He paused, letting the name hang in the air like thunder that refused to fade.

The torches flickered against the damp walls, and for a heartbeat, the cave itself seemed to hold its breath.

Then Obito raised a hand, tilting his mask just enough for the light to catch his eye.

Through the narrow slit, the pattern of his Mangekyō flared, a brief, unmistakable spiral of red and black.

It was gone almost instantly, but the effect lingered.

“Much has changed since my prime,” he said quietly. “I’ve lost parts of myself, both flesh and memory, yet the will remains. I am still Madara Uchiha… and my dream of peace endures. I came here to ask you to share it.”

The cave was silent. The rain outside filled the pauses between breaths.

Nagato’s eyes flickered, slow and uncertain. His mind was already racing.

The name alone carried weight. Madara Uchiha, the phantom of the Warring States era, the man who’d stood beside the First Hokage, the architect of power and destruction itself.

He glanced toward Konan, searching her face for even a fragment of reaction.

She was still as paper, her expression unreadable, but the faint tightening of her jaw told him she was on edge.

The glimpse of that Sharingan had changed the air.

It made the impossible suddenly plausible and perfectly explained many things.

Konan’s voice never rose, but her thoughts sharpened. ‘If this really is Madara,’ she told herself, ‘then everything we’ve built could crumble, or be reborn under his hand.’

She felt her stomach tighten. His timing was too precise.

His arrival, his offer, even the gesture with the eye, it all felt rehearsed.

But she couldn’t ignore the possibility that it was real.

And that possibility was more terrifying than a lie.

Nagato finally broke the silence. “Madara Uchiha,” he murmured, as if tasting the name.

“Your name’s been carried through history as both a warning and a legend. Power, ambition, betrayal, destruction, people built myths around it. If even half of them are true, then what you say isn’t something I can ignore.”

He stopped there, voice low, heavy with fatigue.

The events of the day had stripped him raw.

The Gedo Statue, the wounds, the loss, it had all left him dangling between fury and emptiness.

Deep down, he understood their situation too well.

He and Konan were all alone now, trapped; while he was badly broken and crippled in body, exposed before a man whose mystery, strength, and knowledge greatly eclipsed their own.

Yet this same man had stepped in to save them when no one else would.

That contradiction gnawed at him. Gratitude and suspicion tangled in the same breath.

He thought of Yahiko again.

The image of his friend falling, the sound of the blade, the flash of Hanzo’s betrayal, it was all there, never fading.

Yahiko had been the dreamer, the one who believed peace could be reached without blood. That dream had died with him.

“Yahiko’s death changed everything,” Nagato thought bitterly. “The world doesn’t listen to mercy. It only listens to pain.”

He looked back at Obito. “If what you offer can bring peace, even through fear, then I’ll hear you out. I owe that much to Yahiko’s memory.”

Konan gave a quiet nod beside him. It wasn’t trust, not yet, but something closer to resignation.

She had already lost one of the two people who mattered to her; she wouldn’t lose the other by standing still.

The air between them thickened.

Hope and danger shared the same heartbeat.

Nagato’s thoughts drifted again, to Hanzo and Danzo, the architects of everything that had gone wrong.

The image of Yahiko collapsing in front of them burned behind his eyes.

His jaw tightened. “Yahiko was more than a friend,” he said, voice rough. “He was everything. They forced him into that corner. They killed the only man who ever believed true peace could exist.”

Konan’s expression broke slightly, grief flickering across her features before she hid it again.

“He was the reason we survived,” she said softly. “The only reason we ever believed.”

Obito listened without interrupting.

Inside, he was already cataloging their pain, the exact tone, the pressure points, the opening in Nagato’s heart.

Nagato turned toward him. “If you can give me the strength to avenge him… then I’ll follow your lead. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this world understand pain the way we did.”

His words echoed in the cave, low and steady, like a vow forming out of the rain.

Obito nodded once. “Then we understand each other. The power I offer won’t just let you carry on Yahiko’s dream. It will make those who destroyed him answer for it. Every one of them.”

The conversation eased after that, with less tension, more calculation. Plans took form quietly.

They agreed to stay out of sight for now, hidden from every village’s reach.

Konan would remain by his side, watching over him as his body slowly recovered through their help.

Obito, meanwhile, promised to handle everything else: the supplies, the medicine, the knowledge they lacked.

Through him, Obito promised, Nagato wouldn’t just recover what he’d lost regarding his Rinnegan gift, especially.

He would refine it, master it, and rise beyond the limits of his former self, stronger, sharper, and closer to the god the world needed to fear.

“Consider it an investment,” he said. “Your strength will shape the peace I envision. Take the time to rebuild. I’ll handle the rest.”

Konan bowed her head slightly. “We’ll recover,” she said. 

When Obito finally turned to leave, the torchlight slid across his mask, leaving his face unreadable. “Rest. When the time comes, I’ll call for you. Then we’ll begin the real work.”

He vanished into the rain with Zetsu trailing close behind, their forms swallowed by mist.

Inside, only the steady rhythm of water dripping from the ceiling remained.

Nagato lay back, silent. Konan adjusted the blanket over him, her movements slow and mechanical.

Neither spoke.

The quiet pressed down like a weight, equal parts peace and mourning.

Outside, the storm rolled over Ame again.

A few miles away, Obito walked through the downpour without a sound, Zetsu’s halves drifting alongside him like ghosts.

The tension that had filled the cave melted into a strange calm.

White Zetsu broke it first, his voice light and teasing.

“You really sold it this time. The great Madara Uchiha, huh? I almost believed you myself.”

