The sky was streaked with clouds that were swept along by long drafts, which the birds followed with an ease that was enviable. A couple vultures circled low over an area, where there likely laid a corpse of some unfortunate animal.

"I'd think those vultures were an omen if there weren't so many when we moved out here."

Madara didn't bother replying to Izuna, keeping his eyes fixed to the sky. He was certain a couple of his birds were up there. Not that he minded his birds taking joyrides through the wind, but he'd specifically sent them out to deliver messages. They were all exceptionally well trained, but even the best of animals got distracted on the rare occasion. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw a sharp black eye up there, glittering down at him.

I see you, Madara tried to relay through glares alone.

He lifted a hand to his mouth and gave a shrill whistle that made Izuna wince.

A beautiful falcon—though it went without saying he was beautiful, as all falcons, in Madara's expertise, were beautiful—parted from the other circling birds to land on his arm. He wasn't wearing an armbrace, something that had gotten him many lectures from the old keeper of the aviary, as well as many talon scars.

"Did something happen?" said Madara at last.

Izuna exhaled noisily. "No. If something so dire was happening, I would not have waited for you to get your bird. "

"Falcon."

"I know that," Izuna huffed. The circles under his eyes hadn't faded and he was starting to develop the same twitchy, harried expression Naori often had. "There's a mission for you."

"Let me see it," said Madara.

"I thought it'd be best to inform you in person," said Izuna. "There's some details that I don't want missed—but I'll give you the written mission form later, too. Stop glaring at me."

Madara relented, before addressing the falcon.

"Home," he said, and the falcon took off in the direction of the Uchiha settlement. Crossing his arms, he turned to fully face Izuna. "What's so delicate about this mission that you have to deliver the details in person?"

"It's not that it's delicate, it's just…well, you're going to Snow Country." Izuna seemed to think that cleared everything up, which it didn't. "You know? Snow Country?"

"It's fairly cold there year-round, I'll have to pack warm. What else?"

"It's Snow Country!"

"And?" said Madara, frowning. Sometimes his joints ached in the cold, and his hands and feet were more prone to numbness than others—the consequences of getting frostbite as a child, his stint with the Kaguya Clan. He could regulate his chakra well enough to keep himself fairly warm, though.

"It's only the place where Professor Yurimoto is showing off his collection," said Izuna, eyes wide in disbelief. "The place rumored to hold incredibly powerful items of importance. On top of that, he found evidence linking his family to several ancient noble lines."

"He built a house dedicated to his own riches?" said Madara.

"Look, he's paying well, and there's supposed to be scraps of journals and everything—do you even know how valuable journals are to—"

"Right, well what have I got to do with this?"

"The grand opening is happening in a couple days," said Izuna. "He's afraid people will—well, you know. Ransack the place."

"That's what happens when you turn your wealth into an open spectacle."

"Anyway, he needs bodyguards and someone to make sure the place stays in one piece," said Izuna. "It kills me to give the mission to you, though. Seeing the grand opening myself…"

He broke off with a sigh.

"I'll make sure to stare wistfully at a few clay tea cups for you," said Madara. "I can't guarantee a poetic speech about the artsmanship, though."

Izuna shook his head, poorly hiding a twitching smile. "Of all the times to grow a sense of humor."

"I have a sense of humor," said Madara. "You've just got to know how it works."

"In crude and unfathomable ways, I'm sure," said Izuna with enough dryness to rival both Naori and the desert they lived in. Decoding those messages must have really gone badly. "Anyway, I can't go—I'm too close to figuring out something with these messages. The only reason the Professor went to us was because I've been in contact with him before."

"I should not be surprised you managed to get him to respond."

"I'm tenacious," said Izuna with a toothy grin. "And he seemed interested in a shinobi who cared for more than 'war and death,' in his own words."

"Judgmental and pompous. Nice."

"He pays well, that's what matters," said Izuna, rolling his eyes. "He needs the place guarded. He asked for me, but since I'm not available, I offered the next best thing."

After a quick explanation, Izuna left the written debriefing with him.

