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"I walked past the mountains, and the mountains said nothing~"
"I walked past the sea, and the sea said nothing~"
"People say I hid on Mount Myōboku because I was afraid of Kaguya. But the truth is—I just fell in love with Myōboku's clouds and sunsets. They reminded me of the fireworks that filled the sky the day I arrived in this world… back when I was still sixteen."
.....
Wind swept across the open plains—through valleys, over rivers—and came to rest against Manji's face, lifting the hem of his white robes like a gentle hand.
He walked alone through the rice paddies, tall and unhurried, the Six Paths Sword strapped across his back. A figure of quiet, timeless grace moving between rows of swaying grain.
Fifty years had passed since he'd sent the Tailed Beasts into the world.
Half a century—gone like a held breath released.
He'd spent those decades drifting through the human world, wandering its roads and villages, living among the smoke and warmth of ordinary life.
Now he paused, lifting his gaze toward the horizon—and a faint, wistful sigh escaped him.
In the far distance, Hagoromo Ōtsutsuki walked at the head of a column of several hundred followers, moving with the steady, purposeful stride of a man who had found his calling.
Hundreds of devoted believers trailed behind him.
In just a few decades, what had begun as a handful of curious seekers had swelled into a movement hundreds strong. Hagoromo's personal magnetism was genuinely extraordinary.
Manji stood with the sword at his back, watching from afar—but made no move to approach.
A distant glance was enough. No need to interrupt.
Since their parting after the battle with Kaguya, nearly eighty years had slipped by without a single meeting. In that time, Manji had tasted every flavor of being unrivaled—and savored every drop of the loneliness that came with it.
Below Six Paths tier, no one on the planet could challenge him. He stood alone at the peak.
But Manji had never meddled excessively in human affairs. An occasional act of justice—striking down the truly wicked—and nothing more.
He watched the column of followers shrink to a speck and vanish over the horizon. Then he lowered his gaze, turned into the wind, and walked away in silence.
"Time to go home…"
His voice was soft, almost to himself. His eyes dropped to the letter in his hand.
White-Brow Toad's letter—written in a shaky, aged hand—was still tucked against his chest.
"My time draws near. I hope you'll return. There are matters I must entrust to you."
— White-Brow
.....
Manji returned to Mount Myōboku.
The clouds were exactly as he remembered—rolling and unfurling in shades of amber and rose, identical to the day he'd first arrived over a century ago.
Traces of the Tailed Beasts' old roughhousing still marked the mountainside here and there—scuffed boulders, flattened clearings, a pond that was slightly larger than it should've been.
At the mist-shrouded entrance to the inner cave, Gamamaru was already waiting.
"Master! The Grand Sage—he's…"
Gamamaru had grown considerably—no longer the tiny toad from decades past.
"I know."
Manji raised a hand gently, then walked inside.
.....
The cave was bathed in pale, tranquil light.
White-Brow Toad lay propped against a cloud-soft divan, his once-powerful frame diminished by the weight of centuries.
At the sound of footsteps, he turned his head—slowly, carefully—and when he saw Manji standing at his bedside, the deep furrow that had creased his brow for days finally… relaxed.
"Manji… you came. Heh heh heh…"
His voice was thin, carried on labored breath—yet warm as ever.
"That reckless boy who climbed this mountain all those years ago, half-dead and desperate for power… look at him now. A Sage who saved the world, standing on his own two feet."
The words reached into Manji's chest and pulled—dragging him backward through a century of memories.
He looked at the ancient toad on the divan—and for a disorienting moment, the present dissolved.
He was that boy again. The stranger in a strange world, carrying nothing but confusion and stubborn courage, who had crossed mountains and fought through poisonous fog just to find this place hidden beyond the edge of the world.
Whether it was fate or blind luck—he'd never been entirely sure.
