Hinata: Byakurenden
Itachi vs Obito
A jagged tear ripped through the fabric of space-time, spiraling outward like the unraveling threads of the universe itself. Obito stepped out from the vortex, his movements deliberate, yet deceptively light, as though the weight of the moment elevated him above the ordinary. He landed atop the shattered steel of a skyscraper, its cracked glass and twisted girders groaning under the strain of the still-burning city below. Around him, Akatsukigakure sprawled like a desolate monument to destruction—a metropolis swallowed by divine wrath and ambition.
In the distance, the temple of Amaterasu loomed, its gilded spires now fractured and blackened. No sooner had Obito made his escape than the temple erupted in a cascade of black fire, the flames consuming the sanctum as if cleansing it of mortal impurity. From the remnants of the ruin, a figure rose like a phoenix reborn from its pyre. His chosen goddess, Amaterasu, ascended into the heavens, wreathed in an aura of power that radiated even through the dying embers of the total eclipse.
Her kimono shimmered as though woven from threads of liquid gold and crimson, its flowing patterns mimicking the flickering tongues of the black flames she commanded. Her raven hair cascaded in silken waves, untouched by the chaotic winds roaring across the battlefield. Yet it was her Gurengan eyes that held Obito's gaze—the divine, pinkish-red orbs blazing with a radiant intensity that seemed to pierce through reality itself. She was not simply a goddess in appearance; she was the sun reborn, her wrath manifest.
Trailing her ascent was another figure, far smaller, yet no less determined. Hinata of the White Lotus hovered in pursuit, the Gudodama in her hand reshaped into a Gohei, a shrine maiden's wand. The shimmering construct pulsed with ethereal energy, a perfect balance of elegance and lethality. She moved as though the heavens themselves had lifted her, her every motion precise and deliberate. Above the broken city, the two women circled higher and higher, locked in a deadly, graceful waltz.
But Obito barely spared them a glance. It no longer mattered. The pieces had fallen into place, the final gambit complete. His plan—the one that had consumed him for the past two years—was realized. Three gods now walked the earth under his command, their divine might eclipsing any force that had ever existed. A smug smile tugged at his lips as he gazed upon the crumbling remnants of the system that had robbed him of Rin. That broken world would die under the weight of his triumph, and from its ashes, his new world order would rise.
The sharp whine of jet engines cut through his thoughts, drawing his attention to the battle raging in the heart of the city. A hulking, mechanized form—a Nine-Tailed Fox of steel and fury—clashed against the god of storms, Susanoo. The armored god loomed like a stormcloud given shape, his figure shrouded in an impenetrable aura of lightning. Though Susanoo wielded ten blades strapped to his back, he only held a single sword in hand, yet it moved with such precision that it might as well have been a thousand.
At the edge of the city, a sudden, blinding flare erupted—Tsukuyomi's genjutsu casting the remnants of the Shadow Alliance into an eternal dream. Obito allowed himself another brief smirk as he turned his gaze downward. He watched impassively as the flare faded, leaving a stillness that bordered on eerie.
How ironic, he thought. Black Zetsu had once schemed for millennia to use the eternal dream to revive his mother, Kaguya. Yet now, that power served an entirely different purpose. The very dream Zetsu had coveted now served Obito's vision of peace—a peace Zetsu would never witness. Obito chuckled softly, relishing the thought. If Black Zetsu had survived to see his machinations twisted into something so utterly incompatible with his desires, what would his expression have been? The idea alone amused Obito to no end.
As he stood atop the skyscraper, the wind carrying the heat of battle and the faint scent of charred stone, Obito's confidence swelled. This was his moment—his victory. He had become more than a man. He was the architect of gods, the father of a new world. Nothing could stop him now.
Forces loyal to the Akatsuki Teikoku moved with precision across the city, their cohesion a testament to the iron grip of their leaders. Ninja from Kiri, Iwa, the Sound, Grass, and Waterfall mingled uneasily with the rigid ranks of the samurai from the Land of Iron. Despite suffering devastating losses, their presence remained undeniable. The sheer breadth of their allegiance seemed to seal the city's fate as a bastion of divine dominion.
A voice broke through the quiet hum of activity, rough and low, its tone carrying the weight of reluctant deference. "Mizukage-sama." The words grated against Obito's ears, but he turned his gaze downward, his expression betraying no annoyance. On the balcony below, Ao knelt with stiff formality, his frame bowed in a display of obedience. The man's single visible eye glimmered with suppressed defiance, though his Byakugan, activated beneath the eyepatch, betrayed his vigilance. Beside him stood Kurotsuchi, the granddaughter of the late Tsuchikage, her stance steady and composed. Unlike Ao, she carried herself with a calculated calm, her expression carefully neutral.
Obito observed them in silence for a moment, his crimson Sharingan glinting as he gauged their worth. Ao had been a thorn in his side years ago, the only one perceptive enough to see through the genjutsu that had ensnared the Yondaime Mizukage. At the time, Obito had considered killing him, but subjugating the man to servitude proved far more satisfying. Ao had little charisma, no following of his own, and lacked the strength to rebel. He was a loyal tool, albeit one that grated against its wielder's hand.
Kurotsuchi, however, was another matter entirely. Shrewd and pragmatic, she had deftly aligned herself with Deidara, the newly anointed Yondaime Hokage, and had been instrumental in rallying Iwa to the Akatsuki Teikoku. Her cunning made her invaluable—but also dangerous. She was a schemer, and Obito knew she was biding her time, waiting for the moment when she could turn the tide in her favor. Eventually, she would outlive her usefulness. But for now, she still had a part to play.
"What's the status?" Obito turned his gaze back to the horizon, where Tsukuyomi's genjutsu continued to cast the remnants of the Shadow Alliance into an eternal dream. Nagato, the cornerstone of their defensive forces, was absent—his Paths defeated or destroyed. With him gone, the responsibility of command now fell to these two.
"The city is still ours," Kurotsuchi replied quickly, her voice steady but tinged with urgency. She spoke before Ao could, her eagerness to prove herself evident. "Most of the Shadow Alliance has retreated to the outskirts after Pain-sama severed their intelligence network and disabled their leaders. Should we deploy a force to finish them off?" Her tone carried a sharp edge, betraying her bloodlust.
Obito shook his head, his attention returning to the skies, where the gods waged their celestial war. "No, that's unnecessary." His gaze lingered on the black flames flickering in the distance, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and detachment. "They're no longer a threat to us. The time for fighting has ended. Head below and gather the people. The time for prayer has come."
Ao frowned slightly but kept his head bowed. The veins around his eyepatch pulsed faintly, the Byakugan no doubt scanning the heavens, where Hinata's form danced against Amaterasu's divine figure. "Is that really wise?" he asked, his tone cautious. "Shouldn't we wait until the fighting has stopped entirely? If the people emerge now—"
"The prayers of the people are what give the gods their strength," Obito interrupted, his voice calm yet sharp. He turned to Ao, his expression one of faint disdain, as though speaking to a child who failed to grasp the simplest concepts. "Bring them up. Let them see the moment of our victory. Once they witness what Amaterasu's power has wrought, no one will dare to challenge us again."
"Right away," Kurotsuchi answered without hesitation, her voice firm. She turned swiftly, her figure disappearing into the shadowed depths of the city below.
After a brief pause, Ao followed, his reluctant "Yes, Mizukage-sama" echoing softly as he departed.
As the sound of their movements faded, Obito allowed himself a moment to savor the scene before him. Soon, the city's hidden populace—tens of thousands sheltered in a vast network of bunkers beneath the ruins—would emerge to bear witness to the dawn of his new world. They would see their gods triumphant and bow in reverence, their faith feeding the divine strength that had crushed the Shadow Alliance.
A world without conflict. A world without strife. A world where innocent girls like Rin would never again die at the hands of those they trusted.