Popular civilian belief had it that shinobi could summon chariots of fire, sprout wings, or simply teleport wherever they needed to go at any random moment. Contrary to those misguided beliefs, most shinobi used their feet. Madara had long since stopped feeling amused at most civilian's thoughts and assumptions about shinobi and shinobi operations.

The guarding took place in three days, which was cutting it close for travel times. Three days had them arriving at the town probably exactly at the time of the opening.

He was strapping extra pouches to his belts and prepping his warmer gear for the trip when there was a cough his door.

Naka wasted no time inviting himself inside.

"Tajima-sama has ordered me to accompany you," he said. "Sorry, no quiet strolls alone. Because we all know that dusty pottery calls to you."

Naka had always had a horrible sense of humor, and Madara wasted no time silently informing him of that fact by breezing passed him without a word. He also filed Tajima ordering Naka to accompany him without informing him first away, to get annoyed about later.

"So, Snow Country?" said Naka. "I was just getting acclimated to the dry heat, too."

"I thought you liked the heat here."

"Everything has a downside."

With that cheerful statement, they finished prepping and set out for Snow Country. Naka was easy to travel with. He didn't complain much and, for the most part, kept to himself. He was never one for meddling in others' business.

That meant the majority of the trip north was spent in silence. A few minutes were spent admiring oddly-shaped trees or the random caravan passing through, until Madara fell into what was inevitable in most long stretches of silence. That was to say, he became reflective. Not the kind of reflective where his thoughts strayed into dark places and it showed on his face, but the sort that had him replaying fond memories. It was a companionable silence, after all—comfortable. Too comfortable, in retrospect.

Madara was probably the only person capable of going stir-crazy while on the move. With lack of anything constructive to think about—because past-future was not an option and Naka was about as interesting as the trees—he kept thinking of the strange things trees reminded him off. Sturdy, stout and tall—trees had existed long before him, and would exist long after. If Hashirama's trees were the same, a piece of him, too, would live on long after his death.

He would have picked a fight and wrestled Hashirama into a river by now, in the past. Even if just to avoid reflection. But now he was reflecting on the desire to push Hashirama into a river. Or not even into a river—just a good shove. But still, though the river in his memories reflected many lazy days, it could not show him Hashirama's face.

No recent memory could give him that, and the place where those sorts of thoughts lay weren't fit for thinking of while he was on the road. Not when he needed to be on the lookout for anything—traps, ambushes, or sudden spikes of killing intent—

Spikes like the one that hit him the moment he touched ground outside the town they were sent to visit.

He flung a kunai into the bushes, armed with an explosive-tag, to smoke the enemy out. No one showed themselves, having either ran when they realized their target was no ordinary shinobi, or retreated to plan.

"We should make chase," said Naka. "Whoever that was might've been the reason we were hired in the first place."

"Let's meet our client first," said Madara, eyes still trained on the forest line. Both of them had their sharingan activated, standing poised and eerie in the fading daylight. "And no, you can't go after them."

"It would save time."

"Splitting up is always a terrible move," said Madara. "And in this case, I don't want you burning down any buildings while I'm not here."

"That was one time and for the last time, I didn't even start that fight!"

Naka grumbled the entire way into the town. It was well kept, with clean streets and relatively happy looking people. Madara knew a quick trip down any alleyway would change the feeling of the town immediately, but the citizens did a good job of pretending everything was alright. Madara couldn't bring himself to relax the moment they stepped into town. Not that that meant much, for one who rarely relaxed at all.

Once they passed deeper into the town proper, Naka finally picked up a one-sided chatter that was entirely unnatural. His smile was fake and his eyes were deadly, but no one who didn't know him would see it. They would only see two young men having a good time, albeit armed to the teeth.

Having half of a good time, shot out an inner critique that sounded strangely like Izuna. You scowl like an unhappy bride.

Indeed, the act was unrequited on Madara's side. He had never been good at faking smiles.

"Where's our friend?" said Naka, after they'd walked the main streets and found no one matching the description of their client.

"Around here somewhere."

"Helpful!"

"I try," said Madara.

Naka's smile took on the consistency of plaster.

"Walk down the streets like that and people will think you're threatening to bite them," said Madara.

"Acting critique from the guy who can't act—"

He stopped, as a man started weaving through the sparse groups of people in their direction.

