He walked for a long time.
The path was nothing more than a strip of beaten earth, lined with yellowed grass and cracked stones. With each step, dust rose and clung to his boots, to the bottom of his armor. But he didn't slow down. The landscape stretched endlessly, always the same, as if this world still hesitated to fully take shape before him.
In the distance, rooftops appeared.
Rough wooden houses, clustered around a central well.
A village. Modest. Isolated. Tired.
He entered without a word.
The first glances landed on him as soon as he stepped onto the central ground. Children stopped playing. An old man sitting on a bench raised his head. Mothers called their little ones back with sharp gestures.
Madara showed no reaction. He walked like a current of air — straight, calm, detached.
No visible chakra. No apparent threat.
But his aura alone pushed words back into throats.
He stopped near a tree. The shade offered temporary shelter. He observed.
A child approached him, curious, then ran away the moment their eyes met.
He wasn't hungry. Had no need. No destination.
But something in this place invited him to stay. A few hours. Maybe a day.
An old man, bolder than the rest, limped closer.
— "Where are you from, stranger?"
Madara slowly turned his head. Looked at him.
— "From a place… that no longer exists."
The old man nodded without asking for more. He pointed to an overturned cart a few steps away.
— "We could always use a hand. Even a quiet one."
Madara stepped forward. He lifted the cart with one hand, set it upright. The wood creaked but didn't break. The fallen sacks of flour were replaced without a word.
The old man froze. Unsure whether to thank him or flee. Madara was already walking away, hands free, back turned.
Time passed. The sun sank slowly, stretching shadows.
He stayed on the edge of the village. Observing simple gestures — bartering, arguments, fatigue etched in faces, the fear in their eyes whenever a knight in armor crossed the square.
He heard talk of the Kingdom of Lugnica. Of an old war. Political tensions. Kings. Curses.
He understood quickly.
He didn't need books.
"Here too, the poor are not masters of their fate.
Here too, the dream is just an illusion."
A man dared approach him at dusk.
— "They say there'll be a ceremony soon, in the capital. The candidates will be there. You look like someone who can fight… They're always looking for guards."
Madara didn't respond.
The man insisted:
— "You could make money. Or better: a name."
— "I have no more ambition. Nothing left to prove."
Silence fell again. The man backed away, intimidated.
When night came, Madara walked alone through the alleys. He didn't sleep. He didn't feel the need.
He raised his eyes to the sky. The stars here had no names. But they shone like those he had once known.
He remembered everything.
And here, in this unfamiliar world, it all began again.
"The scenery changes.
But the cycle of mankind never does."
He stopped in front of a closed door. A flickering light filtered through the crack.
Behind it, a mother was telling a story to her child.
— "...and that's when the witch took him away, because he had spoken the truth…"
Madara closed his eyes. Just for a moment.
"Even here, fairy tales punish free words."
— "You planning to stay?"
Madara looked up. The old man wasn't curious. Nor hostile. Just tired.
He didn't answer right away. He looked at the houses around him, the eyes that avoided his, the hands endlessly working. This world wasn't his. But it bore the same scars.
— "For a while," he finally said.
— "Come sleep at my place, then. I've got a spare room. My granddaughter'll be glad to see a guest. It's a change for us."
Madara nodded slightly. He followed the old man without another word.
The house was simple. A table, two beds, a still-warm fireplace. The scent of soup and damp wood.
The little girl's name was Noa. She was maybe nine. Wore a patched-up dress, her hair wild, her eyes wide like two moons.
— "You come from far away?" she asked without fear.
Madara looked at her. He sensed no judgment. No fear. Just a clear, sincere voice.
— "Very far."
— "Will you leave soon?"
— "Maybe."
She shrugged. Then, with lightness:
— "I want to leave too. I want to go to the capital and become a great singer. I'll sing in a huge theater, and everyone will listen. Even the kings. Do you think I can?"
Madara remained silent. The fire crackled softly.
— "If your voice carries as far as your hope, no king will escape it."
She smiled, only half understanding the last part, then ran to her room, hopping.
Later, once she was asleep, the old man handed him a bowl of tea. They sat near the hearth.
— "She dreams," he murmured. "It's good she still dreams."
Madara stared at the flames for a while.
— "In my world, I dreamed too."
— "And what's left of it?"
— "Silence."
He took a sip.
— "I'm not here to prove anything. I'm no longer a conqueror.
I want to understand this world. Watch it live. Probe it.
See if it's as sick as the one I left behind."
The old man slowly nodded. He didn't understand everything. But he recognized one thing: this man bore an older weariness than his own.
— "Then stay," he said. "You'll see. This world isn't simple. But sometimes… it surprises you."
Madara didn't answer right away.
He watched the shadows dance on the walls, long and twisted, like memories that refused to die.
The old man added, lower:
— "I'm heading to the capital tomorrow morning. Taking some wheat to sell at the market. They say there are still bandits on the road. It'd be good to have someone like you. If you want to come."
Madara remained silent a moment.
Then, slowly:
— "I'll come."
The old man smiled, relieved though he didn't show it. He stood up, put away his cup, and doused the fire.
— "Then sleep. We leave at dawn."
Madara remained alone in the room. The embers were dying slowly.
He didn't know what he was looking for.
But already, the world was inviting him to follow.
And this time, he accepted.