Obito's hand clenched at his side, his expression hardening. This was what he had fought for, sacrificed for. The shortcuts he had taken, the lives he had shattered—it all led to this. Not as a Hokage. Not as a Mizukage. But as the father of gods.
His lips curled into a smile, tinged with a faint sense of vindication. He had achieved what no one else could. The system that had failed him was ashes now, consumed in the flames of Amaterasu's divine wrath.
And he stood alone atop its ruins, triumphant.
There was just one last thorn in his side.
Obito's eyes lingered on the burning horizon for a moment longer before he turned, his movements deliberate, as if savoring the tension. "Took you long enough to find me, Itachi." His voice was low, smooth, but there was an unmistakable edge—a mix of amusement and irritation. The man before him was both the architect of his greatest achievements and the bane of his carefully laid plans.
Itachi stood a short distance away, his silhouette almost lost in the shadows of the lingering eclipse. The dim light from the partial sun caught the faint emerald glow of the katana in his hand, a manifestation of Shisui's lingering will. His crimson Sharingan eyes burned like embers in the dark, the intricate seven-pronged shuriken pattern spinning lazily, a perfect blend of his own Mangekyō and his best friend's legacy.
"You're the one that fled rather quickly," Itachi said, his voice calm and measured, though the faintest note of disdain undercut his words. His eyes flicked to the smoldering ruins of the temple in the distance, the black flames of Amaterasu still devouring its remains. "It seems even you're afraid of her flames." It was bait—subtle, deliberate, meant to probe the cracks in Obito's composure.
Obito let out a quiet chuckle, the corners of his mouth curling into a smirk. "Only a fool wouldn't fear those flames," he said, spreading his arms as if to welcome the thought. His Mangekyō Sharingan flared in the growing light, the sliver of sun now peeking through the edge of the moon casting a faint red glow over his face. "That's precisely what makes them beautiful. Everyone fears them, and in that fear, they find respect. That's the kind of power these flames hold—the kind of power that can burn away the old world and give rise to a new one. One where everyone can finally live in peace."
"Peace born from fear is no true peace," Itachi replied evenly, though his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "I learned that the night we killed our clan together. And yet… you still cling to that delusion. That's why you never became Hokage. You were incapable of understanding what true peace requires."
Obito's smirk faltered, his gaze hardening for a brief moment before he laughed again, though there was less mirth in the sound this time. "And what exactly does a Hokage's peace mean in the face of a goddess?" he asked, his tone cutting. He tilted his head slightly, looking down at Itachi with faint amusement. "You think you're special because you became a leader? That the title of Hokage means something? The same village that ordered the extermination of our clan, that sends children to die in the name of their 'Will of Fire'—what's the point of leading a place so twisted? Hokage, Mizukage… they're meaningless relics."
Itachi remained impassive, though a faint flicker of emotion crossed his face—regret, perhaps, or disappointment. "Says the man who gave up and looked for a shortcut," he said quietly. The words weren't an accusation but a statement of fact, delivered with the precision of a blade. "I understand it now. You are everything I could have been. That path you chose… it's the one I nearly followed."
For a moment, Obito's smirk returned, though it was strained. "Criticize me all you like. It doesn't matter anymore." He exhaled, the air between them seeming to grow heavier with each passing second. "I've already won. Amaterasu, Tsukuyomi, and Susanoo. The Sun, the Moon, and the Storms. It doesn't matter the time of day or the weather—the world is completely under their control. No one can stop them."
"If you believed that," Itachi countered, his voice calm but firm, "then why did you go to such lengths to keep Hinata, Naruto, and Sasuke from interfering? You fear them. You fear the power they represent as transmigrants. And you should. They will stop those gods. That shortcut you took? It'll end up being just another detour. You lost the moment they returned."
Obito's expression darkened, though his voice remained steady. "I'll admit," he said with a shrug, "I worried about their interference. But it doesn't matter anymore. They don't stand a chance now that it's three-on-three. Our victory is inevitable. Which is why there's no point in us fighting. Why don't we just sit back and see which one of us is right?"
Itachi shook his head, his expression unreadable. "You seem to have forgotten something," he said. "I told you I'd be the one to deal with you. This isn't about proving who's right. It's my responsibility to finish what I started. I took on that mission the night I killed my clan, and it doesn't end until you're dead."
Obito's Sharingan flared, his smirk returning as a flicker of frustration crept into his voice. "Try it, then," he challenged, his tone sharp. "But remember, you're the one who came to me that night. You asked me to help you wipe out our clan. That means I might just be the one to kill you instead."
"If that's my end," Itachi said, his voice steady as he raised the emerald katana, gripping it with both hands, "then so be it. But I don't intend to die here."
The faint breeze stilled as the two men faced each other, the tension in the air palpable. The shadows of their shared past hung between them, unspoken but heavy, as they prepared to clash once more.
Itachi moved first.
In an instant, he was a blur of emerald light, his form cutting through the stagnant air like a lightning bolt. The rooftop seemed to shudder beneath the sudden burst of momentum, tiles cracking from the force of his launch. The space between them disappeared in a heartbeat, his katana gleaming with Shisui's chakra as it swept forward in a precise horizontal arc, its trajectory aimed to sever Obito cleanly at the waist.
The blade passed through nothing. No resistance, no impact, only empty air.
Obito remained where he stood, untouched, tilting his head in a gesture of exaggerated boredom. "You really didn't expect that to work, did you?" His tone was mockingly casual, the faintest flicker of amusement tugging at his lips. "As long as I have Kamui, you can't hope to touch me, let alone beat me in a one-on-one fight." He gestured lazily, as if the entire encounter was beneath him. "That's why I tried to tell you this was pointless. So long as I don't want to fight, there's no way this will even become a battle."
Itachi held his ground, his sword now poised at his side, the emerald light of Shisui's chakra flickering faintly along its edge. His gaze remained steady, unshaken by Obito's taunts. "True…" he conceded, his voice calm, measured. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the weight of unspoken strategy, as if Itachi's mind was piecing together countless possibilities in the span of a single breath.
His eyes shifted upward, drawn to the heavens above, where the gods waged their titanic war. The sky was a chaotic canvas of blazing black fire and spiraling storms, each clash a symphony of destruction that illuminated the city's crumbling remains. "In that case," Itachi said at last, his voice softer but no less resolute, "there's nothing stopping me from taking the fight directly to Amaterasu either."
Obito's eyes narrowed briefly, his amusement fading, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. Letting out a long, exaggerated sigh, he placed both hands on his hips. "Fine. Have it your way," he said, his voice sharp with mock irritation. "If you're so eager to challenge Amaterasu-sama, I'll give you your own version of her to fight."
The shift was immediate. Obito's chakra surged, dark and oppressive, rolling off him in waves that distorted the air around him. The rooftop trembled beneath the weight of his power, cracks spiderwebbing outward with every pulse.
Itachi's muscles tensed as he lunged again, his body a blur of precision and purpose. His katana gleamed brighter as it sliced through the air, but once again, the blade found no purchase. Obito's form wavered like smoke, the ever-present defense of Kamui rendering any attack meaningless.
"Mokuton: Ōmikami no Jutsu!" Obito's voice rang out like a divine proclamation, heavy with authority and malice. The dense wave of chakra he had been storing discharged into the air, vanishing into an unnatural stillness that enveloped the city. For a breathless moment, the world fell silent—too silent. The whistling wind stilled, the echoes of distant battles faded, and even the sky seemed to hold its breath.
Above, the moon had slipped halfway past the sun, casting an eerie twilight over the city. Half bathed in searing light, half cloaked in oppressive shadow, the city became a fractured reflection of the battle raging within.
