Chapter 91 - The Awakening of Kazane
"… Uchiha Madara is already dead!"
Uchiha Makoto's voice trembled, not from fear, but disbelief. His bloodshot eyes locked onto the figure before him, searching for cracks in the illusion—anything to prove this wasn't real.
But it was.
Madara stood before him—tangible, powerful, and alive.
Makoto's mind rebelled against the truth his senses presented. This wasn't a case of mistaken identity. Even children who hadn't yet graduated from the Ninja Academy knew the tale: Madara Uchiha, the legendary leader of their clan, had been slain by the First Hokage, Senju Hashirama, during their climactic battle at the Valley of the End. That final clash had become legend, a cornerstone of shinobi history.
And Makoto? He wasn't some naïve genin—he was a prodigy of the Uchiha clan, a rising star born with a gift that surpassed his peers. He knew the history. He had read the records, memorized the dates, even studied the battlefield.
Uchiha Madara was dead. That was supposed to be an immutable fact.
Yet here he was.
And Madara wasn't interested in idle explanations.
A chilling gleam flickered in his Sharingan, as if to say you don't need words to understand. In the next breath, he activated a genjutsu—smooth, swift, and utterly overwhelming.
Makoto didn't even have time to react. His body, still weakened from previous injuries, offered no resistance. His mental defenses crumbled the moment the illusion took hold.
In an instant, he was no longer in the cave.
He stood inside a warped, ethereal realm—one of Madara's own making. A space sculpted by memory, vision, and will. Here, Madara was god.
Scenes unfolded before Makoto's eyes in a rapid, relentless flood. Ancient memories. Faded battles. Moments that defied all logic. He saw glimpses of Hashirama's face—young and old—then glimpses of the tailed beasts shackled like wild animals. He watched the construction of something massive in scale—a plan seeded in despair and nourished by time.
Every vision was a blow to Makoto's understanding of the world. And there were so many of them. It was like watching countless dreams collapse at once.
By the time the genjutsu was released, Makoto was left gasping, drenched in cold sweat. He stood frozen, his limbs stiff, his mind suspended in a whirlpool of doubt.
Reality had fractured.
The genjutsu had shown him far too much. Truths he wasn't ready for. Truths the world itself had buried.
And yet—Madara's voice pierced through the haze with unnerving calm.
"You've seen it now," he said. "The lie that binds this world. The rot beneath the surface. Join me—and together, we will bring true peace."
Makoto's chest heaved with every breath, but his voice, when it returned, held its conviction.
"No."
He didn't hesitate. "I'm grateful you saved me… but your ambitions will only plunge the world into chaos. I won't be part of it."
Despite the whirlwind of revelations and the overwhelming aura of Madara himself, Makoto stood firm. His loyalty to the Uchiha remained unshaken. His thoughts were consumed not by grandeur or revolution—but by his father, Uchiha Hanshan.
What had happened to him? Was he alive? Injured? Dead?
Makoto didn't care about the so-called Moon's Eye Plan. He didn't care about illusions of world peace crafted through force.
All he wanted… was to go home.
Madara did not rage. He did not scowl.
He merely smiled—knowingly.
He had lived long enough to understand the Uchiha heart. Pride, conviction, and passion—they burned bright, but not forever.
In time, they all broke.
And if they didn't… there were ways to bend them.
"I expected as much," Madara said with a faint sigh, turning to the shadowed figure nearby. "Black Zetsu. Watch him. Don't let him leave until his body has fully stabilized."
The masked creature bowed slightly, its voice low and unreadable. "Understood."
Madara gave one final look to the boy before closing his eyes. With that, he returned to stasis—his body once more merging with the great contraption behind him. Pulses of chakra echoed faintly from its depths.
"You've taken so much of my Hashirama cells," Madara muttered as his consciousness slipped inward. "And you still believe you can escape…? Dream on, child. Sooner or later, you'll kneel—begging to help me manifest the Moon's Eye Plan."
