Kirigakure, Land of Water.
Inside the Mizukage's office, Yagura sat behind his desk. He appeared deeply absorbed in reviewing a stack of incoming documents, carrying himself with all the outward diligence expected of a dedicated Mizukage.
Yet just beyond the walls of the Mizukage-building, a legion of Anbu ninjas was locked in a brutal, chaotic clash against an array of 'rebel' shinobi.
Every so often, a spray of fresh blood would erupt from the violent skirmishes below, splashing across the glass window panes directly behind Yagura's seat.
None of this, however, could break his absolute focus.
Just as Yagura smoothly penned his signature at the bottom of a decree, a light, rhythmic knock echoed from the office door.
"Enter."
The door swung open, and a towering figure stepped into the room.
His physical features were profoundly monstrous, stripped entirely of conventional human aesthetics. He bore a striking resemblance to the Fish-Men from the world of One Piece, complete with distinct gill slits slicing across both cheeks, and a sharp, upturned grin that exposed rows of serrated, needle-like teeth beneath his lips.
A shark-type Fish-Man?
No, he was Hoshigaki Kisame of the Hidden Mist.
Slung securely across his back was a massive, legendary blade wrapped heavily in thick layers of white bandages: the Samehada.
"What is your report?" Yagura inquired, never once lifting his eyes from his paperwork.
"Lord Fourth, the final contingent of dissenters is on the verge of total liquidation," Kisame reported calmly.
A closer look revealed that his standard shinobi attire was heavily splattered with dark, blooming stains of fresh blood.
"I see. A flawless execution, Kisame." Hearing the briefing, Yagura finally raised his head to lock eyes with the towering shinobi.
In that exact fraction of a second, a set of crimson, spinning tomoe flashed vividly within his pupils.
Without a shred of doubt, Yagura did not naturally possess the Sharingan as he was no Uchiha. For such an anomaly to manifest could mean only one thing: much like the Nine-Tails years prior, the Mizukage was currently being completely micro-managed by the ultimate visual prowess of the Uchiha.
As for the master puppeteer orchestrating this entire grand play...
He was lounging comfortably on a sofa situated right before the office coffee table.
Obito, or rather, the entity operating under the sovereign moniker of 'Madara.'
He sat there entirely exposed and completely unbothered, exuding an air of absolute, untouchable arrogance.
Kisame's tiny shark-like eyes smoothly shifted away from Yagura, realigning his focus squarely onto the masked figure of Obito.
"I appreciate your high praise, Lord Fourth," Kisame remarked smoothly, addressing Obito with the absolute title of Mizukage.
Obito let out a low chuckle behind his mask. "I find that title quite agreeable, Kisame. Seeing as the treasonous factions attempting to fracture the foundation of our Hidden Mist have been thoroughly purged, your next directive is clear. I want you to personally handpick a brand-new legion of operatives, individuals whose absolute loyalty to the village and to the Fourth Mizukage remains completely unshakeable, to occupy every critical infrastructure post within our administration."
"Understood. I shall systematically compile a comprehensive registry of candidates and present it to you shortly, Lord Fourth," Kisame responded, a cruel, razor-sharp smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he offered a compliant nod.
"Excellent. Furthermore, effective immediately, the institution known as the Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist is officially abolished. We have zero remaining use for such an outdated, tedious assembly. From this moment forth, you shall assume total command as the Commander of the Anbu. Under our sovereign mandate, begin the immediate deployment phase for the Eye of the Moon Plan," Obito instructed in a soft, even tone.
"Understood, it shall be done," Kisame agreed with a firm nod.
Regarding the sudden dissolution of the Seven Ninja Swordsmen, an organization traditionally celebrated as the ultimate pinnacle of military honor within the Hidden Mist, he demonstrated absolutely zero signs of internal conflict or hesitation.
"You are dismissed. See to it," Obito muttered, offering a casual wave of his hand.
Kisame offered a final nod of acknowledgment before casting a parting glance at Yagura. The crimson gleam within the Mizukage's eyes had already faded back to normal. The subverted leader merely lowered his head once more, resuming his mechanical signing of documents like a thoroughly hollowed-out tool.
Without another word, Kisame turned and pulled open the heavy door. Yet, just as his boots crossed the threshold into the corridor, his movements abruptly came to a halt. He glanced back over his shoulder, locking his gaze with Obito.
"The Eye of the Moon... it is guaranteed to succeed, correct? Madara... sama?"
Obito smiled faintly beneath his mask, though the expression remained entirely obscured from Kisame's view.
"But of course. This represents our ultimate, collective paradise, does it not?" Obito murmured softly.
Kisame offered no further commentary. He simply closed the door quietly behind him, stepping away from the executive chambers.
Descending from the heights of the Mizukage-building, Kisame stepped past the threshold of the primary gates and immediately intercepted a solitary figure.
