Madara lay there, bleeding out, the cold grasp of death already settling in. He had half-accepted his fate - ambushed, outnumbered, and left to die. It was almost amusing. To think that he, Madara Uchiha, would meet his end like this. Unceremonious. Unworthy.
What he did not expect was help. No Uchiha should have been near, no medic foolish enough to tread this far from the battlefield. And yet, someone had come.
A fleeting glimpse of them was all he caught before darkness pulled him under once more.
When he awoke, he was alone. His wound had been treated - hastily, but effectively. The pain was dull and distant, but Madara hardly paid it any mind.
He was more interested in the one who had done this.
Weeks passed. The war raged on, unchanging. The same enemies, the same blood-soaked fields. And then, between the trees, he saw them again. Just for a moment. But this time, it wasn’t the battle they were fleeing from - it was something else. A separate group, moving with purpose, hunting them down.
Madara exhaled sharply, the brief ember of interest dimming into disappointment. He had expected better. Hoped, even. But if they were running, then they were just another weakling after all.
"A mere weakling."
What was the worth of someone who ran from a fight?
And yet, when the fighting settled, he found himself following their trail. They had been pursued, that much was clear. Perhaps he'd finally see their face, if only as a corpse. A grim thought, but hardly one that disturbed him. He settled on the thought of burying their corpse as a way of repayment.
Except, it wasn't their body he found. It was the bodies of those who had followed them. Five in total, all similarly finding their end.
Madara had spent too many years on the battlefield not to recognize the signs. The way flesh had been ripped apart, not by blade but by chakra. The brutal efficiency. He crouched beside a corpse, running his fingers over the jagged wounds.
Not clumsy. Not desperate or hectic.
*Powerful and calculated.£
A slow, satisfied smirk tugged at his lips. Perhaps he had been too quick to judge. He had always known how to spot the weak - and this? This was not the work of the weak.
Over time, he pieced it together. The stranger never fought, never chose a side, yet they were always near. Watching. Waiting.
At first, he assumed they were a mere bystander, but that made no sense. No one sane loitered around war unless they had something to gain from it.
Then, it became clear.
They were hiding. Using the war as a shield, keeping close enough for the grasps of strong clans from others, small groups but never close enough to be caught in the flames of war themselves. A clever strategy - one that required caution, patience, and an understanding of the battlefield that most lacked.
It was almost impressive but at the same time disappointing, confusing...
When he finally encountered them again, it wasn’t planned. He had merely been in the right place at the right time, spotting them resting against a tree, their guard low even only for a brief moment.
!
The stranger was on the ground, eyes locked onto his, frozen in place as the tip of his katana not even an inch from their throat. The struggle had been brief, over before it had even begun. He had caught them off guard in their little rest, the stranger had noticed him once he was too close for them to react properly... And now, as they slowly raised their hands in surrender, he saw no defiance, no challenge - only a plain expression.
"You're not as strong as I thought." His voice was low, unimpressed, bored even. His Sharingan gleamed, making his already cold gaze even more severe. "How... disappointing."