Part One: The Choice That Broke a Family
Hagoromo stood before his assembled followers in the great hall he'd constructed for teaching ninshu. Hundreds of students, disciples, and community leaders filled the space, all waiting to hear the announcement they'd been anticipating for months.
The Sage of Six Paths was getting old. Not ancient, not yet, but the signs were there—the slight stoop to his shoulders, the way he tired more easily, the grey threading through his hair. He'd lived longer than normal humans thanks to his Ōtsutsuki heritage, but even that had limits.
It was time to name a successor.
Indra stood to Hagoromo's right, his posture perfect, his Sharingan calm but alert. He'd prepared for this moment for years. He was the eldest son, the prodigy, the one who'd mastered every technique shown to him. By every tradition, every reasonable measure, the position should be his.
Asura stood to Hagoromo's left, looking uncomfortable with the attention. He'd tried to decline being present for this announcement, but his father had insisted. The younger son had grown into a capable young man—not brilliant like his brother, but steady, reliable, beloved by those he'd helped.
"My students," Hagoromo began, his voice carrying across the hall without need for enhancement. "I have taught you that power is meaningless without the wisdom to use it responsibly. That strength without compassion is just refined cruelty. That the true measure of a leader is not what they can do, but what they choose to do when no one is watching."
Indra felt a cold knot forming in his stomach. That phrasing. Those words. They weren't the opening to an announcement of his succession.
"I have two sons," Hagoromo continued. "Both powerful in their own ways. Both capable of great things. But only one truly embodies the principles I've tried to teach. Only one understands that leadership is service, not dominion. Only one has the heart that this position requires."
"No," Indra whispered, so quietly that only those nearest heard him.
"Therefore," Hagoromo said, his Rinnegan sweeping across the assembled crowd, "I name Asura as my successor. He will carry forward my teachings. He will lead this community when I am gone. He will be the one to guide humanity into its future."
The hall erupted. Some cheered—those who'd been helped by Asura, who'd seen his kindness firsthand. Others murmured in confusion—Indra was the obvious choice by ability. Still others whispered in concern, sensing the tension radiating from the eldest son.
Indra stood frozen, his world crumbling around him. His Sharingan spun wildly, trying to perceive, to analyze, to understand how this could have happened.
His father had chosen the fool. The weakling. The one who'd been blessed by nature not for strength but for naivety.
"Father," Indra said, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "I request a private audience. Now."
Hagoromo saw the barely controlled fury in his eldest son's eyes and nodded. "Clear the hall. This is a family matter."
The crowd filled out reluctantly, leaving only Hagoromo and his two sons.
"You chose him," Indra said, his voice dangerously quiet. "You chose Asura. Over me. The prodigy. The one who's mastered every technique you've taught. The one who's spent his entire life preparing for this role."
"I chose the one with the right heart," Hagoromo said firmly. "Indra, you're brilliant. Powerful. Capable of incredible things. But you see people as problems to be solved. Challenges to be overcome. You've grown cold, distant. The warmth you once had has been replaced by calculation."
"Because calculation is what leadership requires!" Indra's voice rose, his composure cracking. "Emotion clouds judgment. Sentiment weakens resolve. I've become what a leader needs to be—strong, decisive, uncompromising!"
"You've become what a tyrant is," Hagoromo corrected sadly. "Someone who believes their intelligence gives them the right to make decisions for everyone else. Someone who values power over connection. Someone who would rather be feared than loved."
"Better feared than pitied," Indra spat. "Like you. Groveling before that thing in the crater. Apologizing to nature itself for the crime of seeking knowledge. That's what you want in a successor? Someone who'll kneel before every threat? Someone who'll choose weakness over strength?"
"I chose someone who understands that some forces deserve respect rather than challenge," Hagoromo said. "Someone who saw Anant and recognized a guardian rather than an obstacle. Someone nature itself blessed because his heart was pure."
"There it is," Indra said, his voice filled with bitter understanding. "You chose him because of that. Because nature showed preference. Because he was naïve enough to see a monster and call it a hero. You're not making a choice based on merit or ability or preparation. You're bowing to the judgment of a force that tried to kill me for the crime of thinking!"
"You were thinking about how to contain Anant!" Hagoromo's patience was fraying. "How to bind him. Study him. Control him. That's not innocent curiosity—that's the mindset of someone who sees everything as a resource to be exploited. Do you understand why that terrifies me? Why I can't give you this power?"
"Because you're a coward," Indra said flatly.
The temperature in the room plummeted. Hagoromo's Rinnegan flared with power, and for a moment, Indra felt the full weight of his father's strength pressing down on him.
"I sealed a goddess," Hagoromo said, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd literally reshaped the world. "I fought the Ten-Tails for a day and a night. I've stared into the abyss and emerged victorious. Don't confuse caution with cowardice, boy. I'm careful because I understand the stakes. I'm respectful because I know there are forces that can't be beaten through strength alone."
"Then teach me!" Indra demanded. "Show me how to be what you want! Give me the chance to prove I can lead!"
"I did teach you," Hagoromo said quietly. "For years. And you learned the techniques perfectly. Mastered every skill I showed you. But you never learned the lesson beneath the techniques. You never understood that power is responsibility. That leadership is sacrifice. That sometimes the strongest thing you can do is admit you don't have all the answers."
"Brother," Asura finally spoke, his voice hesitant. "I don't want this. I never wanted to lead. Please, Father, reconsider. Make Indra the successor. I'll support him. Help him. But I'm not suited for—"
"BE SILENT!" Indra's Sharingan blazed as he turned on his younger brother. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare pretend humility now. You wanted this. You must have. Why else would nature bless you? Why else would Father choose you? You've been playing the fool, the weakling, gaining sympathy while I did the real work!"
"That's not true!" Asura protested. "I never wanted to compete with you! I just wanted to help people! I wanted us to be a family, to work together, not—"
"Together?" Indra laughed, and the sound was bitter and broken. "There is no together. There's strong and weak. There's leader and follower. There's worthy and worthless. And Father has decided I'm worthless despite everything I've achieved. Despite everything I've sacrificed to become perfect."
