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In the bamboo grove near the Ninshū compound.
The last traces of sunset were fading to grey.
Indra sat slumped on his boulder, staring at the darkening sky with hollow eyes.
Days of searching—and he hadn't found so much as a toad's shadow. Was meeting the Sage of Six Paths truly nothing more than a pipe dream?
Just as despair was settling in—a shadow fell across his face. A figure materialized from thin air directly before him, blocking the final sliver of twilight.
"I hear you've been looking for me."
A voice, carrying the weight of ages—drifted down from above.
Indra's head snapped up. His pupils shrank to pinpricks. His entire body went rigid.
The man before him wore black-and-red robes that rippled without wind, wreathed in a faint haze of mist. An ancient, elegant sword hovered at his side—unmistakably the Six Paths Sword from every painting he'd ever studied.
And that face, strikingly handsome, eyes carrying the same cool detachment as the portrait—identical in every detail to the Sage of Six Paths.
IT'S HIM.
THE FOUNDING PATRIARCH, MANJI!!
Indra's heart hammered against his ribs. His whole body trembled—not with fear, but with the force of something he'd wanted so desperately it hurt. He slid off the boulder and hit the ground on both knees.
"Indra greets the Founding Patriarch!"
His forehead pressed flat against the earth.
Manji floated in midair, gazing down at the kneeling boy.
Indra's features were sharp and refined—still young, still soft around the edges, but already hinting at the striking figure he'd become. Right now, though, his face was pure child—excitement, nervousness, and barely contained awe all fighting for dominance.
"You've been searching for me for days. What do you want?"
Manji's voice betrayed nothing.
Indra raised his head instantly, eyes blazing with conviction. "Founding Patriarch—I have one request. Please teach me to fight!"
He pressed his forehead to the ground once more—driven by a hunger for power that burned to his core.
"Power, is it?"
"The 'Way' is not given lightly. Tell me—what would you do with it?"
Manji's eyebrow arched slightly. 'This child craves strength at such a young age. He really is a prototype Uchiha through and through.'
"I want to protect my family! I want to protect my little brother Asura!"
"The other day we were attacked by a wolf—if our senior hadn't arrived in time, we could've been hurt. I never want Asura to be in danger again. And I never want to depend on someone else to save us!"
The words poured out without a second's hesitation. Young as the voice was, the resolve behind it was ironclad.
Manji studied him, mind working quietly behind calm eyes.
In the original timeline, Indra would have developed the hand-sign system entirely on his own—through solitary struggle and experimentation. But Manji's existence had bent the trajectory. With a "Founding Patriarch" readily available, Indra had naturally gravitated toward the shortcut.
And it made sense. Without Manji in the picture, Indra would've had no choice but to forge his own path. But with a living legend offering guidance? Of course he'd ask.
"Sage—please!"
Indra pressed his palms together, eyes wide and pleading—every trace of his usual composure stripped away.
Manji's decision crystallized.
Humans still hadn't learned to harness chakra properly. Hand signs were the key to unlocking that potential. Why not use Indra as the vessel to spread this knowledge—letting the technique flow naturally into the world?
Manji raised his hand—and a thread of pale gold chakra condensed at his fingertip, tracing several simple patterns in the air.
"You want power—then I'll teach you a method called hand signs. Chakra lives within your body. Form the signs with your hands, and you can channel that chakra to perform techniques. This is the foundation of all power."
Indra watched the glowing patterns—mesmerized, confused, electrified—and began to mimic them with clumsy fingers. The moment he formed the first seal, he felt something stir inside him. Chakra responding.
He threw himself into learning with a ferocity that bordered on obsession.
He didn't stop until deep into the night—when he suddenly jolted, realizing how late it had gotten.
He turned—and found Manji still floating in the same spot, patient as stone.
A wave of gratitude surged through the boy. The Founding Patriarch had waited for him this entire time.
"Founding Patriarch—will you come again tomorrow?"
Indra asked, barely daring to hope.
Manji's expression remained neutral as calculations ran beneath the surface.
His original intent had been simple—deliver hand signs to Indra and let the shinobi world's evolution proceed naturally. He had no desire to meddle in Ninshū's affairs, and certainly no interest in taking sides in the Indra-VS-Asura conflict.
But looking at Indra now, another possibility formed.
Once Hagoromo died, Manji would have no agents in the human world. What if he trained Indra as his proxy? A chess piece connecting him to the outside?
The decision locked in. Manji looked down at the boy.
"I'll return. But what passes between us, stays between us."
Then he vanished.
"Thank you, Founding Patriarch!"
Indra's heart soared. He pressed his forehead to the earth in a deep, grateful bow.
........
From that day forward, the quiet bamboo grove became Indra's daily pilgrimage.
Rain or snow. Bitter cold or blistering heat.
Indra appeared without fail—bowing to Manji with perfect formality before settling into focused, breathless training.
Manji's instruction was stripped of every unnecessary word. Each hand position, each chakra flow pattern was broken down with surgical precision—from the most basic foundations to increasingly sophisticated chakra manipulation, to seal combinations that had never before existed in this world.
Indra devoured it all—eyes burning brighter with each passing day, his reverence for Manji carved so deep it had become part of his bones.
........
One morning, fog still clinging to the bamboo, Indra was already practicing a new chakra compression technique.
His hands flew through seal after seal, faster and faster, sweat beading on his temples and soaking through his collar. Chakra reserves nearly drained. Limbs heavy with exhaustion.
Finally, the last seal completed.
Indra let out a long, shuddering breath. His body swayed—and he leaned sideways, his head coming to rest against Manji's shoulder.
Manji had been watching the bamboo shadows on the ground when the sudden weight registered. He glanced to the side.
The boy's eyes were closed. Long lashes trembling faintly. Breathing gradually slowing into the even rhythm of deep sleep. Indra had simply… passed out against him.
Manji's eyebrow rose. He studied the young face.
Still carrying traces of softness—but the sharp lines of the man he'd become were already taking shape. In sleep, the intense focus and relentless drive that defined his waking hours had melted away, leaving behind something unexpectedly gentle.
Manji let his gaze linger for a moment—and felt something unfamiliar stir.
Looking back, Gamamaru had only needed a few words of guidance before finding his own way on Mount Myōboku. Hagoromo had been the same—Manji taught the fundamentals, and his disciple did the rest.
"Master and student" had always meant opening the door. Nothing more.
He had never sat with a disciple like this—day after day, sunrise to midnight, hand-guiding every detail of their growth.
Indra was the first.
That realization sent a small, almost imperceptible ripple through his chest.
But—a ripple was all it was.
Manji gathered himself quickly. The detachment returned to his eyes like a curtain falling.
The fated clash between Indra and Asura was Ninshū's tribulation—and the shinobi world's destiny. He had no business interfering. And he certainly wouldn't let a momentary flicker of sentiment derail his plans.
Whatever path Indra walked, he would eventually found what would become the Uchiha Clan. That trajectory was already set.
All Manji needed to do was wait. Wait for Hagoromo's final breath—and then claim the Rinnegan.
Indra was a chess piece. Nothing more.
The evening wind whispered through the bamboo, leaves rustling in soft chorus. Manji remained perfectly still, letting the boy sleep against his shoulder as night deepened around them.
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