After seeing Ito Akira's casual gesture, Uchiha Madara snorted and strode out of the villa without another word.
Akira remained behind, calmly sampling the food laid out before him.
He had to admit—it was absurdly convenient.
This space was genuinely strange. Anything he imagined into existence appeared instantly, and every dish was flawless in appearance, aroma, and taste, as if prepared by a master chef.
Honestly, Akira didn't even know where to start.
He'd only rattled off a bunch of food names from memory without thinking too hard about it.
Grilled beef skewers, salt-roasted salmon, simmered pork belly, teriyaki chicken, crispy duck, miso-glazed ribs, thick-cut bacon, sausages, cured meats, steamed dumplings, assorted pickles, flatbread, hearty stews…One after another, they had all materialized.
A moment later, Madara returned.
He moved fast—absurdly fast. In the blink of an eye, he reappeared carrying a roasted leg of lamb wrapped in cloth.
Strength really was convenient.
Judging by the scorched edges, Madara had clearly roasted it himself using Fire Release before bringing it back.
He glanced at the overflowing table of perfectly prepared dishes in front of Akira, then looked down at the lamb leg in his own hand, its surface blackened unevenly by chakra-fueled flames.
For a brief moment, Madara genuinely considered throwing it away.
Damn it…
Why didn't I ever bother learning how to cook?
Back when he lived in the Uchiha clan, servants had handled everything. During the early days of Konoha, he'd never stepped into a kitchen either. Meals were always prepared for him.
And when he felt bored, he'd head straight to Senju Hashirama's place to eat.
That idiot was hopelessly naive—but he had to admit, Uzumaki Mito's cooking had been excellent.
It wasn't just him, either. Even that insufferable Senju Tobirama had shown up more than once for meals.
Lost in those memories, Madara took a heavy bite of the lamb leg.
"…!"
He froze.
Burnt.
Completely burnt.
"Pfft—HAHAHAHA!"
Akira couldn't hold it in. He laughed openly, chewing on a piece of meat without a hint of restraint.
"You little brat!" Madara snapped. "What's so funny?!"
"Madara," Akira said between bites, grinning, "why are you acting so high and mighty? I just wanted to share a meal. No one told you to embarrass yourself."
He leaned back slightly, tone turning more sincere.
"And don't get the wrong idea. I'm not feeding you so I can order you around. I respect you—your strength, sure, but more than that… your way of thinking."
Those words weren't empty flattery.
Back when Akira had watched Naruto in another life, Uchiha Madara had always stood out to him—not just as a monster of power, but as someone driven by ideals.
Madara wasn't someone who craved chaos.
Deep down, he wanted peace.
Otherwise, he never would have ended the Warring States era alongside Hashirama. He never would have helped create Konohagakure.
When they were young, Madara and Hashirama had shared the same dream:
A village where children wouldn't be sent to die on battlefields.A place where civilians could live without fear.A world where strength existed to protect, not endlessly destroy.
Akira had often wondered—if Madara had become the First Hokage instead, would the shinobi world have turned out differently?
With Madara and Hashirama working together at their peak, they could have unified the entire world through sheer force if they'd wanted to.
Crush the resistance. Absorb every village. End all opposition.
Who could have stood against the combined might of the Susanoo and the Wood Release Buddha?
But Hashirama had been too kind.
Too trusting.
Believing that goodwill alone could bring peace was naive to the point of absurdity.
If that ideal had truly worked, why had the shinobi world drowned in war again and again after his death?
Even Madara's path—twisted as it became—had always aimed at the same destination: a final, absolute peace.
The real tragedy was that he'd been manipulated.
Deceived by Black Zetsu.
Madara fell silent after hearing Akira's words, his dark eyes shifting toward the boy.
"…You're talking about my ideals?" he asked with a faint, mocking laugh."And you think you understand them?"
Akira didn't rush to answer.
He picked up a cold bottle of soda, twisted the cap, and took a slow drink. Then he met Madara's gaze and spoke quietly.
"A world where people don't live only for themselves or their bloodline.Where the old aren't abandoned, the strong have purpose, and the young are allowed to grow.Where those without family, without power, or without health aren't cast aside."
He paused.
"A world that doesn't sacrifice the weak just to preserve the strong."
Akira didn't explain further.
He didn't need to.
Madara's expression shifted—disdain giving way to surprise, surprise turning into shock.
Even his grip on the roasted lamb leg trembled.
Earlier, when Akira had spoken about unifying the shinobi world, Madara had dismissed it as the arrogance of a child who'd gained power too quickly.
You can summon the dead—so what?Why would warriors like us follow someone like you?
That had been his thinking.
But now…
Those words Akira had spoken were the exact dream Madara and Hashirama had once shared as children.
The dream Madara had never truly abandoned.
Could such a world really exist?
Before Madara could collect his thoughts, Akira spoke again.
"So, Madara," he said lightly, gesturing toward the table,"what do you say? Want to do me a favor and sit down for a proper meal?"
Madara stared at him for a long moment.
Then he scoffed.
"…Tch. What an interesting kid."
He tossed the ruined lamb leg aside and stepped forward, taking a seat across from Akira.