"That him?"

Madara had expected someone tall, somehow. Dressed nicely, maybe a well-groomed beard and a clipped, poetic way of speaking. Maybe Izuna's dramatic mooning over that explorer he'd been following for years had rubbed off on his expectations. Whatever the case, the man was certainly not dressed nice, well-groomed, or seemed particularly academic. He looked more like the type one saw hanging outside a gambling establishment, panhandling for more money to spend on gambling.

He waited for the man to do something unfortunate, such as interacting with himself in any way, shape, or form, and was started and a little confused to see the man pull out a sigil that identified him as their client. He didn't want to be judgmental, but those were grease stains.

"Are you a messenger?" said Madara, before the man could even speak.

He looked startled. "Well, no. I am Professor Yurimoto—you may have heard of me, or my books. Are you the shinobi I hired?"

"Where do you need us?" said Madara.

"Is that it?" said Professor Yurimoto. "Just—right, right, to business. Good and succinct. Should we move somewhere more private?"

"Everyone here is in a rush to get to wherever they need to be," said Madara. "This will be plenty private."

"Ah, clever, yes, hiding in plain sight! I should write that down…"

Naka interrupted before Professor Yurimoto could actually put out a notebook. "Are we looking out for specific targets? Is there anyone in particular you know that's after you?"

"Oh, they're not after me—"

"We were followed," said Naka.

Professor Yurimoto was starting to look worried. "By who?"

"We don't know if we were followed," said Madara, strangling down the desire to jab Naka in the ribs.

"But there is a chance—"

"Which is why we need the specifics as to why we were hired," said Madara impatiently. "Your letter did not clarify."

"Oh, well, as you know my museum contains artifacts of high value," said Professor Yurimoto. "During my digs, I often hired mercenary groups for guard against traps and bandits—you know the likes. I… may have overestimated the earnings I would receive for my discoveries and now… they are here to steal them and—perhaps—go for my head."

Madara was already bored. "A standard watch, then. Naka?"

"Already know where to go."

Naka vanished in a swirl of leaves.

"Go about your business. I will shadow you," said Madara.

Professor Yurimoto nodded quickly, like he was a woodpecker trying to put holes in the air, exuding nervousness from every twitch of his body. He was a man curiously afraid of dying, considering his suspected assailants were only mercenary groups and he'd hired two Uchiha.

"I made a plan to visit this lovely teashop—"

"I don't need to know," said Madara.

With that, he vanished.

He appeared on a roof, unbeknownst to the entire town and Professor Yurimoto. As promised, he shadowed the Professor for most of midday. He kept an eye out for Naka, who was notoriously hard to spot even by someone experienced in Naka's way of hiding. He blended into a crowd well, collecting information on the town.

There were plenty of nooks and crannies for Madara to reside in, keeping a watch over the balding head of Professor Yurimoto. He knew the opening of his museum was in the evening, and Yurimoto had to have preparations to do before then, but the man seemed free to wander the streets of town and occupy himself by staring into every shop window. Everything seemed to strike his fancy, and he was a simultaneously frustrating and entertaining person to watch.

Another hour turned and Professor Yurimoto's stomach must have called, as he started perusing the food market. Madara moved accordingly, flitting from one rooftop to the next. He settled for the top of a large building—he suspected it was a gambling establishment of some kind, going off the clientele going in and out of the building—and found a good overhanging to hide under.

His intended hidey-hole was ruined by the fact it wasn't abandoned. What he initially assumed to be a sleeping drunk—he was just thinking about how the hell they got up there in the first place—turned out to be a corpse. The corpse was hours old, in a state of dead that was neither natural nor pleasant.

Limbs severed, head tilted garishly, the body was no longer very human. Madara, having been numbed to gruesome sights years ago, knelt to inspect the body without even a wrinkle of his nose.

Killed with a vengeance, he decided, and for a purpose that had nothing to do with the actual victim. The victim's clothes were that of a commoner, their wallet was sparsely filled, but not the sort of empty that mean they were a beggar, or recently emptied it out on the establishment below. There was a ring, left untouched, on the victim's hand. A necklace around their mutilated neck, the silver chain long since stained brown and black.

