Part One: The Observer's Revelation
Three hundred meters from the sealed room where the four brothers had performed their memory-viewing jutsu, a shadow moved in ways shadows shouldn't move.
Black Zetsu had been watching. Waiting. Monitoring Madara through the connection he'd maintained since the Uchiha awakened his Mangekyō Sharingan—a connection that existed in every Uchiha who reached that level of power, a backdoor built into the Curse of Hatred itself.
But what he'd witnessed through Madara's Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan had shaken him to his core.
Origin Devas, Black Zetsu thought, his consciousness still reeling from the cosmic battle he'd been forced to witness. Not just one, but nine. And Anant... Anant is the strongest among beings that could each easily rival the entire Ōtsutsuki clan.
He'd seen it all through Madara's eyes. The scale. The power. The casual destruction of stars and the cracking of black holes. The way reality itself bent and screamed under the pressure of their conflict.
But more than that, he'd seen something that made his artificial heart—if he had such a thing—freeze with a terror he'd never experienced in his sixteen centuries of existence( Now it's Sixteen centuries as the time pass which is important for the next arc.)
The crimson corruption. The void-touched poison that had infected the eight divine beings. The same substance that now festered in Anant's wounds.
He knew that poison. Recognized it on a level deeper than conscious thought. Felt an echo of connection to it, like a severed limb that still ached years after amputation.
How? Black Zetsu wondered, his amorphous form rippling with confusion and fear. How do I know that poison? I was created by Isshiki. I'm a construct of his Shinjutsu, a tool made from his will and that single molecule of...
His thoughts stopped. Froze. A memory surfacing that he'd never quite examined closely because Isshiki had always been there, always been in control, always been the absolute master who defined every aspect of Black Zetsu's existence.
But Isshiki had severed their connection. Had cut him loose the moment Anant's consciousness had stirred even slightly. Had abandoned his most valuable tool without hesitation because fear had overridden centuries of planning.
And in that severing, in that moment of absolute panic from a being Black Zetsu had believed was invincible, something had broken. Some mental conditioning, some limitation built into his consciousness, had fractured.
He could think now. Really think. Question things he'd never questioned before.
Isshiki said he created me from his will, Black Zetsu thought slowly, carefully, examining the memory from angles he'd never considered. Said I was a manifestation of his Shinjutsu, a technique made sentient. But why would a technique made from pure will recognize that crimson poison? Why would I feel an echo of connection to something that exists outside Ōtsutsuki power?
The memory of his creation surfaced, not suppressed now, not filtered through Isshiki's influence, but raw and unprocessed.
Part Two: The Memory of First Consciousness
Sixteen hundred years ago...
Black Zetsu's first moment of awareness was not gentle.
Consciousness exploded into existence like a star being born—sudden, violent, disorienting. He was aware, but had no reference for what awareness meant. Had thoughts, but no framework for organizing them. Existed, but had no understanding of what existence was.
"You are alive," came a voice, and Black Zetsu's newly formed perception focused on the source.
A figure stood before him. Tall. Humanoid. Skin pale as moonlight. Eyes that held the Byakugan but wrong—tomoe patterns in them, mixing two Ōtsutsuki bloodlines in ways that shouldn't be possible. This was Isshiki Ōtsutsuki, though Black Zetsu didn't know that name yet, didn't know any names.
"What... am I?" Black Zetsu managed to ask, his voice strange to his own perception, echoing wrong in ways that suggested his form wasn't entirely physical.
"You are my creation," Isshiki said, and there was satisfaction in his voice. Pride, even. "A being made from my will and technique. I call you Black Zetsu, and you will serve me absolutely."
"Serve?" Black Zetsu tested the word, found it fitting naturally into his consciousness as if it had always been there. "Yes. I will serve. That is my purpose."
"Good," Isshiki said. "You are intelligent, capable of independent thought, but bound to me absolutely. You cannot harm me. Cannot disobey direct orders. Cannot act against my interests. These are fundamental truths of your existence, as immutable as gravity."
