On that rainy night, as thunder roared and lightning flashed, and rain and mist swallowed everything in the world, the slightly tipsy Madara had a rare dream about his mother.
The memories he had deliberately forgotten played out again in his dream. In an instant, Madara was a boy again, walking toward his mother's room beneath an autumn sunset whose bleak red glowed like embers beneath old ash. Still a child, he pushed open her door with a heart full of unease.
Inside, his mother sat facing the window. Her withered back was so thin that she resembled a flower on the verge of wilting. Though his father and their clansmen had tried everything to prolong her life, she was still like a flower planted in gravel, surrendering what little life she had left bit by bit. No amount of fresh water or love could save her from withering.
Madara had learned what death meant at an early age, yet he refused to believe his mother would meet that same end. He approached her anxiously, afraid that a single breath might shatter her pale, almost translucent body.
The sword wound in her abdomen had been the final straw for a body already hollowed out by war and childbirth. Ever since she had been wounded on the battlefield, she had remained bedridden, never recovering.
Even now, that wound refused to heal, still seeping an ominous crimson. Thin threads of blood passed through the layers of bandages around her waist and spread across her white clothes. With every crimson stain, a little more of her life drained away.
Though Madara did not want to admit it, his dying mother was barely clinging to life through sheer will.
"Madara, you're here."
Sensing his presence, his mother turned from her vacant staring. To Madara's