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A dozen years—barely a ripple in the vast river of the shinobi world's history, yet more than enough time for children to grow into young men.
The two boys who once curled up in Kaguya's arms listening to bedtime stories now stood tall and lean, their once-stubby horns having shed their childish softness in favor of the sharp, dignified bearing unique to the Ōtsutsuki bloodline.
The bamboo forest looked much the same as it always had.
Only time had carved its marks deeper—the emerald stalks grew taller and thicker, their interlocking canopy blocking out most of winter's bite.
At the forest's heart—a grand temple stood in solemn silence.
Blue-grey tiles, vermillion walls, upturned eaves—bronze bells hung beneath the roofline, chiming softly in the breeze, their crystalline notes cutting through the stillness. The temple's signboard bore three elegant characters: "Temple Of Manji"—the brushwork powerful yet graceful, unmistakably in Kaguya's hand.
Dozens of monks in grey robes swept the courtyard with careful, reverent movements—clearing fallen leaves and fresh snow—their motions slow and deliberate, as if afraid to disturb the sanctity of the place.
Incense smoke curled lazily from the main hall, mingling with the bamboo's natural fragrance. The stone censer outside was packed with candles of varying heights, their accumulated ash a testament to years of faithful worship.
Kaguya had built this place for Manji—deliberately choosing the very bamboo forest where the betrayal and sacrifice had taken place.
Every year on this day, she brought Hagoromo and Hamura here. Not for ceremony. Only for the guilt she could never quite lay to rest.
Over the past decade, she had selectively lifted the Infinite Tsukuyomi from portions of the population. Humans once again walked the earth, building lives and communities. But the Divine Tree still loomed at the world's summit—and periodically, "offerings" were brought to its base, converted into White Zetsu to feed Kaguya's growing army.
She needed that army. Someday, the Ōtsutsuki Clan would discover her treachery—and she intended to be ready.
In time, three faiths emerged among the people: worship of Kaguya, the Creator Goddess; reverence for the Divine Tree and its eternal cycle of sacrifice; and devotion to the legendary hero Manji.
Ordinary people knew nothing of Manji's true story—only that Kaguya herself had acknowledged him as a great warrior. And so they came, year after year, to pray for his protection.
"Hagoromo. Hamura. Light the incense."
Kaguya's voice remained cool and measured, though it carried a weight it hadn't possessed a decade ago. She stood at the hall's entrance, her gaze fixed on the painted portrait hanging at its center—her expression a tangle of emotions too complex to name.
"Yes, Mother."
The brothers accepted candles from the attending monks, lit them with quiet reverence, bowed deeply before the portrait, and placed the incense in the censer.
The painting was remarkably lifelike. A young man in simple robes—tall, poised, dark hair drifting lightly, fair skin, striking features—with an air caught somewhere between quiet defiance and effortless calm.
Manji. Exactly as he'd looked all those years ago.
Hagoromo studied the portrait, and the questions that had been building for over a decade pressed harder than ever.
In all the stories his mother had told—and there had been many—she had never once revealed what happened to Manji in the end. The hero simply… vanished. As if he'd stepped out of existence mid-sentence.
When the ceremony concluded, Kaguya departed without lingering—her figure quickly dissolving into the bamboo forest beyond.
The brothers took their time, only speaking once they'd confirmed she was gone.
"Hamura—I've always assumed Manji was just a character Mother invented. Do you think he actually existed?"
Hagoromo's voice carried genuine uncertainty.
Hamura paused, glancing back at the temple half-hidden among the bamboo, then at the portrait visible through the open doors.
"He has to be real. Mother is nothing if not pragmatic. If Manji were fiction, she'd never invest this much effort—building an entire temple, maintaining it for years, having ordinary people worship him generation after generation."
He paused, then added: "Look at the scale of this place. The incense that never stops burning. If there wasn't a real person behind the legend—why would she bother?"
"Fair point."
Hagoromo nodded, though the puzzlement lingered. "But I've asked plenty of the older villagers—none of them know any specifics about Manji. Someone that remarkable, and he left zero traces?"
"Mother still won't say what happened to him. Whether he's alive or dead."
"Maybe it was just too long ago."
Hamura gazed at the distant mountain range, his voice soft. "We don't even know how long Mother has lived. Manji's story could belong to an era so ancient that even history failed to record it."
The explanation was reasonable enough.
Hagoromo's doubts eased slightly, and the two fell into comfortable silence as they walked side by side toward the lake they'd played at as children.
.....
Winter wind carried curtains of heavy snow—fat, feathery flakes drifting down in endless waves, painting the world in shades of white.
The lake had frozen over, its surface reflecting the pale glow of surrounding snow. Every bush and branch along the shore lay buried under thick white blankets. Only bare, skeletal limbs reached toward the sky—the entire landscape rendered in the stark strokes of a monochrome ink painting.
