Chapter 1: Pain Reborn
Nagato had known death intimately. He had embraced it—welcomed it, even—as his final act of penance. His frail body, worn down by the relentless cost of wielding the Rinnegan, had given everything to restore the lives he'd taken. In those last moments, as his vision blurred and life slipped away, he trusted in Naruto's dream of peace. A heavy burden had lifted from his shoulders, and for the first time in years, Nagato felt a sliver of serenity. His body lightened, his breath grew shallow, and the cold grasp of oblivion welcomed him.
But peace did not come.
Instead, it was pain.
Searing, excruciating pain—unlike anything he had known, even in the darkest moments of war. It wasn't just the agony of flesh, but the agony of the soul being torn from death's embrace and violently forced back into the realm of the living. His muscles spasmed uncontrollably, his chest convulsing as his lungs greedily pulled in the frigid air. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat a hammer blow against his ribcage. The sensation of life, rushing back into every corner of his being, was sharp, jarring—an assault on senses dulled by years of decay.
Nagato gasped, eyes snapping open, the familiar cold glow of his Rinnegan illuminating the world around him. His vision, as sharp as it had always been, now painted an alien landscape—a city of steel, glass, and ruin. Towering structures loomed above him, their facades marred by rust and grime, their glass windows shattered and hanging precariously in broken frames. The sky above was choked with layers of thick grey smog, blotting out the sun, casting everything in a dreary, lifeless pallor.
A sharp, acrid scent filled the air—a mixture of decay, chemicals, and something far more foul. The oppressive weight of hopelessness clung to the very atmosphere, as if the city itself had long since abandoned any semblance of life or warmth.
Nagato's senses extended outward instinctively, the Rinnegan sharpening his perception of the world in all its miserable detail. His gaze drifted downward, and for the first time in years, he felt his legs supporting his weight with ease. The frailty, the bone-deep weariness, the constant pain—gone. His body, which had wasted away from years of chakra overuse, was now restored, whole and unmarred.
His hands, which had once trembled with the strain of holding the Rinnegan's power, were now steady. He flexed his fingers, watching as the muscles responded fluidly, smoothly. No weakness. No tremor. The sensation was both foreign and familiar, an echo of a time long past, when his body was still strong.
But this strength came at a price. The world around him—this strange, broken world—was devoid of the very essence he had once relied on. There was no chakra here. No flowing energy that connected all living things. Only a suffocating stillness, a void where life's currents should have been. His Rinnegan, which had once allowed him to see the chakra network of everything around him, found nothing but emptiness.
"Where… am I?" His voice, hoarse and rasped, barely more than a whisper, cracked the oppressive silence.
Nagato's eyes roamed the decrepit alleyway he stood in, taking in the full scope of the decay. Graffiti sprawled across every surface, crude symbols and scrawled messages in a language he did not understand. Shattered glass littered the ground, mixed with trash and bits of twisted metal. Broken streetlights flickered weakly overhead, casting erratic shadows on the grimy walls of towering buildings that seemed to close in on him from all sides.
This was not his world.
His Rinnegan pulsed, expanding his awareness outward. His Six Paths stood around him, their forms as silent and unchanging as ever. Yahiko's body—the Deva Path—remained closest, its expression serene, though the situation was anything but. Each of the Six radiated a dormant power, connected to him as extensions of his will, his eyes, his purpose. Through their shared sight, Nagato absorbed the fractured details of this foreign place.
The alley was narrow and suffocating, boxed in by rusting buildings that loomed like jagged, broken teeth. Trash cans overflowed, their contents spilling onto the cracked pavement, while a pungent smell of rot clung to the air. Faint sounds reached his ears—the hum of distant machinery, the distant murmur of voices, but no vibrant life. No warmth. This world reeked of despair, weighed down by something even darker than the wars of his own homeland. This place was rotting from the inside out.
And then, he felt it—life. Faint and weak, but unmistakably human.
Nagato's eyes closed briefly as his vision spread outward, shared through the sight of his Six Paths. His awareness washed over every corner of the grim alleyway, taking in the details from multiple angles. The stench of urine, the cracked and weathered bricks, the flickering lights barely holding back the encroaching darkness. But more than that—there were movements, small, barely perceptible, at the far end of his sight.
Three figures crept forward from the shadows. They were gaunt, their clothes ragged and filthy, their eyes sunken with hunger and desperation. They held crude weapons—a rusted pipe, a chipped knife, and a bat with nails driven into it. The leader, a man with a scarred face and teeth stained yellow, sneered as his gaze flickered between Nagato and his Paths.
The scarred man muttered something in a language Nagato didn't understand, his voice harsh and guttural. He mistook Nagato's stillness for weakness, his companions exchanging nervous glances before steeling themselves. The lead robber's eyes lingered on Yahiko's body, his expression faltering slightly as he noticed the black rods piercing its frame. His gaze shifted back to Nagato's Rinnegan, and a sliver of fear crept into his features.
But desperation won out. He barked orders to his followers, his grip tightening on the makeshift pipe, his confidence bolstered by their hunger and the empty streets.
Fools.
The Human Path moved with lightning speed, crossing the distance in the blink of an eye. The scarred leader barely had time to react before cold, unrelenting fingers wrapped around his throat. His eyes bulged in terror, his weapon clattering uselessly to the ground as his body was hoisted into the air, legs kicking wildly. The vice-like grip crushed his windpipe, his gasps turning into ragged wheezes as his face turned a deep shade of red.
