The Hakimaster of Naruto

Chapter 252 252: The Devil on the Throne

It seemed the development of events had strayed far beyond Black Zetsu's calculations. Uchiha Fugaku had not chosen the path of kinslaying. He had not sought the Mangekyō Sharingan through the screams of a loved one.

Was this not the Uchiha Clan's oldest, most reliable habit?

In the era of war, Uchiha Madara and Uchiha Izuna had not hesitated. Under the subtle whisper of this very shadow, they had severed the bond with their closest friend and awakened eyes of calamity. It was a proven formula.

Why did it fail now, with Uchiha Fugaku?

"Boy," Black Zetsu's voice rasped like stone grinding against bone. "Will you not reconsider? Power is right there. All you must do is reach out and close your fist."

"You can save your breath," Fugaku replied, his voice hard as tempered steel. "I do not care what your true identity is, nor do I care about the origins of your will. I will bury the records on that stone tablet in the depths of my mind. I will not sacrifice those precious to me just to grasp at hollow strength."

The Uchiha clan was not known for producing deep thinkers. Passion drove them, not logic. But Uchiha Fugaku was an exception. He was the calm eye of the clan's storm. He knew a serpent when he saw one, and Black Zetsu's origins were murkier than the bottom of the ocean. A 'manifestation of Madara's will'? Fugaku was not fool enough to swallow that lie whole.

"Very well," Black Zetsu hissed, retreating into the realm of psychological warfare where it thrived. "But answer me this... are you content to live forever in the shadow of the Rakshasa?"

Fugaku's jaw tightened.

"The Uchiha girl you covet... Mikoto, was it?" Black Zetsu's voice dripped with venomous honey. "It is pitiful, really. Her eyes are always searching the horizon, not for a clan head, but for the Demon of the Battlefield. Have you been blind to her sighs? Her glances?"

Piercing the heart. Confusing the mind.

It was Black Zetsu's only true art form.

The image of Uchiha Mikoto's gentle smile flashed in Fugaku's mind. Then, the image of Ragnar—towering, untouchable, a figure of legend already eclipsing the Hokage's seat. A dark haze settled deep within Fugaku's Sharingan eyes.

"Heh heh heh."

Leaving behind a trail of damp, guttural laughter, Black Zetsu's form melted into the stone floor like ink soaking into parchment. It was a technique that defied standard ninjutsu, a phasing of reality that made Fugaku's skin crawl.

Fugaku stood alone in the silent compound corridor.

He had said he would reject the tablet's method. He had meant it with every fiber of his being. But how does a man blind himself to knowledge he already possesses? The moment he closed his eyes, the stone tablet's script blazed against his eyelids. A devil resided in his heart now, chained but awake. It whispered promises of power beyond the Hokage, power to reclaim pride, power to make her look only at him.

The price? The cursed fate of the Uchiha bloodline.

All Fugaku could do now was wage a silent war—a war between the reason of a father and the hatred of a scorned man.

The Rain Country — The Mountain's Hollow

Deep within the barren mountains of the Rain Country, far from the prying eyes of the villages, the earth swallowed the light. Ragnar stepped into the abyss. The tunnel was wider than he anticipated, a carved vein in the world's crust leading to a place where the air grew cold and heavy.

The silence was absolute. This was a dead zone. No insects chirped. No water dripped naturally except for the condensation sliding down ancient, frozen stone. It was a realm of specters, a Senluo Ghost Domain.

Tick... Tock...

The sound of water striking rock echoed, a metronome for the dead.

Ragnar's eyes pierced the darkness effortlessly. The faintest trace of chakra, so old it smelled of dust and decay, guided him like a beacon in a fog.

Close.

He rounded a jagged corner of the tunnel and the space exploded outward into a vast, subterranean chamber. It was a square-cut room of eerie craftsmanship. Strange patterns—resembling the rings of a tree stump—were carved into the corners. Stone statues stood vigil, their designs alien and primal.

The Ten-Tails.

Ragnar recognized the shape of the husk immediately. Not the real beast, of course. Merely effigies carved by a man who had spent decades dreaming of its power.

He stopped walking.

Ten paces away, slumped upon a throne of raw stone that seemed to grow from the floor itself, sat a figure. He was old. His skin was paper-thin, stretched over a frame that had once commanded armies. Long, white hair spilled over his shoulders, but the fire in his eyes—those dark pools of arrogance—had not dimmed in the slightest.

Uchiha Madara.

The two men regarded one another. This was not their first exchange. There had been the riot of the Five-Tails on the battlefield, a puppet show conducted by a dying man in a cave. And there had been the brief, violent clash within Nagato's mindscape. But this was the first meeting of flesh and blood.

"Rakshasa," Madara's voice rumbled, filling the cavern despite his frail appearance. It was a voice that expected the world to kneel. "At last, we meet face to face. I am Uchiha Madara."

"I know," Ragnar replied.

There was no tremor of awe. No widening of the eyes. Having watched seven hundred and twenty episodes of a story where this man's name was screamed from the rooftops, Ragnar's ears had long since grown calluses. Seeing the legend in person, especially in this withered state, inspired not fear, but a cold, analytical calm.

"Rakshasa! You're a liar! You killed me! Boo hoo hoo~"

From the stone throne's base, a pale, Venus flytrap-like creature emerged, weeping comically. It was the main body of White Zetsu, looking at Ragnar with a face full of betrayal and terror.

"My little heart nearly stopped! That was my favorite spore clone!"

"If you keep blubbering," Ragnar said without looking at him, his gaze locked on Madara, "I'll cut down the real body this time."

White Zetsu's mouth snapped shut. He made a frantic zipping motion over his lips and ducked partially behind the throne. This was the main base. If he was killed here, there would be no respawn.

Clap. Clap.

Madara's dry, wrinkled hands came together in slow applause. "Young hero. Extraordinary courage. But tell me... why no surprise? No quivering at the name of a ghost? Could it be that you knew I was here all along, Rakshasa?"

Ragnar glanced at the cowering White Zetsu. It seemed the clone's memories hadn't fully synchronized with the main body yet. Fine.

"Uchiha Madara," Ragnar began, his voice devoid of inflection. "Former leader of the Uchiha Clan. The only man said to rival the First Hokage. One of the two architects of Konohagakure."

"Well said," Madara smirked, pride puffing out his skeletal chest.

Ragnar continued, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "But despite being one of the strongest, you were always second place. Even with the Nine-Tailed Fox under your control... you lost to Hashirama Senju."

The air in the cave turned to ice.

"Rumor has it you died at the Valley of the End," Ragnar's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Yet here you are. Hanging on. A ghost clinging to a stone seat. Heh..."

Junior.

Do you know who you are speaking to?

Such insolence!

The mask of the old, wise sage shattered instantly. Uchiha Madara's wrinkled face contorted with a flash of the ancient, volcanic rage that had once reshaped mountains. The mention of his defeat at the hands of Senju Hashirama—spoken so casually, as if discussing the weather—was the one wound that time could never heal.

End of Chapter

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