"You're not worthless," Hagoromo said, genuine pain in his voice. "Indra, you're my son. I love you. But love doesn't mean I can ignore what you're becoming. The hatred I see growing in you. The resentment. The belief that your intelligence gives you superiority over those less gifted."
"It does give me superiority," Indra said coldly. "That's not arrogance—that's fact. I can perceive things others can't. Solve problems others struggle with. Master techniques others need years to learn. Why should I pretend we're all equal when we demonstrably aren't?"
"Because equality isn't about capability," Hagoromo explained. "It's about worth. Every person has value. Every life matters. The strong have a responsibility to protect the weak, not to rule over them."
"Pretty words," Indra said dismissively. "But words don't change reality. The strong do rule. They always have. They always will. You've just dressed it up in philosophy to make yourself feel better about the power you wield."
Hagoromo looked at his eldest son and felt something break inside him. This wasn't the boy he'd raised. This wasn't the warm, curious child who'd once asked endless questions about the world. This was something colder. Harder. Something that had been poisoned by pride and resentment.
And in the shadows, invisible and intangible, Black Zetsu watched with satisfaction. The seed he'd planted years ago had grown into a thorny tree, bearing the bitter fruit of hatred.
"I won't change my decision," Hagoromo said finally. "Asura is my successor. When I die, he will lead. That's final."
"Then you've made your choice," Indra said, his voice empty of emotion. "And I've made mine."
He turned toward Asura, his Sharingan spinning into a new pattern—the Mangekyō, awakened not through loss but through hatred so pure it forced evolution. The tomoe elongated, twisted, became something beautiful and terrible.
"I challenge you," Indra said to his brother. "For the right of succession. Combat. No rules. No mercy. Winner takes the position. Father's choice be damned."
"Indra, no!" Asura pleaded. "I don't want to fight you! You're my brother! Please, just take the position! I'll tell everyone I'm not worthy! I'll—"
"Fight me or prove Father right that you're weak," Indra interrupted. "Prove you're not worthy. Show everyone that his choice was a mistake. Or prove you can stand against me. Either way, this ends now."
"I forbid this," Hagoromo commanded, his Rinnegan flaring. "Both of you, stand down. There will be no duel. No challenge. This is madness."
"Then stop me," Indra said, his Mangekyō Sharingan blazing as he launched the first attack.
Part Two: When Brothers Break
Black flames erupted around Asura—Amaterasu, the inextinguishable fire born from Indra's hatred and desperation. Asura barely managed to dodge, his instincts honed by years of training even if his genius didn't match his brother's.
"Indra, please!" Asura cried out, his hands weaving seals defensively. "I don't want to hurt you!"
"Then you'll die," Indra said coldly, his Susanoo beginning to form—a skeletal structure of chakra that towered over the hall, its ethereal hands reaching for his brother with murderous intent.
The ribcage formed first, then the arms, each bone glowing with purple-black chakra that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. The Susanoo's empty eye sockets fixed on Asura with the same hatred Indra felt, as if the technique itself had inherited its user's resentment.
Hagoromo moved to intervene, but Indra's Susanoo batted him aside with shocking force. The Sage of Six Paths crashed through the wall of his own hall, the stone crumbling like sand. The eldest son had been holding back, had been concealing just how far his power had grown in his obsessive training.
"This is between us, Father," Indra said, his voice echoing through the Susanoo as if amplified by the construct itself. "Stay out of it."
Asura had no choice. His brother was trying to kill him. Actually kill him, not just defeat him. He could see it in those Mangekyō eyes—cold determination, absolute conviction that this was necessary, that removing the obstacle of his brother was the only path forward.
Nature energy surged within Asura, responding to his desperate need. His connection to the world itself activated, and for the first time since the blessing, he truly understood what had been given to him.
It wasn't just power. It was partnership. The planet itself was offering to fight alongside him, to lend its strength to someone who'd proven worthy through compassion rather than conquest.
"Wood Release: Advent of a World of Trees!"
The hall exploded with growth. Massive trees erupted from the floor, their trunks thick as houses, their roots spreading like nets. They wrapped around Indra's Susanoo, constricting, binding, trying to immobilize the ethereal construct.
But these weren't normal trees. Each one carried Asura's will, his desire to restrain rather than harm, to stop his brother without destroying him. The wood bent and flexed with intelligence, seeking gaps in the Susanoo's armor, trying to reach the human inside.
"Finally," Indra said, and there was something almost pleased in his voice. "Finally you show your power. The blessing nature gave you. The reason Father chose you. Show me it was worth betraying your own son!"
The Susanoo evolved in response to the threat. Muscle formed over the skeleton, then armor—layered plates of chakra that gleamed like obsidian. A sword materialized in its hand, massive and curved, wreathed in the same black flames that had started this fight.
The blade cut through Asura's trees like they were grass. Each swing sent dozens of trunks crashing down, their severed ends smoldering with Amaterasu flames that couldn't be extinguished by normal means.
But Asura didn't stop. For every tree that fell, two more grew. The hall was gone now, destroyed by their conflict. They fought in the ruins, then beyond the ruins, their battle spilling out into the settlement itself.
People fled in terror as two godlike beings waged war. Some of Asura's followers tried to help, but Hagoromo stopped them, his Rinnegan creating barriers that kept civilians away from the destruction.
"Let them fight," Hagoromo said, though his heart was breaking. "This has to play out. Indra won't stop until it does."
The battle raged for hours. The sun crossed the sky, casting long shadows as the brothers fought with everything they had. Indra's Susanoo grew more refined, more powerful, developing additional arms, a bow that fired arrows of pure chakra, defensive techniques that turned aside even Asura's most powerful wood constructs.
But Asura was evolving too. His Wood Release became more sophisticated, more responsive. He created entire forests that moved with tactical precision, that reacted to Indra's attacks before they landed, that seemed to anticipate his brother's strategy.
And slowly, impossibly, Asura began to win.
Not through superior skill—he had none. Not through better techniques—Indra's were more refined, more elegant, more efficiently executed. But through sheer determination. Through the support of nature itself, which fed him energy when he flagged. Through the connection to all living things that let him draw on reserves Indra's isolated brilliance couldn't match.
