Gunaseelan K
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Chapter 9 – Emiya Shihara? Uchiha Madara?
🕑 Added 2025-09-11 05:30:17 +0000 UTC
The night air over Konoha Village was cool and heavy, carrying the faint scent of wet earth and smoke from distant hearths. Lantern light pooled across the cobblestone streets, casting long wavering shadows that flickered like restless spirits. Somewhere beyond the village walls, an owl hooted, its call echoing across the quiet district.
Deep within one of those shadows crouched a figure of living darkness. Black Zetsu pressed himself flat against the side of a building, his form a ripple of ink sliding between the cracks of reality. He had been moving unseen for hours, following the threads of a scheme woven over centuries. Yet now, for the first time in a very long while, he found himself hesitating.
> Where… is this?
When… is this?
He knew the answers should have been obvious. He had walked these lands for a thousand years, shaping the shinobi world like a potter working clay. War after war, clan after clan, he had whispered poison into the ears of men until his mother’s will spread like a silent plague. Time meant nothing to him. And yet—
Black Zetsu’s golden eyes narrowed.
> Why do I see Emiya Shihara here?
The name felt like a stone thrown into a still pond. Ripples of memory spread outward: a healer from an age when chakra was still raw and untamed; a man who had mended warriors even as they slaughtered one another; a man who should have been dust for a millennium. Zetsu had watched him die—had watched the ground swallow his generation whole. Seeing him now was like glimpsing a ghost wearing flesh.
Meeting an old friend in a foreign land could bring joy.
Meeting someone who absolutely should not exist, at the wrong time and in the wrong place, brought only a creeping unease.
Black Zetsu’s claws dug into the wood of the eaves.
Had he lived so long he was beginning to hallucinate?
Was his mind finally fracturing under the weight of centuries?
Across the street, the man he remembered as Emiya Shihara walked calmly beside Senju Tobirama. The healer’s hands were folded inside his sleeves, his face serene, his voice low but steady. Nothing about him hinted at the impossible—yet everything about his presence screamed it.
“Let’s give the patient some relief,” Shihara murmured, his tone gentle, as though speaking about an ordinary patient rather than the legendary First Hokage. “Killing a friend leaves wounds deeper than steel. The sooner a family member can help him find new support, the better.”
He spoke like a man devoted to his craft, a physician concerned for his patient’s soul as much as his body. He spoke as if he had always been here, as if centuries had not passed, as if he had not been buried under the rubble of history.
Senju Tobirama nodded slightly, his white hair catching the lantern light. His expression was unreadable, but a tension coiled beneath his calm.
“Compared to that accursed Madara,” Tobirama thought aloud, “my elder brother cares more about the people of the village. Perhaps if he spends time with the children—the ones he truly wants to protect—he will find peace.”
“That’s a sound idea,” Emiya Shihara replied. “And I will continue to search for a way to extend his life.”
“Thank you,” Tobirama said quietly.
They walked on, their words muffled by the night wind. Neither man seemed aware of the eyes tracking them from the darkness—neither Madara’s burning gaze from one shadow nor Black Zetsu’s colder stare from another.
Tobirama hesitated, then spoke again, his tone more guarded. “At the hospital earlier, it was inconvenient to ask. But now… Sir Emiya, I must know. What if—” he paused, arms crossing tightly over his chest, “—what if you cannot find a solution? How long does my brother have?”
The street fell silent. Even the crickets seemed to still.
Somewhere above, a paper lantern hissed as its flame licked the wick.
For Uchiha Madara, crouched in the gloom of an alleyway, the words struck like a hammer. Despite everything, Hashirama Senju was still his friend—the one man whose existence validated his own. Even now, with the power of the All-Seeing just out of reach, Madara wanted to prove to Hashirama that his path was right. If Hashirama died before that, all of it would be meaningless.