The individual was clad in a dark, sweeping trench coat reminiscent of the uniform worn by the elite operatives of the Yorozuya, save for the distinct absence of the iconic crimson clouds.
He sat upon the stone stairs leading up to the main entrance, cutting an exceptionally sharp, yet isolated silhouette against the bleak backdrop. One knee was pulled up tight while his alternate leg extended downward. The atmospheric moisture within the Hidden Mist was famously oppressive; the stone steps surrounding his position were heavily slick with a thick sheen of condensation.
The surrounding dampness had already thoroughly saturated a significant portion of his sweeping coat, yet the figure appeared completely indifferent to the discomfort.
Kisame closed the distance, coming to a halt directly beside the seated figure to inspect his features.
He was an undeniably handsome young man. Though Kisame was acutely aware that this operative was remarkably young, years his junior, in fact, his overall demeanor carried an incredibly mature, weathered gravity. Despite being a mere teenager, his presence carried the severe, unshakeable weight of a man well into his twenties.
Most notably, the two deep, prominent tear troughs scoring his face lent him an aura of profound, world-weary exhaustion.
Resting against his forehead was a standard Konohagakure headband. Yet, across the metallic surface, the iconic symbol of the Hidden Leaf had been deeply defaced by a single, jagged horizontal slash, the universal brand of a rogue ninja who had permanently severed his ties with his homeland.
The infamous Clan-Killer: Uchiha Itachi, the prodigy who had systematically slaughtered his entire bloodline.
"Are you admiring the local scenery, Itachi?" Kisame inquired suddenly, his voice carrying a light, conversational undertone.
Before them, the sweeping thoroughfares of the village stood utterly vacant and desolate. Every single commercial storefront along the perimeter was tightly locked down. Across the open asphalt, dozens of shinobi corpses lay scattered in grotesque, broken angles, their pooling life force staining the streets an aggregate shade of deep crimson.
It was, by no metric, a pleasant view.
Furthermore, every single one of those freshly minted corpses had been put to rest by Itachi's own hand mere moments prior.
Right beside his resting fingers, a collection of kunai, still slick with wet, dripping blood, rested quietly against the stone.
"Yes. I am observing the scenery," Itachi replied, his calm, clinical response catching Kisame slightly off guard.
"Is that so?" Kisame chuckled softly. He paused for a beat before shifting the tone of the conversation. "You know, ever since your grand reputation reached my ears, I have harbored a specific burning inquiry, a paradox that has actively plagued my mind for several years."
Itachi rolled his neck slightly, his peripheral vision tracing the towering form of Kisame beside him. "Speak."
"Itachi... what exactly does it feel like to murder one's own comrades?" Kisame inquired, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Itachi's pupils contracted for a fraction of a second, and a sudden, localized spike of raw, suffocating murderous intent rippled through the immediate atmosphere.
Yet, it manifested for a mere heartbeat before being flawlessly suppressed, making it virtually imperceptible to a standard observer. However, Kisame, possessing an incredibly sharp, apex-predator sensory grid, caught the brief flash of malice instantly. The predatory grin stretching across his face widened significantly.
"A thoroughly tedious inquiry," Itachi muttered, withdrawing his peripheral focus from Kisame and refocusing his gaze onto the blood-soaked streets. "The ultimate conclusion to that query is something you already comprehend perfectly well within your own heart."
"No. It is precisely because the ultimate conclusion remains completely obscured that I stand here today, seeking your personal insight," Kisame countered softly.
The thick, overbearing fog blankets finally hit critical mass, transforming into a steady, rhythmic rainfall that began to cascade down from the overcast skies.
The droplets patterned against Itachi's form, slicked over Kisame's massive build, and saturated the crimson thoroughfares, gradually diluting and washing away the thick pools of blood. Yet, neither Itachi nor Kisame made the slightest move to seek shelter from the downpour.
One remained quietly seated upon the completely drenched stone steps, while the other maintained his silent, imposing vigil right beside him.
"From my perspective... individuals who have spent their lives betraying and slaughtering their own comrades are invariably doomed to meet a horrific, catastrophic end," Itachi spoke suddenly, his voice piercing through the steady patter of the rain. "However, regardless of who we are, it is only at the absolute threshold of death that an individual truly gains the clarity to see exactly what kind of person they were all along."
Kisame remained silent, processing the statement. He couldn't quite determine if he fully grasped the philosophical depth of the message, nor could he truly decipher the underlying subtext anchoring Itachi's worldview.
Even so, he found himself immensely fond of the sentiment.
"So, it is only at the absolute threshold of death that one truly understands who they were all along? You speak with an extraordinary depth of wisdom for someone so remarkably young, Itachi. Truly fascinating... Hehehe," Kisame chuckled warmly.