Deep beneath the surface of the lake at the city's center, the waters began to churn. What first appeared to be ripples expanded into violent whirlpools as something monstrous stirred within the depths. From the darkest recesses of the eclipse's shadow, thick, twisting tendrils of wood erupted from the water with a groaning roar.
The vines crawled hungrily up the sides of nearby buildings, growing at an impossible rate, gnarled and grotesque. They pulsed with vile chakra, oozing malice as they coiled around the structures. Steel beams creaked and groaned under the pressure, concrete shattered like brittle glass, and skyscrapers toppled one after another as the vines consumed them, making space for something far larger.
The destruction was both terrifying and mesmerizing, a twisted ballet of creation and annihilation. As the vines merged, they began to take on a shape, sculpting themselves with unnatural precision. Itachi's gaze sharpened as the entity began to emerge—a massive effigy of the Sun Goddess herself, wrought from the living wood.
The towering statue rose higher and higher, dwarfing even the tallest surviving buildings. Every detail of its construction was flawless, as though carved by the hands of a master artisan possessed by divine inspiration. Intricate robes flowed as though caught in an eternal wind, sharp features were etched with painstaking precision, and every strand of her flowing hair was rendered with unnatural grace.
The statue's Gurengan-like eyes seemed to shimmer, alive with malevolence, and when it finally turned its gaze to Itachi, he almost swore the construct breathed. The illusion of life was so unnervingly perfect that it was impossible to believe it was just wood.
Then the colossal figure moved.
The first step shook the earth, a thunderous crash that sent waves rippling across the lake and debris cascading from the crumbling remains of nearby buildings. The air reverberated with the sound, an oppressive echo of the sheer weight of the monstrous creation. Each lumbering step sent tremors through the ground, causing glass to shatter, unstable ruins to collapse, and the water beneath it to churn violently.
Obito stood on a nearby rooftop, a smug grin spread across his face as he observed Itachi's reaction. "This good enough for you?" he asked with a mocking laugh, his voice dripping with triumph. He didn't miss the way Itachi's jaw tightened, the subtle flicker of tension in his Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan.
"It must have taken quite the chakra to create something like that," Itachi remarked, his tone even, though his gaze flicked momentarily to Obito, calculating. The sheer scale of the construct was enough to suggest this was a trump card—a move Obito either couldn't afford to hold back or one born of desperation to end things quickly.
"It's not finished yet," Obito countered, his grin widening as his Mangekyō Sharingan flared with power. "Ensatsu!"
The moment the word left his lips, the colossal statue's form shifted, its body radiating an oppressive heat. Now it wasn't just a lifeless effigy. It was a weapon—a monstrous avatar of the Sun Goddess herself, forged to consume everything in its path.
The air itself seemed to warp under the oppressive heat as the gargantuan wooden statue raised its hand, pointing a single, unnervingly lifelike finger at Itachi. The fingertip glowed faintly with a pulse of power, and a spark of black fire ignited at its tip, flickering ominously for a moment before exploding outward.
The inferno roared to life, swallowing the air between Itachi and the statue in a wave of smoldering, inescapable darkness. The black flames weren't merely fire—they were a force of nature, living embodiments of destruction that consumed everything in their path. The air burned hot and acrid, carrying the metallic tang of charred steel and the sickly sweetness of scorched wood. The sheer intensity of the heat made even the shadows seem to blister, while the flames devoured the space with a feral, unrelenting hunger.
In an instant, Itachi vanished, a streak of emerald light cutting through the suffocating inferno. He reappeared on a nearby rooftop just as the flames surged past, igniting everything in their wake. The building he had just landed on shuddered under the residual heat, its structural integrity visibly straining against the flames.
A swirling portal opened a fraction of a second later, and Obito stepped through, appearing on the same rooftop with an almost casual air. He sidestepped the remnants of his own attack with a smirk, as though unfazed by the destruction he had unleashed.
"I thought Amaterasu was the only one allowed to cast judgment with those flames," Itachi remarked dryly, his tone calm despite the chaos around them. He turned slightly, his gaze sharp and calculating as he regarded Obito and his monstrous creation.
"And is that statue not the very visage of Amaterasu-sama?" Obito gestured grandly toward the towering effigy. The black flames rippled along its surface like living veins, wreathing its fingers in a deadly glow. "Of course it would be allowed to carry out her will."
"…I see," Itachi murmured, his voice devoid of surprise or amusement. Obito's tendency to twist rules and logic was predictable, and Itachi had long since ceased to take him seriously in this regard. There was no use engaging in word games. The only path forward was to end this, once and for all.
"You really have the time to be chatting with me like this?" Obito's tone was mocking, but his gaze was sharp as the statue lumbered to face them once again. Its massive arm moved with an unnerving fluidity, raising its fingers to unleash another torrent of black flames.
The firestorm erupted with the intensity of a collapsing star, the air distorting as it hurtled toward them. Itachi moved again, emerald energy enveloping him as he vanished from the rooftop in a blur. This time, he didn't aim for another perch but instead threw himself into the sprawling emptiness created by the vines' destruction.
Suspended midair, Itachi closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly. "You ready, Shisui?" he murmured, though he knew there would be no response. The answer came not in words, but in a sensation—a surge of warmth and familiarity as his best friend's chakra enveloped him.
Emerald light bloomed around him, brilliant and vibrant, casting a stark contrast to the oppressive black flames and shadows below. The energy expanded outward, growing impossibly large until it began to take on a definitive shape.
First came the outline: a towering humanoid form that stood a full head and shoulders shorter than the wooden Amaterasu statue but radiated no less authority. The details filled in slowly, as if shaped by the memory of Shisui himself.
The construct's features were unmistakably Uchiha. Its face bore the same sharp jawline and piercing eyes that Shisui had in life, magnified to a divine scale. Its body was clad in Uchiha battle armor, crafted entirely from the emerald chakra, glimmering like polished jade. The plates of the armor were intricately detailed, bearing the Uchiha clan crest emblazoned on the chest, while the shoulder guards curved outward like the wings of a hawk.
Every piece of the armor seemed alive with energy, faintly pulsating with the rhythm of Itachi's breathing. The chakra flared along its edges, giving the appearance of rippling flames or flowing water, adding a sense of movement to the towering construct.
The giant Shisui's eyes blazed with intensity, the Mangekyō Sharingan patterns visible and spinning faintly within the emerald orbs. In one hand, it held a massive chakra-forged tanto, its blade shimmering with a dangerous luminescence. The weapon seemed to hum in the air, as if resonating with the will of its wielder.
This was not just a chakra construct—it was a testament to Shisui's spirit, forged from his unwavering loyalty and friendship. It radiated power and resolve, a stark counterbalance to the malevolence emanating from Obito's wooden monstrosity.
Itachi stood within the construct's chest, his own Sharingan glowing brightly as he melded his will with Shisui's energy. Together, they moved as one, their resolve unshaken.
Below, the lake churned with the vibrations of the two titanic entities, their presences clashing even before they exchanged a single blow. The very air seemed to quiver under the weight of the power they represented, the battle about to begin one that could reshape the landscape itself.
The statue's massive wooden finger shifted once again, tracking Itachi's movements with uncanny precision. It pointed directly at him, the black flames gathering at its tip like a storm about to break. Before the inferno could ignite, Itachi vanished, emerald light streaking across the battlefield. A heartbeat later, the black flames roared to life, consuming the spot where he had been standing. The ground cracked and splintered beneath their heat, sending sparks and molten debris cascading into the chaos below.
Reappearing behind a half-standing skyscraper, Itachi wasted no time. He drove his heel into its weakened structure with a calculated strike, his enhanced strength shattering the foundation in a single, deafening impact. The building groaned as it collapsed, the metal framework screeching and bending under its own weight. Concrete and steel plummeted toward the wooden effigy of Amaterasu in a catastrophic avalanche, the roar of destruction drowning out all other sound.
