Madara didn't gesture. Didn't chant. Simply breathed. Rinnegan rings flared—not violet, but cosmic ink bleeding into reality's canvas. Finn-Madara's focus became scalpel-sharp: Konoha's phantom sakura blossoms drifting through Stark Tower's fractured windows. Central Park's phantom grass roots tangling with Leviathan veins deep below asphalt. The dissonance wasn't error—it was potential. Survival demanded synthesis, not annihilation. His gaze locked onto Barnes—vibranium arm gleaming beside a spectral Uchiha banner flickering against a Chitauri corpse. "Barnes," Madara's voice resonated—low frequency merging Siberian frost with Valley wind. "Your metal arm. An anchor."
Barnes froze—eyes darting to Stark. Tony nodded sharply. "Do it." Madara's palm extended—not towards Bucky, but the space around his vibranium shoulder. Rinnegan whirled—gravitic lensing bending light into fractal prisms. Stark's scanners screamed parallax collapse—Central Park's Bethesda Angel statue solidified, stone wings brushing Barnes' sleeve… while simultaneously, Siberian ice crystals bloomed across its weathered face. No clash. No tear. Seamless superposition. Madara inhaled—smelling cedar from Konoha's forests fused with Stark Tower's ozone. "Reality bleeds because it remembers dissonance," he murmured—voice the grinding of tectonic plates finding alignment. "Forge resonance." His fingers flexed—gentle, terrible. Vibranium hummed—not vibration, but memory: Wakandan waterfalls superimposed perfectly over Valley of the End's spectral cliffs. The fusion held. Solid. True.
Now the nexus point: Stark Tower's core. Madara ascended—boots not touching fused glass, but walking phantom roots Hashirama left blooming in midair. Rinnegan pierced the building's heart—where the alien Scroll pulsed beside Stark's ruptured arc reactor. Two anchors. One truth. Chakra surged—not destruction, but weaving. Amaterasu's black flames licked upward from the reactor's core—cool, controlled—while Wood Release vines descended from Konoha's spectral canopy through the ceiling. They met at the Scroll. Vine fused with neutron star alloy. Alien glyphs burned into ancient oak. No explosion. No spark. A sigh—like universes exhaling relief. Stark staggered—reactor light stabilizing cobalt-steady. Konoha's Hokage Mountain solidified behind him—granite face gazing protectively over Manhattan. Barnes touched a phantom waterfall—cold spray kissed his cheek. Real. Solid. Seamless. Madara lowered his hand. Rinnegan dimmed to embers. "Stabilized." His gaze swept the healed skyline—Chitauri wrecks now entwined with blooming sakura trees. Now, Finn-Madara's voice echoed internally, we cleanse the wounds.
Below the tower, crowds gathered. Not panicked. Not fleeing. Hesitant. Confused. Civilians clutching salvaged StarkTech beside Konoha farmers bearing makeshift kunai. Madara watched from the fractured spire—silent judge. Stark landed beside him, faceplate retracting. Sweat-streaked, triumphant—but wary. "They're… intact?" Tony scanned the throng. "No cosmic-radiation spikes. Just…" He trailed off as a shopkeeper lifted trembling hands. Not in prayer. Tendrils of visible blue chakra—weak, flickering—spiraled upward. Stark's scanner chirped sharply. "Passive manifestation," Madara stated—Rinnegan tracing nascent coils awakening within mundane souls. Barnes joined them atop a steel root. "Enhanced survival instincts," he rasped—vibranium fingers curling. Stark's eyes widened: Bucky's palm shimmered—not metal-shine, but raw electrostatic chakra sparking briefly. Finn cataloged: Spontaneous chakra ignition. Madara's voice resonated like stone settling: "Two worlds merged. Two energies intertwine in mortal flesh." Survival demanded adaptation.
Madara descended—not floating. Heavy impacts cratering fused earth beside refugee tents. Silence swallowed the crowd—terror thickening air. A child whimpered. Stark protested—"Easy, Madara!" But Finn-Madara ignored him. Rinnegan locked onto the shopkeeper—the frail man shaking beneath cosmic scrutiny. "Show me," Madara commanded—voice grating finality. The man flinched—hands lifting reflexively… and chakra pulsed. Weak. Hazy blue. Yet undeniably Kaminari-no-Jutsu's embryonic flicker. Madara's hand shot out—not violently—palm hovering inches above the man's brow. Stark surged forward—repulsors flaring—too late. Violet light bathed the shopkeeper. No scream. Instead—a gasp. Weak chakra flared brighter—steadying. Stabilizing. Madara withdrew. "Latent affinity: Lightning." His gaze swept terrified faces: "Test yourselves." Whispers spread. Barnes nodded grimly—palms sparking again—stronger. Stark scowled—focusing—blue electrostatic arcs jumped between armored fingers. Adaptation began.
Hashirama reappeared—wood-shinsu scattering debris—face pale beneath Hokage robes. "The Scroll… secured," he gasped. Then froze—eyes widening at chakra-lit crowds. Madara turned—obsidian coat swirling. Rinnegan blazed—not to intimidate, but dissect: Stark's clenched jaw, Barnes' sparking fists, refugees' flickering elemental sparks—all strands in history's frayed tapestry. Survival demanded hierarchy. "Stark," Madara's voice cracked asphalt—temporal resonance humming beneath syllables. "Who leads your nation?"
Tony flinched—repulsor humming reflexive defense. "Leader? After Manhattan? DC burning? It's—" Stark swallowed—scanning phantom White House ruins bleeding through Konoha's council chamber. "Fragmented. SHIELD's gone. Senators are…" His gauntlet flickered—corrupted footage: alien hybrids dragging congressmen through Capitol rubble. "Compromised." Barnes spat crimson—vibranium fingers crushing concrete. "No leaders. Only survivors." Madara inhaled—ozone sharpened by phantom senate blood. Finn's cop-mind fused with Uchiha strategy: Chaos requires a blade.
"Then define it," Madara commanded—gunbai tip carving gravitic sigils into fused earth. Stark's reactor pulsed—desperate brilliance warring with nihilism. "Define what? Democracy?" Tony's laugh scraped raw. "It's rubble!" Madara's gloved fingers flexed—weighted with annihilation and rebirth. Wind howled ghosts through phantom senate columns. Barnes watched, vibranium fist clenching—sparks of nascent lightning chakra kissing frozen knuckles. Survival demanded chains of command… or chaos consumed all.
"Define necessity," Madara clarified—voice Siberian midnight. Rinnegan locked onto Stark's fractured pupils. "You rebuilt armies from scrap." Tony flinched—memories of cave-forged Mark I flashing behind cracked lenses. "Yeah… for battles. Not nations—" Madara cut through evasion like chokuto steel: "You commandeer resources. Innovate under siege. Adapt." Hashirama inhaled—pine scent thickening—roots whispering through geopolitical debris. Reality's wounds wept around them; Stark stood at the bleeding edge. Barnes growled—agreement or fury, unclear—as electrostatic arcs danced up his metal arm. Madara's gaze never wavered from Stark's soul. Survival demanded architects… not philosophers.
A beat. Ash drifted like charred confetti. Stark scanned fused horizons—Leviathan bones entwined with Konoha's reconstructed gates, refugees clustering under Sakura blooms threaded through Stark Industries banners. His jaw tightened. Finn-Madara tasted ozone… and surrender. Tony's reactor flared cobalt-bright—decision crystallizing. Madara exhaled—gunbai lowering. Wind stilled. Pilgrims held breath.
"Stark." Madara's voice resonated—dead calm beneath cosmic certainty. Rinnegan dimmed to embers. "I'm electing you leader of this country."