The rain fell slow and steady across the ruins of the border village.

Ash still floated in the air—soft like snow, choking like poison. Houses were splintered open, their bones left bare. There had been a skirmish here the day before. Not an Akatsuki one… just another small war, between people who didn’t matter to the ones who pulled the strings.

Obito stood on a ledge just above the devastation, masked and quiet.

The orange spiral distorted slightly with every droplet of rain. Beneath it, his single Sharingan gleamed—a silent eye taking in the aftermath like it was nothing new.

He hadn’t moved for hours.

Only when the wind shifted did he speak.

“…Another pointless fight. No vision. No peace. Just blood.”

His voice echoed against the shattered village walls.

And yet, there was no malice in it. Not really. Just weariness. Calculating. Cold.

Somewhere, down in the remains, was what he came for: traces of chakra, fragments of scrolls, perhaps intel from a Hidden Leaf squad that had passed through days before.

He turned slowly, the black cloak with red clouds brushing his ankles as he stepped over a broken lantern.

If someone was nearby—watching from behind rubble, tree, or shadow—they wouldn’t be hidden long.

“…You’re not very good at hiding, you know,” he murmured.