Indra noticed it too. His attacks were landing, but they weren't having the effect they should. His Susanoo's blade would cut through a tree, and the wood would simply reform. His Amaterasu flames would consume a section of forest, and new growth would sprout from the ash. His most devastating techniques were being countered not through greater power, but through inexhaustible endurance.
"No," Indra gasped, his Susanoo flickering as his chakra depleted. "No, this isn't... I'm stronger. I'm better. I'm—"
"You're my brother," Asura said, his voice carrying across the battlefield despite his own exhaustion. "And I don't want to hurt you. But I won't let you destroy everything Father built. I won't let your hatred burn down what we've created together."
"We didn't create anything together!" Indra snarled. "You were a burden. A weight. Someone I had to carry while you played at helping people. Someone who got credit for kindness while I did the actual work of advancing our techniques, our understanding, our power!"
"That's not true," Asura said sadly. "We built this together. Every technique Father taught us, every lesson we learned, every moment we spent training—that was us. Together. As brothers. As family. Why can't you see that?"
"Because it's a lie!" Indra's Mangekyō Sharingan spun wildly, tears of blood streaming from his eyes as he pushed the technique beyond its limits. "Family is what chooses you. Blood is what abandons you. And I've learned the truth—the only person you can rely on is yourself. The only strength that matters is your own."
His Susanoo flared one final time, gathering every bit of remaining chakra for a final, devastating attack. The construct's sword grew to impossible size, wreathed in black flames that made the air itself scream.
"If I can't win," Indra said quietly, "then neither of us will lead."
He brought the blade down with force that could split mountains.
Asura didn't dodge. Didn't run. He stood his ground and created his counter—not an attack, but a defense. The most massive Wood Release technique he'd ever attempted, a single tree that grew faster than thought, its trunk wider than houses, its branches spreading to catch the falling blade.
The sword met the tree with a sound like thunder. The Amaterasu flames consumed the wood, but more kept growing, faster than the fire could spread. The tree's roots dug deep into the earth, drawing on the planet's strength, refusing to fall despite the overwhelming force trying to destroy it.
For a moment, they were locked—Indra's hatred against Asura's compassion, Susanoo against Wood Release, the philosophy of dominance against the philosophy of protection.
Then Indra's chakra failed.
The Susanoo flickered. Dimmed. Began to dissolve.
And Asura's final attack—a massive wooden construct shaped like a dragon—crashed into his brother with all the force of nature's judgment.
Indra flew backward, his body broken, his Mangekyō Sharingan fading as unconsciousness claimed him. He landed in the rubble of what had been their father's hall, defeated, his pride shattered beyond repair.
Asura stood among his trees, breathing hard, tears streaming down his face. He'd won. But victory had never tasted so bitter.
Part Three: The Fracture Complete
Asura approached his fallen brother carefully, half-expecting Indra to rise for another attack. But the eldest son was truly unconscious, his body battered, his chakra completely depleted.
"Brother," Asura said softly, kneeling beside him. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry it came to this."
Indra's eyes fluttered open, still showing the Mangekyō pattern even in his weakened state. "You... won," he rasped. "Proved... you're stronger..."
"No," Asura said firmly. "I proved I was more desperate. I proved nature supports me. But that doesn't make me stronger, Indra. You're still the genius. Still the prodigy. Still my older brother who I've always looked up to."
"Don't," Indra said, trying to sit up and failing. "Don't try to make this better. You defeated me. Proved Father right. Proved I'm... not worthy..."
"You're worthy," Asura insisted, helping his brother into a sitting position. "Just not for this. Not for leadership. But for so many other things. You could be the greatest researcher of techniques. The most skilled warrior. The one who pushes the boundaries of what's possible. Why isn't that enough?"
"Because I needed to prove," Indra said, and his voice broke, "that Father was wrong. That I wasn't... wasn't a mistake. That choosing you over me wasn't the right decision."
"Brother," Asura's voice was filled with pain. "Father didn't choose me because you're a mistake. He chose me because he's afraid. Afraid of what you're becoming. Afraid of the hatred he sees growing in you."
"The hatred that let me awaken the Mangekyō," Indra said bitterly. "The hatred that gave me power beyond what Father ever achieved at my age. The hatred that almost let me win despite you having nature's blessing."
"Hatred isn't strength," Asura said. "It's just pain you're using as fuel. And eventually, it burns out. Eventually, it burns you."
"Then let it burn," Indra said, pushing Asura's hands away. "Let it consume me completely. Because this world needs someone willing to make hard choices. Someone willing to be hated if it means protecting humanity."
"Protecting humanity from what?" Asura asked. "From peace? From cooperation? From the community Father's trying to build?"
"From the Deva," Indra said quietly. "From Anant. From the being that sleeps in that crater, healing, preparing to wake and judge us unworthy. Father's too afraid to face that threat. Too weak to do what's necessary. But I'm not. I'll become strong enough. And my descendants will become strong enough. And when that monster opens his eyes, he'll find humans ready to fight rather than beg for mercy."
"He's not a monster," Asura said desperately. "I felt it, Indra. When we were at the crater. He's a guardian. A protector. He's not here to destroy us—he's here to stop the Ōtsutsuki from harvesting worlds."
"And we carry Ōtsutsuki blood," Indra countered. "We use Ōtsutsuki power. To him, we're the enemy. Father's message, his pleas—they're meaningless to a being designed to hunt. When he wakes, he won't care about our intentions. He'll care about our heritage. And we'll all die unless someone is strong enough to stop him."
"You can't stop him," Asura said, horror in his voice. "Indra, you saw what happened when you just thought about challenging him. Nature itself tried to kill you. What do you think will happen when he actually wakes up?"
"I'll be ready," Indra said, forcing himself to his feet despite his injuries. "I'll be so strong that even nature's judgment doesn't matter. So powerful that even a Deva has to acknowledge my strength."
"That's insane," Asura said. "That's suicide."
"That's survival," Indra corrected. "And if you can't see it, if you're too blind to understand what's at stake, then Father made an even worse choice than I thought."
He turned and began walking away, limping, broken, but unbowed.
"Where are you going?" Asura called after him.
"Away," Indra said. "Away from this place. Away from Father's naive philosophy. Away from you and everyone who thinks kindness will save us when the real threats arrive."
