Akira closed the remaining distance leisurely.
Obito couldn't even flinch.
This wasn't like standard spatial freezing — the kind where one could strain, twitch, or resist.
This was true freeze — the world around Obito had been locked in stillness while time continued indifferent.
Akira studied his captive for a moment, watching despair bloom in that lone visible Sharingan.
Then he reached out and removed Obito's mask.
"Ah," Akira murmured, remembering, " Sorry, you can't speak. Whether you want to or not."
His tone was casually disappointed — as though etiquette mattered here.
Akira's fingers moved to Obito's eye — and with practiced precision, he plucked out the Kamui eye.
Obito could only emit muffled groans, the kind that weren't words — just broken reactions.
Akira opened a sealing scroll with a flick, revealing a glass tube filled with an eerie green liquid.
Obito stared blankly — unable to ask, unable to object.
Akira answered anyway.
"I stored this," he said, tapping the glass lightly, " just for you."
The irony in his voice was razor-thin.
"The day I found you, I wanted to preserve your Kamui and your so-called 'Will of Peace.'"
Akira placed the Mangekyo Sharingan inside the green suspicious liquid.
The glass tube was resealed, sealed scroll collapsing from existence — neat, practiced, methodical.
A new scroll unfurled.
Akira retrieved a scalpel.
One effortless motion —
—and the entire White Zetsu half of Obito's body was sliced clean away.
It fell apart so precisely that it seemed unnatural, as if the clone side had always been detachable and Akira merely corrected an error.
The remains — flesh, chakra, parasite — were sealed away as smoothly as the jar before it.
By now the only thing keeping Obito upright was the space freezing his remaining body.
Otherwise he would have collapsed into agony.
Akira regarded him quietly.
"Well, Uchiha Obito," he said, voice neither cruel nor soft, "may you find redemption in your next life."
His hand lifted.
A Truth-Seeking Orb materialized, hovering in silent formation — and Akira's will reshaped it into a black katana, edge humming with extinction.
Obito's lone remaining eye widened as the blade descended.
He could think. He could feel. But he could not move.
The world remained frozen as the katana passed through his neck.
In the final instant, before vision collapsed —
Obito's despair was the only thing he carried beyond that cut.
---
A few silent seconds passed before Akira confirmed it:
Obito Uchiha was dead.
He raised his hand, and the Truth-Seeking orb expanded, swallowing the corpse whole.
Reality itself unstitched the remaining fragments of Obito until nothing existed — not body, not chakra, not trace.
Akira nodded, satisfied.
There would be no resurrection, no wandering ghost, no loose thread left in his world.
With that, Akira resumed wandering across Konoha — tasting air, relishing freedom, stretching the strange elasticity of this space-time excursion.
When he felt he had explored enough, Akira triggered his Rinnegan ability again, choosing his anchor point.
A blink later—
He was back on his balcony.
Same moonlight. Same chair. Same gentle breeze brushing across his hair.
He breathed slowly, reacclimating to his timeline.
Then thought hit him like a quiet wave:
How much chakra did that cost?
He traced the depletion inward
—and concluded something unsettling:
That single temporal operation would have drained even Hashirama or Naruto dry.
The only reason Akira hadn't collapsed was due to a reward from a previous simulation —
a Six-Paths level Chakra Amplification he had chosen, pushing his reserves to rival Hagoromo's own.
His chakra was not only vast — but denser, higher order, more refined.
Even so, that journey consumed nearly a hundredth of everything he had.
Akira exhaled, intrigued.
His senses spread again — this time reaching forward rather than back.
The world-system responded with a warning:
"Unless necessary — do not travel to the future."
Akira frowned.
Future travel should be easier, he reasoned.
Altering the past risks paradox — altering the future shouldn't affect me now.
But the system spoke again — cold, mechanical, absolute:
The cost of travelling forward is dozens of times greater.
Because going to the past follows your existing traces —
going to the future requires creating those traces yourself."
The analogy unfolded inside Akira's thoughts:
Going to the past is like walking into a shop to buy a pencil —
the pencil already exists.
Going to the future is like manufacturing the pencil from nothing, carving existence through possibility.
The difficulty was astronomical.
Akira still didn't grasp all the theory — but he didn't push it either.
Besides, future travel was absurdly broken as a concept.
If he could jump forward freely…
Konoha would become an intergalactic empire within decades —
Akira could leap ahead a century, steal technology, return, repeat —
stacking civilizations like building blocks.
The exponential growth bordered on divine absurdity.
But he also understood why he couldn't drag current technology backward centuries or decades.
He could maybe travel within a maximum threshold — fifteen years back at best, when he existed. And Akira doesn't know the consequences of his actions, which would be in the present.
Killing Obito was like solving a puzzle, the answer was just filling the missing picese but this has no clues of the consequences.
Perhaps space-time would retaliate.
Perhaps causality would collapse.
Even Akira didn't know.
And thinking about it made his temples throb —
so he stopped.
Time and space, he reminded himself, were too complex for headaches.
Akira leaned back on his balcony chair, letting the night breeze wash through him.
There were powers worth using — and powers worth leaving alone.
For now, he closed his eyes.
Tomorrow would bring something new.
---