Underworld
Akeno moved forward with bravery…—or with suicidal recklessness, some might say.
For weeks, she had walked alone through lands even Demons avoided. The landscape had changed little by little, as though the world itself were unraveling as she drew closer to her goal. The mountains twisted into warped, almost organic shapes. The ground was blackened, split by fissures from which glowing vapors seeped. The air reeked of sulfur, ancient blood, and corrupted magic.
The sky no longer knew rest.
Lightning tore through the clouds without pause, striking the earth with blind violence. Each flash briefly lit the horizon, revealing silhouettes of ruins, the carcasses of gigantic creatures, and half-collapsed monuments—relics of forgotten ages. Yet despite this endless storm, Akeno kept moving.
Her clothes were soaked, her boots worn thin, her body exhausted.But her mind… had never been clearer.
With every step, the voice returned.Soft. Calm. Reassuring.
It did not scream or threaten. It whispered, sliding between her thoughts, feeding her doubts and her deepest desires. It gave her no orders; it merely reminded her of what she had lost… and what she could recover.
Sauron was no madman.
He had never been a shouting tyrant or a blind destroyer. He was one of the most intelligent spirits to have ever existed, able to grasp techniques, powers, and even the psyche of others at a single glance. Where others copied, he reinvented.
The Rings he had forged in recent times were not improvised artifacts. Each was the product of millennia of calculations, meticulous observation, and silent experimentation. Those offered to the jinchūriki fulfilled their promises: protection, survival, and the gradual adaptation of demonic chakra.
But what no one suspected…was their true purpose.
The Rings of Power acted as catalysts. They channeled a very specific energy—one that did not come from the Gedo Statue. That surplus energy, filtered and refined, was then transmitted to a precise point in reality: the Valley of Morningstar.
Where the crypt lay.Where his most terrible warriors slept.
Sauron was not focused on the immediate domination of kingdoms. His objective was older, deeper. He was preparing the return of his most faithful, most lethal lieutenants… those the world had once learned to fear under the name of the Nazgûl.
But the world had changed.And so had they.
They now existed in a new form.
The Nine-Tailed Demons.
Each had been reincarnated into a human body, bound to a demonic entity embodying their raw power. Their memories, their true identities, their oath to Sauron… all of it had been sealed, fragmented, scattered. They lived as mortals, unaware of what they truly were.
Except for the Tailed Beasts.
The Bijū were not mere reservoirs of energy. They were the raw manifestation of what they had once been.
Eight of them were already bound to their new form.
The blood of the Eight Old and the Eight New Companions would have to be spilled for the greatest of the Nine to truly return…
Sauron knew exactly who would be necessary for the ritual to be fulfilled. He knew the bloodlines, the bonds, the emotional fractures. Long ago, he learned that the purest power came neither from rage nor fear… but from desire.
That was why, for years, he had let dreams seep into the mind of the Priestess of Thunder.
Akeno.
He had never forced her. He had merely nurtured what already existed within her: her anger, her ambition, her resentment toward a world that had taken everything from her. Little by little, she had become more determined, more aggressive, more relentless.
In the eyes of others, she perfectly embodied what the queen of the Gremory heiress was meant to be.If only they knew… who had truly shaped her.
Yet Sauron was not blind to her limits.
Even with her potential—her rage and her thirst for vengeance—Akeno was not powerful enough to face the guardians of the crypt alone. These beings were neither demons nor angels nor mere magical creatures. They were remnants of an age when the laws of the world were different.
A diversion was needed.
A distraction massive enough to draw their attention away.
For weeks now, the Dark Lord had been preparing this maneuver with the same patience that had always defined him.
A few kilometers from the Valley of Morningstar
Pov : Garbog
The Master has returned.
I felt it before I even heard him.Before I ever saw the visions.
His gaze fell upon me, and everything became clear.
He showed me visions of glory—battlefields drowned in enemy blood, fortresses in flames, orc armies marching once more beneath a single banner. By his will, I gathered the last surviving clans in the Underworld.
They were broken.Starving.Hunted.
