What determines a person's way of acting is neither physical strength nor stamina, but intelligence.
And what determines whether an action has meaning—or what that meaning is—is not the act itself, nor the judgment of others, but one's own understanding of it.
Because of this, even though Hagoromo had already been involved in the war for several years, when he looked back at himself, the number of things he considered truly meaningful was surprisingly small.
He had carried out countless ordinary missions and quite a few major ones. He had even taken part in events that altered the course of the war itself.
But the significance of those successes belonged to Konoha, not to him personally.
To Hagoromo, many of those matters could hardly be called "meaningful." At best, they merely fell into the category of interesting.
Looking across the shinobi world, if one divided people by strength alone, Hagoromo would clearly rank among the upper echelon.
Yet in terms of mindset, the things he did in war—the missions he carried out—were not so different from those of most ordinary shinobi. He was simply drifting with the current, perhaps with even less awareness than most.
The only difference was that his strength happened to be exceptional, so while drifting, he occasionally stirred up waves large enough to be noticed.
Shinobi dying on the battlefield was a constant—a rule, almost a law.
And yet, although Might Duy had died on the battlefield, the impression he left on Hagoromo was the opposite:
That a shinobi does not necessarily die because of the battlefield.
A person's thoughts inevitably change with experience, often without them even realizing it.
At this moment, something within Hagoromo's mind suddenly became clear.
For the first time, he developed a conscious desire to truly participate in this war—
In order to end it.
That thought had likely begun not long ago, at a certain moment, during a battle where an entire life as a shinobi was condensed into a single instant.
If a person's life can be summed up in a single sentence that carries real weight, then that life—whether spanning decades or only a fleeting moment—must have been extraordinary.
Hagoromo's change did not come from witnessing someone's death.
It came from witnessing the process by which someone walked toward death.
He had not been particularly close to Duy. They had merely known each other.
But the influence one person has on another is often unrelated to familiarity.
When Hagoromo learned of the Raikage charging head-on against ten thousand shinobi to buy time for his village, what he felt was a momentary respect.
But when he witnessed Might Duy opening the Gate of Death to protect what he valued—
What Hagoromo felt surpassed respect.
It was something far more difficult to put into words.
And unlike that fleeting moment of awe, this feeling lingered.
If Duy's death had such an impact on Hagoromo, then its effect on Might Guy could only be greater.
In the past, Duy's teachings to Guy had been largely verbal. At first, Guy may not have understood his father. Later—by the time of Hagoromo's match with Guy before the Chūnin Exams—war and experience had allowed Guy to understand his father's ideals.
But understanding alone was not enough.
Now, Duy was no longer teaching through words, but through his own life.
What he left behind for Guy was far greater than anything spoken.
From this point on, Duy's shadow would likely follow Guy forever.
"Oh, right—Hagoromo," Guy suddenly said.
"There's a letter for you. It came from Konoha. I brought it with me."
It was clear Guy didn't want to continue talking about his father.
His expression had visibly brightened compared to earlier. He was no longer carrying that deadened stillness. Even without deliberate consolation, Hagoromo's words had clearly brought him some comfort.
"A letter?"
Hagoromo accepted it with confusion. This was a first for him—he had never received an actual letter before.
Was this really correspondence, and not some form of intelligence or mission order?
He opened the envelope immediately.
…It really was a letter.
If there was anyone in Konoha who might actually write him a letter, it could only be Kushina.
There was no precedent for it, but given her personality, it wasn't impossible.
As soon as Hagoromo saw the familiar handwriting, he was sure of it.
The letter was only a single page long. Given his reading speed, he finished it almost instantly.
Its main purpose was simply to inform him that from now on, Kushina would occasionally write to him to express her concern for him as a teacher.
Someone writing a letter just to announce that they would write letters in the future…
Was this professional-grade cuteness?
She could have at least written about daily life.
The letter also came with an explicit demand: whenever he had time, he must write back.
Of course, the letter did contain something of substance—but what should have been the main point was compressed into a single sentence.
Hagoromo folded the letter and looked at Guy.
"It's from Kushina-sensei," he said.
"She mentioned something important—Hatake Kakashi was promoted to jōnin. Just a few days ago."
Guy fell silent.
After a moment, he spoke again.
"Kakashi… he's only twelve, right?"
That was correct.
Hagoromo was fourteen.
Guy was thirteen.
And Kakashi—only twelve.
In terms of rank: Hagoromo was already a jōnin, Guy was still a genin, and Kakashi—who had been a chūnin—was now a jōnin as well.
He was following closely behind Hagoromo, who himself had only recently been promoted.
"Twelve-year-old jōnin… that's probably unprecedented," Guy said.
"No wonder it's Kakashi."
"Is it?" Hagoromo paused.
He truly didn't know.
He had been promoted at fourteen after the Raikage incident. While that was young, it wasn't unheard of.
But twelve?
That was dazzlingly exceptional.
Hagoromo wasn't surprised by his ignorance. Many of the people he knew lived what could only be described as "cheat-enabled" lives—prodigies who had been extraordinary since childhood.
But from what he had personally observed in Konoha, including so-called geniuses, ninety-nine percent of jōnin were sixteen or older.
A twelve-year-old jōnin was something even he had never seen before.
"Jōnin…" Guy said quietly.
"One day, I'll become a jōnin too."
There was no envy in his expression—only resolve.
Hagoromo nodded and said nothing more.
After Might Duy, not only would Orochimaru reassess the Eight Gates—the Hokage would do the same.
Guy becoming a jōnin was only a matter of time.
His ninjutsu and genjutsu were weak, and his abilities were extremely unbalanced—but once his body fully matured, Six Gates would already place him firmly at jōnin level.
Seven Gates would be enough to instantly kill most jōnin.
And as for Eight Gates—
To be frank, Might Guy possessed even greater talent for the Eight Gates than his father ever had.
Any Hokage with common sense would never allow another Eight Gates user to remain a "permanent genin."
Fortunately, the Third Hokage was not foolish.
Guy didn't need to worry about becoming a jōnin—he didn't even need to set it as a goal.
It was simply inevitable.
Just like Hagoromo himself, who had deliberately suppressed his rank and still reached the peak in no time.
From here on, Guy's already relentless life would only grow more intense.
And before long, he would truly live up to the meaning of his name—
Might Guy, the man of iron and blood.
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