The words flowed. Promises. Titles. Dreams.
Madara didn't really listen.
He watched the gestures. The fleeting glances. The fingers that trembled ever so slightly.
He was looking for what remained… when the voices went silent.
They were choosing a queen.
But Madara saw a theater.
The empty throne carried nothing.
It wasn't a legacy. It was a staging.
A line to describe the four candidates—Priscilla, Crusch, Anastasia, Emilia:
One trembled behind her mask.
Another smiled too much.
One more… didn't believe what she said.
But they were there.
And that alone was enough to turn heads.
The sun was slowly rising, painting the sky with pale hues. The city was awakening in layers: merchants setting up their stalls, nobles preparing their carriages, soldiers pressing their uniforms. But at the top of the castle, far above the bustle, a man was watching.
Madara Uchiha.
Invisible. Motionless. Anchored atop a stone beam, suspended beneath the main dome of the throne room. A flaw in the architecture. A forgotten gap. Perfect for seeing—without being seen.
Below him, the ceremony was beginning.
Guests entered in silence, escorted, their coats of arms announced. Names, titles, lands, and past glories echoed through the hall.
The words flowed. Promises. Titles. Dreams.
Madara didn't really listen.
He watched the gestures. The fleeing glances. The fingers that trembled just slightly.
He was looking for what remained… when the voices fell silent.
They were choosing a queen. But Madara saw a stage play.
The throne, empty, held no weight.
It wasn't heritage. It was performance.
Everything was designed to impress:
Carpets rolled out with military precision, fanfares restrained but solemn, cloaks adjusted across shoulders, subtle glances exchanged between dukes and ambassadors.
But it was all an illusion.
A fragile choreography, rehearsed a thousand times, worn thin by repetition.
Madara, perched in the shadows, saw the gears turning.
The grand performance.
The masks worn not to deceive enemies, but to reassure allies.
Then they arrived. The candidates.
Each introduced by a herald, each entering under murmurs and stares.
Priscilla Barielle, draped in pride.
Every gesture a provocation, every word a slap. Arrogance incarnate.
She walked as though the world belonged to her—and none were worthy of walking beside her.
Crusch Karsten, upright, calm, her gaze as sharp as a blade.
A strategist, not a queen.
She inspired trust, but did not dream—at least, not aloud.
Anastasia Hoshin, all smiles and silk, her eyes sharp and calculating.
She would sell a kingdom like a scarf.
She knew the value of things. And of people.
Emilia… She was different.
Fragile, too upright, too pure.
She trembled beneath her mask but stood tall.
An anomaly among the others, like a moonbeam in a marble hall.
One trembled behind her mask.
Another smiled too much.
One more… didn't believe her own words.
But they were there.
And that alone was enough to turn heads.
Their voices rose, one after another.
Each carried a vision. A dream.
An illusion tailored to their supporters.
And the nobles listened—not to be convinced, but to better weigh the performance.
Then came movement. A disturbance.
An unscripted appearance.
A small figure burst in—Felt, wild, untamed, barefoot almost, eyes blazing.
And beside her… Reinhard.
And there, Madara saw something else.
He had always seen Reinhard as a restrained force, a suit of armor too clean to be true.
But by breaking protocol, by standing behind Felt, he had stepped aside from the script.
A conscious act. A choice.
And Madara respected him more for it.
He was no longer a puppet of the realm.
He was a man willing to betray form for the sake of essence.
Then tensions rose.
A servant broke from the crowd.
He stood, spoke too loudly, too fast.
He defended Emilia with the words of the heart—not those of power.
Facing him stood Julius.
Cold. Precise.
Heir to the codes.
They clashed—verbally, but completely.
Madara said nothing.
But he watched.
He saw the dream in the eyes of that boy.
That desire for justice.
That fragile fire.
But mostly, he saw his weakness.
His loneliness.
No one that weak should harbor such ambition.
He would already be dead in any other world.
And yet… he was still there.
Still standing.
Still shouting.
And that… fascinated Madara.
He was contradiction incarnate:
Weak, but loud.
Ignorant, but determined.
A statistical error in the equation of the world.
He was dismissed.
Pushed aside.
Crushed by rules he refused to understand.
He left the room.
But then, a voice rang out.
Deep. Calm. Official.
A royal advisor.
— "Lady Emilia... Whatever the case, your protector has proven one thing: you are not to be feared."
Madara froze.
Not in fear.
In realization.
He had seen enough.
He slowly backed away from the opening.
His steps on the beam were slow. Sure. Silent.
And that being, now, fascinated him.
He had a name: Subaru.
He had seen the mask.
And what lay beneath… was only slightly more real.
The curtain had fallen.
Madara did not applaud.
He left his perch like a thought forgotten… but that always comes back.