But the statue was undeterred. The massive carving of the goddess moved with a terrifying fluidity, its black flames flaring to life in response. It raised an arm, and a wave of fire erupted, obliterating the falling debris before it could so much as scratch its surface. The sheer heat and force of the flames vaporized the collapsing building midair, leaving only ash and glowing embers to rain down upon the battlefield.
The city trembled beneath the force of their clash. Skyscrapers leaned and fell, their supports giving way under the relentless destruction. The air grew thick with smoke, choking and bitter, as the black flames continued to spread unchecked. Every action, every movement, came at the cost of the city itself, reduced to rubble by the sheer scale of their battle.
Itachi grimaced, his breath ragged as he pushed Shisui's emerald construct forward. The towering form lunged, the tanto in its hand slicing through the air with blinding speed. The emerald blade struck the wooden Amaterasu with a resounding impact, carving into its dense, grotesque vines. But the blade barely left a surface-level wound, the wooden structure regenerating almost as quickly as the damage was inflicted.
The statue retaliated without pause. Black flames erupted from its core, surging toward Shisui's chest like a living, hungry beast. Itachi acted instantly, severing the chakra connection to the burning section of the construct. With a sharp motion, he discarded the flaming chunk of emerald energy, watching as it fell into the churning lake below.
The cost was immediate and devastating. The emerald Shisui visibly flickered, its form shrinking ever so slightly as the discarded portion of its energy dissipated. Itachi's chest heaved, his chakra reserves straining under the immense burden of maintaining such a colossal construct. Each second in this battle drained him further, and he knew he couldn't afford many more.
Sweat dripped down his brow, stinging his eyes as he refocused. His vision blurred momentarily, the strain of balancing precision and power threatening to overwhelm him. Yet his resolve did not falter. If Obito had unleashed his ultimate weapon, then Itachi had no choice but to do the same.
The emerald Shisui moved with practiced precision, its towering form sheathing the tanto with deliberate grace as Itachi's voice rang out, cutting through the chaos. "Yasaka Magatama!" The call carried the weight of resolve and desperation, his words igniting the next stage of their clash.
Emerald chakra surged in Shisui's palms, coalescing into eight radiant, ruby-colored jewels that shimmered with an otherworldly brilliance. Each magatama pulsed like a living heartbeat, their edges glowing with searing intensity as if forged in the core of a star. The gems floated in perfect harmony, orbiting Shisui's hands as he poured his dwindling reserves into their creation. The air around them vibrated with the sheer energy being channeled, waves of heat and pressure rippling outward like a stone dropped in still water.
The jewels gleamed brighter as the sun, now nearly free from the moon's embrace, bathed the battlefield in its harsh, golden light. The eclipse's shadow was almost gone, and with its departure, Itachi could feel the looming resurgence of Amaterasu's power. The replica of the goddess, grotesque yet divine, seemed to sense it too, its wooden form thrumming with energy as the black flames around it flared hungrily.
The wooden Amaterasu reacted in kind, raising its massive arm toward Shisui with deliberate menace. From its fingertips came another torrent of black flames, cascading forth like an unstoppable tidal wave. The inferno consumed everything in its path, igniting the air itself with an unbearable heat. Smoke and ash billowed upward in spiraling columns, the flames roaring like the wrath of a god made manifest.
Shisui launched the Yasaka Magatama in a dazzling display, the eight ruby jewels streaking forward like meteors hurtling through the heavens. They left trails of crimson light in their wake, illuminating the destruction below with a momentary beauty. The magatama spiraled through the air in perfect formation, converging on the torrent of black flames with precision honed by Itachi's mastery.
The clash was cataclysmic. The crimson light of the magatama cut into the black flames, carving a narrow path through the inferno with a piercing shriek. The impact sent shockwaves rippling outward, nearby buildings crumbled like sandcastles under a rising tide, and the lake below roiled violently as its surface was disturbed by the sheer force of the collision.
The air itself seemed to crackle with tension as black and red energies warred for dominance. The flames writhed and twisted, fighting to consume the magatama, while the crimson jewels pressed forward, determined to reach their target. The light of the attack illuminated the battlefield, casting stark shadows against the backdrop of destruction.
But just as the magatama neared the wooden statue, the space in front of it twisted unnaturally. A massive vortex opened, swirling with ominous power as it greedily devoured the incoming attack. The magatama were pulled into the void, their radiant light swallowed whole, leaving behind only the oppressive heat of the flames and the unsettling silence that followed.
Itachi's eyes narrowed, his Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan tracing the source of the Kamui vortex. Obito stood atop the wooden statue, his figure framed against the sun as it emerged fully from behind the eclipse. He appeared unshaken, his expression calm, though the faintest flicker of smug satisfaction danced in his gaze.
This was no mere display of power—it was a carefully constructed fortress of offense and defense. The wooden Amaterasu served as the ultimate spear, unleashing black flames that could incinerate anything in their path, while Obito's Kamui acted as the unbreakable shield, rendering any counterattack useless.
It was as Obito had claimed, there was no beating him in a one-on-one battle. Itachi had known that from the start. But what Obito failed to account for was that Itachi was not truly alone. He hadn't been for a long time. Not since the day Danzo fell and he had finally reclaimed the other eye of his closest friend—a fragment of Shisui's soul that had lingered in the mortal world, waiting for the moment when Itachi would need him most.
Itachi exhaled softly, his gaze lingering on the emerald construct of Shisui that stood tall around him. The chakra shaping Shisui's form glowed with a steady, unyielding light, a manifestation of his friend's unshakable resolve. Even in this spectral form, Shisui seemed alive—his posture confident, his movements sharp and deliberate, a reminder of the prodigy who had once been Itachi's greatest ally and confidant.
"It seems like we're going to have to go with that strategy, after all." Itachi spoke with a calmness that belied the storm brewing in his heart. The words fell lightly, almost flippantly, as though discussing a trivial matter. But the weight behind them was undeniable. He felt it in every fiber of his being, a quiet ache that he couldn't allow himself to dwell on.
Shisui didn't answer—he couldn't, not in this form. But he didn't need to. Itachi felt the response in the subtle shift of the chakra surrounding him, the way it pulsed in sync with his own. Shisui's determination radiated like a silent promise: whatever it took, they would see this through.
The air trembled as Obito unleashed another wave of black flames, a searing tide of destruction that tore through the battlefield with ruthless efficiency. Itachi almost missed the attack, distracted for a moment by the thoughts swirling in his mind. But Shisui didn't. The emerald construct shifted, its colossal frame moving with the legendary speed that had once earned Shisui his moniker. It dodged the flames with precision, its movements calculated and graceful, like a dancer weaving through chaos.
Even now, even like this, Shisui was protecting him.
A pang of guilt clenched in Itachi's chest, sharp and unforgiving. It was exactly the same as before the Uchiha Incident. Back then, Itachi had resolved himself to make the impossible choice, to carry the unbearable burden of his clan's destruction for the sake of peace. And Shisui had been there, unwavering, to help him see it through—even at the cost of his own life.
Some things never changed.
Itachi's fingers tightened into fists, the emerald glow of Shisui's chakra illuminating his face. His expression softened, just for a moment, as he whispered words he hadn't said aloud in years. "You really are… and always have been my best friend."
The chakra around Shisui flared briefly, like a nod, an acknowledgment of the bond they shared. Itachi's lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, bittersweet and fleeting. "Thank you, Shisui."
There was no time for hesitation. With that, they leapt out from the cover of the crumbling skyscrapers, charging headlong into the chaos. The emerald construct surged forward, its speed unmatched, carrying them into the fray like a gale-force wind. The black flames of Amaterasu's wooden replica erupted once more, a roaring inferno that threatened to consume them entirely.
But they didn't falter. They didn't stop.
