Madara Uchiha in Twilight?

Susanoo erupted.

The blue ribcage expanded outward, forming the full upper torso of the transparent warrior. A colossal arm swept through three vampires at once, sending bodies flying through the air like leaves.

A vampire jumped at him at the same time Susanoo caught him midair and crushed him in its blue palm with a sound like cracking trees.

Skjold, who was regenerating as he was watching, whispered at the Blue Giant, "What... what's that? He's conjuring some kind of shield...?"

Another rushed from the side, desperate to do any damage toward Madara, but they only touched Susanoo—there wasn't even a scratch.

Madara stepped aside, letting Susanoo's hand pin the attacker to the ground like an insect, crushing him with bone creaking.

More came.

Madara's form was inside the Susanoo while his own strikes landed flawlessly, aided by Susanoo's brutal reach.

A blade aimed smoothly for his neck was intercepted by a spectral rib, and Madara countered with a chakra punch that vaporized the attacker's torso.

The battlefield was full of destroyed trees, trenches in the ground, and even dead animals that were hidden in the forest—cut open like pigs in one strike.

They charged at him again, desperate to do anything, while screaming.

But Susanoo's arm just smashed them away into walls, trees, and rocks.

A dozen vampires now lay dismembered, but they were, of course, regenerating... but something restricted them.

Chakra.

One tried to crawl away, but he was stopped by the fist of Susanoo, as he was crushed under the fist like pasta.

Only Skjold remained, and a few survivors that wouldn't live for long.

Coughing blood as he regenerated, with one arm dangling but twisting in unnatural sight as it returned to peak condition.

The rain washed away the dried blood from his face, revealing terrified eyes that were opened wide.

Madara's dark blue Susanoo faded behind him like a ghost returning to slumber and landed before him.

Madara said, "Looks like I overestimated you," cold voice as usual.

Skjold spat weakly, "What... the hell are you? Humans shouldn't have this power..."

"Many people—whether vampires, werewolves, or humans—ask this question. But my answer remains the same... A human beyond comprehension of this world."

With a single hand sign, with one hand—

Katon: Gōka Mekkyaku.

A consuming wall of flame aimed toward Skjold, incinerating him like the same way as many victims of vampires.

He looked around at the rest of the vampires, but they were slowly dying even without fire.

Basically, his chakra-powered attacks are like a sort of repellent toward them.

His punches of chakra work for them like silver in myth for werewolves.

The chakra invades their body through injuries when injured by his attacks powered by chakra. But high vampires like Aro, Marcus, or Vladimir have some resistance toward it.

By dawn, the rain ceased. The village stood ruined, and crows circled high in the air and around the lifeless body.

Madara sat atop a boulder, watching the sunrise.

The wind stirred his hair, and somewhere in a castle far away, a Volturi scribe paused slightly, having a bad feeling.

Madara left the Danmǫrk—or Denmark in modern day—to Norway, because that land is full of fierce warriors like Vikings. But now they are vampires that were once Vikings.

And there are a lot of active sightings of vampires, which means more prey to kill.

Over the 100 years, he mastered multiple things like languages, trading, tactics—and more martial arts of this day, as more and more are appearing, since it's the age of a lot of conflicts, especially in England in 900 AD.

Over the next days, he made his way through the forest. He wasn't hurriedly walking on water like 100 years ago—he didn't have a reason to be in a hurry, as he was not in danger since the time he was here.

The nearest settlement was under the cold morning sky. The port was bustling with longships and wooden vessels carved for fast passage across the seas, ready to sail the fjords and open waters.

Madara moved with purpose, of course, and walked through merchants and sailors preparing their ships. With his glance of Sharingan filled with genjutsu, they kindly gave him a ship that was in excellent condition.

How considerate of them.

The journey across the North Sea was rough, but not for him. Just manipulating the ship with experienced hands over the years, as the icy wind bit his skin, but he did not flinch.

The waves were crashing against the hull as the ship sliced through the water like a sharp sword. And in two peaceful days, he saw land—dense forest with jagged cliffs and golden beach and signs of snow.

As the ship halted at the beach, he jumped from the ship—big as 5 meters in width—casually to the ground, landing smoothly.

The settlement ahead was small but bustling, full of life. The wooden longhouses gathered around a smoky central fire. After all, this was Bergen—still young, but vital, a key port where Norse traders mingled with traveling merchants from distant lands.

Rough faces passed by him, scarred from battle and experience. They eyed Madara's appearance with suspicion but let him go, as strangers were nothing new.

Madara entered a tavern, as that's a place full of intel and rumors. He entered by pushing the heavy oak doors. His transformed body—by Transformation Jutsu—appeared as an average human male of Norwegian descent. The patrons barely glanced his way, out of reflex, then interest.

He took a seat at the bar, choosing a stool near the wall so none could approach from behind. The barkeep—a thick-armed woman with graying braids and eyes like the ocean—approached.

"Ale… New here?"

He gave a slow nod, voice calm. "And words, if you've got them."

She raised an eyebrow but poured him a drink nonetheless from the cask anyway. It hit the counter with a satisfying thud.

"Plenty o' those," she muttered. "But most cost more than coin."

Madara's face was expressionless as he just flicked an old Roman-minted silver piece—enough to make her pause. While he could use genjutsu, he didn't need the coin anyway, so let's do it the civil way.

"Information or rumors. Any disappearances in the area? Villages gone quiet, or travelers never reaching the next town?"

Her eyes flicked up—cautious and curious now.

"You're hunting something? Not bears or wolves, are you?" with a slight smirk on her face.

Madara didn't miss a beat and said calmly, smoothly, "No."

The tavern was loud as usual as she finally leaned in.

"North. In the pine glens. There's a stretch of road that hasn't been used in months. People vanish there. Whole caravans. No blood. Just empty wagons."

"Anything strange about any bodies, if there were any?"

"No bodies." She paused. "But I heard this from a woodcutter—said he found a pair of boots still laced upright, as if the man wearing them vanished mid-step."

Vampire. Classic signs of a fast predator—as experienced vampires could move fast and cleanly, their prey often left nothing to examine, except bloodless corpses, if lucky, he thought.

"Anything else?"

"Only him and a traveler who ran south babbling about the pale monsters in the trees. But he had frostbite and a mad look, so the nearby law put him in a cell."

Madara sipped his drink lightly—it was bitter and strong—but his mind worked faster than the drink could dull.

"Why do you ask?" she said, her voice lower. "You a priest or a slayer?"

He looked up, his gaze was quiet but disinterested.

"I am many things. And slayer? Maybe."

A silence lingered between them as she then nodded slowly and slipped away, already telling herself not to ask more.

At the tavern, a bearded man sang a half-song about wolves and white spirits, and a younger one mentioned too loudly that he once saw a woman in the snow who vanished like mist when the sun rose.

Madara filtered it all and connected it. Most were tales—but hidden in tales were clues.

Twilight canon told us of nomadic vampires—those who refused Volturi rule. Some stayed alone in forests for centuries. Others hunted regions like predators marking territory.

Europe during the 9th and 10th centuries was largely unregulated. A perfect breeding ground for chaos.

Madara slid another coin across the counter and just stood up from sitting position, left the drink, and stepped out of the tavern into the cold.

The wind was now carrying more than just snow. There was a scent he knew as his boots stepped—scent that was distant and faintly metallic.

Blood.