The rooftop was too clean for those wounds.

Madara flashed to another roof, secured a sight on Professor Yurimoto, and then bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. He slid it over a tattoo on his palm and planted the seal on the ground. A second later, a tiny and grumpy hawk appeared.

"Fetch Naka."

"For a price."

"Three worms."

"A griffon."

"One fish."

"Make it a baker's dozen."

"Deal."

"Brat," said the hawk, who was aptly called only Hawke, with an E, and took off.

He didn't have to wait long before Naka appeared behind him in the same way he'd disappeared earlier, in a swoosh of leaves. While he absently plucked a few leaves from his flat, shiny brown hair, Madara related what he'd found on the other roof. There was no need to divide his attention between Naka and their client, but Madara kept an eye on Naka's reaction. Predictably, he was annoyed.

"If I'd followed whoever tailed us before—"

"You may have found the assailant, or you could have been led on a wild goose chase," said Madara. Something in his soul was calling to start fires and smoke out their quarry, while instinct and experience leaned towards caution. "There's no telling. Whoever is after the Professor is making a move now, though, so we must remain vigilant."

"Always am," said Naka. "I'll start rooting around for rumors. Maybe someone new is in town, or got bad vibes from a passerby—you know the drill."

Madara nodded sharply. "As you were."

They parted ways again.

Below, in the steadily thinning food market, Professor Yurimoto had finished his meal. He turned to window-shopping again, going vendor to vendor to look at the open wares, sweating profusely and patting his wallet as though he wasn't a multi-millionaire. Madara would have rolled his eyes, but that would have required looking away for a second. A second was sometimes all it took.

The sun tilted higher in the sky. A sparrow flitted across the rooftop behind Madara, making a racket. He sighed, brushing wild hair back and rolling his shoulder, which was starting to ache for no apparent reason. As he was hoping his hands wouldn't join in, they started thrumming a pain-dance of their own in tandem with his shoulder. His hands had not been the same since that night spent in the tender care of the Kaguya Clan.

He flexed his hand, hoping to relieve the symptoms—his hand popped with a flash of sharp pain at the same time as something dark zipped across the street below him. The pain registered secondhand as he followed the movement, making a spot for everything bothering him in the back of his head, so he could focus on the task on hand. He could take it out and agonize over it, later.

A figure was doing their utmost to blend back with the crowd. The person almost succeeded, only Madara had seen those movements prior and knew a shinobi when he saw one.

Signaling Naka, who had lingered close in case of such a quick necessity, Madara descended. Someone else must have been watching, because the shinobi knew to make a run for it. It was a good attempt, too—fast and agile, leaping over vendors and people alike, and during one moment of quick thinking, the shinobi had crawled under a carriage to try and disappear.

Madara kept up step for step, and eventually cornered the shinobi in an alley.

"You left the Professor to himself?" said the shinobi, still turned so all Madara could see was a broad back.

"He's in good hands," said Madara.

The shinobi hummed doubtfully. "Are you sure? I had a man running circles around your subordinate."

Naka was not technically Madara's subordinate, but now was not the time for technicalities.

"Where are the rest of your people?" said Madara, pulling out wire, preparing to tie the shinobi up. "How many? And what are you intentions for Yurimoto?"

"I don't care about the professor," said the shinobi.

"I know you don't care, but whoever hired you to take care of him does," said Madara. "So, you can tell me their names while you're answering the other questions. And get talking—I am not the patient sort."

There was quite a bit Madara could do with the sharingan alone to make the shinobi talk.

"Well, then, I'd better get started," said the shinobi. "Would not want to test the patience of the scary Uchiha, hmm?"

They turned, and Madara realized why they'd known he was following. Pearly white eyes stared at him, set into a pale face touched with a bit of sunburn.

"There's a good few of us around," said the shinobi. "Our intentions for Yurimoto are the orders we were given by our clients. Our clients were some previous associates of the professor who he did not part on good terms with. As for where… I haven't the foggiest."

Madara flung a kunai that skimmed by the Hyuuga shinobi's long black hair, severing a few strands.

"The next one goes through your head."