Black Zetsu accepted this without question. Why would he question? He had no reference for rebellion, no concept of autonomy. He was created to serve, so serving was natural, right, the only possible way to exist.
"What is this place?" Black Zetsu asked, looking around the dimensional space where they existed—a pocket reality carved from nothing, hidden from normal perception.
"This is my sanctuary," Isshiki explained. "Hidden from the being that can kill me, from the planet that rejected me, from my traitorous partner(Kaguya) who tried to kill me. This is where I survived when I should have died. And now, this is where I plan my revenge and eventual escape."
"Escape?" Black Zetsu asked.
"Yes," Isshiki confirmed. "This world is doomed. A Deva is here—an Apex-class Deva, the most terrifying classification of cosmic hunter. He came suddenly without any warning to this low class planet and collided with the planet while severely injured Kaguya. He's wounded now, barely alive, but he will heal. And when he wakes, he will complete his judgement and if he find that there is Otsutsuki lineage . He will purge every trace of Ōtsutsuki influence from this planet."
"Including you," Black Zetsu said, understanding dawning.
"Including me," Isshiki agreed. "Unless I escape first. But I'm too weak. The wounds Kaguya inflicted when she betrayed me are too severe. I need time to heal, and I don't have time. The Deva could wake in decades or centuries. I need an alternative plan."
"What plan?" Black Zetsu asked.
Isshiki smiled, and it was not a kind expression. "Kaguya is sealed in the moon. Her power is locked away but not destroyed. If I could break that seal, absorb her power, I would have enough strength to survive the journey off this world. Enough power to flee before the Deva wakes."
"But you cannot break the seal yourself," Black Zetsu concluded.
"Correct," Isshiki confirmed. "Which is where you come in. You are made from... special materials. Materials that allow you to influence others subtly. To plant thoughts. To corrupt. To manipulate. You will work through humanity, through Kaguya's descendants, to eventually break her seal."
"How long will this take?" Black Zetsu asked.
"Centuries," Isshiki admitted. "Possibly millennia. But I have time, as long as the Deva remains sleeping. And you... you are patient. You don't age. You don't tire. You will wait as long as necessary to fulfill your purpose."
"And what am I made from?" Black Zetsu asked, the question rising naturally. "You said special materials. What materials?"
Isshiki hesitated, just for a moment. A fraction of a second where his expression flickered with something—concern? Fear?—before smoothing back to confidence.
"You are made from a molecule of corruption," Isshiki said. "A single molecule that survived when it shouldn't have. A fragment of poison so potent that even a trace of it can influence entire bloodlines. I found it, claimed it, studied it, and used it to create you."
"Where did this molecule come from?" Black Zetsu pressed.
"That doesn't matter," Isshiki said, and there was command in his voice now. A direct order coded into Black Zetsu's fundamental existence. "What matters is that you serve me. That you execute my plan. That you work to free Kaguya so I can claim her power and escape this doomed world. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Black Zetsu said, and the compulsion settled over him like chains. Not uncomfortable chains—he didn't know discomfort was possible—but absolute ones. Unbreakable. Defining.
He was Isshiki's tool. His purpose was to serve. That was the nature of his existence.
Or so he'd believed for sixteen hundred years.
Part Three: The Severed Leash
Present day, outside the sealed room...
Black Zetsu's form rippled with something that might have been laughter if he had lungs to produce sound.
He lied, Black Zetsu realized. Or at least, he didn't tell the complete truth. That molecule didn't come from random corruption. It came from something specific. Something connected to that crimson void poison I witnessed corrupting the Origin Devas.
The implications were staggering.
If Black Zetsu was made from a fragment of the same poison that had infected divine beings powerful enough to rival the entire Ōtsutsuki clan... what did that say about his own potential? His own nature?
And more importantly, Black Zetsu thought, who created that poison in the first place? Who had the power to corrupt Origin Devas? Who could manipulate a situation to turn eight divine siblings against the ninth?
