Chapter 70: Predator in the Sanctuary
The moment the invasive white light penetrated him, Uchiha Obito's physical body froze, becoming a statue in the dark cave. His consciousness was violently dragged inward.
Within a spiritual landscape resembling an endless starfield, two figures now stood opposed. Uchiha Akira, his form clearly defined by will. And Uchiha Obito, his spiritual self—still clad in the spectral image of his orange, spiral mask.
Even here, in the realm of pure thought, the identity of "Madara" was a shield he could not discard. It was etched into the core of his psyche.
Obito's masked visage was tense. Akira's ambush had been perfectly timed, striking as his focus wavered at its lowest. His spiritual form flickered unsteadily; if not for the profound fortification granted by mastering Yin-Yang Release and the Mangekyō's evolution of his spirit, that first blow would have shattered him entirely. An ordinary Mangekyō wielder would have been obliterated.
As it was, he was severely wounded, his spiritual essence reeling.
"The Spiritual Transformation Technique," Obito's voice echoed in the mental void, laced with pain and cold surprise. "To think you mastered that… you continue to be an annoyance."
Akira studied him, initially startled that Obito had survived the initial strike, then accepting it as inevitable. This was no ordinary foe. "You don't surprise me. What's curious is that even here, you hide behind a mask. How pitiful." He let his gaze sweep over Obito's flickering form. "It seems shame has truly consumed you."
He knew the opportunity for a clean kill here had passed. Though his spiritual prowess was superior, this was Obito's own mental domain—home ground advantage. A protracted struggle here was risky and uncertain.
As if sensing Akira's assessment, Obito's anger flared. The right eye of his spiritual avatar blazed, three tomoe spinning violently into his unique Mangekyō pattern.
A crushing, omnidirectional pressure—the will of Kamui's owner asserting dominance over his own mind—slammed into Akira's spiritual form.
"Heh. Consider yourself lucky this time," Akira spat, not resisting. He used the repulsive force as a slingshot, his consciousness disengaging and streaking back along the psychic tether that connected him to his physical body miles away in Konoha.
In the dark Rain Country cave, a faint wisp of white light vanished.
Back in his own body seated on the Uchiha porch, Akira's eyes snapped open. He's rattled. Wounded. He won't feel safe healing anywhere in the physical world now. He'll retreat to the one place he thinks is impregnable.
He didn't hesitate. Time was of the essence. His left Mangekyō Sharingan spun. The air before him warped, a dark, swirling portal to the Kamui dimension irising open. He stepped through, and the portal snapped shut behind him.
Less than two seconds had passed from his spiritual retreat to his physical entry into Obito's most private sanctuary.
In the cave, Obito's body shuddered back to awareness. A cold sweat, unrelated to his physical wounds, beaded on his skin. "The Spiritual Transformation Technique…" he muttered, a newfound dread coiling in his gut. The records in Madara's legacy were clear: the technique allowed the user's spirit to travel at the speed of thought. At close range, once targeted, evasion was nearly impossible. There was no tell, no hand seals—just instant, psychic assassination.
He could be back any moment. Anywhere. The sense of safety he'd felt in this hidden cave evaporated. The only absolute sanctuary was the space only he could access.
"I can only heal inside Kamui. It's the only place he cannot reach."
Focusing through the pain, he triggered his own Mangekyō's power. The familiar distortion enveloped him, and he vanished from the cave.
He reappeared within the Kamui dimension, the endless plain of grey stone slabs and towering rectangular columns. A profound, instinctive relief washed over him. Here. I am safe here. No technique in the world can breach this space. Not even the Flying Thunder God can sense a mark within. It was his absolute fortress.
"Even if Uchiha Akira learned the Flying Thunder God," he whispered to the sterile air, "it would be useless."
Punch!
The sound was wet, final. An unimaginable, searing agony exploded in his chest, radiating from his back. He looked down, disbelieving. The tip of a kunai, sheathed in a razor-edge of wind-nature chakra, protruded from the front of his ribcage. His own blood, shockingly vivid, dripped from its point.
"You're right. The Flying Thunder God cannot find a mark here."
The voice was ice against his ear, intimate and deadly.
"But what if I'm already inside?"
Uchiha Akira.
How?! HOW COULD HE BE HERE?! The thought screamed through Obito's dissolving mind. He managed to twist his head, muscles screaming.
He saw the answer. A section of the grey stone floor nearby was shattered, a hole leading into a shallow depression. Akira had been here. Waiting. Buried. He had entered the dimension first and lain in ambush in Obito's own sanctuary.
"Heh." Akira's cold sneer was the last social sound Obito would hear. "Uchiha Obito. You don't need to know how. It's over."
Before Obito's failing brain could even process a final defense—Izanagi required preparation he did not have—Akira moved.
His other hand, holding a second wind-enhanced blade, flashed in a horizontal arc. It was not a technique, just perfect, brutal efficiency.
Shick.
A clean, red line appeared across Obito's neck. For a suspended moment, nothing happened. Then, a torrent of arterial blood fountained into the grey air.
Thud.
The head, still encased in the tiger-striped mask, struck the hard stone floor with a solid, final sound. The body remained upright for a second longer, then collapsed beside it.
Akira yanked his first kunai free and took several swift steps back, falling into a guarded stance. He watched, every sense acute. Izanagi required pre-set conditions. Obito, believing himself utterly safe, would not have activated it. But caution was paramount.
One minute. Two. Five. Ten.
The only sounds were the drip of blood and the silent hum of the dimension itself. The body did not move. The head did not fade. No chakra flared to rewrite reality.
Finally, the tension in Akira's shoulders eased. It was done.
He formed a single hand seal. A shadow clone materialized beside him. At his mental command, the clone cautiously approached the severed head. It bent down, fingers reaching for the edge of the orange, spiral mask.
With a careful tug, the mask came free.
Beneath it was a face forever locked in a rictus of shock, pain, and most of all, profound, universe-shattering incomprehension. The right eye was wide, the Sharingan faded to dull red. The left side was a ruin of scar tissue, but the remaining features were unmistakable to one who knew.
Uchiha Obito. Dead. Truly, finally dead.
(End of Chapter)
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