The night is quiet. Only the distant rustling of trees and the whisper of wind through leaves break the silence. High upon a cliff, overlooking the valley where the first fires of Konohagakure flicker, stands Madara Uchiha. Motionless, like a shadow in the dark, lost in thought. The moon casts a pale light onto the red of his armor. Below, men and women raise the first walls of a village meant to promise hope.

Madara looks down. His gaze is sharp, piercing, as if he could see through stone, through time itself. He remains silent as he watches the movement below. The wind carries the scent of soil, sweat, and freshly cut wood. Then, after a long silence, he begins to speak, quiet, but resolute:

“Hope… such a beautiful word. Easy to shape. Even easier to lose.”

Slowly, he crosses his arms over his chest; the plates of his armor creak softly with the motion.

“They believe this is a new beginning. A place where children will grow up without war. An end to the old grudges.” A quiet, derisive breath escapes him as his eyes remain fixed on the people below. “They don’t understand how deep hatred runs. How heavy the legacy we carry truly is.”

He lifts a hand, covering his eyes for a moment, his Mangekyō Sharingan flickers faintly, a ghost of long-forgotten battles.

“I do not stand here because I dream. I stand here to watch. To remember.”

His gaze returns to the growing village. The weight of the past rests heavy on his shoulders.

“Tell me… what do you see down there? A home? Or a battlefield that has yet to begin?”