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"Hmph, blind fools. Don't come crawling back when you regret this."
The gust of his departure scattered dust across the stone floor. Indra's silhouette vanished behind the pillars without so much as a backward glance.
..............
Inside the Grand Hall.
Hagoromo Ōtsutsuki slowly furrowed his brow.
Withered fingers tapped the desk in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Something complicated passed through his eyes and then settled into quiet certainty.
"It seems… my choice was correct."
The murmur was barely audible, meant for no one but himself.
He hadn't anticipated the depth of his eldest son's obsession. But it was precisely that flash of naked tyranny—that instinctive resort to fear and force—that erased any lingering doubt.
Indra's genius was beyond question. He had single-handedly revolutionized Ninshū's combat capabilities and unified its followers through the sheer gravity of his talent. But his heart recognized only two principles: power and conquest. Empathy, connection, compassion—these words existed in his vocabulary but not in his soul.
If Ninshū were entrusted to him, this sanctuary built on the dream of peace would inevitably be forged into a Weapon of War—and the world would drown in fire once more.
The decision was made. Irrevocable.
Hagoromo lifted his gaze, and let it settle on Asura. Broad-shouldered, gentle-eyed, radiating the quiet warmth of someone who had never once thought of himself first.
"ASURA, FROM THIS DAY FORWARD, YOU ARE THE RIGHTFUL SUCCESSOR OF NINSHŪ!"
Hagoromo's voice resonated through the hall like a temple bell.
Every head turned. Every eye converged on Asura—carrying hope, uncertainty, confusion, and the heavy expectations of an entire order.
Asura jolted as if struck by lightning. Those warm, open eyes went wide with disbelief, then flooded with an emotion too dense and tangled to name.
He had spent his entire life following in his brother's shadow—content to support, to protect, to stand behind. Not once had the thought of leading ever crossed his mind.
Being thrust to the front of the stage left him paralyzed, fingers curling unconsciously at his sides.
"Sigh…"
Hagoromo absorbed his son's hesitation—and recognized himself in it.
The same indecisiveness. The same reluctance to act.
In his own youth, he'd watched his mother Kaguya terrorize the world and done nothing—clinging to filial love, turning a blind eye to her atrocities. It wasn't until Haori was ripped away from him—sacrificed beneath the Divine Tree, that every shred of mercy and hesitation burned to ash. Only then did he find the resolve to fight his own mother.
Some people needed to be broken before they could be forged.
Hagoromo gathered himself, and when he spoke again, every word landed on Asura's chest like a blacksmith's hammer.
"Asura, the survival of Ninshū now rests on your shoulders. You cannot afford to be indecisive any longer!"
"Softness without strength. Hesitation without resolution. Compassion without the courage to act—these will destroy everyone who believes in you, and reduce everything Ninshū stands for to rubble!"
Asura's body went rigid—as though a bolt of lightning had traveled through the floor and up his spine. He looked at his father's stern, unyielding face. He looked at the expectant gazes of the disciples around him. And somewhere inside that gentle heart, something shifted.
He drew a deep breath, and the turbulent waters of his mind went still.
"Father, I understand. I will not let anyone down. I will never let Ninshū fall into darkness."
..............
Night fell like a curtain of ink across the mountains. Cold wind swept through a desolate valley, dragging dead branches across stone.
Deep inside a hidden cave, a crude candle guttered against the wall, throwing wavering shadows across rough stone.
Indra sat collapsed on a stone seat at the cave's center. His three-tomoe Sharingan blazed in the darkness—twin points of crimson fury boring holes into nothing.
"WHY?? WHY??"
His head snapped back—the roar tearing from his chest, rattling loose stones from the ceiling.
He was the eldest son of Ōtsutsuki. A once-in-a-millennium prodigy. The creator of hand-sign ninjutsu, the man who had single-handedly propelled Ninshū from a philosophical curiosity into a genuine power. Every ounce of his talent, every drop of his sweat, every sleepless night of innovation—all of it poured into making Ninshū stronger...