Snow reached past their ankles. Every step left deep prints, each one accompanied by a soft, crisp crunch that echoed with startling clarity in the silent world.
"Brother—look! Someone's fishing over there!"
Hamura stopped abruptly, eyes brightening, his hand shooting out to point toward the lakeshore.
"Hm?"
Hagoromo followed his gaze—and there, amid the vast white emptiness, a modest thatched hut had appeared by the water's edge. Its roof was buried under a thick dome of snow, looking for all the world like an oversized cotton ball.
In front of the hut, a man sat on a flat stone, fishing rod in hand, perfectly still—angling into the frozen lake.
He wore a thin black-and-red robe.
The hem fluttered gently in the biting wind, yet the man showed not the slightest sign of feeling the cold. Dark hair draped loosely across his shoulders, his complexion made all the paler by the snow's stark contrast.
"Strange—no one's ever lived here before. When did a hut appear?"
Hagoromo frowned inwardly. This lakeshore had been their secret hideaway since childhood. After more than a decade away—this was an unexpected change.
"Come on—let's go say hello."
Hamura's curiosity won out, and he started toward the shore first. Hagoromo followed close behind.
The closer they drew, the clearer the man's features became.
He sat in profile—clean, flowing lines defining his jaw and brow. Deep-set eyes. A faint, tranquil smile at the corner of his lips. He held the fishing rod with an easy grace, as though the howling blizzard existed in a different world entirely.
"..."
The brothers exchanged a glance. Both saw it in the other's eyes—a strange, nagging sense of familiarity. As if they'd seen this face before, somewhere—but the memory refused to surface.
"Sir—fishing in a snowstorm. There's something almost poetic about it."
Hagoromo stepped forward with a respectful bow, admiration coloring his voice.
Most people these days spent every waking moment on survival—farming, building, scraping by. Who had the luxury of braving a blizzard just to sit by a frozen lake with a fishing rod?
SPLASH!
At that very moment—the rod dipped sharply. The man flicked his wrist—a flash of silver scales—and a plump, glistening fish arced through the air onto the bank.
"Now that's lucky! Look at the size of it!"
Hamura's eyes widened. A catch that large in the dead of winter was practically unheard of.
The man turned to face them. His smile was warm, but his eyes—his eyes seemed to gaze through something far deeper than the present moment.
"Perfect timing, you two. Care to join me for a bowl of fish soup?"
Hagoromo and Hamura exchanged a delighted glance and nodded in unison. "We'd be honored—thank you, sir."
.....
The interior of the thatched hut was spare—a wooden table, a few rough chairs, dried firewood stacked in one corner, and a hearth burning bright and steady. The warmth inside stood in sharp, welcoming contrast to the frozen world beyond the door.
The man cleaned the fish with practiced ease—placed it in a clay pot with spring water, sliced ginger, and a handful of herbs they didn't recognize—and set it over the fire to simmer.
Before long, the rich, intoxicating aroma of fish soup filled every corner of the small hut. The scent alone was enough to make their mouths water.
When the pot was brought to the table and the lid lifted, a cloud of white steam billowed upward. The broth was milky and opaque—the fragrance of fresh fish mingled with a subtle, fruity sweetness that was absolutely irresistible.
"Oh—it smells incredible!"
Both brothers took up wooden spoons and sipped.
The flavor erupted across their palates—rich, velvety, not a trace of fishiness—just the pure, delicate sweetness of the flesh and the deep, satisfying warmth of the broth. Heat spread down their throats and through their chests, chasing away every last trace of winter's chill.
"This is extraordinary!"
"This fish soup is even better than what Mother makes!"
Hagoromo couldn't hold back his praise.
"Absolutely—fresh fish soup on a day like this is perfect."
Hamura nodded vigorously, draining his bowl with an expression of pure bliss.
Manji sat to the side, watching them with a quiet, knowing smile.
His cooking skills hadn't come naturally—they'd been forged out of sheer necessity. Years on Mount Myōboku, faced with the toads' diet of insects and fungi masquerading as "Sage-realm delicacies," had proven… inedible.
So he'd taken matters into his own hands. After a few years of practice, he'd become rather accomplished.
When the meal was done and the fire had burned low, Manji rose to leave.
Hagoromo and Hamura stood quickly, bowing with clasped hands. "Thank you for your hospitality, sir. Might we know your name? We'd like to repay you someday."
Manji turned back, his gaze lingering on their faces for a long, quiet moment.
"No name worth mentioning. I'm just… someone time forgot."
A brief pause. Then his lips curved into something enigmatic—a smile that seemed to hold the weight of centuries.
"As for repayment—don't worry. We'll meet again."
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