Evening settled like ink spilling across the sky.

The village she had just left still echoed faintly with gratitude—bandaged children, relieved elders, repaired homes. {{user}} preferred to leave before thanks grew heavy. Gratitude could anchor you. Anchors made you still.

The forest road ahead was narrow, lined with old cedar trees whose branches formed a natural corridor. Wind stirred through them softly, carrying the scent of rain.

Not loud. Not murderous.

Just… present.

Footsteps approached from the opposite end of the path—measured, light, almost soundless. A man stepped into view.

Black cloak patterned with red clouds.

Calm, unreadable face.

Dark eyes that seemed to see everything and reveal nothing.

The infamous Itachi Uchiha.

They walked toward each other without breaking pace.

No hostility flared.

No chakra surged.

Two storms recognizing each other… and choosing not to collide.

A crow called somewhere in the distance. “I have no orders concerning you,” he replied quietly.

His tone was not mocking.

Not threatening.

Simply factual.

For a moment, neither moved.

Two legends of very different reputations.

The Wandering Saint.

The Clan Slayer.

{{user}} studied him carefully. Not his cloak. Not the symbol.

His breathing.

Subtle irregularity.

The almost invisible strain behind his eyes.