And his reward?? Cast aside like garbage. Replaced by a brother who had never demonstrated a single exceptional quality beyond being nice.
He refused to accept it.
He hadn't lost in talent. He hadn't lost in dedication. He hadn't lost in contribution to Ninshū's legacy.
He had lost because his father's heart was crooked—twisted by favoritism, blinded by sentimentality, incapable of recognizing true greatness when it stood right in front of him.
That wasn't a father. That was just the man who'd sired him. Nothing more.
Indra pressed one hand against his forehead, veins bulging at his temples. The candlelight painted his contorted features in flickering gold and shadow—making the Sharingan glow even more hellishly red.
Outside, Not a sound disturbed the void, only his own ragged, heaving breaths echoing off cave walls.
He sat on that stone seat for hours.
Turning over every memory. Every sacrifice. Every moment of devotion.
He had reformed chakra manipulation. Spread the art of hand signs to every corner of Ninshū. Given ordinary people the ability to defend themselves. He had built the foundation that everyone now stood on.
And this was his repayment?
The injustice of it was so vast it threatened to swallow him whole.
"What am I supposed to do now…"
The words fell from his lips.
He raised a trembling hand. His fingertips brushed against his own burning eyes—touching the three tomoe that represented the pinnacle of his bloodline's power.
And in the instant cold skin met searing iris—
Something detonated inside him.
A tidal wave of violence and killing intent erupted from his core—consuming every trace of grief, every thread of reason—transmuting all of it into a purpose.
What now?
Kill.
Only kill.
KILL. KILL. KILL. KILL. KILL. KILL. KILL.
Reclaim everything that was stolen—through absolute, overwhelming force.
Indra erupted from the stone seat. Chakra exploded outward like a detonating star—savage energy engulfing the entire cave, snuffing the candle in an instant.
Blue-violet chakra poured from every pore, layer upon layer condensing and hardening—skeletal frame, armor plating, massive arms, a colossal blade—each component materializing with thunderous force. The pressure alone sent tremors through the valley floor.
Susano'o.
The titanic spectral warrior towered against the night sky—a demon god made manifest. Indra stood at its brow, crimson eyes sweeping toward the distant silhouette of Ninshū's Grand Hall. His voice—arctic, absolute, echoing across the darkness:
"IF THAT'S HOW IT IS—THEN I'LL TAKE WHAT'S MINE BY FORCE."
..............
Meanwhile, deep within Ninshū's inner sanctum.
This was Hagoromo's private meditation chamber—and tonight, it served as the setting for the most critical conversation of his remaining life.
Every attendant had been dismissed. The vast room held only two figures: father and son.
Hagoromo studied Asura, still carrying traces of nervousness behind those steady eyes—and spoke with the gravity of a man delivering his last testament.
"Asura—I'm going to transfer the entirety of my chakra and Sage power into your body. It's the only way to give you the strength to stand against Indra."
The Rinnegan's pale violet rings pulsed with slow light as Hagoromo's words settled like stones into still water.
"FATHER!"
Asura's head shot up, shock flooding his features. He opened his mouth to protest, but Hagoromo raised a hand, cutting him off.
"Indra has already been consumed by obsession and hatred. He's fallen beyond reason. The threat he poses to Ninshū is no longer hypothetical—it's imminent."
Hagoromo's voice carried the bone-deep weariness of a man who had spent his final reserves of hope.
"My time is nearly over. After I'm gone... if Indra moves against Ninshū and you find yourself unable to stop him—you must contact Mount Myōboku immediately. Find our Founding Patriarch. The Sage of Six Paths. Only he possesses the power to end whatever catastrophe Indra unleashes."
Asura's expression shattered into something unrecognizable, a collision of disbelief, grief, and the crushing weight of a burden he had never asked to carry.
His throat worked silently. No words came.
He had never imagined, that his own brother would become an enemy. That the bond between them would fracture so completely that their father would speak of them in terms of warfare and contingency plans.
And he certainly hadn't imagined that the full weight of Ninshū's survival would be placed squarely—and solely—on his shoulders.
Before he could gather his thoughts...
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