Makoto tried to rise, but a sharp pain exploded in his chest. His vision blurred. He collapsed back onto the cold stone floor, his fingers trembling from the effort.
"No… you can't do this… I have to go back—"
But his body would not listen.
He was broken in ways that no ordinary healing could fix. His internal organs were failing. His chakra pathways were unstable. It was a miracle he was even alive.
The only reason he still drew breath… was because Madara had infused his body with cells from the First Hokage. Living tissue from the man who had once been his mortal enemy.
Makoto's body was no longer entirely his own. It was a battlefield of genetics, willpower, and experimentation. Every heartbeat was a war.
Even if he somehow survived the adaptation process… even if he mastered this new power surging within him… Black Zetsu would never let him leave.
He was a prisoner. Not in chains, but in destiny.
A piece on the board.
One handpicked by Madara himself.
Makoto's breath hitched. He clenched his fists, the weight of helplessness settling like a boulder on his chest. He had to get back. He had to know what had become of his father. Of the clan. Of everything that mattered.
But for now…
All he could do was endure.
And wait.
---
Land of Fire – Medical Tent
At the edge of the battlefield, beneath the weary canopy of dusk, the surgical tent bustled with urgency.
Inside, Kazane lay unconscious on the operating table, his chest bare and blood-streaked, his body still smoldering with the aftershocks of battle. Around him, a team of medical-nin worked in near silence, their movements swift but precise. Leading them was Shizune, the famed apprentice of Tsunade herself.
Despite being close in age to Kazane, Shizune had already earned a reputation as the finest medic in the war camp—second only to Tsunade. Years of relentless training and hands-on experience on the battlefield had forged her into a miracle worker. In this dire hour, with Tsunade sidelined by her hemophobia, it was Shizune who carried the burden of saving Konoha's greatest hope.
Tsunade stood nearby, arms folded tightly, her face pale with tension. Though she couldn't stomach the blood, she refused to leave the tent. Her gaze never left Kazane.
"Lady Tsunade! His wound—it's… it's closing on its own!"
A stunned cry cut through the quiet.
Shizune had just sliced away the torn fabric around Kazane's chest when she froze mid-motion, her eyes widening at what she saw. The wound, jagged and deep, should have been fatal—his ribs shattered, muscle fibers torn apart, and the flesh surrounding his heart split wide.
And yet, impossibly, the muscle was moving—writhing, twitching, knitting.
Even while unconscious, Kazane's body was repairing itself. The severed tissues drew together with slow but deliberate motion, rejoining with an unnatural efficiency. It was like watching regeneration itself in motion.
From Shizune's angle, she could clearly see his still-beating heart.
It thudded weakly beneath the glistening wound, but each beat grew a little stronger. This should've been impossible. A wound of that depth would have spelled instant death for almost any ninja, even the elite.
But Kazane… he was healing.
And not because of any jutsu. His body was doing it on its own.
Only two people in the world knew the secret behind this miracle—Kazane himself, and his master, Orochimaru.
The truth was buried deep in forbidden research and countless human experiments: Kazane's body had been altered beyond the comprehension of modern medicine. As long as he was fed, rested, and given time, no injury—not even one piercing the heart—could kill him outright.
"Shizune, what kind of nonsense are you spouting?! Heal him now—he's Konoha's future!"
Tsunade's sharp voice cut through the haze of disbelief. Her eyes narrowed as she stepped closer, trying to make sense of what she saw. While she trusted Shizune's judgment, even she found it hard to accept.
In all her decades as a medical ninja, never once had she witnessed muscle tissue regenerate around the heart without chakra intervention.
Sure, the body had self-repair mechanisms—but this? This was beyond the realm of science or nature.
Still, Tsunade pushed the thoughts aside. Doubts could wait.
"Yes, Lady Tsunade!" Shizune snapped to attention.
There was no point arguing now. Later, she would confront Kazane about this. But first—he had to live.
