Sauron's predictions proved accurate.
One week after Esdeath's departure, Night Raid attempted to infiltrate the palace with two of its members. The operation had been prepared with surgical precision: a diversion to the west, a silent intrusion through service corridors, then a window of only a few minutes to reach sensitive areas before the imperial guard could react.
But the palace was not a hunting ground.
It was a trap.
Shura had anticipated the maneuver. More precisely, it had been whispered to him—not through intuition, but through pride and cunning, for the Prime Minister's son relished the idea of crushing the "rats" the entire Empire feared. He deliberately left certain access points less guarded, fed false information into the intelligence networks, then spread his men like a spider's web through the secondary passages.
The rebels' spies who had infiltrated the palace were eliminated in silence—throats slit in the shadows—without ever realizing the alarm had been raised. When the two assassins finally reached the wing where they believed they could escape after completing their mission, the corridors suddenly flared to life with torches and lanterns.
The ambush snapped shut.
The battle was brief, brutal, and utterly one-sided.
Despite Night Raid's skill, Shura had assembled too many forces. And when the palace corridors turned into a killing ground, even the best could not survive a fight waged on enemy territory—surrounded, hunted, isolated.
The clash ended with the deaths of the Prime Minister's son and the assassin Lubbock.
He tried to save Tatsumi—to create an opening, to divert the enemy with a final act of wire and strategy. But even the walls seemed to conspire against him. He barely had time to realize that the exit was nothing but a decoy. His body collapsed, his gaze frozen in frustration and disbelief.
Tatsumi screamed his name.
The cry changed nothing.
Budo appeared the moment resistance faltered. A single movement, a single surge of power, and Tatsumi was neutralized. Alive—but no longer able to fight.
His arrest was announced publicly almost immediately. And the Empire, enraged by months of attacks, was already savoring the idea of seeing him executed before the populace.
At the same time, the Revolutionary Army launched numerous assaults against the Capital's southern wall.
These offensives were massive. Waves of soldiers. Ladders. Battering rams. Sapper units. Improvised artillery. Cries rose to the clouds, mingling with smoke and blood.
But against the Ashen Phoenix, every attempt failed.
Anárion did not merely defend.
He anticipated.
His legions moved as a single organism, perfectly coordinated. Where the revolutionaries concentrated their forces, he reinforced the wall. Where they feigned an attack, he launched a counter-charge. Where they hoped for a breach, he offered them a slaughter.
The southern wall became a butcher's yard.
And the morale of the Revolutionary Army began to crack.
Revolutionary Army Camp
The vast rebel army settled in for the night. Thousands of tents had been erected to shelter the tens of thousands of soldiers. Campfires dotted the darkness, and rumors spread faster than the wind—whispers of defeat spilling from the mouths of traumatized soldiers. Defeatism began to seep into their hearts.
At the center of the camp stood an immense tent, four times larger than the others. It served as headquarters for the officers.
All of them were gathered there—exhausted, irritable, alarmed by the recent failures. The air was tense. Faces were drawn. Even the most optimistic no longer dared to speak of an easy victory.
General Hemi slammed his fist on the table.
"We must retreat and gather more soldiers. The majority of citizens support us. They will gladly join our ranks if we give them time."
General Nakaido straightened, his eyes cold.
"Fool. If we do that, our troops' morale will collapse. The announcement of a public execution of a Night Raid member is already worrying them. Your plan would doom us."
Hemi clenched his teeth.
"Then what do you suggest? Keep sending our men to be slaughtered against that wall? With every assault, we lose hundreds of soldiers. Anárion predicts our movements before our units even reach the foot of the ramparts!"
The murmur of approval that followed showed many shared his anger.
Then Hemi turned to a man who had not yet spoken.
"Bradley, do you have a suggestion?"
All eyes turned to the same figure.
An old man nearing sixty, back straight, gaze razor-sharp. His physical condition was remarkable for his age. Black hair streaked with gray, a thick mustache, and above all an eyepatch over his left eye that reinforced the impression of a calm predator.
General King Bradley.
When Bradley spoke, his voice was low and controlled, cutting through the noise like a blade.
