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"Sorry I'm late, Brother—got held up along the way."
Asura scratched the back of his head with that same good-natured, slightly sheepish grin he always wore.
"It's nothing."
Indra's smile was warm, on the surface.
Beneath it, his assessment was already complete. His brother was soft. Weak. The fact that he'd returned late, trailing a gaggle of commoners, only confirmed what Indra had always known—Asura couldn't handle the mission alone and had relied on villagers to compensate.
'If it had been me, I'd have swept every obstacle aside single-handedly. No need to drag half a village along.'
And yet, despite the contempt—Asura was still his only blood. Somewhere beneath the ice, Indra still regarded his little brother as family.
'Once I inherit Ninshū, I'll set him on the right path. Keep him safe.'
Indra's gaze swept past the nervous but trusting villagers clustered behind Asura—and he said nothing more.
..............
From the window of the main hall above, Hagoromo Ōtsutsuki watched everything unfold in silence.
His eyes lingered on Asura, surrounded by common people, radiating warmth like a hearth in winter—and the old man's weathered lips curved into a quiet, knowing smile.
'This boy carries the same spirit I had when I walked the world—the ability to connect, to inspire, to draw people together through genuine compassion.'
That had always been the true purpose of his trial.
Not to measure strength. Not to evaluate speed. But to reveal character.
A leader of Ninshū needed more than dominance, they needed the magnetism of empathy, the courage of vulnerability, and a heart vast enough to hold the suffering of others.
Indra's power was unmatched in this generation. But his cold, solitary philosophy—his absolute faith in strength above all else, made him the wrong choice for carrying Ninshū's soul forward.
As for Asura's lack of power? Hagoromo was the founder of Ninshū. He had ways to forcibly elevate his son's abilities to match Indra's level.
..............
Within the hour, Sarutobi—acting on Hagoromo's orders—assembled every core disciple and elder in the Grand Hall.
The atmosphere was suffocating in its solemnity. Polished stone floors reflected the kneeling forms of dozens of Ninshū members, each holding their breath.
Hagoromo sat upon the elevated throne, his chakra settled and deep as an ocean trench. His gaze swept the assembly below.
Indra and Asura knelt side by side at the very front.
Indra's spine was a blade driven into the earth, radiating the unshakable confidence of a man who already knew the outcome.
Asura sat with his eyes lowered, the unease in his chest growing with every heartbeat. He wasn't afraid of losing—he was afraid of winning.
Every eye in the hall converged on Hagoromo, waiting for the verdict that would reshape Ninshū's future.
The old man raised his gaze. When he spoke, his voice filled the hall—steady, absolute, leaving no room for interpretation.
"TODAY, I ANNOUNCE THE SUCCESSOR OF NINSHŪ."
The silence became a living thing, so dense that a falling needle would've sounded like a gong.
Indra's chin lifted fractionally. His eyes glowed with the certainty of a man watching destiny confirm what he'd always known.
And then Hagoromo spoke the name—
"The successor of Ninshū is Asura."
..............
Asura's head snapped up—eyes wide as moons, jaw slack, every trace of color draining from his face. The words didn't register... They couldn't register.
And beside him, Indra's composure shattered.
The composed mask cracked like porcelain struck by a hammer. His pupils contracted violently. The calm certainty that had defined his entire existence collapsed into consuming disbelief.
His chakra destabilized.
The shock wasn't confined to the brothers. Every disciple in the hall wore the same expression of stunned incredulity.
They acknowledged Indra's severity—even feared it. But they couldn't deny his brilliance, his power, his undeniable capacity for leadership.
Asura was beloved—gentle, earnest, universally liked. But leadership? In a world growing darker by the day?
"WHY??"
"I don't have Brother's talent—why would you choose ME??"
Asura leaped to his feet, his voice cracking with something close to panic. "Father—this is wrong! I'm not suited for this!"
His distress was genuine, painfully sincere that it should have been impossible to misread.
But to Indra—standing frozen beside him—the protest registered as nothing but the most contemptible performance he'd ever witnessed.
'Pretending to refuse what you've already been given. How nauseating.'
Indra stood motionless—dark robes hanging still as death, handsome features locked behind a mask of arctic cold.
"Tell me why I was passed over. I deserve that much."
"..." Hagoromo met his eldest son's gaze, and sorrow moved through those ancient eyes like a shadow behind glass.
"I've just received intelligence. The border village you were assigned—it's been destroyed."
A single sentence and the hall erupted.
Gasps. Shocked whispers. Heads turning in disbelief.
Sarutobi's face darkened immediately. He stepped forward, fixing Indra with a sharp, searching look. "Did you use overwhelming force to clear the threats—and provoke a catastrophic backlash?"
"Do I look that stupid to you?"
Indra whipped toward Sarutobi—and his Sharingan blazed open. Three tomoe spinning in pools of crimson, unleashing a wave of killing intent that slammed into Sarutobi like a physical blow.
Sarutobi felt his body temperature plummet. The oppressive weight of those eyes pressed against his chest like a boulder—breathing became a conscious effort.
But he didn't buckle. Didn't look away. Teeth gritted, spine locked, he held his ground.