This was their gamble, their final act as comrades. Itachi didn't need words to know that Shisui was ready to give everything for this one chance. And if Shisui was willing to put his trust in him, then Itachi would do the same.
Together, they would turn the tides of fate, no matter the cost.
So instead of retreating from the onslaught of black flames, Itachi and the emerald Shisui charged straight into the inferno, the flames swallowing their construct whole. The searing heat crackled and hissed, splitting the air with an almost deafening roar. Obito's eye widened, his expression flickering with genuine disbelief. "Wha—!?" He hadn't anticipated this—hadn't even considered the possibility that Itachi would dare such a reckless maneuver.
The emerald construct emerged from the other side of the flames like a blazing comet, its surface scorched and flickering as the black fire clung to its form. The sheer force of their charge slammed into the wooden statue of Amaterasu with the impact of a battering ram. The colossal deity-like structure staggered backward, its towering frame quaking from the blow. Cracks formed along its surface, though it didn't fall.
Then, the impossible happened: the inextinguishable black flames latched onto the wooden Amaterasu itself, spreading across its intricate carvings like a malignant parasite. Obito's masterpiece, his ultimate weapon, was being consumed by its own divine fire.
At the moment of collision, Itachi used the sudden deceleration to his advantage. With a flicker of movement almost too quick to follow, he launched himself forward, propelled like a missile toward Obito. The emerald construct of Shisui began to unravel behind him, its form breaking apart, chakra disintegrating into motes of light that were swallowed by the spreading black fire.
Riding the wisps of energy like a tether, Itachi twisted midair, gathering the remnants of emerald chakra and black flames into his hands. With a sharp motion, he hurled them toward Obito, the combined mass of destruction streaking through the air like a vengeful specter.
Obito's Mangekyō Sharingan flared. He couldn't afford to let the attack strike him, not even with Kamui. The swirling vortex of his dimension erupted in front of him, greedily absorbing the flames and emerald energy into the void. Itachi's eyes narrowed.
This was the moment he had been waiting for.
"Katon: Hōsenka no Jutsu!" Itachi's fingers blurred through a sequence of seals, the motion precise and deadly. From his mouth erupted a swarm of fireballs, each one blazing with intense heat. The flames arced outward in perfect synchronization, spreading wide to strike Obito from every angle.
Obito's Sharingan spun wildly as he continued absorbing the initial attack, his focus razor-sharp. The race between them became a blur of desperation and precision—a contest of speed and will. Who would falter first?
Itachi pressed his assault, pouring every ounce of focus into the flames, while Obito's absorption raced to keep up. At the last possible moment, Obito's Kamui vortex completed its task, swallowing the emerald flames and black fire into nothingness.
Then the fireballs struck.
They phased through Obito effortlessly, passing harmlessly through his intangible form before looping around in a vicious arc, homing back toward Itachi. Itachi anticipated this and dropped low, the fireballs grazing just above his head with blistering heat. He rolled fluidly across the wooden head of the Amaterasu statue, the surface still trembling beneath him.
As he came to his feet, his hand snapped to a sealing tag affixed to his forearm. With a flash of chakra, a katana appeared in his grip, its blade gleaming in the fractured light of the dying eclipse. Itachi surged forward, the weapon cutting through the air in a deadly arc aimed at Obito's neck.
The steel passed through Obito's form as though he were nothing but smoke. Itachi's momentum carried him behind his opponent, his feet skidding to a halt on the warped surface of the statue's head.
The two adversaries now stood atop the towering, burning effigy of Amaterasu, its wooden surface crackling and splintering under the relentless assault of its own summoned flames. The air shimmered with intense heat, making it difficult to draw in a full breath. Smoke and ash swirled around them, a choking storm that painted the battlefield in muted grays and flickering orange light.
Obito turned to face him, his lips twisting into a smirk, though his breathing was heavier than before. "You didn't actually think that would work, did you?" His tone was sharp, laced with the faintest edge of irritation—a crack in his otherwise unshakable confidence. His laughter rang hollow, strained beneath the façade of his confidence. He wiped at his brow absently, though the sweat evaporated before his fingers touched it, seared away by the oppressive heat radiating from the black flames consuming the statue. "Man, that really surprised me!" he exhaled, his voice raspier than he intended. "Just a little more, and I might have actually been in trouble." His lips curved into a smirk, but there was no hiding the slight hitch in his breath.
Itachi said nothing at first, his focus steady despite the tremble in his shoulders and the faint sheen of sweat glistening on his pale skin. He let out a long, measured breath, his three-tomoe Sharingan spinning deliberately as he studied Obito. Despite his calm exterior, the toll of the battle was evident.
Every movement carried a faint stiffness, a testament to the grueling encounters he had endured leading up to this moment. He had faced one of Nagato's Paths, survived Konan's devastating light techniques, and outmaneuvered countless foes during the chaos of this war. Then, there was the monumental strain of summoning and maintaining Shisui's spectral form, which had drained him nearly to the point of collapse. His chakra reserves were running perilously low, each action measured against the cost it would demand.
"It seems you still don't feel like taking this seriously," Itachi finally said, his voice calm but tinged with an edge of weariness. His crimson eyes locked onto Obito, scanning him for any sign of weakness. On the surface, it looked like they were back to square one, but Itachi knew better.
Obito's smug demeanor couldn't completely mask the cracks in his armor. His breath came in uneven bursts, and the faint flicker of his Mangekyō Sharingan betrayed the strain of repeatedly activating Kamui and Ensatsu. The sheer chakra he had poured into summoning the wooden statue, infusing it with black flames, and sustaining the vortex that had consumed Itachi's magatama—it was taking its toll. Even with his Zetsu-enhanced body, the limits of his endurance were creeping closer.
For all his boasts, Obito wasn't invincible.
"Is there really any point to taking this seriously?" Obito's voice carried the illusion of smug superiority, his smirk practically etched into his face. The flames and chaos around them seemed almost like a backdrop for his unshaken confidence. He tilted his head slightly, his Mangekyō Sharingan spinning lazily as he locked eyes with Itachi. "You seem slow on the uptake, so I'll tell you again: I've already won. The new age of the world is here, and there's nothing any of you can do to stop it." He held the gaze a moment longer, leaning forward as if daring Itachi to deny it. "Even with an Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan, you can't—"
Obito's words faltered for a split second, his gaze narrowing as he looked closer. The familiar, ominous design of the Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan wasn't present in Itachi's eyes. Instead, the tomoe of a standard Sharingan swirled lazily in the crimson irises. His smirk faltered for just a moment, confusion flickering behind his confident exterior. Where was it? What happened to his Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan?
"Katon: Gokakyu no Jutsu!"
Itachi's hands moved in a blur, weaving seals so swiftly that they were nearly invisible. The roar of the fireball exploded from his mouth, and the massive inferno surged forward with blinding intensity, the sudden heat warping the air. Obito's narrowed eyes snapped back to the blazing attack hurtling toward him, banishing his doubts.
It didn't matter, Obito reminded himself. Itachi was still powerless.
The fireball's light illuminated the cracked and charred remains of the wooden Amaterasu statue beneath their feet, casting long, flickering shadows across Obito's frame.
Obito didn't move. He didn't even flinch. His smirk widened as the inferno raced toward him. "Pointless," he murmured under his breath, allowing the flames to envelop him. His body flickered and vanished into the swirling void of Kamui.
Within moments, he was transported to his sanctuary. The eternal, cold darkness of the Kamui dimension surrounded him, the floating blocks drifting silently in the distance. Here, Obito was untouchable. This realm was his stronghold, his refuge from a world that had rejected him. The fireball had been nothing more than a distraction, another futile attempt to break through his impenetrable defenses.
But then, he coughed.
