The Masked Man's frenzied, erratic state sent a chill through Black Zetsu.

A terrifying realization crept into his mind.

Uchiha Gen's Mangekyō Sharingan…

It wasn't just a powerful eye technique.

It was a contagion.

A virus, perhaps—capable of infiltrating and overriding other Sharingan.

The Masked Man, clutching the glass vial containing Uchiha Gen's preserved Mangekyō, turned to leave. But two shadows materialized ahead of him—simultaneously and without warning.

Deva Path Pain.

Uchiha Itachi.

Before a word was spoken, Deva Path thrust out his arm."Shinra Tensei."

A crushing repulsive force burst outward like a collapsing star, a howling shockwave that tore through the terrain.

At the same instant, behind the Masked Man, black flames ignited—the unmistakable sear of Amaterasu. Itachi's Mangekyō burned with lethal intent.

Caught between the twin assaults, the Masked Man's body flickered into an ethereal state. Space distorted, temperature spiked. Time itself felt slowed.

Hand signs blurred. Chakra exploded.

A forceful barrier surged forth, nullifying both the flames and the gravitational wave in a flash of violent chakra.

"You would attack me, Uchiha Madara?" he growled through clenched teeth, voice cracking with fury.

But Itachi did not engage.

"Don't speak to him," he muttered coldly to Pain. "His words are poison."

In a flutter of feathers, Itachi vanished into a storm of crows, reappearing behind the Masked Man in the same moment—another burst of Amaterasu erupting from his gaze.

The Masked Man's reflexes triggered immediately—he phased again, narrowly escaping incineration.

But that was the opening they needed.

"Banshō Ten'in."

Pain's palm opened. Gravity twisted.

Everything in the radius—rocks, shattered debris, dust, the air itself—was pulled toward the center. Including the vial in the Masked Man's hand.

Eyes narrowing, Itachi dashed forward, his cloak fluttering like a phantom behind him. His hand extended—and in a blur—he seized the vial.

His fingers tightened around the cold glass.

"Uchiha Itachi!!" the Masked Man roared, voice unraveling into something unhinged.

"Put down that eye… That is her hope!"

Her?

Itachi's brows twitched slightly.

He wanted to ask. But…Something in the Masked Man's tone hinted at triggered seals or spoken curses.

No. It wasn't safe to respond.

Itachi said nothing.

He turned instead to Pain and muttered, "He's already under Gen's influence. His mind… might not even be his own anymore."

Gen's ability... was probably another upgraded version of Kotoamatsukami...

"Fools… You don't understand anything."

The Masked Man's Sharingan spun wildly, distorting the air.

Space itself rippled, bending around him as he prepared to warp away.

"Don't let him escape!" Pain shouted.

Shinra Tensei erupted once more, crushing space and matter toward the fleeing figure.

But Itachi was already there.

In front of the Masked Man.

Their eyes met.

Tsukuyomi.

In the blink of an eye, the world turned dark crimson.

They were now in the realm of Itachi's genjutsu—a plane of thought, time, and torture.

The sky was void. The ground was a thick, blood-colored lake, motionless and deep.

The spiral-masked figure stood in the middle, unnaturally calm, gazing down at his reflection.

Itachi said nothing. He didn't need to.

The lake began to churn violently.

Waves rose, massive and viscous, slapping against invisible shores.

It surged forward—crimson waves crashing down to swallow the Masked Man whole.

And then—

Everything reversed.

The space shattered, and in an instant, Itachi found himself standing where the Masked Man had been—the target of the lake's wrath.

"!?"

He was being pulled in—submerged—dragged into the very illusion he had created.

Behind him, a voice—colder, more detached—spoke softly:

"Itachi…Will you betray the Uchiha again?"

The Masked Man's voice was gone.

This was something else.

Something deeper.

Something wrong.

Itachi tried to stabilize the illusion, forcing his Mangekyō to wrest control back—

But it was too late.

The figure in the center of the blood lake—unmoving, unbothered, untouched—stood firm. He hadn't even flinched under Tsukuyomi.

Itachi's breath caught in his throat.

"This… is not possible."

In the spiraling abyss of Tsukuyomi...

