The air inside the ancient Japanese-style wooden house felt unusually still. It was late morning, and the sunlight warmed the wooden floorboards. At the balcony, flowers were grown in neat pots, their colors vibrant against the quiet structure.
Madara was holding a rabbit, a small, ordinary creature, looking at it straight in the eyes. His gaze was intense. His eyes were glowing red with three tomoe rotating—a clear sign his cursed technique, Sharingan, was active.
Strangely, the rabbit's little beady eyes were also glowing red, reflecting the same spinning tomoe. Madara was using a simple visual illusion, testing the limits of his perception and control on living things.
"Go, bring me that," Madara pointed to a nearby fruit, his voice low and firm, uttering a direct command.
The rabbit, caught in the genjutsu, moved clumsily and unnaturally yet obeyed the order. It nudged the fruit with its nose, rolling it across the polished wooden floor until it landed at Madara's feet. Seeing this, Madara's otherwise stern face showed a hint of satisfaction. Control was one of the only things he truly valued.
He released the little rabbit, which immediately hopped away, relieved to be free of the forced command. Madara walked to the window, grabbed a cup of tea, and drank slowly. He stared out at the quiet garden, lost in thought.
'It's seven years so soon, huh,' Madara thought, the bitter taste of the tea matching the sharp edge of his memory. Seven years since that night. Seven years since that cursed spirit made my home desolate.
He remembered the chaos, the sudden, intrusive darkness that had fallen over their quiet estate. He had been just a boy, too weak to fight, too powerless to even scream. He remembered the thing—the cursed spirit—a twisted, long creature with long arms that reached its feet, moving with disturbing, childish glee at the fear it created.
He remembered his parents' screams of pain—high, desperate sounds that echoed endlessly in his mind. He remembered his mother's low begging for him to run even when she was dying, her voice choked by blood.
That was the night his Sharingan had activated. It wasn't a gift; it was a curse. His sight had suddenly become perfect, terrifyingly clear. The one tomoe had spun into existence in his eyes, recording every detail. He didn't just see his parents die; he saw the cursed spirit's CE flow, the precise, deliberate way it broke their bodies, and their suffering displayed in an agonizingly slow way. His new eyes made him a helpless, perfect witness to his own tragedy.
That was the moment the true purpose of his life was forged: to gain enough power to ensure no one else ever witnessed such a scene. He would stop the chaos at its source.
Madara's fist clenched tightly in anger as he recalled the scene. Despite his face carrying the same stern look, displaying no emotional fluctuation, his clenched hand and the faint, low rotating tomoes in his eyes told the truth of his inner turmoil. The trauma was the engine of his strength.
Suddenly, a knock sounded at the door—sharp and professional. The sound startled Madara, pulling him violently out of the memory. He instantly calmed down his rampant emotions and asked, his voice steady, "Who is there?"
A voice, clearly young and slightly nervous, replied, "It is ishikawa, Madara senpai. Fujimura-sama requests your presence."
'Fujimura-sama, huh,' Madara thought, the irritation returning. Fujimura was a high-ranking sorcerer, a well-known administrator of the local Jujutsu branch who specialized in managing mission dispatch and resources. Madara often found him tedious. 'What does that old man want from me? Should be another mission.'
Madara walked to the door, opened it, and faced the young sorcerer. The kid's height barely reached his waist. Madara gave a simple nod and said, "Let's go," as he locked the door behind him. He didn't ask questions; he simply followed the command.
The walk through the sprawling clan compound was swift and silent. They passed manicured gardens and high wooden fences, the atmosphere of ancient power pressing down on the young sorcerers.
After a short while, Madara and the kid arrived at a room used for mission briefings. Madara slid the heavy wooden door open.
The room was traditional and Spartan. Behind a low table, sitting comfortably on a tatami mat, was Fujimura. He was not overly old, perhaps in his late fifties, but he carried the weight of authority. His robes were immaculate, and his face was set in a professional, if slightly weary, mask.
In front of Fujimura, sitting on tatami mats, were three teens. From Madara's point of view, he couldn't see their faces, as they had their backs turned to him. It was clear from their physique and dress that two of them are women and one of them is a man. They were all young, all potential genius, and now, they were his team.
Upon noticing his arrival, Fujimura smiled slightly, a gesture that did not reach his eyes. "Madara-kun, you have arrived. Come, have a seat," he said, his voice carrying the calm authority of his rank. He gestured to a tatami mat at the side.
Madara took his sit, his eyes flicking to the backs of his new teammates, instantly analyzing their posture and Cursed Energy signatures. None of them felt as immense as Sukuna, but they felt disciplined.
The old man cleared his throat and started. "The reason I called the four of you here is that a Grade 1 Cursed Spirit is running rampant at Sora district. You four are to go exorcise it. Make no mistakes. Do you accept this mission?"
The three teens in front spoke immediately, their voices tight with formality. "Yes," the four of them, including Madara, said in unison.
"Dismissed," Fujimura said simply, already reaching for his cup of tea, signaling the meeting was over.
A minute later, the four of them were standing at the compound gates. The silence stretched between them, heavy with expectation. The female sorcerer nearest him wore bespectacled glasses that complemented her short brown hair, giving her a sharp, tomboyish vibe. The other girl was softer, with shoulder-length blonde hair and a beauty mole at her cheeks. The male sorcerer had short brown hair with a jagged scar that ran from his cheek to right below his eye, lending him a tough, seasoned look.
They all looked at each other in silence until the brown-haired male broke the silence. He extended his hand, his voice firm and friendly. "Since we are teammates on this mission, why don't we get acquainted with each other. I am Zenin Ren."
The bespectacled girl spoke next, adjusting her glasses. "My name is Tachibana Aoi."
The blonde girl simply offered a reserved smile. "Kaito Hoshino."
Then, all eyes turned to Madara, waiting for his introduction. He met their gazes coolly, his Sharingan still resting, but his presence was overwhelming.
Madara gave a simple nod. "Madara. Uchiha Madara."
The formalities were over. The team was assembled. Madara felt a flicker of annoyance—his talent was being wasted on simple missions with unreliable partners. He focused on the only thing that mattered: completing the mission and moving closer to the power he needed. He looked out at the road leading toward Sora District. He had no idea this routine mission was about to unleash the one thing he feared most: the permanent, horrifying cost of failure.