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The courtyard before Ninshū's Grand Hall was packed shoulder to shoulder.
Every disciple had crowded into a dense ring, their eyes riveted on the figure standing at its center—Indra.
Hagoromo stood at the front of the gathering, hands clasped behind his back. Asura had wriggled his way to the front row, clinging to an older disciple's shoulder, his round face alive with curiosity.
In the center of the ring, Indra drew himself to his full height. One deep breath, and his fingers exploded into motion.
The hand signs were intricate yet fluid—a cascade of precise gestures completed in the span of a single heartbeat.
"Haaah—"
A roaring tongue of flame erupted from his palm—vivid orange, fierce and hungry—illuminating the boy's face with dancing light and plunging the entire courtyard into stunned silence.
Then, the silence shattered.
"Fire?? He conjured fire from nothing??"
"That's impossible! No one besides Lord Hagoromo can manipulate power like that!"
"What were those hand movements? They looked impossibly complex, yet there was a pattern—a structure to them!"
The crowd erupted. Wide eyes. Gasped breaths. Bodies pressing forward, then shrinking back. A dozen voices clashing at once, every face stamped with the same expression of absolute, bewildered shock.
Hagoromo's pupils contracted sharply.
Internally, a tidal wave crashed through him.
He recognized what he was seeing—chakra, channeled through the body and released in a specific elemental form. A technique.
But his own bloodline was unique. He'd never needed hand signs to invoke his power—it simply was. The notion that someone could bridge that gap through formalized gestures, creating a replicable system accessible to anyone…
It had never once crossed his mind.
"Brother! BROTHER!"
Asura couldn't contain himself a second longer. He burst through the crowd, seized Indra's wrist, and shoved his face toward the lingering flame in his brother's palm—half terrified, half mesmerized.
"What did you DO? Where did the fire come from??"
Indra raised his hand gently, and the flame obediently winked out. He looked at his little brother's excitement with patient calm.
"I discovered that the chakra inside our bodies can be guided through different hand positions. Form the right combination of signs, and you can release different kinds of power. This fire is just one example."
He turned and offered Hagoromo a respectful bow. "Father—this is the result of my recent training."
Hagoromo studied his son—this child not yet ten years old, and felt his astonishment deepen with every passing second.
He'd noticed Indra's daily trips to the bamboo grove. He'd even extended his sensory field to check—but detected no second presence. He'd assumed the boy was simply seeking solitude for meditation.
Now he understood. The child had been developing something revolutionary.
"I see."
Hagoromo nodded, his lingering questions dissolving into pure, unbridled admiration for his son's genius.
"Brother, you're AMAZING!"
"Teach me! Teach me too, please??"
Asura shook Indra's arm with both hands, eyes sparkling with desperate enthusiasm.
Around them, every Ninshū disciple leaned in—necks craning, eyes burning with that unmistakable, universal hunger for power.
Indra frowned slightly and glanced toward Hagoromo.
He understood the hierarchy. Every decision in Ninshū flowed through his father. Even if he'd created this technique, whether it could be shared with others was his father's call alone.
Unless the Founding Patriarch himself spoke—no one could override Hagoromo's authority.
Hagoromo swept his gaze across the sea of eager, desperate faces, and fell into deep contemplation.
Spreading power would inevitably breed conflict. But the world was changing. Nations were forming. Borders were hardening. If Ninshū refused to evolve, how could it protect the people who depended on it?
History's wheel rolled forward regardless—just as humanity had progressed from scattered tribes to organized city-states. War accompanied that progress, yes, but the march itself could not be stopped. He couldn't freeze Ninshū in amber simply because he feared what change might bring.
Could he really keep everyone trapped in the tribal age just because he was afraid of what the future held?
His gaze drifted to a young man standing nearby—features composed beyond his years, bearing the steady confidence of someone who'd been forged by discipline and purpose. It was the boy Manji had entrusted to him years ago—the one Hagoromo had named Sarutobi.
"Sarutobi, what's your assessment?"
Sarutobi stepped forward and bowed with crisp precision. "Lord Hagoromo—I believe the benefits outweigh the risks."
"First: if our disciples learn these techniques, they gain the ability to defend themselves—against bandits, wild beasts, and the growing chaos of this era."
"Second: chakra can be applied to agriculture and construction. Our productivity would increase dramatically."
"Third: with real strength behind us, Ninshū can fulfill its founding purpose—protecting the innocent and upholding peace—not just in words, but in action."
Hagoromo nodded slowly. Sarutobi had articulated exactly what he'd been thinking.
The risks were real. But the net outcome tilted toward progress.
And if things went wrong, he was still here to course-correct.
Hagoromo raised his eyes to the crowd, and in a voice that carried across the entire compound, made his declaration.
"From this day forward—every member of Ninshū shall study the Art of Hand Signs and the application of chakra!"
The courtyard erupted.
Disciples threw their fists skyward, faces flushed with excitement and hunger for something they'd never possessed. Even those who prided themselves on spiritual discipline couldn't mask the fire in their eyes.
Power... real, tangible, world-altering power—was being offered to them.
Who could resist?
Hagoromo absorbed every expression, every shout—and the smile on his face gradually faded. A quiet sigh formed deep in his chest.
Had he made the right choice?
Would this propel Ninshū toward greatness, or plant the seeds of its own destruction?
He couldn't know. Not yet. All he could do was let the river of history carry them forward and hope the current led somewhere worth reaching.
Because the alternative—refusing—carried its own catastrophic risks. If he hoarded power for himself, how would his followers see him? As a leader who monopolized strength? A tyrant afraid to share? That path led to resentment, fracture, and the very collapse he was trying to prevent.
Indra watched his father from across the courtyard, a subtle curve forming at the corner of his lips.
He'd known all along how his father would choose.
..........................
Green bamboo cast layered shadows across the forest floor. Wind rustled through the canopy, filling the grove with the soft percussion of falling leaves.
Manji reclined against a moss-covered boulder, idly flicking the edge of the Six Paths Sword, one eyebrow cocked in mild disbelief.
"That kid Indra… he hasn't fallen for me, has he? He actually shows up here every single day."
He'd originally made a casual offer—drop by the grove now and then, and Manji would spare some time for guidance. He never expected the boy to take it as a sacred covenant. Three hundred sixty-five days a year. Rain, snow, hail—Indra appeared like clockwork.
Every arrival accompanied by those eyes—bright as twin stars, locked onto Manji with an intensity that blurred the line between devotion and obsession. Every departure marked by lingering backward glances, as though leaving physically hurt.
It was almost enough to make Manji uncomfortable.
"Come to think of it—Indra still hasn't awakened his Sharingan. Maybe I should give him a good scare and see what happens."
A glint of mischief passed through Manji's eyes.
Under normal circumstances, Black Zetsu would have orchestrated a wild boar ambush to trigger the emotional shock needed for awakening. But with Black Zetsu safely filing paperwork on Mount Myōboku…
'Might as well handle it personally...'
Manji's chakra pulsed and an invisible net of genjutsu descended over the entire bamboo grove.
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