One week later, I crossed into the Land of Iron.
The journey had been uneventful. My chakra reserves were full again—I'd fed well before leaving the battlefield. Of my seven hearts, five beat steadily. The remaining two regenerated slowly, knitting back together cell by cell. Each heart required enormous amounts of chakra to heal. It would be weeks before I was whole again.
I'd traveled with a caravan, hidden among merchants and traders making the mountain crossing. No one questioned the pale-skinned man who kept to himself.
The Land of Iron sprawled between three mountains called the Three Wolves. Snow covered everything. Ice clung to rooftops and streets. The cold bit through my clothes, but I barely felt it. My body no longer responded to temperature the way a normal human's did.
I walked through the streets after nightfall. Yellow light spilled from windows and doorways. Steam rose from vents. People hurried past, bundled against the cold.
Everything felt unfamiliar.
Not because years had passed since I'd last been here, but because I'd never truly seen the Land of Iron. In my earlier years, I'd been too sick—confined to bed, too weak to walk these streets.
Now I see it clearly. The beauty of the artitecture, the soft moonlight Illuminating the street, the bustling people. I could feel a warmth even in this cold atmosphere. Sadly, I can't enjoy this scenery under the sun. One day, I will conquer the sun too.
I passed a food stall still open despite the late hour. Warm light poured from inside. Steam rose from pots. The smell of cooking meat and broth drifted out.
I stopped.
The smell should have been appetizing. I remembered it being appetizing, few weeks ago, when I was still human enough to eat.
Now it smelled wrong.
My body rejected it instinctively. But I recognized the stall, the warm light, the people inside eating and talking.
I wanted to feel normal again, even if only for a moment.
I pushed aside the curtain and entered.
Several men sat at low tables, eating and talking. Their conversation was loud, animated. A few glanced at me—my appearance always drew attention—but quickly returned to their meals.
The constant chatter felt nostalgic, familiar in a way I couldn't place.
I found an empty table near the back and sat.
A young boy appeared almost immediately. He couldn't have been older than twelve. His eyes widened when he saw my face.
"Aniki, you look so cool!" he blurted out.
I blinked. "Aniki?"
The boy flushed but didn't back down. "You just—you have that look, you know? Like the heroes in stories."
"I see." I glanced at the menu board behind him. The characters blurred together. It didn't matter what I ordered. "Bring me something simple. Soup. Rice. Nothing complicated."
"Right away, Aniki!" The boy hurried off, still grinning.
I turned my attention to the other customers.
Three men at the nearest table were deep in conversation. One—a heavyset man with gray at his temples—spoke in low, careful tones.
"...don't like it. Shinobi fighting this close to the border is one thing, but inside our territory?"
Another man, younger, shook his head. "What can we do? Shinji-sama allows it. Takes their money and looks the other way."
"It's wrong," the first man insisted. "The agreement has always been clear. Shinobi don't interfere with the Land of Iron. We don't interfere with them. That's how it's always been."
"That was before," the third man said quietly. "Things have changed."
I listened without looking directly at them.
The food arrived. The young boy set down a bowl of miso soup, a plate of grilled fish, and a bowl of rice. Steam rose from all three.
The smell hit me immediately. Putrid. Revolting. Like rotting meat trying to pass itself off as fresh food.
My stomach turned.
"Enjoy, Aniki!"
The boy stood there, watching with bright, expectant eyes.
I forced a smile. "It looks good."
He beamed and hurried away.
I stared at the food. The looked fresh and warm.
My eyes told me it was fresh, well-prepared. But my senses screamed at me to get away from it.
I picked up the chopsticks. They felt strange in my hands—I'd used them before, but not in months. Not since my illness worsened.
I brought rice to my mouth.
The texture was wrong. Mushy. Disgusting. The taste was worse—like ashes mixed with spoiled grain.
I forced myself to chew. To swallow.
My throat protested. My stomach lurched.
I took another bite. Then another.
The men nearby continued their conversation, oblivious.
"Three civilians died last week," the gray-haired man said. "Caught in the crossfire when Earth shinobi fought Cloud shinobi near the eastern district."
I tried the soup. The smell alone made me want to vomit. I brought the bowl to my lips anyway.
The liquid touched my tongue and I nearly gagged. Rancid. Foul. Every instinct screamed at me to spit it out.
I swallowed.
"I heard," the younger man muttered. "My cousin knew one of them. Shopkeeper. Wrong place, wrong time."
"And Shinji-sama did nothing," the third man said bitterly. "Didn't even acknowledge it."
I set the soup down carefully. My hands were steady, but inside, my body was rebelling. My stomach twisted. Bile rose in my throat.
