The city murmured.
Not like a cry. Not like a war cry.
But like a living machine that never stopped.
Not even to breathe.
Madara walked slowly.
He had no goal, no direction.
But at every crossing, every square, every alleyway, he watched.
The walls were old, but solid.
The arches tall, held by stones that must have been polished, carved, assembled by human hands.
Towers stood watch, carved with invisible spiral staircases.
Stained-glass windows tinted the light red and gold.
Hanging walkways connected buildings like bridges thrown between worlds.
He didn't understand everything.
But he understood the effort.
The repetition. The will.
And that was enough to keep him watching.
"They don't know who they are, or where they're going.
But they build.
And sometimes… what they build outlives them."
This wasn't Konoha.
This wasn't a fortress of clans.
This was chaos, shaped by centuries.
The ambition of a kingdom made stone, cement, and height.
He kept walking.
He passed by workshops, children splashing in puddles, beggars clinging to shadows, nobles passing without a glance.
Guards in shining armor, a distant bell, a fanfare in a nearby street.
But he listened to none of it.
He watched.
He did not despise.
He did not judge.
He observed.
Like an ancient king returned from a forgotten dream, laying eyes on a world he would never rule.
A little further, the crowd thickened.
Darker alleys. Rougher voices.
Madara stopped at a junction.
To his left, a narrow alley.
A body pinned to a wall.
Four men. Laughter. A choked voice.
He watched silently.
A boy in clothes too new. Uncomfortable.
Fists raised with no strength.
Anger, but no control.
Fear in his eyes.
"Weak. But still standing."
The blows rained down. Not too hard. Just enough to humiliate.
The men laughed. One pulled at his bag. Another tore his sleeve.
Madara didn't move.
He stayed in the shadow of a porch.
A cry.
Then silence.
The four thugs took a step back.
Something—or someone—had just appeared at the end of the alley.
A young man with red hair.
His walk was calm, but too upright to be civilian.
A uniform too neat. A coat too long for a common guard.
Madara didn't know him.
But he felt him.
He didn't need a name.
Men like that wore their nature on their backs.
He didn't draw his weapon.
One look—and the four bandits began to sweat.
Madara narrowed his eyes.
"That one is a pillar.
Not a king. Not a conqueror.
But a force… tamed."
He didn't stay.
He was about to turn away when their eyes met.
The man in the alley barely lifted his gaze.
Just for a second.
Enough to see him.
Enough to know the man in the shadow wasn't just a bystander.
Madara didn't look away.
But he didn't act.
He turned slowly and resumed walking.
No words.
No emotion.
Two paths.
Two visions.
Two powers.
The next street was quieter.
A dog slept in the shadow of a staircase.
A bread seller packed up her leftovers.
Madara paused in the middle of the road.
The wind passed between the rooftops like a discreet sigh.
Far behind him, the shouting had stopped.
He placed a hand on a wall.
Felt the roughness of the stone. The weight of centuries.
"What endures isn't the man.
It's what he leaves behind."
The sun had set.
The city didn't sleep, but it slowed.
Alleys emptied. Lanterns lit, one by one, hanging between buildings like dead stars.
Before leaving, the old man had slipped him a coin.
A simple recommendation. A place to stay.
Somewhere quiet. With no questions.
He pushed open the inn's door.
There was nothing special about the place.
Heavy wooden tables, a few discreet patrons, a faint fire in the hearth.
No music. No laughter.
The innkeeper greeted him with a single nod.
A broad-shouldered man, his gaze extinguished. He didn't smile. He didn't look. He merely existed.
He took the coin without a word.
Pointed to a table. Then a door upstairs.
Madara sat.
The meal was served without him asking.
Bread, soup, a bit of smoked meat.
He ate slowly.
Silence suited him.
Later, when the inn had nearly emptied, the innkeeper returned.
He sat across from him, not quite looking at him.
— "Stranger, I need help."
His voice was rough, mechanical.
— "My wife is sick. My son died last winter. I keep this place alone. And sometimes I wonder why I go on."
Madara didn't answer.
The man finally looked at him.
Not with fear. Not with admiration.
With nothing.
And that… was what struck him.
"He isn't alive.
But he's not dead.
He no longer feels.
Not even in front of me."
Madara had seen hatred. Contempt. Dread.
But this emptiness…
This emptiness was almost unique.
— "You can stay… if you want.
No pay. I can't afford it.
But I've got a room. And here, nobody looks at anyone."
Madara stared at him a moment.
Then nodded.
— "Alright."
It wasn't a decision of the heart.
Nor a good man's gesture.
It was an opportunity.
A place to observe.
"I'm not here to save them.
But I can learn.
And the more I learn of this world…
the better I'll know if it deserves to exist."