You're not a monster nor a savior

Prologue

In the eerie stillness of the mist-covered landscape, a dead man's lifeless fingers twitched, an unsettling sight as they reached towards the enigmatic, fog-shrouded heavens. His brow furrowed, and a haunting question loomed in his mind, barely a whisper in the hushed realm of the living and the departed. "...why am I alive?"

...and yet, here he was, caught in this perplexing limbo between the realms of the living and the dead. Madara's thoughts swirled in the haze of his newly acquired existence. The memories of his life, his battles, and his tumultuous journey through time cascaded through his mind, casting shadows of doubt upon the very fabric of reality. As the fog thickened around him, he knew that answers to this enigmatic riddle lay hidden in the mist, waiting to be unveiled.

The cryptic message lingered in Madara's thoughts, an enigma wrapped in a shroud of uncertainty. "You must atone." A command from the unknown, a directive to reconcile for a lifetime of deeds, both dark and light. As the silence of the fog-veiled world pressed upon him, Madara couldn't help but reflect on the weight of his past actions, the choices that had led him to this peculiar juncture.

Madara's contemplations continued in the desolate expanse, his senses keen and his thoughts racing. It was neither Edo Tensei nor an illusion that had brought him back to life; the blood from his palm was proof enough. As he marveled at the vitality coursing through his renewed body, the weight of Hashirama's words reverberated in his mind.

The unexpected revival presented him with a unique opportunity. To be reborn with his full power, his prime, it was a gift he had never imagined. A chance to fulfill his long-held ambitions, to accomplish what had eluded him in his previous life. The wilderness may be unfamiliar, but Madara Uchiha was unyielding, driven by purpose and desire as he stood atop the rocky precipice, ready to carve a new destiny.

"I wonder..." he whispered. Dark eyes flitted across the rocky landscape and landed upon a stray pebble at his feet. Good enough. His right hand rose once more, fingers splayed towards it. He felt his eyes burn as he pushed out with his will, bidding it to obey an unspoken command.

The pebble twitched for a moment in quiet defiance, but only for a moment; then it smacked into his open palm.

Still, the shinobi felt the beginnings of a satisfied smile bloom on his face.

Although he couldn't see his reflection he knew his eyes to be moderately intact. Someway, somehow, somewhere, his vision had been restored to him. This required further testing. A flick of his fingers conjured forth the spectral blue arm of his Susanoo. It mirrored his motions; yet despite the heat it offered, his chest felt cold. Why?

A cursory glance confirmed his suspicions.

He didn't have so much as a stitch of clothing to his name beyond his trousers. And it was bloody cold up here. Massaging his bare shoulders afforded him little in the way of warmth. Susanoo was all well and good, but he needed clothes. Preferably something warm and thick. Whatever force had brought him here, it had seen fit to give him neither of those things.

"God has an ill-sense of humor, it seems...

He was still contemplating the matter when a shrill scream of pain pierced the air. On a whim, Madara released his spectral armor craned his neck in the direction of it. A single second was lost in deliberation. One could easily argue that it wasn't his problem, but blast it, he was bored. He'd never been terribly good at sitting still, even in his youth.

A quick leap carried him off the cliff.

Wind lashed at his dark hair as he alighted upon another such an outcropping. His smile returned, slightly crazed this time. This! He'd almost forgotten what this felt like; the singular joy of leaping into the unknown with naught but his wits and skill to protect him. Nothing save his own strength and the wild beating of his heart.

Why, it reminded him of the old days.

Madara's senses honed in on the source of the commotion. He moved with preternatural speed and agility through the thick mist, his eyes cutting through the obscurity like a predator tracking its prey. As he reached an open plateau, the scene unveiled itself before him.

A woman with dusky skin lay on the ground, her dark blue robes tattered and stained. She writhed in agony, her hands clawing at her damaged eyes, a grim testament to the horrors she had endured. On the opposite side, a ghastly grey figure of a woman with golden eyes stood menacingly. Her bloodied blade gleamed in the eerie light as she bared her teeth in a sinister grin, casting an ominous shadow over the tableau.

Madara's Sharingan locked onto this macabre confrontation, and his mind raced with questions. What had brought him to this enigmatic place, and what role would he play in this unfolding drama?