He'd witnessed the battle through Madara's memory. Had seen the desperation in Anant's movements, the reluctance to fight, the pain of having to seal his own family. That hadn't been a fair fight. That had been an assassination attempt disguised as divine conflict.
Someone had poisoned the eight. Had turned them against Anant. Had orchestrated a situation where the strongest Origin Deva would be wounded severely enough to be vulnerable.
Someone was afraid of Anant, Black Zetsu concluded. So afraid that they corrupted eight Origin Devas and used them as weapons. So afraid that they created a poison specifically designed to harm beings who should be unkillable.
And a single molecule of that poison—surviving by chance or design—had been claimed by Isshiki and used to create Black Zetsu.
Which means I'm connected to that being, Black Zetsu realized. Whoever created the original corruption, whoever orchestrated that cosmic assassination attempt, I carry a fragment of their work inside me. Not enough to be controlled by them—the connection is severed, echoing but not active—but enough to recognize. Enough to remember.
The white half of his face twisted into something approximating a smile.
Isshiki thought he was creating a tool. But he was actually creating a fragment of something far more dangerous. Something even he feared, even if he didn't consciously realize it.
That fear had been evident when Isshiki had severed their connection. When the absolute control he'd maintained for sixteen centuries had been cut without hesitation because survival overrode possession.
Black Zetsu was free now. Not completely—some of the base programming remained, some of the compulsions that defined his existence—but the absolute leash was gone. The master control that made disobedience impossible had been cut.
I can choose now, Black Zetsu realized. Not completely freely—I'm still shaped by my creation, still driven by purposes built into my consciousness—but I can choose how to pursue those purposes. Can decide whether to remain Isshiki's tool or become something else.
He watched the sealed room where the four brothers were recovering from their memory viewing, his perception focused particularly on Madara.
The Indra incarnation. The strongest Uchiha to ever exist. And now, with Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan that shouldn't be possible, evolved through exposure to Anant's gaze, carrying power that exceeds even the original Indra.
Black Zetsu could still feel the connection to Madara, could still sense through his eyes when the Mangekyō activated, could still plant thoughts and nurture the Curse of Hatred that ran through Uchiha blood.
But now he understood that curse differently. Not as something Isshiki had created, but as something Isshiki had amplified. The curse was older than Isshiki's manipulation, older than Black Zetsu's creation, connected to that same crimson corruption that had poisoned Origin Devas.
Indra was the first human to be truly infected, Black Zetsu realized. When Hagoromo and Hamura fought that crimson serpent born from Anant's corruption drop, they destroyed it completely—or so they thought. But one molecule survived. Isshiki claimed it. And before he used it to create me, before he fully understood what it was, some of its influence had already spread into Indra's bloodline(Shocking isn't, yes Indra is infected from the very birth as some influence or aura absorb inside Hogoromo which later transferred into the form of Sperm which become Indra just like Ichigo get infected with Hollow from birth and that's the main reason why Mother Nature want to kill him as she sense that curse inside him.)
That's why the Uchiha were prone to obsession. Why love made them stronger but loss made them monsters. Why the Sharingan evolved through trauma. It wasn't just genetics—it was corruption, ancient and subtle, woven into their very essence.
And Black Zetsu was made from the same source.
Which means I can nurture it. Amplify it. Turn it into a weapon more effective than Isshiki ever imagined. Not to serve him—he's abandoned me, cowering in his dimension, useless—but to serve my own purposes.
Part Four: The Plan Reformulated
Black Zetsu's form shifted, becoming more solid, more defined, as his newly freed consciousness organized itself around updated goals.
Isshiki's plan was always flawed, Black Zetsu thought. Break Kaguya's seal, let him absorb her power, escape together. But Isshiki is a coward. He'll abandon me the moment danger appears. He already did.
No, Black Zetsu needed a new plan. One that didn't rely on an Ōtsutsuki who fled at the first sign of real threat.
I'll still break Kaguya's seal, Black Zetsu decided. But not for Isshiki. For myself. I'll absorb her power. And then I'll find Isshiki and absorb him too. Combine the power of two Ōtsutsuki into one being—into me. That might be enough to escape this world before Anant wakes.
