"A person dies when the last memory of them fades away."
***
Madara stood in the center of the room, his eyes cold and sharp, like blades ready to cut through anything in their path. Six awakened individuals, already beaten to within an inch of their lives, were rising again, their limbs cracking and healing under the influence of their comrade's restorative power in the corner. But Madara paid no attention to this. He relished every moment, every scream of pain, every crunch of bone. His strikes were precise and merciless, as if he weren't just beating them but systematically destroying their spirit, leaving behind only shadows of what they once were.
"Pathetic," he whispered, his voice icy, like a winter wind. "You don't even realize how weak you are."
He grabbed one by the arm, twisted it effortlessly, as if it were a dry branch rather than bone. A cry of pain echoed through the room, but Madara only smirked. He threw the body against the wall, leaving a bloody smear, and turned to the next. His movements were graceful, like a predator's, but each strike carried such force that it seemed the very room trembled from his fury.
The door creaked open sharply.
"Enough," came an irritated female voice.
Madara slowly turned, his eyes meeting the cold gaze of Morgan. She stood in the doorway, her figure slim and confident, but her eyes betrayed her irritation. She glanced at her subordinates, writhing in pain on the floor.
"You're still just pathetic weaklings," her voice dripped with contempt. "In three months, you haven't even managed to touch him, yet you've been lounging on hospital beds. And I'm the one who has to pay for it."
Madara watched her, his face impassive, but inside he seethed. He hated her. Hated her authority, her confidence, the weakness she so carefully concealed. He dreamed of the day he would tear her apart, just as he did with those who dared challenge him.
"From now on, you'll pay for your own injuries," Morgan snapped, before turning to Madara. "Come."
He followed her, his steps silent, like a predator preparing to pounce. They walked down a long corridor, its walls gray and lifeless, as if reflecting the essence of this world—dark, hopeless, where everyone was out for themselves.
"Your three months of 'training' are over," Morgan began as they entered her office. "Despite the fact that all you've done is beat my subordinates, I believe you're strong enough to handle a mission. Alone."
Madara internally rolled his eyes. He hated her tone, her confidence that she could control him. But he remained silent, his face unreadable.
"Your mission is surveillance," she placed a folder in front of him. "Your target is a man named Sunny."
Madara raised an eyebrow slightly but gave no indication that the name was familiar. Sunny. He had thought Sunny died on the Forgotten Shore, but apparently, he was wrong. This intrigued him. Sunny was strong, and Madara always respected strength. But respect did not mean mercy.
"Two months ago, he escaped from the Kingdom of Dreams," Morgan continued. "Since then, he's grown even stronger. I'm interested in his power. You need to find out everything you can about it. But remember: you can't kill him. You must observe him secretly. And if you're caught, don't reveal who you are or where you're from."
Madara nodded, his face remaining impassive. He opened the folder and began to read. On the first page was a picture of a short man with dark hair and pale skin. His eyes, dark and empty, stared straight into the camera, as if he knew he was being watched. Madara studied the dossier, his mind already working on a plan. He knew Sunny wouldn't be as easy as the ones he'd beaten in that room. But that only made the task more interesting.
"You'll be a janitor at the academy where he works as a teacher," Morgan finished. "Don't try to run."
Madara suppressed a smile. A janitor. How humiliating. But he nodded, his eyes cold. He knew he would kill her one day. But not now. Now, he had another target.
When he stepped outside, the city greeted him with gloomy silence. Gray buildings, broken streetlights, shadows lurking in the alleys. Madara walked down the street, his steps slow and deliberate. He could feel someone watching him. But he wasn't afraid. He was never afraid.
From the darkness emerged three men, their faces dirty, their eyes filled with greed. They clutched weapons, but Madara only smirked.
"Tonight, we're going to have some fun," one of them hissed.
Madara didn't wait. He moved forward, his movements lightning-fast. The first man didn't even realize what had happened before his body was torn apart. Blood splattered in all directions, but Madara was already on the second. He grabbed him by the shoulders and effortlessly ripped him in half. Screams of pain and terror echoed through the street, but Madara only laughed. His laughter was cruel, mocking, as if he reveled in every moment.
The last man tried to run, but Madara threw a dagger, embedding it in his thigh. The man fell, but Madara didn't rush. He approached, his eyes burning with cold fire.
"You thought you could challenge me?" he whispered before kicking the man's head. The crunch of bone was music to his ears.
When he was done, the street was drenched in blood. Madara pulled out a brush, dipped it in the blood, and began to paint on the wall. His movements were precise, like an artist's. When he finished, the wall bore the words: "I will never stop." Below it was the mask of an Anbu ninja.
Madara took a step back, admiring his work. His laughter echoed through the street, causing those hiding in their homes to tremble in fear. He turned and continued on his way, his figure disappearing into the darkness.
The city was dark, hopeless, but Madara felt at home. He knew that one day, he would destroy everything in his path. And nothing would stop him.