Wow! I suppose this could be considered my first completed story, but it is a oneshot so … Anyway I got the idea for this story after the most recent chapter, chapter 436. I don't own Naruto, if I did I would be a man named Masashi Kishimoto. So with that, please review.
If peace had existed in the early days of Amegakure, if the much larger and superior nations had taken there conflicts far away from meager land, than the enmity constructed today might, just might, have been very different. The shadows of those ancient battles that befell the acreage of Amegakure had infiltrated every dark corner, every burning flame, every desolate mind, and every jovial heart. These shadows had snatched every good on this land and left only despair and suffering. The fires that burned brightly in justice were suffocated into no more than dimmed embers, fighting for their life and freedom to burn once again. The village once plastered in laughter and bliss were now congested with the horrors bloodshed and sorrow. The harrowing repercussions of the past devoured all joy and happiness until only the sound of teardrops was left, pounding on the ground like acid rain.
Born into these barren shadows was a gruesome and macabre goal. It was an intent that developed off of its shadowing fathers and consumed all the corners of the earth. It was and intent that was as nearly as appalling as its cadaverous architect. This intent, however much horror it brought, lived off of the idea of a true utopia, a world where no war raged and no bloodshed existed. And so this intent became the diseased path to peace.
The architect of this goal was a gaunt and sickly warrior. He grew up in the shadows as a weakling child named Nagato, living off the ruins of the villages around him. But as he developed, he became fiercer and transformed into an almighty lord capable of bringing widespread destruction. No more was he a coward unable to fight. No more was he a crybaby struggling with life. He was an enduring ninja. He was all-powerful. He was God. He was Pain.
To get to this point though, he had to have nature on his side. And natures side he did have. Nature had granted him an extraordinary power, a power that was written and rewritten into myths and fables until no one believed of its existence. Inexistent, unworldly, but it was there, hidden in his eyes. The ripple like pattern coated his eyes like jade paint which coated celadon. With these eyes he became God. All who opposed him were slaughtered mercilessly by his inhuman eyes. Killing, torturing, poising, fighting, all were nothing to him, he could do whatever he wanted, for he was the god of peace.
But in truth, he was a cowered. He himself was weak; his body had become broken and skeleton like. His hands could not fight and kill anymore. And so he used other able-bodies to inflict his bidding. Like a crab intruding a shell, he infiltrated the dead bodies of once alive warriors. He manipulated these shells of the quondam loved ones in his deadly ambition of peace. The shells were the temple for his sole, voice, and eyes. With these bodies he presented his wrath to the whole world.
His intent was simple, his power; commanding, and he himself was terrifying.