Madara scrutinized the runes etched into his skin, their intricate patterns glowing faintly in the dim light. Despite the abundance of complex symbols, one thing was clear: they marked him as a cultist.
He frowned, his mind racing. What kind of cult was this? How had he become part of it? Who—or what—did its followers worship? The questions swirled in his head, but no answers came. Still, the runes were enough to confirm his role in this mysterious society, a role he neither understood nor welcomed.
Shifting his focus, Madara delved into his fragmented memories. Among the chaos, one image stood out: [Gray Clothing]. He concentrated on it, willing it to materialize. After a few tense seconds, the garment materialized in his hands, its fabric cool and smooth. Startled, he wished it away, and it disintegrated into shimmering white shards, the runes on his skin flaring briefly before settling.
Madara exhaled slowly, glancing around. Everyone was asleep, oblivious to his actions. Relieved, he decided to postpone further study of the runes until he was truly alone. For now, his priority was to reach the cult's destination. Only then would he decide his next move.
Escape had crossed his mind more than once. But after witnessing the sorcerer's terrifying power and surviving multiple monster attacks, he dismissed the idea. The risks were too great. Exhausted, Madara lay back, his thoughts swirling until sleep finally claimed him.
---
A week had passed since Madara discovered the runes. Now, he followed a dwindling group of cultists deeper into an endless forest. The once-thriving group, which had numbered nearly a thousand, had been reduced to a mere two hundred. Monsters lurked around every corner, and each battle whittled their numbers further. Madara had fought alongside them, but the stronger creatures required the sorcerers' intervention.
During the chaos, Madara uncovered another secret: the monsters' bodies contained crystal shards. He absorbed them cautiously, feeling a slight increase in his chakra with each fragment. [Soul Fragments: 40/1000]. He didn't fully understand the process, but he knew better than to draw attention to himself. So far, no one had noticed his actions.
As the days dragged on, Madara grew impatient. The forest seemed endless, its oppressive canopy suffocating. But then, gradually, the trees began to thin. The air grew lighter, and the ground leveled into a vast plain. In the distance, a structure loomed—a towering temple of black stone, its columns cracked and worn by time. Despite the heat of the day, a thick haze shrouded the entrance, obscuring whatever lay beyond.
Madara's unease deepened. The temple reminded him of the Statue of the Outer Path, a memory he'd rather forget. But there was no turning back. The cultists quickened their pace, their relief palpable as they approached the temple.
Two hours later, they stood before the ancient structure. The sorcerers lined them up, their expressions unreadable. One of them, likely the leader, cleared a patch of grass and drew a black circle on the ground. His eyes scanned the group before settling on Madara.
"You," the sorcerer said, pointing at him. "Step forward."
Madara obeyed, his instincts on high alert. Another cultist was chosen, and the two were ordered to stand in the circle.
"Fight," the sorcerer commanded, his voice cold and final.
Without hesitation, Madara drew his sword and lunged. The cultist barely had time to raise his weapon before Madara disarmed him, severing his fingers with a single strike. A second blow shattered his collarbone, and he crumpled to the ground. [You killed a sleeping man, name unknown.]
As the cultist's blood touched the circle, seven crystals materialized in its center. One of them ignited with a faint glow. The sorcerer sent another cultist into the circle, then another. Madara dispatched them all, his movements precise and merciless. He felt no guilt—these were strangers, and he would not sacrifice himself for them.
The battles grew more intense. Soon, he faced multiple opponents at once. The final fight pitted him against seven cultists, one of whom proved to be a formidable adversary. They were evenly matched, and for the first time, Madara felt the sting of doubt. Desperate, he activated the Body Flicker Technique, appearing behind his opponent in an instant. The man's head rolled to the ground before he could react.
As the blood hit the circle, the crystals flared brightly and vanished. The sorcerers stepped aside, bowing slightly as they gestured for Madara to ascend the temple steps.
He climbed slowly, counting each step. Twenty-eight in total—the same number of lives he had taken. At the top, he hesitated, staring into the impenetrable darkness that awaited him. With a deep breath, he stepped inside.
The mist enveloped him like a suffocating blanket. Whispers filled his ears, growing louder with each step. Visions of his past flashed before his eyes: his brother's death, his exile from Konoha. The memories grew darker, more violent, but Madara pressed on, his resolve unshaken.
Suddenly, the mist cleared. He stood in a vast chamber, its walls lined with ancient carvings. At the center was a dark stone altar, above which hovered a drawing of a snake. The air was heavy with an otherworldly energy.
Madara approached the altar, his hand trembling slightly as he reached for the drawing. The moment his fingers touched it, the snake's eyes snapped open. It lunged at him, its fangs sinking into his arm. Blood spilled onto the altar, and the snake dissolved into his skin, forming a tattoo that pulsed with power.
Then, everything went dark.
[Wake up, Madara! Your nightmare is over.]