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Manji regarded the boy standing tall before him—chest puffed, chin raised, radiating absolute certainty, and felt nothing stir behind his calm gaze.
"The blade that gleams brightest is the first to break. Leave room for doubt in everything. Never be too certain."
Indra's self-satisfied expression vanished instantly. He folded into a textbook-perfect bow, dark bangs falling across his eyes. "Disciple will remember the Patriarch's words."
But that barely-loosened spine, that lingering brightness behind the lowered lashes, they told a different story. Beneath the deference, the boy remained utterly unconvinced.
Eldest son inheriting the family legacy—that's how the world works. Between his talent, his contributions, and his bloodline, who else could it possibly be?
Asura? That soft-hearted dreamer who needed rescuing from a single wolf? Leading Ninshū? Laughable.
The thought had taken root so deeply it might as well have been carved into his bones. Manji's counsel about humility was little more than wind passing through bamboo—heard, acknowledged, instantly forgotten.
Manji caught every flicker, every micro-expression and understood perfectly.
The boy's pride had been nurtured by years of praise and effortless success into something towering and unyielding. Today's obedience was nothing but a performance, the mask of respect worn for a teacher's benefit.
Pride precedes the fall.
It had been true in every era Manji had lived through. Indra's talent was extraordinary—but this blind arrogance had already become his most dangerous vulnerability.
Manji shook his head almost imperceptibly. The Six Paths Sword at his back hummed faintly as his figure dissolved into pale mist, vanishing into the bamboo's green silence.
Indra stood alone, staring at the empty space where his master had been.
..........................
When Manji materialized again, he was inside a modest wooden room.
Sparse furnishings—a writing desk, a few bamboo scrolls, a sleeping mat covered with a worn quilt. Nothing more.
Seated at the desk was Hagoromo—hair entirely white now, wrinkles cut deep as canyon walls across his face. His back remained straight through what was clearly an act of disciplined will, but the weight of centuries pressed visibly against every joint.
"Master, you've come."
Hagoromo rose slowly, each movement deliberate, slightly labored—yet still maintained a perfect bow of respect.
"Mm."
Manji's gaze lingered on that weathered face, and unbidden, the memory of their first meeting surfaced—a young man with blazing eyes and a spine forged from conviction, willing to defy his own mother for the sake of someone he loved.
Time had done what no enemy could. The fierce youth had been weathered into this frail, silver-haired elder.
Manji waved his hand gently. "After all these years—enough with the formalities."
Hagoromo settled back down, fingers tracing the cool surface of a bamboo scroll. A pause. Then, with the casualness of someone remarking on the weather:
"Master, I'm not going to last much longer."
The words carried no drama, no self-pity. Just a quiet statement of fact. But beneath the surface—the faintest glimmer of reluctance. Attachment to this world. Worry for what he'd leave behind.
"Ninshū is my life's work. I've deliberated endlessly over succession, and in the end… I believe it must stay within the bloodline. Indra and Asura are my own flesh and blood—I trust them more than any outsider to protect what we've built."
Manji smiled inwardly.
'Even the great Hagoromo couldn't escape the pull of dynasty.' A lifetime spent preaching connection and collective spirit, and at the finish line, blood still won.
He didn't call it out. He simply watched those aged, earnest eyes and replied: "It's your decision to make."
He hadn't come to debate succession politics. He'd come for one reason—to confirm with his own eyes whether this dying man still carried the power he needed.
Hagoromo seemed to exhale something he'd been holding for years. Then, gathering himself with visible effort, he lowered his body into a deep, trembling bow—forehead nearly touching the floor.
"Master, after I'm gone… will you grant me one final request?"
Manji gestured for him to rise. "Speak."
"You've lived through more ages than any being alive. Your judgment has never faltered."
Hagoromo lifted his head, eyes brimming with desperate sincerity.
"Ninshū is thriving now—but nations are forming across the land. Hidden conflicts multiply by the day. Indra and Asura are young. If Ninshū faces a crisis they can't handle… I beg you—step in. Restore order. Crush whatever plots threaten to destroy what we've built."
It was the plea of a dying father entrusting his children to the only person he trusted absolutely.
Manji's expression remained perfectly neutral. "I understand. I'll use my own judgment."
Behind the calm facade, his calculations ran on entirely different tracks. Ninshū appeared to be a spiritual movement preaching compassion. In reality, it had become a military-political organization wielding enormous power across multiple nations.
The kings and lords of this world might worship the "Sage of Six Paths" as a distant, convenient deity—useful for legitimizing their rule. But they would never tolerate a powerful, organized faction with armed followers and influence spanning every border.
No sovereign sleeps soundly with a rival army in the next room.