As Itachi poured all his mental strength into escaping the illusion, he suddenly noticed a shift in the shadows behind the Masked Man. The dark void, once silent and empty, began to flicker with faint red glows—tiny pinpricks of light blooming like embers in the abyss.

One... two... a dozen...

Hundreds of crimson Sharingan slowly emerged from the darkness, their tomoe spinning ever so slightly, as if awakening from death. They were stacked upon one another, endless rows of unblinking eyes lining the void like a tapestry of accusation and malice. Each one stared directly at him—cold, lifeless, merciless.

They weren't just eyes.

They were faces he remembered.

Uncles. Cousins. Elders. Friends.

The fallen Uchiha.

Their gazes pierced into his soul, as if to say, "You did this to us."

And then, the Masked Man raised his hand.

In the center of his palm, another Sharingan opened—alive and staring, as if it too had a will of its own. The eerie sight sent a chill up Itachi's spine.

"…This can't be real," he muttered, a rare tremor of disbelief breaking through his calm.

And then the man did something even more unimaginable. Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and removed the spiral mask covering his face.

The spiraling pattern faded...

And beneath it—

"Danzo!"

Itachi's eyes widened in horror.

A cold wind seemed to blow across the spiritual plane.

No, it couldn't be. Not him.

Danzo's expression remained eerily calm, almost amused.

"You look surprised, Itachi."

"…What are you?" Itachi demanded, his voice sharp and controlled, but barely concealing the shock churning beneath.

Danzo didn't answer directly.

Instead, the sea of Sharingan behind him glowed in unison, illuminating the space in a haunting crimson. Their tomoe spun slowly in rhythm, as if breathing together—watching, waiting.

"The Uchiha... such remarkable potential," Danzo said, his voice now distorted, echoing like a thousand whispers overlapping.

His entire body was covered in them—Sharingan embedded in his arms, his chest, even his forehead. Like a grotesque god stitched together from the eyes of the fallen.

Danzo took a step forward.

The blood-red lake beneath them rippled violently, waves surging with each of his strides, as if reacting to the oppressive weight of his spiritual pressure.

"You're not just a traitor to your clan, Itachi. You're a traitor to yourself," Danzo continued coldly. "You slaughtered your kin for a leaf that now doubts you. And yet... you still resist me?"

Itachi clenched his fists, trying to stabilize the collapsing world around him.

Danzo's voice deepened, dripping with mockery.

"Your pain... your guilt... your pupil power—all of it now belongs to me."

"Shut up!" Itachi hissed, his voice breaking.

Danzo laughed, a hollow, mechanical sound.

"You think you can escape this fate? Your soul is already cracking, Itachi. You're still that boy, trembling beneath the weight of blood... still haunted by your sins."

The spiritual pressure became unbearable.

The eyes.

The accusations.

The truth.

And yet—just when it seemed Itachi would be consumed—

His Mangekyō Sharingan flared with a violent pulse.

A surge of power erupted from within, like a mental explosion. The illusion shattered, fracturing like glass under immense pressure.

The red lake vanished. The eyes disappeared.

Only the Masked Man remained—flickering like a mirage, transitioning again.

In the blink of an eye, he transformed.

Back into the spiral-masked figure.

The form of Uchiha Madara.

And yet…

In his hand—

Uchiha Gen's eyes.

Still plucked, still real.

"Who are you... really?" Itachi asked, breathing heavily. "Are you Madara... or Danzo?"

In a hidden corner of the Akatsuki's lair, Nagato and Black Zetsu stiffened. They had been observing from afar—and that question chilled them.

They too were unsure.

On the other side of the world…

Root Headquarters. Konoha.

Danzo Shimura awoke in the depths of his bunker, eyes snapping open in the darkness.

His breathing was shallow.

His fingers clenched the edge of his armrest.

"...A dream?" he muttered.

But his voice trembled.

Sweat beaded on his brow.

"...It felt so real."

For a moment, the faces of the Uchiha clan—those he had ordered eliminated—flashed before his eyes.

Hundreds of Sharingan... staring into him.

The room was quiet.

And yet, somewhere beneath the silence, Danzo couldn't shake the sensation—

That someone had just looked directly into the depth of his soul.

"…Is it… because I transplanted too many of their eyes?" he whispered.

But the question lingered unanswered… and the gaze of the dead, once imagined, now refused to fade.