Nagato, through the Human Path, watched the man struggle, his expression impassive. This was the world of suffering he had always known. These men, driven to violence by their own despair, were mere cogs in the endless machine of hatred and pain.
The Human Path's hand began to glow faintly, the light unnatural and cold. It pressed against the man's chest, deeper, as though reaching beyond flesh and bone. The scarred leader let out a scream of primal agony, his body convulsing violently as pale, ethereal wisps began to coil around the Human Path's fingers—his very soul, torn free from the core of his being.
The scream echoed off the alley walls, piercing the cold night air. The other two robbers froze in place, their faces contorting with horror as they watched their leader's life unravel before their eyes. The soul, once bound to the frail body, was ripped from its tether, dissipating into the cold void.
The leader's body fell limp, his lifeless form crumpling to the pavement like a discarded puppet. His wide, vacant eyes stared up at nothing, his face twisted in a final, frozen expression of terror.
Nagato's mind flooded with the robber's memories. Disjointed images flickered like fragments of a broken film reel—a life steeped in violence and desperation. Faces of the man's victims flashed by—brief moments of betrayal, greed, and suffering. He felt the festering corruption of this world bleed into his consciousness: cities overrun by chaos. They called them Parahumans—beings who wielded strange, twisted powers in a place where hope had long decayed. These abilities, unlike anything from his world of chakra, now took shape in his mind—unnatural forces that bent reality itself, distorting the very essence of existence.
The remaining robbers stood paralyzed, their bodies trembling with fear. One of them dropped his weapon, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. "A… parahuman…?" His voice cracked, barely a whisper. "W-what the hell is this?"
His companion said nothing, his mouth agape as his gaze darted between Nagato and the fallen body. Their terror was palpable now, sinking into their bones, draining the strength from their legs. These men had never encountered anything like the Rinnegan—nothing that could drain the very soul from a man in an instant.
The Asura Path moved next. Its limbs unfurled with a mechanical whir, each joint clicking into place with precision. The first robber had no time to scream as the Asura Path's blade pierced his chest, blood gushing from the wound in a thick, dark stream. His body slid down the wall, leaving a crimson trail in its wake, his eyes frozen in a mask of disbelief.
The final robber crumpled to his knees, hands raised in a pitiful gesture in surrender, his body trembling uncontrollably. His voice cracked as he begged, "Please… I don't want to die…"
Nagato stood motionless, his expression cold and indifferent. There was no mercy in his gaze—only the weight of inevitability. The cycle of hatred had consumed these men, and in Nagato's eyes, they were already dead. The Asura Path raised its arm once more, the blade gleaming in the dim light as it shot forward with brutal efficiency. The robber let out a strangled gasp, clutching his side as blood poured from the wound, staining the filthy concrete beneath him. He twitched, his hands slick with crimson, before slumping lifelessly to the ground beside his fallen comrades.
The alleyway fell into silence once more, save for the soft drip of blood pooling in the cracks of the pavement. The air was thick with the metallic tang of death, the stench mingling with the already foul odours of the decaying city. Nagato observed the scene with a detached calm, his gaze sweeping over the broken bodies without a flicker of emotion.
This was the world he had always known. Pain. Death. Suffering. These men had lived and died in that cycle, and now they were just another casualty in the endless march of violence. To Nagato, they were nothing more than a reflection of the same cruelty that had shaped his own life.
But as he stood there, his thoughts began to drift, the memory of Naruto's face haunting him like a ghost. The boy's words—his belief in peace, in understanding—pierced through the fog of Nagato's hardened heart. Naruto's hope had shaken him once, enough to make him question the path he had chosen. For a fleeting moment, Nagato had dared to believe in a world without pain, a world where people could live without the constant shadow of suffering.
Yet here, in this rotting world, hope seemed like a distant, laughable dream.
Nagato's eyes flickered to the broken cityscape around him. The towering buildings, once symbols of progress and human achievement, now crumbled under the weight of their own neglect. Graffiti scrawled across every surface, angry and desperate, and the streets were filled with the detritus of a world long since abandoned by hope. Everything about this place screamed of decay—physical, moral, and spiritual.
The words Naruto had spoken echoed in Nagato's mind. Could this world, so far gone, truly ever be saved? Was there even a sliver of possibility for peace here?
His gaze hardened, his heart steeling itself once more. No. This world was not a place for dreams. It was a graveyard of hope, a monument to the endless cycle of hatred that had consumed every corner of the world. And Nagato knew better than anyone that the only answer to such a world was pain.
"Perhaps… there is still time to try," he murmured to himself, his voice soft, almost wistful. But even as he spoke the words, he knew the truth. The hope he had clung to, however briefly, had withered in the face of this city's cruelty. Pain was not merely a means to an end—it was the answer itself. It was the only force strong enough to cut through the rot, the only teacher that could make this broken world understand.
The wind howled through the alley, carrying with it the stench of death and decay. Nagato stood still, his Six Paths silent and unchanging by his side. The weight of the city pressed down on him, but he felt nothing but the familiar presence of pain—his oldest, most loyal companion.
He had given peace a chance once. Now, he would teach this world pain once again, because only through the ashes of their suffering could they ever hope to rebuild.
Nagato's cold, unwavering eyes swept over the horizon, the flickering lights of the city's decaying skyline stretching out before him. He turned, his paths following in perfect unison, and disappeared into the shadows of the alley.