"Indra, please!" Asura's voice cracked. "Don't do this! Stay! We can work together! We can—"
"There is no together," Indra interrupted, not looking back. "There's just strong and weak. Winners and losers. Those who prepare for reality and those who hide from it. I'm done hiding."
"What will you do?" Asura asked.
"I'll build my own clan," Indra said. "Gather those who value strength over sentiment. Who understand that power is meant to be wielded, not apologized for. Who see the truth that Father's too afraid to acknowledge—that humanity's survival depends on warriors, not philosophers."
"You're starting a war," Asura realized. "Between your followers and Father's."
"I'm starting a legacy," Indra corrected. "One that will outlast Father's naive hopes. One that will be ready when the threats he refuses to face finally arrive. And someday, when the Deva wakes and your descendants are begging for mercy, my descendants will be strong enough to actually fight."
"Your descendants will carry your hatred," Asura said quietly. "They'll inherit this curse you're creating. This belief that power solves everything. This contempt for those you see as weak."
"Good," Indra said. "Let them inherit it. Let them be strong. Let them survive when your descendants fall."
He walked away into the wilderness, and Asura didn't follow. Couldn't follow. The gap between them had become too wide, the philosophical divide too deep.
Hagoromo emerged from where he'd been maintaining barriers, his face aged beyond his years by what he'd witnessed. "He's gone," the Sage said quietly. "My eldest son. Gone to create exactly what I feared—a clan that values power above all else."
"We have to stop him," Asura said. "Bring him back. Make him see—"
"We can't," Hagoromo interrupted. "Indra's made his choice. All we can do now is make ours. You'll lead this community with compassion and wisdom. You'll build something that proves Father was right to choose you. And you'll hope—pray—that someday, somehow, your descendants and Indra's find a way to bridge the gap we've failed to close."
"What if they can't?" Asura asked. "What if this hatred becomes permanent? What if our descendants war forever?"
"Then we've failed," Hagoromo said simply. "Failed as fathers. Failed as leaders. Failed as brothers. But we still have to try. We still have to believe that love is stronger than hate. That compassion can outlast resentment. That the choice to protect rather than dominate will ultimately prove right."
Asura looked at the destruction around them—the ruined hall, the scarred earth, the broken community that had just watched two brothers try to kill each other. "What do we do now?"
"We rebuild," Hagoromo said. "We always rebuild. That's what protectors do. That's what separates us from those who only know how to destroy."
And far away, vanishing into the wilderness, Indra felt Black Zetsu's presence in the shadows. The voice that had whispered in his ear for years, that had nurtured his resentment, that had encouraged his worst impulses.
"Well done," Zetsu said. "You've taken the first step toward true strength."
"This isn't strength," Indra said bitterly. "This is defeat. I lost. My brother beat me."
"You lost a battle," Zetsu corrected. "But you've begun to win the war. The war for humanity's future. The war to determine whether we survive or perish when the real threats emerge. Your brother may have won today, but your descendants will win tomorrow."
"My descendants," Indra repeated. "The Uchiha."
"Yes," Zetsu confirmed. "The ones who'll carry your vision forward. Who'll understand that strength is survival. Who'll be ready when others aren't."
Indra's Mangekyō Sharingan spun slowly, painfully, as he looked toward the horizon. "Then I'll make sure they're strong. Strong enough to do what I couldn't. Strong enough to protect this world from everything—including sleeping gods who think they have the right to judge us."
In his hidden dimension, Isshiki smiled. The Curse of Hatred was complete. The fracture between Indra and Asura would echo through generations, creating conflict that would weaken humanity, that would make them vulnerable, that would eventually allow him to manipulate them into breaking Kaguya's seal.
All according to plan.
All leading toward his escape.
And in the crater, Anant's Fifth Gate—Revelation—recorded another data point. Brothers fighting. One seeing him as threat, one as protector. The divergence growing wider, the consequences spreading farther.
When he woke, this would be relevant. This would inform his judgment.
But for now, he slept on, healing, waiting, inevitable.
Seeds of Legacy
Two years passed.
Asura led his community with the compassion his father had hoped for. He married a kind woman who shared his values, started a family, built a legacy of cooperation and mutual support. His followers became known for their willingness to help others, their emphasis on emotional bonds over individual power.
Indra disappeared into the mountains, gathering followers who shared his philosophy. They became the Uchiha—named after the fans they used to signal each other, symbolizing the way they fanned the flames of their ambition. They developed techniques that pushed the Sharingan to new heights, that prioritized individual excellence over group harmony.
The two groups never fought openly. But there was tension. A cold war of philosophies, each side certain they were right, each side wondering when the other would prove to be a threat.
Hagoromo watched it all with a heavy heart. He'd created this division by choosing Asura. But he'd had no choice—Indra had become too dangerous, too consumed by hatred, too willing to sacrifice others for his vision.
Still, the Sage wondered if there had been another way. A path that didn't fracture his family, that didn't set descendants against each other, that didn't plant seeds of conflict that would bloom for generations.
"Father," Asura said one evening, finding the old sage alone. "You're thinking about him again. About Indra."
"I'm thinking about what I could have done differently," Hagoromo admitted. "How I could have saved both my sons instead of just one."
"You couldn't," Asura said gently. "He made his choice. Indra chose hatred. Chose to see the world as strong versus weak. Chose to believe that caring about others was weakness rather than strength."
"Did he choose?" Hagoromo asked. "Or was he manipulated by someone into choosing? That shadow voice that's been whispering in his ear—I've felt its presence very slightly but never caught it. What if Indra's hatred isn't entirely his own? What if he was guided toward it?"
"Does it matter?" Asura asked. "Even if he was manipulated, he still accepted those ideas. He still acted on them. He's still building a clan around the philosophy that might makes right."
"It matters because it means his descendants might break free," Hagoromo said. "If the hatred was planted rather than natural, it can be uprooted. Someday. Somehow. By someone with the right combination of strength and compassion."
"Your prophecy," Asura realized. "The blue-eyed child. You think he'll be able to bridge the gap between Indra's descendants and mine?"
"I hope so," Hagoromo said. "Because if he can't, if that division becomes permanent, then humanity will be too busy fighting itself to be ready when Anant wakes."
