Chapter 4 Such a World
On the outer edge of Lingcheng's tenth circle, there was a small, unremarkable garden. It wasn't large—no more than a few acres—and because the tenth circle was home to the poorest commoners, the land here was worth little.
Now, in the height of midsummer, the garden was alive with color. Rows of bright blossoms vied for attention, their fragrance carried far on the passing breeze. For the locals, this simple patch of beauty was a rare sight in such a harsh district.
Children often lingered here. When playing in the dusty streets, they'd gather to peek at the flowers. This garden had become something like a landmark of the tenth circle.
At that moment, a little girl stood outside the fence. Her plain dress was damp with sweat from the humid air. She stared at the flowers with longing but seemed too timid to step closer.
She was no older than five or six, her cheeks flushed and plump. Two small braids dangled against her shoulders, and she nervously twisted her hands together, brows furrowed as if debating whether to reach out for a bloom.
Just as she took a hesitant step, a thin, dark figure emerged from the garden's depths.
The girl froze, retreating instinctively. The figure moved closer, stepping through a gap in the old wooden fence without pause.
Her breath caught as the figure approached. It was a boy—tall for his age, perhaps ten, clothed in a simple black robe. His face was unnervingly clean and sharp-featured, with dark hair framing his forehead like a curtain. His expression, however, was cold and severe, and his obsidian eyes held a depth that made the girl's skin prickle.
She stumbled backward in fear, falling to the ground. Tears welled in her wide eyes as she watched him draw near, step by measured step.
When he stopped in front of her, the chill of his presence made her tremble.
She squeezed her eyes shut and curled into herself, stammering apologies through quivering lips.
"I-I'm sorry! Lingling won't do it again!"
But instead of a strike or a scolding, she felt a pair of hands—small, yet steady—grasp her shoulders. He lifted her up as though setting a fallen comrade back on his feet.
Lingling's breath hitched. She dared not open her eyes, for his earlier stare had been sharp as kunai steel, cold enough to pierce her heart.
Time passed in silence. At last, she cracked one eye open to peek.
The boy's face startled her all over again. He was handsome—his features chiseled and commanding, like the statues of long-forgotten heroes. His dark hair swayed with the breeze, giving him an almost regal air.
Yet his gaze… those black eyes were still frigid, distant, and proud. It was as though he belonged to a world far beyond her own.
Lingling lowered her head, unable to meet his gaze. He stood quietly, lost in thought, and said nothing.
Just as she shifted nervously, expecting to be scolded, a sudden movement caught her attention. A flower—vivid and perfect—appeared before her eyes. She blinked, stunned, looking up at the black-robed boy.
His lips curved into a "smile," but it was stiff and unnatural, as though he had to force the expression onto his face, as if smiling were a foreign skill.
Lingling hesitated. The smile unsettled her, but the flower was so lovely. Torn between fear and curiosity, she slowly reached out, took it, and whispered a timid, "Th-thank you." Then she turned and fled, glancing back over her shoulder with a pounding heart.
The black-robed boy remained there, unmoving. Lingling couldn't help sneaking another look. Who was he? He didn't feel like a bad person… but why was he so cold?
Madara stood silently, his gaze fixed on nothing. His thoughts drifted far away, back to the Konoha of his youth, decades past.
Once, there had been a girl like that—though her face was long lost to memory—who had run from him, crying in fear after he helped her up. The memory, insignificant as it seemed, was another scar in his heart, a reminder of the walls between him and the ordinary warmth of others.
This time, too, he had helped a girl. But instead of tears, she'd given him a trembling "thank you." And that small, fragile word pierced through the coldness around him like sunlight breaking through clouds.
"This kind of world… isn't so bad," he murmured, almost surprised at his own voice.
It had been ten years since his rebirth. In that time, he had learned the ways of this land, its kingdoms, and its wars.
This country was called the Qi State—a strong and ambitious nation, always in conflict with its neighbors. The endless cycle of conquest and retaliation reminded him painfully of the Warring States era, before the birth of Konoha.
Madara had not yet seen the Qi borders with his own eyes, but he could imagine them well: the stench of blood, the cries of the dying. War was universal. He had been forged by it.
But this time, he was only a boy. He no longer stood as the man who once dominated the shinobi world, feared even by the Five Great Nations. Here, his power was limited, almost nonexistent.
Yet, as he observed this world, his interest only grew. Unlike the shinobi lands, where true power had been reserved for a handful of great figures—Hashirama, Naruto, Sasuke—this world overflowed with warriors whose strength rivaled gods. There were men and women who could topple mountains or split seas with a single strike.
The prospect of fighting such beings thrilled him to his core. In the past, only Hashirama Senju had ever been his equal. Now, the very thought of new rivals made his blood race.
"This body… this living flesh that can feel pain and bleed… It reminds me that I am alive only when I fight." His lips twisted into a grin—wild, almost mad.