For Tobirama, the stakes were even sharper. The entire system of hidden villages, the fragile peace, the Land of Fire’s strength—everything hinged on his elder brother’s presence. Without Hashirama, Konoha’s unity might shatter like glass. Clans still clung to their names and pride; many had joined Konoha only because of Hashirama’s overwhelming power and prestige. If that power vanished, what then?
“Ten years,” Emiya Shihara said at last, his voice steady but heavy. “If I cannot find a cure, then even without further battles his lifespan is unlikely to exceed ten years.”
Tobirama’s jaw tightened. Ten years. To most, it would sound like an eternity. To a man in his prime—too short. To a newborn village—barely a heartbeat.
Inside, Tobirama was already moving pieces on a board only he could see. He had always prepared for the worst. He would not allow Konoha to collapse after his brother’s death. Yet emotionally, the thought tore at him. Hashirama had been his constant, his compass. Could he really stand alone after that?
A flicker of determination crossed his crimson eyes. He straightened, nodding as if unaffected. “I understand.”
He turned slightly, quickening his pace toward the Hokage Building, already outlining accommodations for the strange healer. “Your stay in Konoha may be inconvenient at first,” he told Shihara. “Tomorrow I’ll arrange for Sasuke and ANBU to accompany you. You may request anything you need.”
“That’s fine,” Shihara said lightly, though a glimmer of something older flickered in his gaze. “If it’s convenient, I’d also like to see more of this era. Perhaps… to meet someone who can inherit my path as a medical ninja.”
“A disciple?” Tobirama thought. The idea was like a spark in dry tinder. Konoha’s medical corps was competent but still far from what he envisioned. If this ancient master truly intended to pass on lost techniques, it could transform the village’s future.
“I will see to it,” Tobirama promised quietly.
Their footsteps faded down the street, leaving only the echo of their conversation hanging in the cool night.
From a darker corner emerged Uchiha Madara, his cloak whispering against the ground. He watched their retreating backs, eyes narrowing.
“Ten years?” he murmured, the words tasting strange on his tongue. He vanished again, slipping deeper into the labyrinth of shadows, heading toward Konoha Hospital.
But Black Zetsu did not follow.
The pitch-black creature remained crouched where it was, golden eyes gleaming. It glanced after Madara, then back toward the direction Tobirama and Shihara had gone. Its mind churned.
For centuries he had been the hidden hand, the manipulator unseen even by gods. His concealment came from his mother herself; not even the Sage of Six Paths had detected him. And yet tonight he felt… unsettled. Watching Shihara walk beside Tobirama was like staring through a crack in reality. He could feel the timeline flexing, threads twisting where they should run straight.
> The timeline should be intact, he told himself. Naruto’s era follows the anime with minor differences. Tsunade won the bet against the First Hokage, so he died after the war. He captured the Nine-Tails, distributed the other beasts… everything matches. No problem.
And yet.
And yet.
A healer from a thousand years ago now strolled through Konoha’s streets, speaking of disciples and cures. Madara lurked nearby, alive when history declared him dead. Tobirama moved his pieces like a chessmaster preparing for a game no one else could see. The board itself felt wrong.
Black Zetsu’s claws flexed slowly, carving thin grooves into the stone. His smile, when it came, was a thin and dangerous curve.
Maybe the timeline was intact. Maybe it wasn’t. Either way, he would adapt. He had always adapted. If Emiya Shihara truly lived, then perhaps he, too, could be used. Perhaps the old healer’s knowledge would push Madara closer to the Rinnegan, closer to the Six Paths. Perhaps this anomaly could serve the plan rather than break it.
But for the first time in centuries, Black Zetsu felt something like anticipation curl in his gut—an unfamiliar thrill that was almost… fear.
Far down the street, a gust of wind snuffed out a lantern, plunging a stretch of the road into darkness. The two men were gone. Madara was gone. Only the living shadow remained, crouched among the eaves of Konoha like an omen no one could read.
He whispered to the empty air, a murmur meant for no one.
“Emiya Shihara… Uchiha Madara… this era is about to become interesting.”
And then, with a ripple of blackness, he vanished.
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