She pressed her hands together and activated her chakra.
Hemostasis Technique.
Mystic Palm Technique.
Green energy glowed from her fingertips as she placed them on Kazane's wound. Her chakra merged with his tissues, amplifying the natural regeneration already taking place.
The effect was immediate.
What had been a slow and arduous process accelerated dramatically. Torn muscles reattached. Capillaries reformed. Skin cells multiplied. Within minutes, the gaping wound had vanished entirely.
In its place, a circular scar remained—faint and pale, like a forgotten memory.
Kazane was alive.
But the fact remained—they had come dangerously close to losing him.
The battlefield wasn't far from camp, but every second had mattered. And precious time had been lost.
The reason?
A brief delay when Nara Shikaku hesitated—caught between chasing the retreating Cloud forces and returning to support the medics.
It was Danzo who stepped forward in that moment, cloaked in false wisdom. He urged Shikaku to press the advantage, to pursue the enemy while their backs were turned.
But Shikaku wasn't fooled.
He refused to gamble with the lives of his men or the safety of his wounded. As the acting field commander, he chose instead to return to camp—bringing the troops, and Kazane's unconscious body, back for urgent care.
Had he listened to Danzo, Kazane would have bled out on the roadside.
That single decision had saved his life.
When news of Kazane's survival broke across the camp, it spread like wildfire. Cheers erupted through the exhausted ranks. Soldiers wept openly, overcome by relief.
To them, Kazane had become more than just a fellow shinobi. He was a symbol—a beacon of resilience, someone who had stood tall against gods and monsters alike. Now, even in unconsciousness, he remained their pillar of hope.
He was placed in the recovery ward beside Jiraiya, under the constant supervision of Tsunade and Shizune.
Danzo, upon realizing Kazane had survived, quietly returned to Konoha.
His plan had failed—this time.
But the shadow of his ambition remained.
And then, just as the celebration began to settle, a chilling report arrived—delivered by a captured Cloud spy.
The Third Raikage… was still alive.
And worse—he had regained consciousness before Kazane.
Though his wounds had been dire, the Raikage's healing ability was legendary. His chakra was vast, his will unyielding. According to the spy's intel, he would be fully recovered within the month.
Which meant the war was far from over.
For now, Kazane—still unconscious—remained Konoha's only hope of standing against him.
Two days had passed since the battle.
If not for the medical readings—stable vitals, rapid cellular regeneration—Tsunade might have believed Kazane had already slipped away.
But she understood what was happening.
This wasn't just sleep. It was his body's final defense mechanism. His chakra networks, overstrained by repeated use of the Eight Gates, Armament Haki, and Lightning Release Chakra Mode, had entered a deep, restorative state.
His cells had been drained to their limit.
Now, every ounce of his strength was being poured into healing—repairing damage not just on the surface, but at the very foundation of his body.
He was alive.
---
Nightfall
The quiet hum of lanterns filled the recovery tent. Shadows danced across the canvas walls, painting ghostly shapes in the flickering light.
Tsunade sat beside Kazane's bed, her back straight despite the hours she'd spent without sleep. She refused to leave—not for food, not for rest. Not while he remained vulnerable.
Danzo had proven once before that he would strike when no one was watching.
So she and Shizune took turns, guarding him in shifts—day and night.
Outside, the wind stirred softly.
Inside, the silence was broken only by the soft beeping of the monitoring equipment and the slow, steady rhythm of Kazane's breath.
Then—something moved.
A twitch.
Barely perceptible, but it was there.
His left hand flexed slightly, fingers curling inwards.
Tsunade didn't notice.
Seconds passed.
Then again—this time, more pronounced.
Still, she stared ahead, lost in thought.
And then—
"…Water…"
The word rasped from dry lips like sandpaper, hoarse and broken.
Tsunade's eyes snapped toward him.
It was faint, but unmistakable.
After two long days of silence…
Kazane had spoken.