"How long do you think we have?" Asura asked.
"Decades," Hagoromo said. "Centuries. Perhaps millennia. The corruption in his wounds is weakening, but slowly. Very slowly. We have time. The question is whether we'll use it wisely."
They stood together in silence, father and son, looking toward the horizon where Indra's clan was growing, where a parallel legacy was being built on different principles.
"I'll do my best," Asura finally said. "I'll teach my children what you taught me. That power is responsibility. That strength means protecting others. That the measure of a person is how they treat those weaker than themselves. Maybe that will be enough."
"Maybe," Hagoromo agreed. "And maybe your descendants and Indra's will find a way to work together despite the hatred. Maybe love will prove stronger than resentment. Maybe the choice to be protectors will outlast the choice to be conquerors."
"Maybe," Asura echoed.
But neither of them sounded convinced.
Because they'd both seen the hatred in Indra's eyes. They'd both felt the curse taking root. They'd both understood that what had been planted that day in the crater—when nature blessed one brother and assaulted another—had grown into something that couldn't be easily removed.
The Curse of Hatred was real.
And it would haunt the Uchiha for generations to come.
Part four: The Creation of Nine
Twenty years had passed since Indra left.
Asura's community had grown into a thriving settlement, with families raising children, elders teaching the young, and a genuine sense of collective purpose. The philosophy of cooperation over competition had taken root, creating something beautiful even if imperfect.
Indra's Uchiha clan had established themselves in the mountains, developing techniques and traditions that emphasized individual excellence. They rarely interacted with Asura's people, but rumors filtered back—stories of incredible power, of Sharingan abilities pushed to new heights, of a clan that believed itself destined for greatness.
And Hagoromo, now in his Nineties, knew his time was coming to an end.
The Sage of Six Paths sat in meditation, feeling the Ten-Tails sealed within him beginning to stir. The beast's consciousness, suppressed for decades, was becoming restless as Hagoromo's power waned with age.
"Father," Asura said, entering the meditation chamber. "You're fading. I can feel it. Your chakra isn't as strong as it once was."
"Everything ends," Hagoromo said calmly, opening his eyes. "Even me. Even legends. I've lived far longer than I had any right to expect. Now it's time to prepare for what comes after."
"What do you mean?" Asura asked, concern evident in his voice.
"The Ten-Tails," Hagoromo explained. "Your grandmother's true form. I've kept it sealed within me all these years, contained by my own chakra. But when I die, that seal will break. The Ten-Tails will be released. It could devastate the world."
"Then what can we do?" Asura asked, fear creeping into his voice. He'd heard stories of the Ten-Tails, of the beast his father and uncle had fought for a day and night.
"I can divide it," Hagoromo said. "Split the Ten-Tails into smaller pieces. Nine pieces, each one a separate being, each one manageable in ways the complete beast never was. They'll be powerful, dangerous, but not world-ending. Not apocalyptic."
"Will it hurt them?" Asura asked, his compassion extending even to a beast he'd never met.
Hagoromo smiled despite his exhaustion. His son would ask that. Would think about the suffering of creatures most people would only see as weapons or threats.
"I don't know," Hagoromo admitted. "But I'll do my best to make the division as gentle as possible. To give each piece its own consciousness, its own identity, so they're not just fragments but complete beings. They'll be my children, in a way. My final legacy."
It took three months of preparation. Complex seals, meditation deeper than any Hagoromo had attempted before, calling upon the last reserves of his Six Paths power. He consulted ancient texts, spoke with Gamamaru through summoning, even reached out to his brother on the moon for advice.
Hamura's response, sent via a technique that projected his voice across the distance, was supportive but concerned: "Be careful, brother. Dividing the Ten-Tails is dangerous. If the separation isn't perfect, if even one fragment retains the original malevolence... make sure each piece has its own soul. Its own capacity for growth. Don't just create nine smaller monsters. Create nine beings capable of becoming more than their origin suggests."
Hagoromo took that advice to heart.
When he finally performed the technique, it took seven days and seven nights.
The Ten-Tails, sealed within him for decades, was carefully separated. The process was agonizing—not physically, but spiritually. He felt the beast's consciousness fracturing, its malevolence being diluted, its power being parceled out.
But he also felt something else. Each piece, as it separated, began to develop its own personality. Its own way of perceiving the world. The malevolent consciousness of the original Ten-Tails was transformed, diffused into nine distinct entities.
Some carried more of the original beast's aggression. Others were calmer, more curious. Each one reflected an aspect of what the Ten-Tails had been, but filtered through Hagoromo's will, shaped by his intent to create beings rather than weapons.
On the eighth day, as dawn broke across the settlement, Hagoromo opened his eyes to find nine small creatures surrounding him.
They were tiny. Newborn. Each one had a distinct number of tails—one through nine—and each one looked at him with confusion and instinctive recognition.
The nine-tailed fox was the largest, even in its infant form, with golden-orange fur that seemed to glow in the morning light. Its eyes were blue, innocent, nothing like the hatred and malevolence it would develop over centuries of human mistreatment.
The eight-tailed ox was already showing the hybrid nature it would carry—part gy, part octopus, its tentacles tiny but clearly defined even at this size.
The seven-tailed beetle shimmered with iridescent wings, already able to float despite its small size.
The six-tailed slug was translucent and beautiful, its body reflecting light in rainbow patterns.
The five-tailed dolphin-horse pranced around on uncertain legs, its white coat pristine.
The four-tailed ape was the most immediately mobile, already swinging from Hagoromo's robes with surprising dexterity.
The three-tailed turtle had already retreated partway into a shell that seemed too large for its body.
The two-tailed cat stretched luxuriously, its heterochromatic eyes—one yellow, one green—studying everything with feline curiosity.
And the one-tailed tanuki was already chattering, making sounds that weren't quite words but clearly meant to communicate.
"Hello," Hagoromo said gently, as one might greet a child. "Do you know who I am?"
The nine-tailed fox—the largest, the one that had received the most chakra—tilted its head. When it spoke, its voice was young, uncertain, nothing like the ancient malevolence it would develop over centuries.
"Father?" it asked.