I reached for the fish. Maybe it would be different.
It wasn't.
The first man's voice dropped lower. "Some of the samurai tried to speak up. Petition him to enforce the old rules again."
"What happened?"
A pause.
"They're gone now. Transferred away. Or just... gone."
I chewed mechanically, forcing each bite down. During my time at the Uchiha camp, I had actually never eaten anything. I had forgotten about it. Now I feel that another part of my previous self has been abandoned.
"Even Mifune Michikatsu hasn't been seen in months," the younger man said. "Ever since he tried to confront Shinji-sama about the shinobi problem."
My hand tightened on the chopsticks.
"The strongest samurai in the Land of Iron," the gray-haired man said, "and he just vanished. If that's what happens when you speak up..."
The third man leaned back. "So we keep quiet. We survive. What else can we do?"
I set the chopsticks down carefully.
Michikatsu Tsugikuni.
My teacher.
When I was a child—sick, weak, confined to bed—my father had hired Michikatsu to train me. Father believed physical training might improve my health. It hadn't. My body had been too far gone even then.
But Michikatsu never gave up on me. He adapted the training. Taught me what he could. Spoke to me about the philosophy of the blade, about discipline and focus, even when I couldn't hold a sword for more than a few minutes.
He'd been kind. Patient. One of the few people who treated me like a person rather than a dying obligation.
And he was the reason Shinji never dared to kill me and Genzo outright after banishing us.
Michikatsu's reputation, his position as Mifune, his sheer presence—it had kept us safe. Shinji feared him. Everyone feared him.
And now he was missing.
The men at the next table had moved on to safer topics.
I looked down at the half-eaten meal. My stomach churned violently. I could feel the food sitting there, foreign and wrong, my body trying desperately to reject it.
I placed coins on the table—more than necessary—and stood.
The young boy appeared immediately. "Was everything good, Aniki?"
I forced another smile. "Yes. Very good."
His face lit up. "Come back anytime! I'll make sure you get the best seat!"
I nodded and pushed through the curtain.
The cold hit me immediately. I walked ten steps. Twenty.
Then I turned into an alley and vomited.
Everything came up. The rice. The fish. The soup. All of it expelled violently from my body, rejected completely.
I stood there, breathing hard, one hand braced against the wall.
The food pooled at my feet, steaming in the cold air.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
That was what I'd become. Something that couldn't even pretend to be human anymore. Something that found regular food revolting. Something that survived on blood and flesh.
The young boy's voice echoed in my mind: Like the heroes in stories.
I laughed. It came out harsh and bitter. How can a man eating monster be called a hero?
Snow had started falling again, soft and steady. The streets were emptier now. Most people had retreated indoors.
I walked without destination, processing what I'd heard.
The Land of Iron was built on neutrality. Unlike other nations whose military forces were shinobi, the Land of Iron's strength came from samurai. The fighting styles were different—samurai channeled chakra through their blades rather than using ninjutsu. Their traditions were older, more rigid.
And there had always been an agreement—an understanding among the shinobi nations. The Land of Iron remained neutral. Shinobi didn't interfere. In return, the Land of Iron didn't take sides in shinobi conflicts.
That agreement had kept this place safe for generations.
But Shinji was breaking it.
Taking money from Iwagakure to let their shinobi use the Land of Iron as a battleground. Allowing fights to spill into civilian areas. Ignoring the deaths.
And when samurai tried to object—when they tried to uphold the old ways—they disappeared.
Even Michikatsu.
I stopped in the middle of an empty street. Snow collected on my shoulders and hair.
The Uchiha were gone. That part of my life had ended in blood and ash. Amanai's final words still echoed: For us you will always be Uchiha Muzan.
But I wasn't Uchiha anymore. What I am... Only God knows if He exists.
Not human. Not entirely. Something that couldn't die. I am perhaps a demon...? If so, then I will be the king of all Demons.
I looked up at the three mountains barely visible through the falling snow. The Three Wolves.
Somewhere in this country, Shinji sat in the capital, counting his blood money, making deals with shinobi, breaking agreements that had stood for generations.
My hands curled into fists.
I'd come here with no plan. Just a vague sense that I needed to return, that this was where I belonged.
But now...
Michikatsu had protected me once. When I was weak and dying, he'd stood between me and my uncle's ambitions.
Perhaps it was time to return that favor.
Or perhaps it was time to take back what should have been mine from the beginning.
I started walking again. My footsteps left tracks in the fresh snow that filled in almost immediately behind me.
The night stretched ahead—cold and dark and silent.
I disappeared into it.