Those wretched Demons nearly wiped out our race. Our women, our children, our elders… all slaughtered. Only a few hundred orcs remained, too weak to even dream of vengeance.
But the Master is generous.
Seeing the loyalty of his servants, he revealed to me the existence of a forbidden valley—a place where the Demons guard an ancient artifact, steeped in magic so powerful it could turn a warlord into a true scourge.
I can already feel its power pulsing through the earth.
I will lead my people to that valley.I will seize that artifact.And I will build a new era.
An era where orcs will rule.Where all other races will bow.
For the Dark Lord.
Valley of Morningstar — a few minutes later
As she entered the valley, the young woman hid behind a rock and surveyed the surroundings.
To her great surprise, the forbidden place had become a battlefield.
An army of orcs poured into the valley, howling and striking with bestial ferocity. Their crude blades and bloodstained maces fell without restraint… yet they did not face a demonic host or an infernal garrison.
They were fighting a spectral army.
Barely a hundred specters—but their superiority was undeniable.
They did not charge.They did not shout.They advanced.
Translucent warriors from many ages: human knights in cracked armor, elven spearmen, paladins with extinguished banners, forgotten soldiers of vanished civilizations. Each struck with merciless precision, ignoring pain, ignoring fear—bound to duty by the protections of Yahweh.
Orc blades sometimes passed straight through their bodies… without slowing them.
With every blow dealt by the specters, a soul was severed, a life torn away. Orcs fell by the dozens, their roars turning into cries of panic. Their numerical advantage melted away like snow in the sun.
At the far end of the valley stood an ancient crypt—massive, unmoving, silent—as though it were itself watching the battle.
Sauron knew from the start that the orcs never stood a chance.
Yet he felt no remorse in sacrificing them if it served his purpose. Though loyal, their thirst for blood and flesh blinded them too often—crude, imperfect tools.
His new Uruk army would prove far more useful.
Knowing this opportunity would not last, Akeno slipped discreetly toward the crypt, using the terrain as cover. The explosions of spectral energy and the orcs' howls perfectly masked her movements. Within minutes, she reached the ancient doors.
The moment she laid her hand upon them, the carved runes flared to life.
Akeno felt her mana drain away… then surge back… again and again, at a blistering pace. Her eyes blazed with brilliant yellow light, and a mark appeared on her forehead—an ancient, lidless eye encircled by stylized flames.
The already-dark sky suddenly erupted.
Thunder rolled through the clouds like the drums of the end times. The orcs stopped fighting. The specters halted their advance. All looked upward, convinced the sky itself was about to fall.
Akeno unconsciously raised her right arm toward the heavens.
Lightning was drawn to her mana.
It struck her, enveloping her without consuming her, transforming the Priestess of Thunder into a near-divine being. The air vibrated, stone cracked, and the entire valley seemed to groan beneath the manifestation.
Both factions then became aware of the intruder.
Before they could react, a chain of lightning erupted—sacred energy, diluted yet infused into her mana.
It pierced the chests of orcs and specters alike, without distinction. Bodies exploded into ash; souls were torn from their anchors. In seconds, only a single living soul remained in the valley.
Akeno collapsed, unconscious, for a few moments.
When she opened her eyes, the valley was silent.
The orcs were gone.The specters too… almost all of them.
Before the crypt, a few wavering figures still stood—older, stronger specters. They had not been destroyed by the lightning, only weakened.
They slowly gathered before the entrance.
"You were not meant to be here, Angel," one of them said in an ethereal voice.
Akeno struggled to her feet. "Step aside…"
"We swore upon our souls to defend the world against Evil. What lies behind these doors must never be released," declared an ancient elven warrior with determination.
The battle resumed.
Weakened, the specters no longer had the strength to fully stop the Priestess of Thunder, yet every strike carried the weight of centuries of oaths and sacrifice. Still, Akeno advanced, evading each attack, lightning answering her every movement.
One by one, they fell.
At last, only a single specter remained.
A simple soldier, kneeling before the door, his sword planted in the stone to support himself. His armor bore no symbol, no rank.
Akeno stopped before him.
The specter slowly raised his head. His gaze held neither hatred nor anger—
Only infinite sadness.
"We knew we might fail…"
His form began to fracture.
"But we only wanted…"
He looked at her one last time.
"…to protect you."
The sacred lightning fell.
Akeno lost consciousness once more as the mark upon her forehead faded.
...
music suggestion: (Nazgûl Theme – The Revelation of the Ringwraiths)
Akeno awoke a few minutes later.
Her body still rested upon the cold stone of the valley, but her mind was ablaze. The power that had surged through her being had faded… yet it had left an indelible mark. Every fiber of her body still vibrated, as if lightning itself had etched its signature deep into her soul.
Though temporary, that energy had only intensified her excitement.
Her heart was racing.Her breath came short and fast.And deep within her mind, a single certainty had taken root: she wanted more.
The Priestess of Thunder slowly rose, her golden eyes sweeping over the monumental gates of the ancient tomb. Fear was gone. In its place remained only a cold, ravenous determination.
She placed her hands upon the stone.
The doors opened with a deep, thunderous rumble.
Akeno stepped into the shadowed corridors.
As she advanced, torches ignited along her path, one after another, as though the crypt itself acknowledged her presence. The light cast warped shadows upon the walls, creating the illusion of silhouettes following her, watching her, judging her.
Then, she heard it.
A voice she had known since childhood.
Not a voice heard with the ears… but with the soul.
It whispered beside her in a dialect she had never learned, and yet whose meaning she understood perfectly.
"Shre nazg golugranu kilmi-nudu."(Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky.)
A shiver ran down her spine.
Immense frescoes emerged upon the stone walls, carved with supernatural precision. They depicted black warriors, cloaked and clad in infernal armor, leading countless armies to war. Cities burned. Kingdoms collapsed. Entire peoples vanished beneath their march.
But among them, one figure dominated all others.
A warrior crowned by a regal helm, clad in armor worthy of a Dark King. His presence crushed the rest. The frescoes showed him slaughtering entire realms, armies falling beneath his blade and his dark magic. The very sky seemed to fracture in his wake.
At his side stood eight other figures, each different, each embodying a facet of destruction. Yet even together, they never matched the terror inspired by their sovereign.
Akeno's breath caught.
These warriors…
They were then shown in chains, sealed within a tomb plunging into the very depths of Hell. The figures who imprisoned them bore expressions of mingled despair and hope—hoping that never, ever, would these beings see the light of day again.
Akeno thought, These warriors must have been terrifying… no wonder the Maous forbade access to this crypt.
The voice returned, more insistent.
"Ombi kuzd-durbagu gundum-ishi."(Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone.)
Akeno's exhilaration continued to grow.
If she could obtain even a fragment of their power… she was certain of it: she could defeat her father. The man who had abandoned her. The one who had allowed her mother to die alone, without protection, without justice.
At last, she reached the burial chamber.
Eight tombs were arranged in a circle.A ninth stood at the center.
Around them rose eight hooded statues, their swords driven into the ground like oaths frozen in stone. Dark engravings covered each statue, every one infused with ancient power meant to sustain the seals.
Yet the central tomb…
It was different.
Larger.Darker.And above all… unstable.
Cracks ran through the stone, leaking a frigid energy that made the very air tremble.
The voice whispered one final time.
"Nugu gurunkilu bard gurutu."(Nine for Mortal Men, doomed to die.)
Akeno slowly approached the central tomb.
She examined every detail, every rune, every fracture. At last, her gaze settled upon a half-erased inscription. Remembering what had occurred earlier, she channeled her mana into the carving.
In the Secret Chamber of the Akatsuki
Something was wrong.
From the very first tremors, Obito understood it instinctively: this was not a simple unforeseen reaction, nor an ordinary resistance. The Gedo Statue was suffering.
Its immense stone body began to shake violently. Cracks spread across its limbs, and a deep, almost organic howl escaped from its gaping mouth. Its eyes—once inert—began to bleed a dark substance that ran down its frozen face. Slowly, as though crushed by an invisible force, the statue curled inward, its face lowering to barely three meters above the ground.