It was sharp and sudden, forcing him to stagger. The taste of iron coated his tongue, bitter and metallic. He brought a hand to his mouth instinctively, his pale Zetsu flesh brushing against something warm and wet. Slowly, he pulled his hand away and stared at the crimson streaks glistening against his palm. Blood. His blood.
For a moment, his mind refused to register it. His sanctuary—the Kamui dimension—was inviolable. No one could harm him here. And yet, something was wrong. A dull, throbbing ache pulsed through his chest, growing sharper with each passing second.
His gaze fell downward.
The sight froze him in place, his breath catching in his throat. Piercing through his chest was a blade—not steel, but a shimmering emerald construct, vibrant and alive with chakra. The blade's edges seemed to flicker and pulse, like the heartbeat of the one who had forged it.
His mind reeled. How? How was this possible? Itachi couldn't be here. No one could. Not in Kamui. And yet, there it was—Shisui's chakra, carved into the unmistakable shape of a sword, buried deep in his chest.
The realization hit him like a thunderclap. It wasn't just a blade. It was him. Shisui. His soul. The very essence of his being had somehow invaded this sacred space.
Before Obito could fully process it, the fireball passed and he found himself pulled back into the real world, his feet once again planted atop the burning effigy of Amaterasu. The emerald blade was gone, but the damage remained.
A searing, excruciating pain exploded through his chest. Blood gushed from the gaping wound, staining the charred wood beneath his knees in thick, dark pools. His breathing was ragged, each inhale accompanied by a wet, gurgling sound as more blood bubbled up from his throat.
His knees buckled, and he collapsed forward, his hands instinctively clutching at the wound. His fingers pressed against the jagged edges of flesh, but no amount of pressure could stop the relentless flow of blood.
"H-How—?" His voice was barely more than a rasp, the words choked and broken by the blood clogging his throat. His body convulsed, wracked with spasms of agony as his vision blurred. The world around him seemed to tilt and sway, the edges of his sight darkening with each passing second.
As he knelt there, trembling and gasping for air, the reality of his situation began to sink in. For the first time in years, Obito felt truly mortal. Vulnerable. The invincible armor of Kamui, his greatest strength, had been pierced—and by a man who was supposed to be outmatched, outmaneuvered, and out of time.
The pain wasn't just physical. It was the realization that, despite all his plans, all his power, and all his confidence, Itachi had managed to strike him down in a way he never could have anticipated. It wasn't just a wound to his body—it was a wound to his pride, to the very foundation of his belief that he was untouchable.
And it was a wound he couldn't heal.
"Why don't you look back in Kamui and find out?" Itachi's voice was calm, almost too calm, yet laced with an undercurrent of profound sorrow. His expression, while composed, carried a weight that Obito couldn't ignore—a deep, impenetrable sadness that hinted at something irreversible. Itachi had sacrificed something, something precious, to create this opening, and the realization sent a chill crawling up Obito's spine.
Still, he sneered, unwilling to show weakness. Without a word, he allowed the swirling void of Kamui to envelop him, disappearing into its silent darkness to uncover the truth for himself.
In the infinite stillness of Kamui's dimension, Obito found himself kneeling amidst the eternal darkness, but this time, he was not alone. A figure stood before him, one that shouldn't—couldn't—be here.
It was Shisui.
His form glimmered with emerald chakra, faintly flickering at the edges like a dying flame. Though he wasn't entirely solid, the construct felt alive, almost tangible. His armor, a perfect replica of traditional Uchiha battle garb, shone faintly in the darkness, as if resisting the void. The seven-pronged shuriken of the Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan burned in his eyes, meeting Obito's with quiet resolve.
Obito froze, his breath caught in his throat. His gaze flickered over Shisui, piecing together what had happened. "It was then…" he whispered hoarsely, replaying the battle in his mind. He saw it now—the moment he had absorbed the emerald chakra laced with the black flames.
"That's right," Shisui said, his voice calm yet filled with quiet strength. "What you absorbed wasn't just a fragment of my chakra. It was the anchor of my soul, bound to this world through my Mangekyō Sharingan. You brought me here, Obito."
Obito's teeth clenched, the taste of iron thick on his tongue. Despite his growing rage, he forced a smirk. "You're really going to throw yourself away again? For him? For Itachi?" He spat the name like it was venom. "That man can't do anything without you. It should have been him, not you. Always you, playing the martyr for someone who never deserved it."
Shisui exhaled slowly, his gaze steady and unyielding. "You misunderstand, Obito-san," he said, almost whimsically, though his words carried undeniable weight. "I'm already dead. This… all of this…" He gestured to his faintly glowing form. "It's simply me fulfilling what little purpose I have left. I've always trusted Itachi, and I always will. Returning my soul now is just part of that trust."
"You think that makes you noble?!" Obito's voice cracked with fury. He staggered forward, blood dripping from his mouth as his rage consumed him. "I'm the one who summoned gods into this world! I'm the one shaping its future! You—" His voice broke into a snarl. "You'll be forgotten. When you're gone, Itachi will be nothing without you. Your name will vanish into nothingness. You're nothing but a tool, Shisui!"
Shisui's expression softened—not with pity, but with a calm understanding that stung worse than any insult. "Is that what you think?" he asked quietly. "That summoning egomaniacs who call themselves gods makes you divine by association? You're not a god, Obito-san. You're just a broken man chasing the ghost of a dream. And I…" His form flickered, but his voice remained steady. "I'm okay with being mortal. That's the difference between us. I know who I am."
Obito's fists clenched, his body trembling with a mix of anger and pain. "You bastard," he hissed, his voice a low growl. His head throbbed as blood oozed from his wounds, yet he forced himself to stand tall. "Once I'm gone, there will be no one left to get you back. You'll rot here, Shisui. Alone. Forgotten." The edges of Kamui began to twist and swirl as Obito's chakra dragged him back to the real world. He sneered, forcing his lips to curl into a mocking grin. "Your loyalty to Itachi is pathetic. He threw you away like a broken tool."
As Obito vanished into the void, Shisui's voice echoed softly, chasing him out of Kamui. "I'm just grateful that he trusted me enough to carry his burdens one last time."
Obito barely registered those words as he reappeared atop the burning wooden sculpture of Amaterasu, his body trembling with unspent fury and the sharp, persistent agony tearing through his chest. His breaths were labored, each one dragging his broken form closer to the edge of collapse. But he didn't care. His vision blurred with rage as his bloodshot Sharingan locked onto Itachi, the man he now blamed for everything.
"You think it's brave to sacrifice your best friend?" Obito's voice cracked, laced with venom and desperation. His wild eyes glinted more like a cornered beast than the calculating man who had once played god. He clutched at his wound, the blood seeping through his fingers in rivulets, but the physical pain was drowned out by the storm of hatred consuming him. He could feel his life slipping away with every heartbeat, and the only thought keeping him upright was the need to drag Itachi down with him. "Let's see how noble you feel when you're the one who dies next!"
Itachi stood a few paces away, his posture unnervingly calm despite the chaos surrounding them. His face was pale, drawn, and glistening with sweat. Every breath he took came shallow and strained, his reserves of chakra so depleted that even maintaining his stance felt like an uphill battle. The emerald light of Shisui's chakra was gone now, leaving Itachi utterly exposed, his body aching from the strain of his earlier techniques. Yet the three tomoe of his Sharingan, now reverted from the Eternal Mangekyō, betrayed no weakness. If he was at his limit—and he was—he wouldn't let Obito see it.
"I know it's pointless to take advice or criticism from someone like you," Itachi said finally, his voice calm but edged with steel. He straightened slightly, though his legs felt like lead. "You've walked a path built on the corpses of others. Danzo, Deidara, Konan, Orochimaru, Nagato… and who knows how many more nameless sacrifices paved your way. But there's one thing you've never sacrificed, isn't there? Yourself."
