***
The battle had ended weeks ago, but the heat of it lingered in his mind like a low-burning ember.
She wasn't just powerful.
She was alive in a way Seiji hadn't seen in anyone else.
The kind of alive that danced between bloodstained earth and fire-wreathed steel without flinching.
The kind of alive that burned so brightly, it left everything else looking dull.
He wasn't used to that.
He wasn't used to feeling anything for people, really. Admiration? Maybe. Interest? Occasionally.
Attraction?
...That was new.
He hated new.
-----
His travels carried him west, deeper into contested clan lands. No man ruled these forests, only blades and ambition. The Uchiha and Senju weren't the only ones waging silent wars here—dozens of minor clans scrabbled for territory like starving rats. Petty skirmishes. Temporary alliances. Treachery masked as honor.
Seiji navigated it like a shadow between the cracks.
He took contracts from no one, but occasionally lent his sword—never for coin, always for knowledge. A new kenjutsu scroll. A breathing technique used only in high altitudes. Once, he infiltrated a swordsman clan to observe their footwork, then vanished the night after their strongest died mysteriously.
He was learning.
Always learning.
Not to win battles—he'd done that since he was seven.
To ascend.
He wanted to crack open the ceiling that boxed humans in. Wanted to step where gods once tread.
And gods, he believed, were just people who refused to stay mortal.
-----
One day, near the border of two warring clans—Kozato and Ichihara—he followed a trail of scorched earth and rumors. An outpost destroyed. Men turned to ash. Black flames that refused to die, said some.
He knew who it was before he arrived.
The sky was gray when he found the place—scorched trees still smoldering, bodies collapsed mid-sprint, weapons half-drawn. A slaughter.
In the center of it all sat a girl. Alone.
Cloaked in red. Armor scuffed. Her eyes closed, head tilted toward the breeze. Resting. Calm.
As if she hadn't just ended thirty lives in under an hour.
He didn't reach for his sword.
She did.
"You again," she said without opening her eyes.
"Didn't mean to follow you," Seiji replied. "But the murder trail made it kind of obvious."
Her lips twitched into the faintest smirk. "Surprised you're still alive."
"I'm me. Of course I'm alive."
Now she did open her eyes—bright, crimson, spinning. The tomoe in her Sharingan tracked him, reading everything.
"You don't hide your presence."
"I figured you'd smell the sarcasm before the chakra."
She stood slowly, armor creaking faintly. Her hair was tied high, black strands swaying behind her like a war banner.
"You came to fight?"
"No," he said simply. "But I'm ready if you did."
A pause.
Then Madara sheathed her weapon.
And sat back down on a piece of rubble, motioning lazily.
"Then sit. Unless you're afraid."
He raised a brow. "Afraid of a girl?"
"Afraid of talking to one."
Tch. Low blow. Accurate, but still.
Seiji sat, carefully, sword resting across his lap like a sleeping animal.
They didn't speak for a while.
Just sat there, surrounded by smoke and the dead.
It was peaceful, in a strange way. The kind of quiet only warriors understood—the silence after something brutal, where words could finally catch up with breath.
Eventually, Madara spoke.
"You're not from any major clan. Yet you fight like you were raised on the battlefield."
"I was," Seiji said. "Just not this battlefield."
A subtle look. Not suspicion—curiosity.
"You speak strangely."
"So I've been told."
Another pause. Then, with a tone just a bit too casual:
"You didn't kill me last time."
"You didn't kill me either."
"You were holding back."
"So were you."
Madara leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Why?"
Seiji looked at her for a long moment.
Then said honestly, "I wanted to see you again."
She blinked.
That rare smirk of hers faded—not into a frown, but into something unreadable.
For once, she didn't have a clever retort. No biting sarcasm. Just... silence.
"I didn't expect that," she said finally.
"I didn't expect to mean it," he muttered.
He wasn't good at this. Conversations with real people—especially ones who didn't annoy him instantly—felt like stepping onto ice with no idea how thick it was.
But Madara didn't scoff. Didn't mock.
She just looked at him. Really looked.
Then said, "You're strange."
"So I've been told."
-----
They parted at dusk.
No duel. No explosion. No grand confessions.
Just a nod, and a glance that lingered longer than it should have.
She walked away, back toward her clan lands, trailing fire behind her.
He watched until she vanished from sight.
Then turned, sheathing his sword.
The wind picked up, rustling the trees.
And for the first time in years, he realized something.
He wasn't as indifferent as he thought.
***