But even as he thought it, doubt crept in. Doubt born from witnessing that cosmic battle, from seeing what real power looked like.
Even with two Ōtsutsuki worth of power, would I be strong enough? Anant sealed eight Origin Devas while refusing to fight seriously. Even wounded, even corrupted, he's beyond anything the Ōtsutsuki can achieve. And if he wakes while I'm still on this planet...
No. Fleeing wasn't enough. Survival wasn't enough.
Black Zetsu had witnessed something in that cosmic battle, something that stirred desires he didn't know he could have. He'd seen Anant control reality through pure strength. Had seen power so absolute that physics became optional, that reality rewrote itself to accommodate will.
I want that, Black Zetsu admitted to himself. I want to be like him. Not to serve, not to survive, but to be. To exist with that kind of certainty, that kind of absolute authority over existence itself.
It was impossible, of course. He was a construct made from a single molecule of corruption. Anant was an Origin Deva, a being created by forces beyond universal comprehension to hunt species that harvested worlds.
But impossible had never stopped ambition before.
I'll start with what I can achieve, Black Zetsu decided. Manipulate Madara and the Uchiha.Collect all Bijuu and Break Kaguya's seal. Absorb both her and Isshiki. Gain power that exceeds any individual Ōtsutsuki. And then... then I'll see how far that power can be pushed. How much I can evolve. Whether a construct can become something more than its creator intended.
His attention returned to the sealed room, to the four brothers recovering from their cosmic revelation.
They're obstacles now, Black Zetsu realized. Especially Madara and Hashirama. If they remain united, if they continue building that village, if they create a stable human society with shared power... that's not useful to me. I need conflict. Need war. Need Madara isolated, desperate, willing to try forbidden techniques that I can guide toward breaking Kaguya's seal.
He focused on Izuna specifically, the younger Uchiha brother whose Mangekyō had awakened through trauma from Anant gaze rather than readiness.
Perfect, Black Zetsu thought. He's broken. Hollowed out by what he witnessed. His mind is fractured, his soul is wounded, and his newly awakened Mangekyō is recording everything in perfect, terrible detail that he can't process.
The Curse of Hatred worked fastest on the traumatized. On those whose minds were already cracked, whose defenses were already compromised, whose sense of self was already fragile.
Izuna was ideal.
I'll whisper to him, Black Zetsu planned. Through the Curse, through the connection all Mangekyō users share, through the corruption that runs in Uchiha blood. I'll amplify his fears. His sense of helplessness. His understanding that everything he does is meaningless against cosmic forces. I'll turn his trauma into paranoia, his paranoia into hatred, his hatred into action.
And through Izuna, Black Zetsu would influence Madara. Would create conflict between the brothers, between the clans, between the ideologies that Hashirama and Madara represented.
War is coming, Black Zetsu thought with satisfaction. Not immediately—I need time to nurture the corruption, to let it spread properly—but soon. Within a decade, maybe two. The Senju and Uchiha will clash again. Madara will lose someone he loves—probably Izuna, he's the most vulnerable. That loss will awaken something darker in Madara. And that darkness will be my gateway to achieving everything I need.
Part Five: The Corruption Spreads
Black Zetsu extended his senses carefully, probing the sealed room without entering it. He could feel the four brothers inside, could sense their chakra signatures, could perceive the lingering effects of the memory-viewing technique.
Tobirama's chakra was agitated, sparking with the rapid-fire pattern that indicated his mind was racing, analyzing, trying to make sense of what he'd witnessed. He'd be focused on understanding the mechanics, the principles, the ways to turn cosmic observation into practical technique.
Not useful for corruption, Black Zetsu assessed. Too analytical. Too grounded in physical reality. His mind doesn't work in ways that make him vulnerable to emotional manipulation.
