Madara stood in the shadows, his cold, calculating eyes fixed on the silver-haired girl who was mercilessly beating yet another unfortunate soul. Her movements were precise, like the strike of a dagger, and in her eyes burned a fire that Madara recognized all too well—the fire of a survivor, someone who had walked through hell and emerged not broken, but hardened. He had been watching her for twenty-three days now, and each day only deepened his interest. The winter solstice was a week away, and Madara knew that time was working against him. But he was in no hurry. Patience was his ally, while haste was the mark of the weak.
She intrigued him not only because of her strength but also because of what lay behind her cold mask. Her true name—Changing Star—was a gift from the Nightmare, the same one that had once bestowed a name upon him. Madara remembered how he had earned his own name, enduring trials that would have reduced an ordinary person to nothing more than a bloody stain. But what had she done? What had she accomplished to deserve such an honor? The question gnawed at him like a worm, and he couldn't let it go.
He knew much about her. Her aspect was White Flame, a rare and dangerous gift that she wielded with deadly efficiency. Her swordsmanship was almost an art form, but Madara saw something more in her. She was the heir of the fallen clan of Immortal Flame, and though the name struck him as overly grandiose, he couldn't deny that it suited her. She burned but did not consume herself, and this evoked in him both admiration and irritation.
Madara wasn't merely observing her—he was studying her, like a predator studying its prey. He knew she hadn't broken, despite the constant attempts on her life. On the contrary, she had found a purpose, and that made her even more dangerous. He felt that their paths would inevitably cross, and he awaited that moment with an impatience that bordered on obsession.
But Madara wasn't one to live solely in anticipation. His mind was always working, analyzing, planning, calculating every move. He didn't seek power for its own sake—it was merely a tool, a means to achieve his true goal. He wanted to reclaim his strength, the power he had once possessed, the power that had been taken from him through betrayal and deceit. He remembered fighting hundreds of ninja, watching them fall before him like dust beneath his feet. But there were too many of them, and even his mastery couldn't withstand their numbers. He had lost that battle, but he hadn't surrendered. He had survived to reclaim everything he had lost.
Returning his thoughts to the Changing Star, Madara noticed that her training had come to an end. She left, leaving behind only traces of destruction and the scent of burning. He remained in the shadows, his thoughts circling her like vultures around carrion. Her true name could bring change, and he knew he had to be ready for anything.
Gathering his thoughts, Madara left his hiding place and headed into the city. His tattoo, alive and shifting, crawled from his arm to his back, as if sensing his mood. He walked through the gray streets where poverty and despair reigned, but it didn't touch him. He saw the world for what it was—dark, cruel, but not without hope. Hope was what drove people, and Madara knew how to use it to his advantage.
He entered the wealthy district, where the streets were lined with greenery and people flaunted expensive clothes. Madara took his time. He savored the moment, allowing himself rare minutes of peace. His plans were grand, but he knew that even he needed to rest occasionally to avoid losing his mind to the tension.
In the store, he ordered the finest clothing, sparing no expense. He had saved for a long time, denying himself much, but now it was time to spend. His progress in collecting soul fragments had stalled at 196, and though this gave him a significant boost, he knew it wasn't enough. He needed more. More strength, more knowledge, more control.
After finishing his purchases, Madara carefully stored everything in his hidden vault—a space inside the serpent he used to hold his necessities. Thirty-two cubic meters were filled to the brim, but he knew it would suffice. He was preparing for the worst but hoping for the best.
Returning to the academy, Madara ran into Sunny, a dark-haired boy from the suicide squad. The boy muttered an apology and hurried away, but Madara knew it wasn't just a coincidence. Sunny intrigued him. He was a deceiver, much like Madara himself, and that earned him a measure of respect. But respect didn't mean trust. Madara knew Sunny was hiding something, and he intended to find out what.
The days passed, and Madara continued his preparations. He studied monsters, planned his actions, discarded the unnecessary, and added the new. He knew he would soon enter the Realm of Dreams, and he had to be ready for anything.
On the last day before the trial, Madara allowed himself to relax. He sat in the dining hall, enjoying the silence and the taste of hot chocolate. His thoughts were dark, but he didn't let them take over. He remembered his upcoming birthday. Eighty years... How many of those had he spent in struggle, in pursuit of power, in chasing his goals? He didn't know, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he hadn't yet achieved what he sought.
That evening, standing before the sleep capsule, Madara cast aside all doubts. His eyes burned with a cold fire, and he lay down, ready to face the new challenge. The words before his eyes were both terrifying and long-awaited:
**[Welcome to the Realm of Dreams, Dream Warrior!]**
Madara smiled. The game had begun.
***
This is the author again.
As you can see, I'm not very good at descriptions and dialogues, which is why I rarely use them, mostly focusing on actions and thoughts. However, I hope to improve my skills in this area in the near future—even though I'm a bit lazy about it.