Obito flinched at the accusation, the words cutting deeper than he'd expected. His lips curled into a snarl, but Itachi continued before he could retort.
"That's the difference between us," Itachi said softly. "If Shisui and I had switched places, I wouldn't have hesitated. He knew that, and he trusted me because of it. You wouldn't understand that kind of trust… because you're incapable of giving it. You don't care about saving the world, Obito. You only care about being seen as the one who did."
Obito's chakra flared violently, unstable and wild, the flames of his rage consuming him as surely as the black fire he wielded. His teeth bared in a feral snarl, his body trembling with barely contained fury. "You and Shisui both think you're better than me!" he roared. His voice echoed across the battlefield, mixing with the creak of the collapsing wooden statue beneath them. "You think your sacrifices make you noble?! Fine! Let's see which one of us goes to the grave first!"
His left eye burned crimson, the tomoe spinning as the black flames of Amaterasu erupted from his gaze. "Ensatsu!"
The inferno roared toward Itachi with a sound like ripping fabric, the heat so intense it warped the air around it. But before the flames could reach him, Itachi moved. His body blurred into motion, his chakra burning like a flickering candle as he dodged, leaving the searing heat in his wake.
Even as he evaded the attack, Itachi could feel his muscles screaming in protest. Each movement sent fire through his limbs, his reserves stretched so thin that even the simplest techniques demanded immense effort. He landed lightly on the edge of the collapsing statue, already calculating his next move.
Obito's gaze followed him, blood running freely from his wounds but his determination burning brighter than ever. Itachi could see it clearly now—the desperation beneath the bravado, the fear of a man who knew he was running out of time. For all his arrogance, Obito's life was measured in moments now, and he intended to use every second to crush Itachi.
And Itachi… he had to make those moments count.
Itachi no longer possessed the Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan, and with it, the legendary speed of Shisui, but to call him slow would have been a grave mistake. He moved with precision and instinct, his years of experience guiding him like a predator slipping through shadows. Even flames conjured with a glance couldn't touch him; his movements were measured, purposeful, like a leaf riding the current of a storm.
He vanished over the edge of the burning wooden carving, descending into the shattered remnants of the city below. The labyrinth of collapsed buildings and broken streets swallowed him whole, the flicker of his form disappearing amidst the chaos.
Obito's gaze followed, his frustration mounting. He summoned the swirling vortex of Kamui, prepared to cut off his prey—but his hand hesitated at the final moment. No. He couldn't risk entering Kamui again. Not with Shisui lurking there like a specter, waiting for his chance to end him. The Kamui dimension, once his sanctuary, had become a deathtrap. Returning there would only seal his fate.
Grinding his teeth, Obito forced the vortex to close. If he wanted to finish this, it would have to be by more conventional means. Gritting through the pain that wracked his body, he leapt after Itachi, landing on the roof of a nearby building. The impact jarred him, his injured chest protesting with every movement. Blood oozed from the gaping hole, soaking through the tattered remnants of his priestly robes.
Still, he pressed on. Each step felt like fire, each breath a rasping struggle, but his anger burned brighter than his pain. He rolled to break his fall as he leapt to the next rooftop, the world tilting slightly from blood loss. His heart hammered, erratic and weak, yet his resolve kept his battered body moving forward.
Itachi wouldn't escape.
Not now. Not when Obito had nothing left to lose.
Itachi darted into a nearby narrow alleyway, twisting his body to fit through the tight, constricting space. The walls were a patchwork of cracked brick and peeling paint, lined with rusting pipes, air conditioners, and rickety fire escapes that jutted out at odd angles. The air was heavy with the stench of mildew and garbage, a fog of rot and decay clinging to the damp surfaces. Trash bins and piles of debris littered the alley floor, but Itachi never touched the ground. His feet skimmed across the surfaces of walls, emergency ladders, and protruding pipes, his movements fluid and precise.
Obito followed moments later, launching himself into the maze of elevated obstacles. His form was less controlled, each motion labored as blood trailed behind him, dripping from his numerous wounds. His boots struck the edge of a fire escape with a sharp clang, the force of his landing rattling the fragile structure. He could feel his heart hammering irregularly, every beat sending a fresh wave of pain through his chest, but his focus remained unbroken. The figure ahead—Itachi—was his sole target.
"Itachi!" Obito's voice reverberated through the alley, a guttural snarl filled with rage and desperation. His left hand raised, the Sharingan in his eye spinning furiously. "Mokuton: Cutting Sprig Jutsu!"
A wooden spear erupted from his Zetsu-enhanced arm, slicing through the air with deadly precision. Mid-flight, the spear split into dozens of jagged lances, fanning out in a wide arc that threatened to skewer everything in the confined space. The splintered points scraped against the walls, carving grooves into the brick as they closed in on their target.
But Itachi was already in motion. With a swift pivot, he kicked off a protruding pipe and launched himself upward, weaving through the chaotic storm of wooden lances. The narrow alley offered little room for error, but Itachi's movements were impossibly precise, each step calculated to avoid the deadly barrage. A lance nicked the edge of his cloak, slicing through the fabric, but the attack failed to find flesh.
Obito cursed under his breath, the veins around his eye bulging as he pushed his body to keep pace. He vaulted onto a nearby air conditioning unit, the metal groaning under his weight, and propelled himself forward. "Ensatsu!" he roared, unleashing the black flames of Amaterasu. The fire erupted from his gaze, a wave of searing heat that raced down the alley, consuming the air with its oppressive intensity.
The flames licked at the walls, igniting everything they touched. The acrid stench of burning metal and brick filled the air, and the alley became a furnace. But Itachi didn't falter. He leapt higher, kicking off a fire escape and landing on a narrow ledge. The black flames surged below him, but he remained untouched, his movements as sharp as ever.
Obito growled, frustration mounting. He followed Itachi upward, his movements reckless but relentless. The alley seemed to twist around them as they ascended, their battle confined to the narrow vertical space. Pipes snapped under their weight, fire escapes groaned, and debris rained down to the alley floor far below.
Itachi's eyes flicked downward, catching a faint glint of wire stretched across the space between two walls. His gaze hardened. A trap. It wasn't his doing—it had been left behind, one of countless defenses set up during the chaos of the war—but he could use it. Without hesitation, he shifted his trajectory, weaving his way toward the tripwire.
Obito, too consumed by his rage, didn't notice the subtle shift. He barreled forward, his focus locked entirely on Itachi's figure. The moment he crossed the threshold, the wire snapped.
A deafening snap echoed through the alley as the trap sprang to life. Kunai and shuriken erupted from hidden mechanisms buried in the walls, slicing through the air with lethal precision. The projectiles fanned out in a deadly arc, their gleaming edges reflecting the flickering flames below.
Obito's Sharingan caught the movement a fraction of a second too late. His body twisted instinctively, but his reactions were sluggish, his injuries and blood loss dulling his speed. The first kunai buried itself in his shoulder, the blade biting deep into his Zetsu-enhanced flesh. More followed in quick succession, piercing his legs, chest, and abdomen. The poison-coated tips burned as they tore into him, sending waves of agony coursing through his body.
The force sent Obito hurtling backward like a ragdoll, his body colliding with the unforgiving wall. The jagged brick tore into his flesh, scraping away at his already bloodied skin and leaving streaks of crimson smeared against the grimy surface. His shoulder cracked against the edge of a protruding pipe, sending a jolt of white-hot pain down his arm. Gravity seized him, pulling his battered form downward.
He crashed into a rusting pipe that bent and groaned under his weight before snapping with a deafening clang. The jagged edge tore through his robes, biting into his side as he fell. His body spun violently, slamming into an air conditioning unit. The sharp corner caught him in the ribs, driving the air from his lungs in a wet, gasping wheeze. His vision blurred as pain exploded across his chest, each impact dragging fresh agony from his broken body.