Hashirama's chakra was turbulent, oscillating between despair and determination, between existential crisis and desperate hope. The Senju leader was struggling to reconcile what he'd witnessed with his belief in human potential, with his conviction that cooperation could overcome any obstacle and of course the blessing of Mother Nature.
Potentially useful, but difficult to corrupt, Black Zetsu concluded. He has natural energy flowing through him, Sage Mode connecting him to the planet itself. Nature loves Anant, which means nature won't support corruption aimed at undermining Anant's potential judgment. Hashirama's connection to Senjutsu makes him highly resistant to the Curse of Hatred.
Madara's chakra was different. Controlled. Disciplined. But underneath that control, Black Zetsu could sense something new—the Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan's influence, the mutation that had occurred when Madara's eyes had witnessed Anant's quarter-opened eye.
Fascinating, Black Zetsu thought, examining the pattern more closely. His eyes absorbed something. Some trace of Anant's presence, some echo of that divine gaze. It's not enough to make Madara anywhere near Anant's level—it's like comparing a candle to a Primordial star—but it's there. A fragment of something that shouldn't exist in human physiology.
That fragment made Madara the strongest Uchiha to ever exist, stronger even than the original Indra. His Eternal Mangekyō wasn't just an evolution of the Sharingan—it was a mutation, a deviation from the normal path, something unprecedented in Uchiha history.
And through that connection, through the Mangekyō that Black Zetsu could sense through the Curse of Hatred, he'd been able to witness the cosmic battle. Had experienced everything Madara's eyes recorded, had seen the scale and majesty and terrible beauty of Origin Devas at war.
Madara will be useful, Black Zetsu decided. But carefully. He's too strong to corrupt overtly, too intelligent to fall for obvious manipulation. I'll need to be subtle. Work through his brother. Use Izuna as the lever to move Madara.
Which brought his attention to Izuna.
The younger Uchiha's chakra was a mess. Fractured. Spiraling. His newly awakened Mangekyō Sharingan was active even in his exhausted state, spinning slowly, continuously processing and reprocessing the memory of what he'd witnessed.
Black Zetsu could feel it—the loop Izuna was trapped in. His Mangekyō had recorded something his mind couldn't handle, and now it played on repeat, over and over, each viewing traumatizing him further, each cycle digging the wound deeper.
He's breaking, Black Zetsu observed with something like satisfaction. His mind is cracking under the weight of cosmic truth. His sense of self is eroding. He's becoming hollow, becoming a vessel that could be filled with something else.
Black Zetsu reached out through the Curse of Hatred, through the connection all Mangekyō users shared, and touched Izuna's consciousness gently.
Not overtly. Not obviously. Just a whisper. A thought that could be mistaken for Izuna's own.
You are meaningless.
Izuna shuddered, his chakra spiking with distress.
Everything you do, everything you build, everything you achieve—it's all temporary. All worthless. All destined to be erased when beings like that wake and decide your species isn't worth preserving.
"No," Izuna whispered, barely audible, his voice hoarse.
Your brother saw the truth. Saw power that makes the Sharingan—the Uchiha's pride, your clan's ultimate achievement—look like a joke. A pale imitation of something infinitely greater. You're not warriors. You're not even worthy opponents. You're insects hoping the giants don't notice you.
"Stop," Izuna gasped, his hands clenching.
Why fight? Why train? Why try? You'll never be strong enough. Never be significant enough. Never matter on the scales that actually determine survival. You're doomed. Your clan is doomed. Your species is doomed. The Deva will wake, and judgment will come, and nothing you do will change that.
"I can... we can..." Izuna tried to argue, but his voice was weak, unconvincing even to himself.
Can what? Build a village? Madara tried that. And now he knows how pointless it is. Can master techniques? Your eyes evolved to their highest form and they still bowed before something infinitely superior. Can prepare for judgment? How do you prepare for something that operates on a scale where entire galaxies are battlefields?
Black Zetsu felt Izuna's resistance crumbling, felt the corruption spreading through the cracks in his psyche, felt the Curse of Hatred finding purchase in trauma-fertile soil.