He chuckled. “And they swallowed every word. Poor orange-haired kid, so desperate he didn’t even blink.”

Black Zetsu’s tone was flat. “You talk too much. They believed because they wanted to. Keep mocking, and you’ll end up the reason they stop.”

“Relax,” White Zetsu said, shrugging. “It worked, didn’t it? He’s hooked.”

Obito didn’t respond. A faint smirk formed beneath the mask, but it didn’t reach his eye.

“Hooked, yes. But only barely. Pain like his makes men unpredictable.”

He slowed his pace. The rain poured harder, masking his next words.

“Every step he takes to recover ties him to me. When he’s ready, he’ll move exactly as planned.”

For a while, no one spoke.

Then Obito spoke quietly, almost to himself.

“He pushed himself past the edge today. Fed that statue with nothing but his own life, no tailed beast to bear the strain. I can’t imagine what that kind of drain has done to his body, or how much of him is even left.”

Black Zetsu’s voice came low, precise. “His body is failing, that’s for sure. The damage to his legs is permanent, and the strain has already shortened his life. The Uzumaki vitality will keep him alive for years, if we heal him now, in the short term, but every use of the Rinnegan will drain what remains.”

“So he’s strong, but fragile,” Obito muttered. “Good.”

“But, he’ll most likely never walk again, even if we gave our all…” Black Zetsu continued. “His fighting days are over. From now on, he commands from a distance. We’ll mold him into a weapon that doesn’t need to move. The Rinnegan was never bound by distance, after all.”

Obito glanced sideways. “You mean the remote-control methods Madara mentioned?”

“Yes,” Black Zetsu replied. “In his old notes, he theorized several long-range systems, multiple bodies linked through shared vision, all extensions of the same will. With enough chakra and focus, Nagato could wage war without moving a single step.”

Obito nodded slowly, the thought settling in. “So even crippled, he can become more dangerous. He won’t fight as a man anymore, but as a network of sorts.”

“That’s the idea, but this would take time to orchestrate…” Black Zetsu said. “His body dies a little each day, but his reach will only grow. That was always what Madara intended for the next bearer of the Rinnegan.”

White Zetsu tilted his head. “Sounds boring. What about other upgrades? Hashirama cells for his damaged legs, maybe?”

Black Zetsu gave a low hum. “As a last resort only. Our goal is to preserve him for Madara’s return, not create another monster we can’t control.”

Obito looked at him sharply. “But if it ever comes to that point, if the plan falters perhaps, could we do it?”

“Yes,” Black Zetsu admitted, “but with risk. His overflowing Uzumaki life force already mirrors the Senju’s. Combine that with Hashirama’s cells, and we might create something beyond even our reach. Even Madara, at his full power, could struggle to control him.”

“Then we wait,” Obito said simply. “Let him believe he’s recovering. Let Konan nurse him back. When he’s strong enough to act but weak enough to rely on us, that’s when we move.”

Yet, from Madara’s old directives, too, they also knew that power alone wouldn’t be enough.

To control the world, they needed an organization that could move like a shadow across borders, silent, nameless, and absolute.

So, Black Zetsu spoke first. “While Nagato heals, we’ll need to scout or secure some of the future members, directly mostly loyal to ourselves, instead of him, in the future. Madara’s network has already identified several prospects through White Zetsu’s reports. Mercenaries, missing-nin, killers-for-hire. All S-rank caliber. Many already live outside the law, hungry for meaning or money. They’ll bend if pushed hard enough.”

Obito listened, hands folded behind his back. “Then we’ll make them bend. Force, manipulation, persuasion, it doesn’t matter. They’ll serve.”

“The inner circle,” Black Zetsu continued, “must be made of monsters. Each one a Kage-level or close. When we have enough of them, the world itself will start to tremble at the name Akatsuki. That’s when collecting the tailed beasts will truly begin.”

White Zetsu piped up from the side, his tone lighter but no less sharp. “And we’ll need the boring part too. Smugglers, informants, traders, spies. The outer Akatsuki, the logistics layer. Someone has to fund the war before it starts. Can’t conquer the world if you can’t pay for kunai.”

Obito nodded slowly. “We’ll use the underworld. It’s still a world war, so it’s booming with activity. Move money through missing-nin networks and black markets. Build quiet bases in neutral countries. By the time anyone notices, we’ll already have roots everywhere.”

Amegakure, for now, would remain their center, its endless rain and chaos making it the perfect mask.

But even as he said it, Obito’s mind turned back to Danzo.

The old man had seen too much. That single glimpse today might set Konoha’s eyes toward Ame before they were ready.

If that happened, they’d need another place to operate. Somewhere remote, unreachable, hidden even from the mainland’s wars.

Obito’s single eye gleamed faintly behind the mask. ‘The Land of Water.’

Isolation, blood, silence, it had all the qualities of a perfect nest.

And inside it waited Kirigakure, a village drowning in war and paranoia, its own leadership rotting from within.

He thought of Rin again, of her death on that battlefield, of the sea-colored mist that clung to her last breath.

Kirigakure would serve both purposes. A burial ground for his past, and the next foundation for Akatsuki’s future.

But that could wait for a while. For now, Nagato had to live, heal, and grow into the weapon they needed.

Only then would the world begin to move toward the dream that Madara had promised, and that Obito now intended to make real, no matter what it cost.

The three of them walked on through the mist. The rain swallowed their footsteps.

Behind them, the cave glowed faintly in the distance, where Nagato and Konan rested in silence. Somewhere between vengeance and peace, their path had already begun to shift.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep