with sudden, bewildered panic. ”Right this second? Without any medical equipment or sterile preparations?”

”...”

”...”

Alaric stared at the blind man, his expression deadpan as he carefully extracted the right Rinnegan from the fluid with two glowing, chakra-coated fingers.

”Yes.”

Unknown Territory - Elemental Nations

The subterranean cavern was a cathedral of shadows and ancient stone, buried so deeply beneath the earth that the air itself felt heavy and stagnant. Flickering, erratic torchlight cast long, monstrous silhouettes across the jagged walls, but the true horror of the room emanated from the center of the dark expanse.

”Kukuku... hahahaha!”

A cold, hissing laughter echoed against the rock, dripping with a toxic, boundless ambition.

Kabuto Yakushi stood before a massive, upright wooden coffin. His silver hair fell wildly over his cracked glasses, and the pale, thick scales of his newly acquired snake physiology glistened sickeningly in the torchlight. He wiped a smear of dirt from his cheek, his golden, serpentine eyes shining with the manic ecstasy of a scientist who had just successfully defied the fundamental laws of the universe.

He had finally finished it. His ultimate, undisputed masterpiece.

The heavy wooden lid of the coffin hit the stone floor with a deafening thud, kicking up a cloud of ancient dust.

Stepping out from the shadowed interior of the box, moving with a terrifying, unhurried grace, was a legend ripped straight from the bloodiest pages of shinobi history.

He wore the dark, crimson-plated armor of the Warring States Period. His wild, untamed mane of raven-black hair spilled down his back, and his pale, cracked skin bore the unmistakable, ashen hallmarks of the Edo Tensei. Yet, even bound by the impurities of death, the sheer, suffocating density of the man’s chakra violently pressed down on the cavern, extinguishing several nearby torches simply through the oppressive weight of his existence.

Madara Uchiha opened his eyes. The dark, pitch-black sclera of the reanimation sharply contrasted with the bloody, spinning tomoe of his Sharingan.

He did not immediately attack, nor did he look confused. He simply raised his gloved hands, turning them over slowly, meticulously inspecting the cracks in his own ashen skin with an expression of cold, aristocratic detachment.

”This is not the Rinne Tensei,” Madara stated. His voice was a deep, resonant baritone that commanded absolute authority, completely ignoring the pale snake-man standing before him. He lowered his hands, his crimson eyes sweeping the dim cavern. ”Where is Obito? And what exactly is going on here?”

Kabuto adjusted his glasses, his snake tail swishing lazily across the stone floor. He was careful to maintain a respectful distance; he knew better than to treat this specific reanimation as a mere puppet.

”I am afraid I do not know the exact, intricate details of your grand design, Madara-sama,” Kabuto replied, a sycophantic smirk playing on his lips. ”Nor do I know what specific plans you entrusted to Obito. However, it seems that your protégé believes things have turned out to be far harder than initially anticipated. He has encountered... unforeseen variables.”

”Variables?” Madara repeated, a dangerous, mocking edge bleeding into his tone. He stepped fully out of the coffin, his armor clinking softly. ”Obito was given a simple task. Collect the beasts. Revive me. If he is relying on the Edo Tensei to bring me back, it means he has strayed from the path.”

Madara looked around the clearing, his Sharingan piercing through the gloom. The cavern was peaceful, utterly devoid of the chaotic clamor of battle. Yet, his finely tuned instincts... instincts forged in a lifetime of unending conflict... could taste the subtle, electric tension in the air.

”The world is quiet,” Madara observed calmly, crossing his arms over his chest. ”Yet it reeks of mobilization. There is a brewing war... or perhaps the war has already begun.”

His brilliant, tactical mind instantly synthesized the variables Kabuto had provided. If he had been revived early, utilizing a forbidden reanimation jutsu rather than true resurrection, and without Obito present to greet him, the conclusion was brutally obvious.

”The collection of the Tailed Beasts has turned out to be a failure,” Madara deduced, letting out a short, disappointed scoff. ”Obito has fumbled his role. It seems I will have to finish the job myself.”

He uncrossed his arms, a dark, terrifying thrill igniting in his crimson eyes as a feral smile graced his lips. ”If there is a war, then the board is set perfectly. I will simply use this conflict to manipulate the pieces. I will make them bring the beasts directly to me.”

Kabuto watched the Uchiha patriarch casually plot the subjugation of the entire continent. He couldn’t help but shake his head, a patronizing chuckle escaping his lips as he folded his arms within the wide sleeves of his cloak.

”Your arrogance is truly legendary, Madara-sama,” Kabuto boasted softly, entirely too confident in the leash of his jutsu. ”But you should be cautious. Even with your original, mythic strength anchoring this reanimation, drawing the combined military might of the entire shinobi world to a single point would be quite hard to manage. There are monsters in this era that you have not accounted for.”

Madara slowly turned his head, leveling a glare at the snake-man that felt heavy enough to crush bone.

”Do not presume to lecture me on strength, worm,” Madara chided, his voice devoid of anger, echoing only with absolute, unwavering supremacy.

He lifted his hand once more, flexing his fingers as he pushed a deliberate, testing pulse of chakra through his artificial network. He felt the slight, structural lag in the flow, the subtle bottleneck inherent to the impure vessel.

”Besides,” Madara added casually, dropping his hand to rest upon his hip. ”I am not even operating at my full power. I can feel the impurities of your little technique. Your so-called ’Complete Reanimation’ is still heavily lacking. My vessel feels restricted... I am lacking at least thirty percent of my original, living power.”

Kabuto’s smug smile faltered slightly, professionally offended that his masterpiece was being critiqued.

But Madara simply turned his gaze back toward the cavern exit, his Sharingan spinning slowly as he prepared to walk out into the world he intended to conquer.

”But that is fine,” Madara murmured, his smile turning razor-sharp. ”Seventy percent will be more than enough to break them.”

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