"How will I answer your delightful questions if my head is punctured?" said the shinobi. "Oh, and since you seemed to have forgotten, my name is Hyuga Takuya. 'Oh, a Hyuga? Not with the clan? How odd!' Why yes, it is odd, you see, but one day I thought to myself, 'Takuya, why don't you branch out?' and things have been a bit hectic since—"

Madara regretted cornering Hyuga Takuya for questioning.

"I don't care," he said. "Answer my questions correctly."

"Three, maybe. Four, if Shou doesn't stop picking up every sob story found on the streets."

A headache leapt to share the pain in his hands and shoulder.

"That is a very unorganized operation," said Madara. "Now, where?"

"Somewhere," said Hyuga Takuya flippantly, waving a hand around. They were utterly relaxed. "Maybe in town. Maybe they got out already."

Madara flung two more kunai. The wire he'd attached to them clotheslined Hyuga Takuya, pinning him, choking, to the wall.

"Last warning," said Madara, grabbing the wire and twisting, just shy of being taut enough to draw blood.

"You might not like the answer," said Hyuga Takuya. "Might be a little disappointed—ah, but since you're so insistent: it's already done. My people are outside of town by now."

"Outside town? They aren't here for Yurimoto?"

"Well, no. The merc groups he pissed off were more angry about the lack of pay they received," said Takuya. "Money received does not match money reaped in other party's part of the deal—that sort of thing. They were not informed Professor Yurimoto would make so much money off this."

Everything clicked into place. Hyuga Takuya wasn't there for Professor Yurimoto, but to run interference around town and act as a decoy while the rest of his people completed their true mission. If they were shinobi half as quick as Takuya, they could have been halfway out of Snow Country by now.

Stung by failure, Madara reared a fist back to knock Takuya out. He'd already failed one part of the mission, but that didn't mean he couldn't bring in a scapegoat to take the fall for it.

Only, using flexibility Madara hadn't known people were capable of, Takuya twisted his leg straight up and kicked Madara in the neck. It didn't wind him, or cause any injury, but it was shocking enough that Madara's grip on the wire around Takuya's neck loosened. Slippery as a snake, Takuya escaped and darted over the top of the wall and vanished from sight.

"I'll deal with you later," said Madara to the empty alleyway, full of dark promise.

He barreled out into the street, signaled Naka to stay put (and keep watch), then whistled sharply. With a dry rustle of feathers, one of his raptors landed, intelligent black eyes glinting at him.

"Find them," he said.

Most birds would have had trouble understanding such obscure, complex orders. Madara's birds were not most birds, and he took pride in them.

An unexpected sweep of long, dark hair caught his sight. He was crossing an intersection and had to swerve to avoid a carriage when he stopped in the middle of the road on reflex, his heart leaping with what definitely wasn't terror. He searched the sea of faces for a familiar one.

The carriage rider yelled a few choice words, snapping Madara out of a trance that was, frankly, embarrassing.

Unbidden, Izuna's voice came to mind: It's just the way you seem to get lost in thought sometimes. I miss talking to them, too.

Appalled by the memory, Madara sprinted at the forest, as though he could physically run from what happened. He wished he could be his bird, soaring the skies, leading him to the enemy, instead of finding fragments of Hashirama in every passerby.

He located the group of shinobi in the forest. Their tracks had led along the road out of the town, before diverting in an attempt to throw off any chasers. It was a good attempt, if only because Madara had really wondered if they were fool enough to take the road out of town. He almost followed the road and completely missed the trail leading away.

By the time he caught up to them, they were a good distance from the town. Far enough that Madara, even with his keen hearing, couldn't make out the hubbub of movement, carts squealing, crowds talking over crowds, and vendors calling out their wares. It was a welcome silence, but came at the cost of dealing with three absolute amateurs. Not that he'd been out looking for a challenge, but he wouldn't have minded stretching his limbs in combat—maybe burning down some trees, just to watch Naka's face turn colors.

The three shinobi had expressions ranging from "child caught with the cookie jar" to "rogue caught with his hand down a noblewoman's purse." As in, one was fourteen and definitely coerced, one was old enough to know better, and the other was rearing for a fight.