But White-Brow—stern-faced, cane-wielding, endlessly patient—had taken him in. Guided him. Believed in him when he was nothing but a frightened teenager chanting "endurance means keeping your head clear and your spine straight" to stop himself from breaking.
Manji wasn't that boy anymore.
Time had carved him into something else entirely.
He brought his gaze back to the present—back to White-Brow.
The old toad was approaching a thousand years of age. Even for his kind, that was an extraordinary life.
"Grandpa White-Brow…"
Manji stepped closer, his expression layered—reverence, reluctance to let go, and the quiet ache of watching someone who'd shaped your entire existence approach the final horizon.
White-Brow lifted a trembling front leg. Manji understood. He leaned in.
A wrinkled, weathered palm settled gently over the back of Manji's hand. The touch was cool—but carried the gravity of an unbreakable oath.
"Manji… I don't have much time left."
White-Brow's gaze was deep—ancient pools that had seen a millennium of dawns.
"Mount Myōboku… I leave it to you. From this day forward, you are the Grand Sage of Mount Myōboku. No one will contest it."
Manji had felt this coming for years.
The way White-Brow had gradually entrusted him with the mountain's core techniques. The subtle shifts in authority. The quiet, deliberate passing of the torch—one ember at a time.
He met White-Brow's eyes—those eyes full of trust and finality—and said nothing. Only nodded. Slow. Steady. The way a man nods who has walked eighty years and understands the weight of what he's accepting.
White-Brow watched that calm, grounded composure—and let out a long, gentle sigh. Not of regret. Of release.
"A thousand years… that's enough for any life. I'm grateful. Truly grateful that Heaven finally saw fit to draw the curtain."
He paused. His gaze drifted to the young man beside him, and something deeper—something almost fatherly—entered his voice.
"Living too long… seeing too many eras rise and fall, too many hearts change… it's easy to lose yourself. Manji—remember this. No matter how many centuries pass, no matter how vast your power becomes, hold onto who you are. Don't let eternity steal the person you were meant to be."
Manji stiffened—just barely. Then his expression grew solemn.
White-Brow knew... He'd figured it out—or at least sensed the truth.
"Feel with your heart. Don't chase power for its own sake. What's meant to come… will come. Don't let it become an obsession."
"And please… take care... Take care."
The final words hung in the air like the last note of a song.
White-Brow drew one deep, slow breath—his chest rising gently—then settling flat.
The eyes that had witnessed a thousand years of wonder and sorrow… gradually dimmed. The Sage energy that had defined his existence for ten centuries ebbed away like a retreating tide—flowing back into the mountain itself, returning to the earth that had given it form.
The cave fell so silent that Manji could hear his own heartbeat.
He held White-Brow's hand—growing colder by the second—and did not move for a very long time.
Outside, Mount Myōboku's clouds continued their eternal, unhurried dance. The sunset painted the sky in the same breathtaking colors it always had.
But the toad sage who had guarded this sacred place for a millennium—was gone.
"Master—the Grand Sage… is he…"
Gamamaru's voice came from outside the entrance, halting mid-sentence.
Manji raised his hand—a single, quiet gesture.
Gamamaru understood. The tears came immediately.
Manji looked at White-Brow's still form—and felt every emotion he possessed collide at once.
Without this old toad, he might have perished on the road to Mount Myōboku before ever reaching its gates.
He'd always told himself he was lucky—that somehow, impossibly, a mere mortal had stumbled upon the hidden Sage Region.
Now—knowing what he knew—the truth was humbling enough to ache.
He'd long since mastered Mount Myōboku's barrier system. He understood perfectly well that no ordinary human could find this place.
The truth was simpler, and infinitely more painful: all those years ago, White-Brow had seen a desperate, half-dead boy struggling toward his mountain—and had opened the barrier out of pure compassion.
Manji stood there for a long time.
Then, at last—a quiet sigh.
He looked down at the old sage who had given him everything, and spoke in a voice barely louder than breath.
"Goodnight, Grandpa White-Brow."
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