The entire Akatsuki base trembled.
The walls vibrated, shards of stone fell from the ceiling, and several torches were snuffed out by the shockwave. Even the most hardened members of the organization felt a cold sweat run down their spines.
"What the hell is happening?!"Kisame's voice—usually accustomed to the most extreme horrors—betrayed an unusual tension. Instinctively, he placed a hand on Samehada's hilt, as though a weapon could still mean something in the face of what he was sensing.
"I don't know…!" Obito admitted.
He stepped forward abruptly, activating his Rinnegan with uncontrolled violence. The rings of his eye glowed with a sickly light as he tried to impose his will upon the statue.
"It's not responding…! It's no longer responding to my Rinnegan!"
Panic mixed with rage. He pushed harder, channeling an absurd amount of chakra. A searing pain shot through his skull, and blood leaked from his eye, running down his mask.
That was when the voice was heard.
Not one voice.
Eight.
They erupted simultaneously from within the statue, overlapping, echoing, resonating like a funerary chorus.
"You think you can command us?!"
Tobi's blood ran cold.
That tone…That vibration…
He knew it.
He had felt this kind of presence before. After all, he was the host of an ancient elven lord, and he knew how to recognize the voices of those who had once walked upon Middle-earth.
"You may have bound our souls…"
The Gedo Statue cracked even further.
"…but we answer only to the One!"
At that precise instant, the air tore apart.
Eight pools of blood slammed violently onto the stone floor, splashing the chamber with thick, scarlet fluid. Eight eyes opened within those pools, then slowly half-closed, as if their owners struggled to emerge into this world.
From the crimson pools rose eight silhouettes—beings Tobi knew, instinctively, that he and the others should flee from at all costs. What terrified him even more was that each of these entities bore the face of the jinchūriki from whom they had been torn. At that same moment, all those jinchūriki vanished from their respective villages.
The elven specter's voice—usually filled with arrogance and contempt—trembled for the first time.
"The Nazgûl! Run, Obito! You are no match for them!"
But Obito was frozen.
The Nazgûl fully materialized.
They unleashed shrill cries, so piercing they seemed to tear reality itself apart. All lights were instantly extinguished. The chamber plunged into absolute, total darkness.
Then… silence.
When vision finally returned, the Nazgûl were gone.
The Gedo Statue was cracked, hollowed out, nearly inert.
The only remaining source of light came from the gaping opening they had left as they exited the cavern—like an open wound in the world.
"Where are they going…? Who were they…? And what is this 'One'?" Kisame asked.
Tobi did not answer immediately.
He stared at the opening with an empty gaze, as though he had just understood something he would rather have never known.
"They are the heralds of Death."
His voice was low. Grave.
"If they accomplish their mission… then this world will fall into darkness."
The elven specter straightened, his arrogance slowly returning.
"Middle-earth will bow before me! Not before a handful of slaves to a dead master!"
Back in the Crypt
Akeno was trembling.
Not from fear.
From exhilaration.
Before her, eight spectral silhouettes were finishing taking form. Their armor was ancient, scarred by forgotten wars, and their cloaks seemed to absorb light itself. Their mere presence crushed the air.
One of them stepped forward.
He wore ancient Easterling armor, engraved with runes of domination and blood-bound oaths.
"You have freed us, Herald of the Dark Lord."
Akeno felt her heart race.
"What do you mean by Dark Lord…? The one who was caged within my dreams?"
The eight slowly inclined their heads.
"He has chosen you."
The voice was cold. Inevitable.
"And since you have freed us… your desire shall be fulfilled."
"Who are you…?" the young woman asked.
"We are the Nazgûl."
He paused, then added:
"In the absence of our brother, I command. I am Khamûl."
Akeno took a deep breath.
"Very well… what do we do now?"
Khamûl slowly turned his gaze toward the central tomb.
"Our king must return."
He looked back at her.
"A blood sacrifice is required for his return."
...
author's note: Very long chapter today, I hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to leave a comment or some Power Stones—it really encourages me to release more.