"Was it Rin? Nohara Rin?"
The question burst out of Obito almost before White Zetsu finished speaking. Hope flared so brightly in his one exposed eye that it nearly hurt to look at.
"That's right. Her name is Nohara Rin," White Zetsu said, nodding.
"Yes!"
For a moment he looked like someone who had won the lottery.
"Tell me—what did you see?" he pressed. "Quickly!"
White Zetsu spoke in the same light, careless tone as ever. "After finishing a mission, they went back to the tent. Your companion, Nohara Rin, was discussing medical ninjutsu with another companion."
"Kakashi?"
Obito frowned. If it was Kakashi, then maybe it was understandable. He had entrusted Rin to Kakashi, after all. Maybe Kakashi really was taking care of her. Maybe everything would return to normal as soon as he got back.
"No. It was that one named… Kiyo…"
"Kiyohara?!"
Obito's voice cracked with disbelief.
It was that guy again.
He still remembered the scene vividly—Kiyohara touching Rin's hand right in front of him and calmly saying he wanted to learn medical ninjutsu. Obito had not forgotten even for a second.
But now they were alone in a tent together? Talking about medical ninjutsu? No, what kind of learning was that supposed to be?
The more he imagined, the worse it got.
"I want to go back!"
He slammed his fist against the rock wall, ignoring the pain that ripped through the half of his body Madara's operation had only barely pieced back together. The raw wounds screamed. The pale flesh grafted from White Zetsu twitched. Tiny buds had already begun to form where a new arm might one day grow.
None of that mattered to him.
"What good would going back do?" Madara said calmly, opening his eyes. "Obito, don't you understand? During the time you were gone, your companions did not stop moving forward."
Madara's tone was slow, almost indifferent. "Is it not natural that the dead are replaced by the living?"
"Replaced? Impossible!"
Obito shook his head violently. The dim underground light cast shifting shadows across the bandages wrapped around his face and body.
Is there no place for me anymore? That thought crashed into him so hard it almost made him dizzy.
"No one can replace me. Rin… she'll definitely wait for me!"
He clung stubbornly to the memory of what Rin had once said—that she would always be watching him.
"Wait for you?" Madara repeated, expressionless.
Then, like someone carefully sliding a knife between old wounds, he continued, "According to Zetsu, that boy Kiyohara has talent. His strength is growing quickly. And… he seems to know very well how to deal with people."
Madara leaned back slightly, eyes dark as blood. "Right now, he is alone in a tent with the girl you long for. If this continues… what do you think will happen?"
Madara had never loved anyone himself. Even so, he understood enough of human weakness to know the danger of a man and a woman being left alone long enough.
"You're lying!"
Obito roared, the one visible eye in his face burning with disbelief and panic.
"Rin isn't like that! And Kiyohara… how could he possibly compare to me? He's just a commoner. I'm from the Uchiha clan!"
Even as he said it, he forced himself up and tried to continue his rehabilitation training. He needed his chakra back. He needed his body back. He needed to return before anything irreversible happened.
But the body Madara had stitched together was still too new, too incomplete. His half-white limbs trembled. His wounds screamed. After only a short effort, he collapsed heavily to the ground, panting, his heart full of resentment.
Madara watched him fall and felt a flash of cold satisfaction.
Yes. Doubt. Pain. Resentment. Anger. These were the best nutrients darkness could ask for.
When reality betrayed everything Obito believed in, when all the things he clung to turned to ash in his hands, only then would he truly fall. Only then would he become the perfect pawn.
"A world where only victors remain…" Madara murmured in the darkness, slowly closing his eyes once more.
***
The next morning, after reporting in to Kakashi, Kiyohara left the base alone and headed for the small transit town nearby.
The place wasn't large, but because so many Konoha ninja passed through it during the war, it was lively enough. Shops stood shoulder to shoulder, all of them eager to strip shinobi of their money in exchange for supplies, tools, and repairs.
Kiyohara headed straight for a shop that bought and forged ninja tools.
The owner was a middle-aged man with rough fingers and a monocle, the look of an old craftsman who had seen too many blades and too much blood. Kiyohara wasted no time. He unsealed three swords and a pile of miscellaneous spoils of war.
"Boss. Price these. Cash only."
The man examined them carefully, especially the katana. A flicker of surprise crossed his face before he named a number. After a bit of haggling, Kiyohara exchanged the loot for a thick stack of money—far more than he had expected.
Then he pulled out several broken pieces of chakra metal.
The shopkeeper's whole demeanor changed at once. "Chakra metal?"
Interest blazed in his eyes. This wasn't just profit. For a craftsman, this was an opportunity too rare to ignore.
"I want a custom ninja sword," Kiyohara said. "Use this as the core material. Maximum chakra conductivity. Use every piece you can. If the money from the sale isn't enough, I'll cover the rest."
The owner ran his fingers over the fragments, visibly delighted. "You came to the right place. With this, I can forge something excellent."
He thought for a moment, then named a fixed price. "Five hundred thousand ryo."
Kiyohara agreed immediately.
To him, the owner felt almost honest by comparison to the usual bloodsuckers in wartime. The man was a craftsman first and a merchant second. For someone like that, chakra metal was not just money—it was experience.
The wait stretched on longer than he liked. Kiyohara wandered the town, picking up basic tools and supplies, but his thoughts kept circling back to the sword.
Finally, on the evening of the second day, he returned.
The shop owner looked exhausted, but pride gleamed in his eyes. With careful ceremony, he handed over a long sword box wrapped in thick cloth.
"Customer," he said, "what do you think?"
Kiyohara drew a slow breath and opened the case.
Inside lay a sleek katana. Long, narrow, beautiful. Near the tsuba, faint wavelike patterns ran through the steel where the chakra metal had merged naturally into the blade. The handle was wrapped in a special non-slip bandage that felt perfect beneath the hand.
A sharp joy lit up across Kiyohara's face the instant he saw it.
One of the last wishes had been fulfilled.
And at that very moment, the young Kiyohara floated out of the urn and stared at the sword in his hand.