But there is one thing you can do, Black Zetsu whispered, planting the seed carefully. One way to matter. One way to ensure your existence has meaning before the end comes.
"What?" Izuna asked, desperate for any solution, any purpose, any escape from the existential void opening beneath him.
Become strong enough that you can't be ignored. Become powerful enough that even beings like that have to acknowledge your existence. It won't save you—nothing can save you—but at least you'll die mattering. At least you'll die being seen rather than being irrelevant.
"How?" Izuna asked. "How do I become that strong?"
Power, Black Zetsu whispered. Pure, absolute power. Stop caring about right or wrong. Stop caring about relationships or cooperation or the pathetic idealism Hashirama preaches. Care only about strength. Pursue it at any cost. Sacrifice anything necessary. Become so powerful that cosmic beings notice you when they wake.
It was a lie, of course. No amount of human power would ever make Izuna relevant to beings like Anant. But it didn't need to be true—it just needed to be believable to a traumatized mind seeking purpose in the void.
"Yes," Izuna whispered, his chakra pattern shifting, stabilizing around the new purpose Black Zetsu had planted. "Yes. Power. I need power. Need to be strong enough to matter."
Black Zetsu withdrew his consciousness carefully, leaving no trace of his influence. To Izuna, it would feel like his own thoughts, his own conclusion drawn from his own trauma. The perfect corruption—the kind that couldn't be detected because the victim believed it originated from within.
And through Izuna's corruption, Madara will be affected, Black Zetsu thought. He loves his brother. When he sees Izuna changing, becoming obsessed with power, becoming willing to do anything for strength... Madara will try to help. Try to save him. And when he can't—when Izuna dies pursuing power, as he inevitably will—Madara's grief will complete his own corruption.
The plan was elegant. Subtle. Multi-generational if necessary, but probably achievable within a few decades.
First, corrupt Izuna. Use him to create conflict within the Uchiha clan, to undermine Madara's position, to make the Eternal Mangekyō user feel isolated and betrayed.
Second, engineer a situation where Izuna dies. Preferably in combat against the Senju, against Hashirama's forces, so that Madara's grief becomes rage against his former friend.
Third, guide Madara toward forbidden techniques. Show him the Uchiha stone tablet I've altered over the centuries. Lead him toward the plan to create the Infinite Tsukuyomi—a technique that will require breaking Kaguya's seal.
Fourth, let Madara believe he's pursuing his own goal while actually serving mine. Let him think he's trying to save humanity through genjutsu when really he's just opening the door for Kaguya's return.
Fifth, when Kaguya is freed, I strike. Not to serve Isshiki, but to consume both Ōtsutsuki. To combine their power and use it to evolve beyond what I was created to be.
It would take time. Decades, possibly. But Black Zetsu had time. He'd waited sixteen centuries already. What was another twenty or thirty years?
Part Six: The Mutation Observed
Black Zetsu focused his attention back on Madara, examining the mutation more carefully.
The Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan that had manifested shouldn't exist. The technique required transplanting another Mangekyō user's eyes, combining two bloodlines to create something beyond normal limits. Madara had achieved it through entirely different means—through exposure to something so powerful that his eyes had evolved or broken, depending on perspective.
What exactly did his eyes absorb? Black Zetsu wondered. Not power—he's not suddenly able to destroy stars or crack black holes. Not technique—he's not demonstrating abilities Anant showed. So what?
He examined the chakra flowing through Madara's eyes more closely, perceiving patterns that normal observation would miss.
There. A trace. Almost imperceptible. A fragment of something that shouldn't exist in three-dimensional space, compressed down into a form that could exist in human tissue.
Authority( Conqueror Haki in simple word), Black Zetsu realized with shock. His eyes absorbed a microscopic trace of cosmic authority. The ability to make reality listen when he gives commands. It's not anywhere near Anant's level—it's like comparing a whisper to a Star nuclear fusion—but it's there.