The one that was old enough to know better was redheaded, which concerned Madara for a number of reasons. Far be it from him to assume one's background based on hair color, but it was common knowledge that were redheads, and he was neither equipped nor mentally prepared for dealing with a rogue Uzumaki's tricks.

"Uchiha!" said the child, glancing between his compatriots as though to reaffirm what he'd said.

"That is an Uchiha, Kyo, very good," said the redhead. "I am Ikeda Anka, pleasure to make your acquaintance. Is there any reason you stopped us while we were on our way?"

"Or are we going to have a problem?" said one of the others, a young man with stripes down his cheeks that informed Madara he was probably a member of the Inuzuka Clan. Strange for one of such a close-knit clan, whose strength was built on blood ties and bonds with their familiars, to be away from their family.

"That depends on whether or not you cooperate," said Madara. "It's been a long day and my patience is not what it once was."

Or ever was. Hashirama was the one with patience for people.

Ikeda Anka was not one to go down quietly. She patted Kyo, the child, on the head, and smiled blithely at Madara. The look might have worked if she was dressed as some rich nobleman's highly sheltered daughter, but she was not. The broad sword strapped to her back, nearly as tall as Madara, didn't help her cause.

"Your cargo?" Madara prompted, in one more last-ditch attempt at diplomacy. He almost thought Izuna would have been proud, until he remembered Izuna was just as stab happy—maybe more-so—as him. Naori, at least, would be pleased with his restraint.

(Now that he thought about it, Naori had jabbed a senbon through Naka's arm a few weeks ago. The two of them had been arguing over shogi, and Naka had blurted something about cheating, which she took exception to.

She had laid into him with flame and blade and a kind of vehemence that Madara thought only he ever did. So, Naori wasn't quite the cool river of diplomacy that some Uchiha—the Elders, in particular—made her out to be.

The Uchiha as a whole seemed prone to striking out at random times for any odd reason. Hissed words and narrowed eyes were all behaviors seen in most Uchiha, and when spotted, needed to be handled with utmost care. Madara would have suggested flashing a light with something reflective, but then he would have had to kill the person he informed. The world was not ready to know about that side of the Uchiha Clan.)

"The cargo you stole from Yurimoto's household of trinkets," said Madara. "You have five seconds."

"I think you mean museum," sneered the Inuzuka, jutting his chin out.

"Five… four… three…"

Madara activated a shunshin, flashing forward instantly, to Ikeda Anka and lodged a kunai at the hilt of her broad sword. He held an explosive tag in his free hand, tied to a wire, which was connected to several other wires in the area.

Of the pitifully short list of good things that came from having future knowledge, an expanded encyclopedia of jutsu was one of them. The kage bunshin was a great example of having tricks up his sleeve that was were both unfair and useful. While he'd given his barest minimum attempt to convince the shinobi to give up their stolen cargo peacefully, a clone of himself—created on the fly, moments before he burst onto the group of shinobi—had started setting up traps.

The entire forest area was rigged to blow. Madara wasn't concerned for himself—he could move fast enough to clear the explosion before gaining any injuries. He was fairly certain Ikeda Anka could manage it, too. However, unless Kyo was a lot stronger than he let on, he would get caught up in the blast.

"Why aren't we doing anything?" gritted out the Inuzuka from clenched teeth, shoulders hunched. Madara suddenly noticed the blaring absence of a dog at his side. The dog could have been hiding, or, more likely, it was dead.

"Because your leader, unlike you, has half a brain," said Madara.

"And what do you think you know about me?" said the Inuzuka.

"You're a walking ecosystem of tells in a jacket, Inuzuka Shou," said Madara, taking a leap of chance with the given name. Going off the way the Izuzuka went ashen, he was correct. Hyuga Takyua had mentioned a Shou, after all. "Is the little one another stray of yours?"

The little one, being Kyo, who was—

Who was completely gone.

It wasn't the sudden appearance of a kunai at his neck that surprised him. Nor was it the fact Kyo was, apparently, a lot stronger than he let on that made him completely reevaluate the triad of shinobi.

Kyo's body was a swirl of ash and dust, a miniature disaster of nature armed with the weapons of mankind. It was fitting that his voice was hard and cold as he said, "I am no one's stray dog."