"Given our precarious situation, I propose we continue the assaults."
Protests rose immediately, but he raised a hand and silence returned.
"However, these attacks will serve only to distract the imperial army while we capture the citadels surrounding the Capital."
He placed a finger on the map.
"These fortresses control the supply routes. If we take them, Anárion will be forced to disperse his legions along the walls if he does not wish to be attacked from multiple directions. He cannot defend everything at once."
Nakaido frowned.
"And if Anárion refuses to disperse?"
Bradley smiled faintly.
"Then the Capital will starve—isolated—and panic will do the work for us. The nobles will tear one another apart, and the Emperor will lose the people's trust."
A heavy silence followed. It was not a heroic plan. It was a cold one. But it was logical.
Hemi finally nodded.
"It's our best option."
One by one, the officers agreed. They left the tent to put the necessary organization in place: divisions, routes, sabotage, diversionary assaults.
Unlike the others, Bradley returned to the tent assigned to him.
Shortly after his arrival, a vortex appeared at the center of the tent—a spiral of air and void. The canvas rippled without being touched, the lantern flame flickered, and a silhouette emerged.
A man wearing a black cloak adorned with red clouds, an orange mask with a concentric spiral around his right eye.
Bradley immediately knelt.
"Report!" the masked man ordered.
At the command, the old soldier recounted everything that had occurred: Shura's death, Lubbock's, Tatsumi's capture, the failures at the southern wall, Anárion's presence, and the rising tension among the officers.
The masked man listened without moving.
After about twenty minutes, Bradley fell silent.
"Good. You have done your part. Continue."
"Yes, master."
Bradley withdrew, leaving the man alone in the tent.
The moment the canvas fell back into place, the air changed.
The tent seemed to sink into shadow, as if the world itself were losing substance. A second presence appeared beside the masked man.
A figure with corpse-like skin, wearing ancient elven armor. His entire body radiated a violent, almost sacred light. His eyes shone with ancient intelligence.
Once, he had been the greatest smith of the Second Age—Celebrimbor.
"We are wasting our time here," the masked man said. "We should focus our efforts on collecting the Bijū."
Celebrimbor sighed, like a master exasperated with his student.
"Do not be so hasty, Obito. Though our Zetsu army is powerful, the army the Empire can provide us will guarantee a decisive victory."
"I still believe our plan will succeed without the Revolutionary Army's help. When we resurrect the Jūbi, our power will be inexhaustible… and we will finally create a perfect world."
Celebrimbor inclined his head, a mocking glint in his eyes.
"When you speak like that, it reminds me that you are still a child when it comes to understanding the true value of power."
Obito stiffened.
"What do you mean?"
Celebrimbor stepped forward, his light pushing back the shadows.
"Power is useful, certainly—but it is not everything. A powerful being can never rule alone. Even Morgoth understood this principle: though he was the strongest of the Valar, he could never have faced all his brothers and sisters alone. That is why he gathered servants—Sauron, Gothmog, and legions of orcs."
He fixed his gaze on Obito.
"Remember this lesson: never waste a potential pawn."
Obito did not respond. But his silence was not obedience—it was thought.
Celebrimbor continued, calmer.
"Since the plan is proceeding without too much difficulty, we should return to the Elemental Nations. Bradley possesses one of my finest creations. He should not have too much trouble defeating the Ice Queen and the Ashen Phoenix."
Obito nodded slowly.
"Indeed. We must accelerate the capture of the Bijū before the White Council arrives."
"I will send Nagato to Konoha to capture the Kyūbi… and Sasuke to Kumo to seize the Hachibi."
Celebrimbor turned his gaze aside slightly, as if irritated by a memory.
"It is regrettable that my power and that of the Sanbi are incompatible… and that the Fourth Mizukage's body exploded due to that reaction three years ago. Otherwise, the White Council would never have known I had returned… and we would have had more time."
His voice grew colder, sharper.
"Nevertheless… they will soon regret opposing the Lord of Light."
With those words, the specter vanished.
Obito's vision returned to normal. The vortex of his single eye opened, swallowing space itself.