Hagoromo felt his heart clench with unexpected emotion. "Yes," he said, his voice thick. "In a way. I created you. Gave you form. Gave you consciousness separate from the Ten-Tails. You're your own beings now."
The other eight approached carefully, some bolder than others. They circled him, sniffed him, touched him with tiny paws and tentacles and wings, each one trying to understand what they were and where they'd come from.
"I need to give you names," Hagoromo said. "Would you like that?"
They nodded eagerly, these newborn pieces of a once-terrible whole, innocent in ways the original Ten-Tails had never been.
And so Hagoromo named them, putting thought and care into each choice.
"You," he said to the nine-tailed fox, "will be Kurama. It means 'nine lamas,' but also carries the meaning of demon fox. But you're not a demon. You're my child. Remember that."
Kurama's tails swished happily at being named first.
"You," to the eight-tailed ox-octopus, "are Gyūki. The ox demon. But like your brother, you're more than your name suggests."
"You," to the seven-tailed beetle, "are Chōmei. Lucky seven. May you bring fortune rather than disaster."
"You," to the six-tailed slug, "are Saiken. The rhinoceros beetle. A name that speaks to your resilience."
"You," to the five-tailed dolphin-horse, "are Kokuō. King of the elements. May you balance them well."
"You," to the four-tailed ape, "are Son Gokū. The same name as the great ape king from legends. Be wise as well as strong."
"You," to the three-tailed turtle, "are Isobu. The patient one. May your defense be as unbreakable as your spirit."
"You," to the two-tailed cat, "are Matatabi. The monster cat. But you're not monstrous. You're beautiful and graceful."
"And you," to the one-tailed tanuki, "are Shukaku. The drunken demon. But may your chaos be joyful rather than destructive."
The nine Tailed Beasts—for that's what they would become known as—seemed pleased with their names. They began to grow almost immediately, their bodies expanding as they learned to control the chakra within them.
Within hours, they'd grown from puppy-size to the size of large dogs. By evening, they were the size of houses. By the next morning, they'd reached their full, massive forms—beings that could shake the earth with each step, that radiated power enough to make normal humans flee in terror.
But despite their size and power, they remained innocent. Curious. Eager to learn about the world they'd just been born into.
"There's something you need to understand," Hagoromo said seriously, once they'd all reached their full size. "Something important. You're powerful—each of you more powerful than almost anything else in this world. But there are forces that make even your power seem insignificant."
"Like what?" Kurama asked, his childlike curiosity evident despite his massive form.
"Like the being I need to show you," Hagoromo said. "Come. It's time you understood your place in the cosmic order. Time you learned about Anant."
Part five: When Beasts Learn Fear
Hagoromo led the nine Tailed Beasts toward the forbidden crater. The journey took most of the day—not because of distance, but because the Beasts kept stopping to investigate things. A river that Gyūki wanted to swim in. A forest that Chōmei wanted to fly over. Mountains that Son Gokū wanted to climb.
They were children, Hagoromo realized. Immensely powerful children, but children nonetheless. They had the strength to destroy cities but the curiosity of toddlers. It was endearing and terrifying in equal measure.
Kurama led the group, already developing the pride that would define him. He was the strongest, had the most tails, carried the most chakra. He'd already begun to develop the arrogance that would plague him for centuries—the belief that other than the Ten-Tails itself and his father, nothing could match his power.
"Father," Kurama said as they approached the barrier seals, "why are we going to a forbidden zone? If something's here that's dangerous, shouldn't we destroy it? Isn't that what we're for? To protect people?"
"You can't destroy this," Hagoromo said quietly. "And when you sense it, you'll understand why not."
"I'm the strongest of us," Kurama said confidently. "If I can't destroy it, nothing can."
"That's exactly the kind of thinking that'll get you killed," Hagoromo said sharply. "Kurama, you're powerful. All of you are. But power has context. There are beings in this universe that make your strength look like a candle compared to the sun. Never forget that."
The Tailed Beasts exchanged glances, uncertain if their father was being serious or just cautious.
They crested the rise, and the crater came into view.
All nine Beasts stopped, staring at the impossible profusion of life, at the way natural energy flowed toward the center, at the very wrongness of the space that made even their massive forms seem small.
"What is this place?" Matatabi asked, her twin tails twitching nervously. Even in her feline confidence, something about this location made her want to retreat.
"This is where a being called Anant has been sleeping for over seventy years," Hagoromo explained. "He's healing from wounds that should have killed him. When he wakes—and he will wake, someday—he'll remember that this world is inhabited by beings carrying Ōtsutsuki chakra. Including all of you."
"So?" Gyūki asked, his eight tentacles gesturing dismissively. "We're strong. If this Anant wakes up and tries to hurt Father or our friends, we'll fight him. All nine of us together."
"You misunderstand," Hagoromo said, his voice grave. "You won't fight him. You can't fight him. Come. I'll show you why."
They descended into the crater, and that's when the Tailed Beasts felt it.
The pressure.
It didn't build gradually. It didn't give warning. One moment they were walking normally, the next moment every Tailed Beast understood, on an instinctive level deeper than thought, that they were in the presence of something that made them prey rather than predator.
Kurama's legs buckled first. The nine-tailed fox, who'd been so proud of his strength moments ago, collapsed to the ground as if crushed by invisible weight. His nine tails thrashed helplessly, his massive body pressed flat against the earth. His chakra, which moments ago had felt limitless, flickered like a candle in a storm.
"Father!" Kurama gasped, his voice thin and terrified. "What... what is this?! I can't... I can't move!"
The other eight fared no better. Gyūki fell flat, his eight tentacles sprawled uselessly around him. Shukaku tried to burrow into the earth, ancient instinct screaming at him to hide, to escape, to get away from whatever was causing this terror. Isobu retreated completely into his shell, which did nothing to lessen the pressure. Son Gokū, usually so confident and strong, whimpered like a frightened child.
Chōmei's wings, which had carried him so easily, failed completely. The beetle crashed to the ground, unable to maintain flight. Kokuō's legs shook uncontrollably. Saiken's usually solid form became almost liquid with fear. Matatabi yowled in pure terror, a sound no cat that size should be capable of making.