Some child he was. Yet, that still wasn't the thing that threw Madara off. Strange children walked the world, and he had once been one of them. Kekkei genkai and hiden jutsu varied clan to clan, person to person, so stumbling across someone with a kekkei genkai was hardly a shock.

Experiencing firsthand a stab to the face with a kunai did come as a shock.

A short distance away, Madara's clone went up in smoke. He caught a glimpse of a figure moving so fast, their face was nothing more than an after-image. Dark hair, a glimmer of something pale and bright, and then stab—it was all over.

Madara—the real one—twisted the kunai locking down Anka's broad sword and forced her to drop it. He kicked backwards, but Kyo, still in ashen form, swirled around it. With such close proximity, a fight was risky for both of them, so Madara decided to take the first step for the both of them and blew out a stream of fire so hot it would have set the souls of the dead on fire on their way down to hell. Forget precision strikes—he was in a burn everything down kind of mood.

When the fire cleared, he saw the charred remains of a log and sighed. In a tree above them, Inuzuka Shou had a writhing Kyo tucked under one arm. They seemed to be arguing—something about fire and wind, but Madara couldn't make out any of it under the sudden onslaught of killing intent.

The face-stabber had arrived. He had deceptively soft features, tall and willowy. The flash of white Madara's clone had seen before being destroyed were the pearls woven into his black hair.

"Tama, right on time," said Anka, perched on another tree branch. "This one is going to give us problems."

"An Uchiha," said the newcomer. "Dangerous, but doable. Tetra."

The four shinobi moved into various, obviously planned, positions around the forest. Madara watched them, curious despite himself. He was no sensor like Tobirama, but he could tell the only one of them who posed even a mild threat was Tama. Even then, Madara simply did not feel the hair-rising tension of a battlefield so thick with chakra he could taste it, or hear the sing of metal moving quick as fluid silver.

When Tama moved, blade meeting Madara's, it didn't push his heels into the ground, and wasn't filled with such determination that his bones rattled.

He side-stepped Inuzuka Shou's clawed strike—thought better of it in the milliseconds between movements—and snatched Shou's wrist. He flung Shou bodily into Anka as she tried to sneak around his back.

Blocking another strike from Tama, whose frown of concentration was turning into a scowl, he molded chakra for a fire jutsu. If the last one hadn't taken care of Kyo, this one would. Kyo's eyes were wide, young, but already cold.

Madara turned the hand signs for his fire jutsu into a wild grab for Tama's fancy hair pearls and repeated his last move against Anka, but this time aimed his human projectile at Kyo. It was quicker, anyway. And the yelp Tama made the moment he realized what was happening was amusing.

"Just give up," said Madara. "You're outmatched."

In hindsight, he should have known better than to say that. Rarely did people react well to being told to give up. Whether it was from pride or determination, most people were stubborn by nature.

Tama picked himself off Kyo, then hauled the boy up by his collar. His face smoothed into a smile, placid and unassuming—and unnerving. There was a hint of sharp teeth in his smile, but everything else was guileless. Not even a shred of that powerful killing intent from earlier.

"All I need is the cargo your companions stole—" started Madara, but stopped as a wave of exhaustion hit him and he slurred the words. It felt like the sudden crash after a sugar rush, but a thousand times worse. His heart labored for each beat in his chest, his head pounded with it. "What is…"

"NOW!" Tama yelled, shoving past Kyo and pulling his sword from where it had lodged in the ground at his feet. He lashed out, quick as a snake, at Madara.

Madara remembered the kunai stabbing his clone's face. He saw Izuna telling him that he sometimes stared off into space, as though lost. Strange, that in the moments before his head was severed from his body, he would think of that conversation. He couldn't fully remember what the conversation had been about.

The blade fell—the forest soared, roots and branches cracking and groaning torturously as they were forced out of the shapes they'd assumed for centuries. The blade was stopped inches before Madara's throat, barely whispering against his skin. A warm trickle of blood rolled down his throat.

Roots shot from the ground and wrapped around the fouer shinobi. They clamped their desperate, fighting figures to the forest floor. A figure landed in front of them, hands falling out of a sign, and Madara remembered. The conversation, the person Izuna had claimed he'd missed—

Senju Hashirama.

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