[FOR EVERY 100 POWER STONE=1 EXTRA CHAPTER]
The power that coursed through Madara's veins was intoxicating, a symphony of chakra so profound and seamless it felt like touching the face of god. The Eternal Mangekyo Sharingan was more than just an evolution; it was an apotheosis. With Izuna's eyes nestled within his own sockets, the world was rendered in hyper-clarity. He could perceive the minute fluctuations of chakra in a drifting leaf, the latent thermal energy in a sun-warmed stone, the very flow of life itself. The debilitating blindness that had been the Mangekyo's curse was gone, replaced by a vision that felt eternal. It was a power that could reshape nations, that could stare down the Nine-Tails and make it flinch, that could make Hashirama Senju himself break a sweat.
And yet, for Madara Uchiha, the ever-arrogant, the perpetually proud, it felt like a hollow victory. A crown of thorns.
He stood on the engawa of his residence, looking out over the Uchiha compound. The air, usually thick with the sounds of training, of clashing shinai and the crackle of fireball practice, was subdued. A pall of grief and shock had fallen over the clan. The news of Izuna's fate—blinded, his chakra pathways irreparably damaged, his future as a shinobi extinguished—had spread like a poison. The boy was alive, yes, thanks to the desperate, combined efforts of Senju Hashirama and the Senju Toka, but he was a ghost of his former self, a living monument to their failure.
The intoxicating power of the Eternal Mangekyo did nothing to burn away the cold knot of dread in Madara's stomach. In fact, it amplified it. With this new, perfect vision, he could see the path ahead with terrifying clarity, and it was a path that led directly to a confrontation he was not sure he could survive. Not a confrontation with Hashirama. Not a confrontation with the mysterious black shadow. But a confrontation with his own elder brother.
Indra.
The name was a spell, a invocation of both awe and terror within the Uchiha clan. Madara's thoughts were a chaotic storm. He told me to protect Izuna. He entrusted him to me. And I failed. The memory of Indra's departure was seared into his mind—the calm authority, the unspoken promise of retribution should any harm come to their youngest. Madara had scoffed at it then, secure in his own burgeoning power. Now, he felt like a child who had broken a priceless heirloom.
His new eyes, capable of seeing the fabric of chakra, could not see a future where Indra accepted this outcome peacefully. The Six Eyes were a mystery, a power that operated on a logic entirely its own. Would they see Izuna's survival as enough? Or would they see only Madara's failure? Would they see the necessity of the eye transplant, a brother's desperate gift? Or would they see it as a desecration?
"He will return," Madara whispered to the silent compound, his voice rough. "And when he does, the world will hold its breath."
This certainty, this dread, was the anvil upon which his resolve was forged. The petty dreams of clan supremacy, the fiery rivalry with Hashirama—it all seemed like childish games now. The board had been upended. A new, more terrifying player was about to re-enter the game, and Madara needed to control the pieces before he arrived. He could not afford to be the insane, grief-stricken warmonger of a potential future. He had to be a leader. A diplomat. He had to create a reality so stable, so peaceful, that even Indra's wrath would find no kindling.
His first priority was to secure the clan. He marched to the main council hall, his presence a wave of oppressive, silent power. The hardliners who had clamored for war after Indra's departure, who had whispered that the clan had grown soft, were now a cowed and broken lot. Their champion, Izuna, was broken. Their other champion, Madara, looked at them with eyes that held not fire, but the cold, dead light of a glacier.
"Elders," Madara's voice cut through the murmurs, devoid of any emotion. "The war is over. We have lost too much. We have lost… Izuna." He let the name hang in the air, a condemnation. "He is blind. His life as a shinobi is over. This is the fruit of your relentless war-hawkery."
An elder, one of the more vocal hardliners named Hikaku, dared to speak. "Madara-sama, we cannot show weakness now! The Senju will—"
"The Senju," Madara interrupted, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, "lost Tobirama Senju's leg and his chakra pathway network. He is as crippled as Izuna. Hashirama Senju and his sister exhausted themselves to the point of collapse trying to save our clansman. Does that sound like an enemy thirsting for our blood? Or does it sound like a man who wants this cursed conflict to end as badly as I do?"
