Chapter 328: Rejection of the Akatsuki Member
Obito’s voice was heavy, laden with pressure, and each word he spoke struck the damp air of the room like a hammer blow. His gaze, hidden behind the mask, flared for an instant, radiating a chilling aura that made the atmosphere grow ever more suffocating.
Before anyone had the chance to respond, Obito unleashed his Sharingan. The crimson eye, marked with its sharp, swirling pattern, spun with intensity, and in an instant, the very space around his body began to distort into a spiraling vortex.
The air rushed violently, pulled into the strange current that whipped Obito’s black cloak into a wild frenzy. The faint, flickering light of the oil lamp reflected against the spiraled surface of his mask, gleaming ominously, before his body was gradually drawn into the vortex itself.
The sound of space being consumed echoed clearly—an eerie suction that pressed against their ears. Konan and Yahiko narrowed their eyes, while Nagato straightened his posture, every muscle in his body tense and ready to respond to any sudden attack.
But in only a blink, the vortex swallowed Obito’s entire form. The masked man vanished, leaving behind nothing but a trembling ripple in the air and a heavy silence that pressed upon the room.
As soon as Obito—who pretended to be Madara Uchiha—had truly disappeared, Nagato quickly rushed toward the window. His footsteps echoed against the damp wooden floor, sharp and hurried. He pressed both hands against the frame of the window, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the rain-drenched world outside.
The downpour continued relentlessly, drenching the wooden rooftops of nearby houses and breaking the surface of the surrounding pond into countless rippling circles. Nagato’s sharp gaze swept across every corner of the village, scanning for even the faintest shadow of the masked man who might still be lurking in the darkness.
After confirming no trace of Obito’s presence remained, Nagato finally exhaled deeply.
He turned back, his face grave, each step toward Yahiko and Konan carrying both weight and purpose. The oil lamp in the room swayed gently under the draft from the window, its wavering flame casting uneven shadows that deepened the gloom already thick in the atmosphere.
“Fiuh… Haaah… Haaah…” Yahiko, who had been forcing himself to hold back the crushing tension, finally released a long, strained breath.
His shoulders rose and fell heavily, his complexion pale, revealing just how much effort it had taken to maintain his authority as a leader before the masked man. His legs, drained of strength, gave way, and Yahiko collapsed, sitting on the cold wooden floor. The thud of his body against the boards resounded in the quiet room, amplifying the weight of the silence that lingered.
Konan, witnessing this, remained wordless. Her cold eyes softened slightly as she glanced toward Nagato, as if searching for an answer—or at least a reassurance. Her fingers, clenched tightly at her sides all this time, slowly loosened, though her face remained stern, her mind caught in an unrelenting storm of thoughts.
“Who exactly is that masked man… and why is he targeting us?” Konan muttered, her expression hardened with seriousness.
Her voice was quiet, yet sharp, like a blade piercing through the silence. Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor, as though she were trying to peel back the layers of mystery hidden within the words of that masked figure.
“I don’t know who that masked man really is—whether he is truly Madara Uchiha, or merely someone pretending to be him. One thing I do know is this: that man is not someone good. I’ve always felt that his intentions toward us are nothing but sinister.” Yahiko spoke firmly, his voice carrying the weight of grim certainty.
Yahiko’s face tightened once more, though his body remained slumped on the floor. His eyes, usually filled with fire and determination, now darkened with a rare unease—one he seldom allowed his two closest friends to see.
“Yes. I agree with Yahiko. That masked man is not someone good.” Nagato then nodded.
His voice was low, yet steady, as if to affirm that their instincts aligned perfectly. The reflection of the oil lamp shimmered faintly across the surface of his Rinnegan, giving his already resolute expression an even stronger aura of determination.
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