And they hadn't even seen Anant yet. This was just the residual pressure from his sleeping form, the ambient effect of his existence on beings with Tailed Beast instincts and Ōtsutsuki chakra.
"Stop!" Hagoromo commanded, his Six Paths chakra flaring as he created a barrier around the Tailed Beasts. Golden light surrounded them, pushing back against the pressure, giving them space to breathe and think. "Don't try to sense him directly. Don't reach out with your perception. Just relax. Let my chakra shield you from the worst of it."
Slowly, gradually, the crushing pressure eased. Not gone—it would never be truly gone while they remained in the crater—but manageable. The Tailed Beasts could breathe again, could think, could do more than simply exist in primal terror.
"What is he?" Kurama whispered, all his earlier bravado completely shattered. "Father, what is that being? I've never felt anything like it. It's like... like looking at the sun and realizing for the first time that it could incinerate you without even noticing you exist."
His voice carried genuine trauma. The nine-tailed fox, who would become known across centuries as the most powerful and prideful of the Tailed Beasts, sounded like a frightened child.
"He's a Deva," Hagoromo explained gently. "A cosmic hunter. A being created by the universe itself to hunt species that harvest worlds. The Ōtsutsuki—your grandmother's species—are his prey. And by extension, anything carrying Ōtsutsuki chakra is potentially his target."
"Including us," Gyūki realized, horror in his voice as understanding dawned. "We're made from the Ten-Tails. We carry that chakra. We carry Kaguya's power. When he wakes, he'll hunt us. He'll kill us."
"Maybe," Hagoromo said. "Or maybe he'll judge you by your actions rather than your heritage. That's what I'm hoping for. That's why I needed to show you this. So you understand that in the grand scheme of existence, your power—impressive as it is to most beings—is nothing compared to beings like Anant."
"Can we see him?" Matatabi asked, fear and curiosity warring in her voice. "You said he's sleeping here. Can we look at him without... without dying?"
"As long as you don't sense him directly, yes," Hagoromo confirmed. "Come. But stay within my barrier. And remember—what you're about to see is probably the most dangerous being you'll ever encounter."
They approached the center of the crater slowly, these nine massive beings reduced to the behavior of frightened children staying close to their father. Each step was an effort of will against instinct that screamed at them to flee.
And there, embedded in the earth surrounded by flowers and trees that grew despite the scorched ground, lay Anant.
"He's so small," Shukaku said, confused. "I thought... I don't know what I thought. But not that. Not someone who looks human-sized. I expected something massive. Something that matched the pressure."
"Size doesn't indicate power," Hagoromo said. "Anant contains forces you can't even imagine. Within his body are eight gates—Primordial Star Chakra Gates. Each one holds power that far dwarfs the complete Ten-Tails. Each one represents a fundamental force of existence itself."
The Tailed Beasts stared at the sleeping figure, trying to reconcile the peaceful-looking man with the crushing terror they'd felt moments ago.
"Why is he here?" Kurama asked quietly. "What brought him to our world?"
"Destiny or fate that no one knows ," Hagoromo explained. "Kaguya Ōtsutsuki my Mother. She came here to harvest this world but fell in love with his father but later corrupted and plant a God Tree and drain all life. Me and your uncle Hamura decided to stop her and failed to defeat her then he arrived the same day my brother and I trying to sealed her away. He crashed into the mother Ten Tailed form which devastated her but she faced the main brunt force otherwise the Continent destroyed which destroy the life on this planet but even then he collide with Earth such force that it created this crater, killing everything within a hundred kilometers instantly. He's been unconscious since, healing from wounds that someone or something inflicted on him."
"Something wounded him?" Isobu asked, his voice small and muffled from within his shell. "Something hurt a being this powerful? What kind of monster could do that?"
"I don't know," Hagoromo admitted. "Which means there are forces in the universe even more terrifying than Devas. I tell you this not just to frighten you, but to give you perspective. To help you understand that power has context. You're strong, yes. But you're not invincible. You're not the apex. And someday, Anant will wake, and all of you will need to demonstrate that you use your power to protect rather than destroy."
"There's something else," Kurama said slowly, his massive body trembling. "Something I'm feeling. It's like... like an instinct. Deep down. Buried in whatever memories I carry from the Ten-Tails, from Kaguya's chakra. This instinct is screaming at me that we need to run. That staying here is suicide. That if Anant wakes while we're near, we'll die before we even realize we're under attack."
His voice cracked with genuine fear. This wasn't the Kurama who would rage against humanity for centuries. This was a newborn child confronting the reality of true apex predators.
"I feel it too," Chōmei admitted, his seven wings fluttering nervously despite being unable to fly under the pressure. "Like prey recognizing a predator. Like every part of me knows that we're not meant to be here, that this is his territory, that we're only alive because he's sleeping and hasn't noticed us yet."
"That's the Ten-Tails' memory," Hagoromo explained. "Part of Kaguya's knowledge. She encountered Devas before, or at least knew of them through Ōtsutsuki legends. That terror you feel is her terror, passed down to you through the chakra you inherited. She feared Anant with every fiber of her being, and now you carry that fear in your very essence."
"How do we fight something like this?" Gyūki asked, his eight tentacles writhing with anxiety. "Father, if he wakes, if he decides we're targets because we carry Kaguya's chakra, what can we possibly do?"
"You don't fight," Hagoromo said firmly. "That's the lesson I need you to learn today. Some beings can't be fought. Can't be overcome through strength or strategy or numerical advantage. Anant is one of them. If he wakes while you're near, you run. You scatter in nine different directions. You hide in the deepest places you can find. You do not stand and fight. You do not try to prove yourselves. You survive."
"That's cowardly," Kurama protested weakly, his pride warring with his instincts even in his terror.
"That's wisdom," Hagoromo corrected. "Courage is facing dangers you can potentially overcome. Stupidity is fighting battles you have no chance of winning. Learn the difference. It might save your lives someday but you elder brother Asura think Anant will decide the fate of this world based on the Karma."
Part Six: The Prophecy and the Farewell
The Tailed Beasts absorbed this lesson, each one processing it differently. But all of them were fundamentally changed by this encounter, by the understanding that their power—which seemed so immense, so overwhelming to normal creatures—was nothing in the cosmic scale.