The elders fell silent. The news of Tobirama's condition was a shock, a stark illustration of the mutual devastation.
"I am going to the Senju clan," Madara declared, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I am going to formally propose an alliance. A true alliance. Not a ceasefire. Not a temporary truce. A union. Because of this damn war, we have lost fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters. We have lost my brother's future. I will not lose any more. Those who accept my proposal, raise your hands."
The silence was absolute. Then, one by one, every hand in the room went up. The will to fight had been burned out of them, replaced by the cold fear of what their warmongering had wrought.
It was then that the Great Elder, Amara, an ancient man whose own Mangekyo had faded to grey decades ago, spoke, her voice trembling. "Madara… there is more." He held out a small, sealed scroll. "A message from the border scouts, passed through your father. Tajima has just received it."
Madara took the scroll, his fingers unnaturally steady. He broke the seal and read the brief message. The words were simple, but they struck him with the force of a physical blow.
'Indra-sama sighted traveling west. Estimated arrival at compound: two to three days.'
The scroll crumpled in his fist, disintegrating into ash. The air in the council hall turned to ice.
"He… he is coming," Elder Hikaku stammered, his face pale. "He will know… he will know what happened to Izuna!"
Panic, pure and undiluted, spread through the assembled elders. These were men and women who had faced down Senju elites without flinching, but the mere mention of Indra's imminent return turned them into terrified children.
"We are doomed!" another elder cried. "He will hold us responsible! He will… he will erase us!"
"Madara-sama!" Hikaku fell to his knees, a gesture of utter submission that would have been unthinkable a week ago. The others quickly followed, a wave of prostrate bodies, their foreheads pressed to the polished wooden floor. "Please! You must intercede! You must speak for us! Save our lives from Lord Indra's wrath!"
Madara looked down at the groveling forms of the very people who had pushed for the war that led to his brother's maiming. A cold, bitter smirk twisted his lips. It was not a smile of amusement, but of profound, acidic contempt.
"Oh?" Madara's voice was soft, a venomous caress. "What is this? The great war-hawks, who so boldly declared that my elder brother's pacifist ways were a stain on the Uchiha's honor? Who said we should not fear one man, even if he was blessed by the gods? Where is that fire now? Why do your throats seem so… dry?"
They had no answer. They could only whimper, their earlier bravado exposed as the hollow posturing it had always been.
"You plead for me to save you," Madara continued, his smirk fading, replaced by an expression of stony finality. "But I will not. The consequences of your actions are yours to bear. Your fate is no longer in my hands."
He let that terrifying statement hang in the air, watching them squirm.
"It is in Izuna's," he finished. "Perhaps in this world, there are only two people whose words might stay my brother's hand. One is Izuna. The other… is not among us. So, you will pray. You will pray to any god that will listen that my brother, when he sees what has become of his youngest sibling, does not go utterly and completely mad. For if he does, your deaths will be the least of this world's concerns."
He turned his back on them, the Eternal Mangekyo still active, casting his shadow over them like a shroud. For the first time in his life, Madara Uchiha, the man who feared nothing, felt a dread so profound it was a physical chill in his bones. It was not a fear of death. It was a fear of judgment. A fear of failing, once again, in the eyes of the brother he had always, secretly, measured himself against and found wanting.
His mission was now a race against time. He had to secure the alliance before Indra arrived. A divided world would be tinder for his brother's rage. A united front… it might just be enough to convince him that their future was worth preserving.
"Great Elder Amara, Medical Elder Tamiko, and you, Father," Madara said, addressing the only people in the room still standing. "You will accompany me to the Senju compound. We go not as warriors, but as diplomats. We go to end a century of bloodshed."
As he strode from the council hall, leaving the weeping elders in his wake, a single, terrifying thought echoed in the perfect clarity of his mind: They fear him pointlessly. They think his wrath is a fire that can be quenched. They do not understand. If he truly breaks, it will not be a fire. It will be an ice—absolute, silent, and utterly devoid of mercy. And there will be no pleading with the void
[FOR EVERY 100 POWER STONE=1 EXTRA CHAPTER]
[THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT AND POWER STONE'S AND REVIWE]