He was the man the Sage of Six Paths himself had brought to Ninshū—the boy Hagoromo had personally named. If there was anyone in this hall with the backing to stand unflinching before Indra's rage, it was him.
Hagoromo observed the exchange, and his disappointment deepened into something close to grief.
One question...
One question and Indra immediately weaponized the Sharingan to intimidate a fellow disciple.
This instinct, to answer doubt with domination, to enforce compliance through fear—it was exactly what Kaguya had done.
The same tyrannical reflex. The same crushing arrogance. The parallels were becoming impossible to ignore.
"Stand down."
Hagoromo's voice cut through the pressure like a blade through silk. The oppressive aura dissipated.
"After you departed, the villagers fought each other over water rights. The conflict escalated into total destruction. The settlement no longer exists."
"What??"
Indra jolted. For one flickering instant, genuine shock displaced the fury.
"Happiness gained without effort is happiness that cannot endure."
Hagoromo's voice was calm as deep water.
"You relied on force alone, solved every problem instantly, decisively, and left. But you never built trust. Never fostered bonds between the people. The moment your power was gone, the community collapsed because it had no foundation."
"Asura lived alongside those villagers. Ate what they ate. Taught them skills with his own hands. Earned their loyalty through shared hardship. The unity he created doesn't crumble the moment he walks away, because it was forged from genuine connection."
The explanation was precisely what you'd expect from the man who'd devoted his entire life to the ideal of mutual understanding over martial supremacy—even when that ideal seemed hopelessly naive.
But the words didn't soothe Indra. They ignited him.
"THAT'S BECAUSE ASURA IS TOO WEAK TO DO ANYTHING ELSE! HE NEEDS PEOPLE TO PROP HIM UP! AND ONE BACKWATER VILLAGE BEING WIPED OFF THE MAP—WHAT DOES THAT PROVE? NOTHING!"
Indra's voice dropped to a snarl.
Hagoromo watched his son's rage consume every trace of reason and slowly turned to address the entire assembly.
If logic wouldn't reach Indra, then let the truth speak through the people themselves.
"Then I'll put it to a vote. Everyone present, who would you follow? Asura… or Indra?"
Indra's head whipped toward the crowd—Sharingan blazing, scanning every face with an intensity that bordered on violence. His eyes demanded the answer he believed he was owed.
He had given them power. He had taught them to wield chakra. These people belonged to him.
"I choose Asura."
Sarutobi's voice rang out, cutting through the tension like a signal flare.
The hall fell silent.
For a long, agonizing moment—no one else spoke.
Every disciple knew the truth they were afraid to voice. Asura was kind. Genuine. The kind of leader you wanted to follow, not the kind you feared disobeying. But Indra's shadow loomed too large, his power too terrifying for anyone to risk speaking against him openly.
That silence—that damning cowardly silence was all the confirmation Indra needed.
"I GAVE YOU YOUR POWER! I MADE YOU WHAT YOU ARE! YOU SHOULD BE CHOOSING ME! WITHOUT ME, YOU'D ALL STILL BE INSECTS—HELPLESS, PATHETIC, NOTHING!"
The last thread of Indra's composure snapped. His Sharingan spun wildly, his face twisted with a fury so real it was almost unrecognizable. The young prodigy who had once trained with quiet dignity in a bamboo grove had vanished—replaced by something feral and broken.
Disciples stumbled backward, faces white with terror. No one dared meet those spinning crimson eyes.
Hagoromo exhaled a sigh heavy enough to fill the entire hall. "My son… you've lost your way."
"Power was never meant to be the foundation of leadership. Bonds are."
Asura stared at his brother—the person he'd admired his entire life—and saw only anguish. His heart clenched. His lips parted, but the words that emerged were barely a whisper.
"Brother…"
Indra's face had turned to carved stone, every muscle locked against the unbearable weight of humiliation.
Then, abruptly—his gaze tore away from the crowd and locked onto the portrait hanging at the center of the Grand Hall.
The Founding Patriarch. The Sage of Six Paths.
In that painting, Manji's calm, timeless face gazed back at him—and in Indra's fracturing mind, that image became his last lifeline.
"You spineless cowards! Deciding the future of Ninshū based on popularity?? I DARE you—summon the Founding Patriarch himself! Let the SAGE OF SIX PATHS decide who leads Ninshū!"
Indra's voice tore from his throat like a thunderbolt.
He was certain.
With his talent, with the private bond he'd forged with the Patriarch in that bamboo grove—if the Sage of Six Paths appeared, there was no question. The old man would overrule everyone and name him as successor.
Playing the connections card... The last resort of the proud.
Hagoromo's brow rose sharply, surprise and weariness mingling in equal measure.
Indra has truly lost all composure.
Even he, the actual founder of Ninshū—rarely saw the Founding Patriarch. And Indra thought he could summon the Sage with a single shout?
Sarutobi, standing off to the side, felt his expression go through several complicated contortions.
His own grandfather had waited at a village entrance for a hundred years just to see the Sage one more time. And Indra expected the man to materialize on command?
"Enough of this!" Hagoromo's voice hardened.
"Fine! FINE! HA!"
Indra's fists clenched until the bones creaked. Without another word—without a backward glance—he turned and stormed out of the Grand Hall, robes snapping behind him like a battle flag.
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