Manji held no attachment to Ninshū. His promise to "restore order" was diplomatic noise, nothing more.
His objective had always been singular: the Rinnegan.
Whether Ninshū flourished or burned—that was the world's problem, not his.
Hagoromo, reading only the surface of Manji's composure, took the response as a solemn vow. Relief softened the deep lines of his face as he bowed once more.
"Thank you, Master."
"When I've chosen my successor—you'll be the first to know."
Manji nodded once and said nothing further.
..........................
Two years—gone in a whisper.
Ninshū's bamboo groves had grown denser, the stalks reaching skyward in green columns that blocked the sun. And the two children who once chased wolves had become young men.
Indra wore dark, close-fitted combat attire—posture rigid as a pine tree, features sharpened beyond his years into something angular and commanding. He moved through crowds trailing an aura of cold authority, surrounded always by the reverent gazes of disciples who viewed him as the standard against which all others were measured.
Two years of unchallenged supremacy had honed him, and hardened him. More capable than ever. Less human than before.
Asura was his photographic negative—dressed in simple grey cloth, broader in build, face perpetually set in a warm, open smile. He radiated approachability the way his brother radiated frost.
But beneath the gentleness lurked a quiet self-consciousness, the constant awareness that he stood forever in Indra's shadow, always a step behind, always less.
Throughout those two years, Hagoromo's body continued its slow decline—but his eyes never stopped watching.
He saw Indra's devastating efficiency in handling crises. He saw the surgical precision with which his eldest applied newly mastered techniques to solve Ninshū's problems. The talent was undeniable.
But he also saw the way Indra treated subordinates who made mistakes—cold, merciless... He saw a young man who made decisions alone, who dismissed input from others as unnecessary noise. And in that proud, solitary figure, Hagoromo recognized something that chilled him to his core.
Kaguya... The same bone-deep conviction that one's own judgment was the only judgment that mattered.
Asura, meanwhile, couldn't bear to see suffering. He mediated every dispute with patience and empathy. The disciples adored him. But Hagoromo understood that in an era of rising conflict, that gentle heart—that reluctance to make hard choices—could prove fatal.
If only he could merge Indra's decisiveness with Asura's compassion. But the world had never been that accommodating.
..........................
The Grand Hall of Ninshū—brimming with bodies and tension.
Every senior disciple and elder had been summoned. Sarutobi stood at the front of the disciples' formation, expression steady as bedrock, gaze sweeping the two young men at the center.
Hagoromo sat on the elevated platform—face pale, but eyes blazingly sharp.
He raised his hand. Silence fell like a blade.
"I've called you all here… for an important announcement." His gaze traveled slowly between his two sons, lingering on each.
"My time is running out. Ninshū cannot be without a leader."
"The successor will be chosen between Indra… and Asura."
The hall erupted in murmurs—low, electric, instantly suppressed. Most faces registered surprise that quickly softened into quiet certainty. After all, Indra's brilliance was common knowledge.
Indra stood motionless, spine impossibly straight, a nearly invisible smile ghosting across his lips. His eyes held the quiet satisfaction of a man watching the inevitable arrive on schedule.
He'd been waiting for this day. The seat was already his.
Asura, by contrast, looked completely unbothered—the same mild, warm expression as always. Leadership, inheritance, power struggles, these things genuinely didn't interest him. If everyone was happy, that was enough.
Hagoromo ignored the crowd's reaction and rose, lifting two scrolls from the desk beside him. He handed them to Sarutobi.
"Inside each scroll is a village facing a crisis. You will each go to your assigned village and resolve the problem—using whatever methods you see fit. Return when the task is complete."
Sarutobi placed one scroll in each brother's hands.
Indra accepted his with practiced composure—fingertips brushing the cool bamboo surface—confidence radiating from every pore. With his abilities, solving a village's problems would be child's play.
Asura held his scroll like it might bite him. He looked up at Hagoromo, voice laced with genuine bewilderment and self-doubt. "Father—why include me in this? Shouldn't you just send Brother?"
He hesitated, then admitted with disarming honesty: "Brother is better than me at everything—his strength, his judgment, his leadership. Let him handle both. I'll only… mess things up."
Every word was sincere. In Asura's mind, Indra was an unreachable summit. His own role had only ever been to follow without becoming a burden.
Indra glanced at his younger brother and said nothing.
Over the past two years, the distance between them had widened into a chasm. Indra found Asura's indecisiveness infuriating—too naive, too soft for a world that demanded strength.
Asura found Indra's coldness unsettling, too ruthless for someone who was supposed to lead people.
They were brothers by blood. Strangers by temperament. And with each passing season, the silence between them grew thicker.
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