"Will he kill us when he wakes?" Saiken asked quietly, his usually confident voice reduced to a whisper. "Even if we've been protecting people? Even if we've tried to be good?"
"I don't know," Hagoromo admitted, and his honesty was both terrifying and strangely comforting. "I've left him a message explaining everything. Asking for mercy. Hoping that he'll judge actions rather than heritage. But I can't guarantee anything. That's why I'm telling you this now, while I'm still alive to warn you. When I'm gone, remember what you felt here. Remember this fear. And if you ever sense this pressure again, run. Don't think. Don't hesitate. Just run if worst happened but Asura have complete faith in him but time will tell."
"Will we see you again?" Kurama asked, and there was something heartbreaking in how young he sounded. Despite his massive size, despite his nine tails and immense chakra, he was asking the question any child might ask their parent. "After you die, Father, will we ever meet again?"
Hagoromo felt tears prick his eyes. "Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps in another form, another life. But for now, know that I'm proud of you. All of you. You're not just weapons or monsters. You're my children. You have the potential to be forces for good in this world. I hope you'll choose that path."
The Tailed Beasts gathered around Hagoromo, these massive beings acting like cubs seeking comfort from their parent. He placed a hand on each of them, channeling his remaining chakra to strengthen their forms, to ensure they'd survive the coming centuries.
"I have one more thing to tell you," Hagoromo said. "A prophecy. A prediction. There will come a time, perhaps centuries from now, when a child will be born with eyes like the sky. Blue as the ocean. This child will have the power to change the world, to unite what I have divided, to heal what has been broken. He'll carry hope itself in his spirit."
"The blue-eyed child," Matatabi repeated, committing it to memory. "What should we do when we meet him?"
"Help him," Hagoromo said simply. "Guide him. Give him the chance to prove that my choice to distribute chakra was right. Give him the chance to show that humans carrying Ōtsutsuki power can choose to be protectors rather than harvesters. When you meet him, remember this moment. Remember that I chose to believe in potential over fear."
"We'll remember, Father," Kurama promised.
"Good," Hagoromo said. "Now, it's time to leave this place. Anant may be sleeping, but we shouldn't press our luck by remaining too long. The longer we stay, the more his presence affects you. I can feel it—your instincts getting stronger, your fear deepening. Let's go."
They left the crater, the Tailed Beasts moving with new understanding. They'd come to this place proud, confident in their strength. They left humbled, aware that power had context, that they occupied a middle tier in the cosmic hierarchy.
Above them: beings like Anant, who hunted world-harvesting aliens for the universe's balance.
Below them: humans, who they could crush without effort but who might, someday, be worthy of protection rather than contempt.
Their responsibility was to protect those below while fearing those above.
It was a heavy burden for newly-formed beings to carry.
That evening, as the Tailed Beasts rested near the settlement, Kurama approached his father one final time.
"Father," the nine-tailed fox said quietly. "That instinct I felt. The one screaming at me to run. It's not going away. Even here, miles from the crater, I can still feel it. Like a splinter in my mind that I can't remove."
"That's Kaguya's legacy," Hagoromo said. "The fear she carried became part of the Ten-Tails, and now it's part of you. You'll carry that fear for your entire existence, Kurama. The knowledge that somewhere in this world, something sleeps that could end you without effort."
"How do I live with that?" Kurama asked. "How do I be strong, be confident, be what you created me to be, while knowing that compared to Anant, I'm nothing?"
"By understanding that strength isn't about being the strongest," Hagoromo explained. "It's about using whatever strength you have wisely. You don't need to be stronger than Anant, Kurama. You just need to be strong enough to protect those who can't protect themselves. Strong enough to make the right choices. Strong enough to be kind even when you're afraid."
"I don't know if I can do that," Kurama admitted.
"You can," Hagoromo assured him. "You all can. That's why I created you as separate beings rather than leaving you as the Ten-Tails. You have the capacity for growth, for change, for becoming more than your origin suggests. Use it."
Three days later, Hagoromo Ōtsutsuki, the Sage of Six Paths, died peacefully in his sleep, surrounded by his son Asura and the nine Tailed Beasts he'd created.
His last words, whispered to Kurama who was closest, were: "Protect them. Protect the humans. They're worth it. I promise they're worth it."
Kurama, for the first time in his short existence, cried. All nine Tailed Beasts mourned their father's passing, these powerful beings reduced to grieving children.
But they remembered his lessons. Remembered the fear they'd felt in the crater. Remembered the blue-eyed child of prophecy.
And they scattered across the world to find their purposes, to grow into themselves, to become what their father had hoped they'd be.
Some would succeed. Others would struggle. All would carry the memory of that day in the crater, when they learned that power had context, and that fear was sometimes the most honest response to truth.
Epilogue: The Infinite Dreams On
In the crater, Anant's Fifth Gate—the Gate of Revelation—pulsed with activity. It had recorded the Tailed Beasts' visit, catalogued their fear, noted their restraint.
Nine beings of immense power, containing Ōtsutsuki chakra, who'd chosen not to attack. Who'd listened to their creator's wisdom. Who'd left peacefully despite their instinctive terror.
This information would be relevant. When consciousness returned, when the Eighth Gate—Liberation—finally opened, these data points would inform judgment.
The Tailed Beasts were born from a harvester but chose to protect.
Interesting.
The Fourth Gate—Transformation—continued its work, converting the last remnants of corruption to usable energy. The healing was accelerating now. Decades remained, perhaps a century, but no longer millennia.
The countdown was entering its final phase.
And when those golden eyes opened, when Anant rose from his earthen bed, when his consciousness fully returned and surveyed what had become of this world...
The Tailed Beasts would be judged.
Humanity would be judged.
The choice between harvesters and protectors would be evaluated.
And mercy, if it came, would be earned through actions rather than heritage.
The Infinite slept.
But not forever.
Never forever.
Just until the right moment arrived.
And the Nine Tailed Beasts, scattered across the world, carried that knowledge with them—the awareness that someday, somehow, they would face judgment from the being whose mere presence had reduced them to trembling children.
They could only hope that when that day came, they would be found worthy.
Or at least, worthy of a chance to prove themselves before the end.
[END OF CHAPTER 4 ]