However, Itachi appeared to have lost all remaining appetite for dialogue. He sat perfectly motionless within the pooling water, the rain streaming down from the tips of his dark hair, tracking along the twin lines etched into his face before gathering at his chin, dripping downward in a rhythmic sequence that looked exactly like a succession of cold tears.
The heavy, absolute silence stretched continuously between them for roughly ten minutes before Kisame seemed to recall a secondary piece of business. He turned his gaze back to Itachi, remarking, "Right, I almost forgot. Per Madara-sama's strategic configurations, from this day forward, you and I are officially designated as field partners who must look out for one another..."
Two rogue ninja, both infamous for systematically butchering their own comrades, were now being formally bound together as trusted partners. Standing within this depressing curtain of rain, the underlying irony of the arrangement was nothing short of staggering.
Itachi remained completely silent, his thoughts entirely locked away behind his exterior.
Kisame, entirely unbothered by the lack of response, continued seamlessly on his own, "While you are undeniably an elite shinobi of legendary renown, I must confess, I still harbor a personal desire to experience it firsthand..."
The moment the final syllable formed in his throat, Kisame shifted his weight. In a flash of terrifying speed, the massive Samehada was wrenched from his back, cleaving downward through the rain directly toward Itachi's skull.
"...Just what the true scope of your absolute strength looks like, Itachi!" Kisame finished, his declaration perfectly synchronized with the descending blade.
Yet, right as the crushing mass of the Samehada was a mere hair's breadth away from impacting Itachi's head and obliterating his skull into paste.
Itachi spoke up, his delivery completely unhurried and entirely devoid of panic: "Let us save this for another occasion. I am deeply exhausted today, and I have zero desire to engage in pointless combat."
The exact instant the final word left his lips, Kisame's descending strike frozen completely solid.
His tiny shark-like pupils contracted violently. Within his immediate field of vision, the silhouette of Itachi sitting upon the steps had completely dissolved into thin air.
The voice that had just spoken did not originate from the steps at all, it vibrated from his immediate flank.
Without a single trace of warning, Itachi was now standing directly beside his shoulder.
Though Kisame didn't feel an immediate, active threat to his life, he could clearly see a sharp kunai resting securely within Itachi's fingers. Even though the young man maintained a perfectly neutral posture, Kisame was acutely aware that during that fraction of a second, that kunai could have been placed against, or plunged directly into, any vital organ on his entire body.
"Exactly when did you reposition yourself to that spot?" Kisame inquired, smoothly reeling the Samehada back onto his shoulders as he turned his head to confront Itachi.
"And exactly when did you trick yourself into believing I was still sitting on those steps?" Itachi countered smoothly with a question of his own.
Kisame froze for a brief heartbeat before bursting into a deep, booming laugh. He shook his head in genuine amusement, offering an unreserved note of praise: "So this is the legendary visual prowess of the Sharingan? To slip me into a seamless genjutsu without my conscious awareness... Truly an extraordinary power."
Itachi chose not to acknowledge the compliment. Instead, he extended his open palm, letting the cold rain collect against his fingers before asking a sudden, pointed question: "You are fully aware that he is not the genuine Madara. Why, then, do you choose to offer him your absolute allegiance?"
"Oh? So he isn't the genuine Madara-sama after all?" Kisame chuckled lightly, acting as though the revelation had just dawned on him.
However, the sheer casualness of his delivery made it completely obvious that his surprise was entirely performative.
In truth, he had likely deduced long ago that the masked man was an imposter.
"Truth, falsehood... what actual meaning do such concepts carry in the grand scheme of things? We are nothing more than transient specks of dust struggling to survive within the machinery of this wretched world. I am thoroughly exhausted, Itachi. Whether it is a grand truth or a fabricated lie matters very little to me anymore. Even if he isn't the true Madara, what of it? At the very least, his master plan genuinely intrigues me. For a ninja like me, that is more than enough," Kisame explained, a rare, genuine note of deep weariness bleeding into his tone.
Itachi lapsed into a long, contemplative silence before murmuring softly under his breath, "Is that so?"
The heavy blanket of exhaustion that had anchored Kisame a moment prior vanished instantly, replaced by a warm, easy smile. He locked eyes with Itachi, offering a cheerful invitation: "The current weather is far too dismal for a proper introduction. Once the storm passes and the skies clear up, we should sit down as official partners and share a drink, shouldn't we? Hahaha..."
Without waiting for Itachi's response, Kisame turned on his heel and strode down the wet stone steps, his massive silhouette rapidly fading into the mist at the far end of the desolate thoroughfare.
Itachi slowly raised his chin, staring up into the deep, churning expanse of thick grey clouds above, before whispering a quiet soliloquy to the rain: "For broken entities like you and me... exactly when will the skies ever truly clear up?"
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