The fire escape below offered no reprieve. He hit the fragile structure with a bone-jarring crash, the rusted metal creaking and groaning under the force. For a moment, it seemed as though it might hold, but the years of neglect and corrosion betrayed him. The bolts sheared away, and the entire fire escape collapsed in a cacophony of twisted steel and shattered bolts. Obito fell with it, the tangled wreckage dragging him down as it crashed into the ground below.
The impact was punishing. He landed on his back with a sickening thud, the sound of his body hitting the dirt mingling with the clatter of broken metal and debris. A cloud of dust and grime rose around him, coating his bloodied form in a filthy, suffocating haze. The ground beneath him was cold and unyielding, its rough texture digging into his torn skin. Blood oozed from the countless wounds that now marred his body, pooling beneath him in warm, sticky rivulets that seeped into the cracks of the alley floor.
Obito's chest heaved with labored breaths, each one a battle against the searing pain that radiated through his torso. Every inhale was shallow, wet, and gurgling, the unmistakable sound of blood filling his lungs. His head lolled to the side, his vision swimming as the edges of the world darkened. The acrid stench of rust, mildew, and his own blood filled his nostrils, an oppressive reminder of his descent.
He tried to move, but his body betrayed him. His limbs were leaden, unresponsive to his desperate commands. Even the faintest twitch sent jolts of agony through his frame, his nerves alight with the punishing consequences of his fall. His mind screamed at him to rise, to fight, to do something, but his broken body refused to obey.
High above, Itachi stood on a narrow ledge, his silhouette stark against the flickering glow of the black flames that still devoured the alley's walls. His shoulders rose and fell with his own exhaustion, his pale face damp with sweat and streaked with grime. Yet his crimson gaze remained fixed on Obito's crumpled form below, sharp and unreadable. He didn't speak, didn't move, his stillness a contrast to the destruction surrounding him.
The alley grew quiet, the chaotic cacophony of battle replaced by the faint crackle of the distant flames and the labored, wet rasp of Obito's breathing. Dust settled in the oppressive silence, shrouding the scene in a grim stillness.
Obito lay sprawled, his body broken and trembling as blood continued to seep from his wounds. Every nerve screamed in protest, his entire being consumed by pain that radiated through him like an unrelenting tide. His vision blurred further, the edges of the world narrowing as unconsciousness threatened to take him. Yet he fought against it, his stubborn will refusing to let him fade just yet.
With great effort, he managed to lift his head, his neck straining with the effort. His bloodied lips curled into a weak snarl, his teeth bared in defiance. "You…" he croaked, his voice a faint whisper, raw and broken. He wanted to curse, to spit venomous words that would remind Itachi that this moment, this victory, was meaningless. But the words caught in his throat, drowned by the blood pooling in his lungs.
He tried again, his voice cracking under the strain. "You…" The single word escaped in a breathless rasp, his strength failing him entirely. The effort left him gasping, his chest heaving as his body convulsed weakly. His defiance was fleeting, his will unable to combat the inevitability of his injuries.
The blood beneath him continued to spread, warm and sticky, soaking into the cold, filthy ground. Each heartbeat was slower than the last, the life draining from him with agonizing inevitability. His vision dimmed, the world around him fading into shadow. The ache in his chest began to dull, replaced by an eerie numbness that crept through his limbs.
And in the suffocating silence of the alley, Obito's labored breathing grew softer, fading into nothingness as his Sharingan, the legacy of his clan, dimmed in the shadow of the man who had brought him to this ignoble end.
Itachi stepped forward on the ledge, his form silhouetted against the flickering light of the black flames licking at the walls of the alley. His crimson gaze remained fixed on Obito's broken form below, unyielding even as the exhaustion coursing through his body threatened to topple him. He shifted his weight, his knees bending slightly as he prepared to descend.
With a quiet exhale, he leapt from the narrow ledge, his cloak flaring briefly behind him before the oppressive air of the alley dragged it down. His feet landed with precision on a rusted pipe jutting from the wall, his body absorbing the shock with a practiced ease despite his weary muscles. The pipe groaned under his weight, rust flaking away in a silent protest, but Itachi was already moving again.
He kicked off, the motion fluid but unhurried, his body descending in a series of calculated movements. His next step found purchase on the edge of a precariously angled air conditioning unit, the metal whining faintly as it wobbled beneath him. He lingered there for the briefest moment, his hand brushing against the brick wall to steady himself before he pushed off again, dropping the final distance to the ground.
He landed softly, the worn soles of his sandals touching the ground without a sound. The impact sent a faint ripple through the pooling blood that spread beneath Obito's crumpled form. Dust swirled around him, disturbed by his descent and mingling with the acrid stench of smoke and decay that clung to the narrow passage.
Straightening slowly, Itachi turned his gaze downward, his Sharingan reflecting the faint, flickering embers of life still clinging to Obito's failing body. For a moment, he simply stood there, his presence calm and steady amidst the destruction. Every step, every movement leading to this moment, bore the weight of a lifetime of choices and sacrifices.
The heaviness pressed against him, threatening to drag him down, but he refused to falter. He forced himself to stand tall, his posture rigid not out of pride but out of respect—for the battle, for the stakes, for the man who now lay broken before him. His expression remained unreadable, his features carved from stone, but his eyes carried the burden of everything that had led to this grim conclusion.
When he finally spoke, his voice was cold and steady, as unyielding as steel, yet beneath the surface, there was a trace of something else. Not pity, not remorse, but an acknowledgment of the inevitable.
"I would say this is an ending befitting the likes of you," Itachi said, his tone measured, as though delivering a judgment he'd long since accepted. "But I know the ending that awaits me won't be any better. Kisame was right—no one who betrays a comrade dies a decent death."
He swayed slightly, exhaustion clawing at him, but he steadied himself with sheer will. His legs ached, his breath was shallow, and his chakra reserves were dangerously close to empty. Yet there was no room for collapse, not yet. He had unfinished business.
"It's over, Obito," he murmured, almost to himself. "At least for you."
He turned, his steps uneven and slow as he limped toward the alley's exit. Each movement was a painful reminder of how far he had pushed himself, of how much this fight had cost him. He didn't look back. There was no point in confirming what he already knew.
Behind him, Obito's lifeless body lay in the filth, his wide, unseeing eyes staring up at the narrow sliver of sky visible between the crumbling buildings. Whatever grand visions of a new world he had clung to had died with him, leaving only silence and the oppressive stink of decay.
Itachi paused as he reached the mouth of the alley, glancing up at the sky. The eclipse was over, the sun now shining in its full, blinding brilliance. The warmth on his face was almost mocking, a stark contrast to the cold resolve that gripped him.
Amaterasu's strength would be fully restored now. Obito was gone, but his actions had set events in motion that couldn't simply be undone. The gods he had summoned still threatened the fragile balance of the world, and Itachi knew that Naruto, Sasuke, and Hinata were likely fighting for their lives at this very moment.
He wanted to help them. He needed to help them. But his body screamed for rest, his vision blurred with fatigue, and every step felt heavier than the last. He let out a shaky breath, his resolve hardening despite the agony that wracked him.
As he stepped out into the sunlight, the world seemed both brighter and heavier. The battle wasn't over—not for him, not for the world, and certainly not for the ones still fighting against the gods that Obito had unleashed. Itachi pressed on, his steps slow but purposeful, a solitary figure walking toward whatever end awaited him.
Chapter End
AN: This chapter took me a little longer to figure out. I've been building up this fight for a while so wanted to make it climatic. I think the same could probably be said to all the battles from here on out, of course.
A small translation note; The Mokuton: Ōmikami no Jutsu is named after another one of Amaterasu's full titles: Amaterasu Ōmikami. You could also translate it as "Great Honorable God"（大御神）
Next time, the battle against the gods begins in earnest.