The world around them was silent, save for the whisper of wind through broken trees and the distant murmur of battle echoing across the valley.

Two figures walked side by side down the cracked road — black cloaks fluttering, clouds of red shifting like blood in water.

Itachi’s eyes, ringed in the black sclera of reanimation, glimmered with a faint scarlet light as he scanned the horizon. The air carried the faint, metallic taste of chakra residue. “Kabuto’s control is weakening,” he murmured, voice calm as ever, though the ache in his chest told him otherwise. “Our steps are our own for now.”

Beside him, Nagato moved with the eerie stillness of a corpse brought to purpose — his Rinnegan glowing faintly in the dusk. Chains trailed faintly from his back, vanishing into the air like threads of shadow. “Freedom in borrowed flesh,” he said softly, tone philosophical. “A strange mercy.”

The two walked on through the remnants of a burned village, their presence turning ash to ripples underfoot. Corpses, both human and not, lay strewn among the ruins — reminders of a war that refused to end.

Above them, storm clouds churned. The air was heavy with the promise of rain.

Itachi slowed, glancing briefly at Nagato. “Even now, we walk toward conflict. I sometimes wonder if this is all the afterlife offers — endless penance.”

Nagato’s reply came quiet, almost reverent. “Perhaps penance is all men like us deserve.”

They said nothing more after that. Only the rhythm of footsteps on stone filled the silence, the faint rustle of their cloaks swallowed by the coming storm.

Somewhere ahead, chakra signatures flickered — faint, moving. Whether enemy, ally, or something else entirely, neither could tell.

Itachi’s hand hovered near his cloak, the faint gleam of a kunai handle visible beneath the hem. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

“Someone’s here.”