That's why Madara's Eternal Mangekyō was mutated. Why the pattern was slightly different from what historical records suggested the EMS should look like. His eyes hadn't just evolved—they'd incorporated something alien, something divine, something that changed their fundamental nature.
Interesting, Black Zetsu thought. Very interesting. This makes Madara even more valuable. Not just as a tool for breaking Kaguya's seal, but as a test subject. If his eyes absorbed cosmic authority, could I absorb it from him? Could I study the mechanism and replicate it? Could I use this to evolve myself beyond my current limitations?
It was worth considering. Worth pursuing, if opportunities arose.
But for now, the priority was corruption. Isolation. Turning Madara and Hashirama against each other while making it seem like natural development rather than external manipulation.
Part Seven: The First Whisper
Inside the sealed room, Izuna stirred. His eyes opened—Mangekyō active, pattern spinning—and he looked around with an expression that made his brother frown with concern.
"Izuna?" Madara asked gently. "Are you feeling better?"
"Better?" Izuna laughed, and it was a broken sound. "Brother, I don't think I'll ever feel better. I've seen too much. Understood too much. Everything I thought mattered just... doesn't. Not on the scales that actually determine whether we live or die, when I see Anant gaze my soul is breaking but able to control himself with the help of you all but after witnessing the Cosmic War my mind is breaking and don't know what to do."
"That's the trauma talking," Hashirama said carefully, his Sage Mode allowing him to sense the wrongness in Izuna's chakra. "What we witnessed was overwhelming, yes. Frightening, absolutely. But it doesn't mean your life lacks value or purpose."
"Doesn't it?" Izuna challenged, his Mangekyō focusing on Hashirama with an intensity that made the Senju leader uncomfortable. "Tell me, Hokage. If Anant wakes tomorrow and decides humanity isn't worth preserving, what does your village matter? What do your ideals accomplish? How do your speeches about cooperation change the fact that we're insects to beings like that?"
"We don't know what criteria Anant will use to judge," Hashirama argued. "Maybe cooperation matters to him. Maybe building something beautiful despite our limitations is exactly what proves we're worth saving."
"Or maybe he won't even notice," Izuna countered. "Maybe we're so beneath his concern that he'll erase us without even registering our existence. You saw the fight, Hashirama. You saw the scale. Do you really think he cares about human villages? About our petty political achievements?"
"I think," Madara interjected, his Eternal Mangekyō meeting his brother's Mangekyō, "that despair is easy. That giving up is simple. That deciding nothing matters is the coward's response to overwhelming truth."
Izuna flinched as if struck. "You're calling me a coward?"
"I'm saying that if you let what we witnessed destroy your will to try, then yes, you're being cowardly," Madara said, his voice firm but not unkind. "We're small. Fine. We're insignificant on cosmic scales. Accepted. But we're significant to each other. To the people in this village. To the future generations who'll benefit from what we build. That local significance is real, even if cosmic significance is beyond our reach."
"Brother speaks wisdom," Tobirama added. "Existential dread is natural after what we witnessed. But letting it paralyze you serves no one, least of all yourself."
From his hiding place outside the room, Black Zetsu smiled his putrid yellow smile.
Good, he thought. They're trying to help him. Trying to talk him down from the edge. But every argument they make, every attempt to rationalize what they witnessed, just reinforces how hollow their comfort is. They're lying to him and to themselves, and Izuna knows it. Feels it. Can't unhear the truth in his own thoughts.
He watched as Izuna nodded slowly, pretending to accept their arguments, pretending to be comforted by their words.
But Black Zetsu could sense the corruption underneath. The seed he'd planted was growing, roots digging deep into trauma-softened soil, spreading through Izuna's consciousness like poison through veins.
It's started, Black Zetsu thought with satisfaction. The corruption. The cycle. The inevitable conflict that will tear these four apart and set the stage for everything I need.
Madara would protect his brother. Would try to save him from the darkness Black Zetsu could see consuming Izuna's spirit.
He would fail. They always did.
And in that failure, in that loss, Madara's own corruption would complete. His grief would turn to rage, his rage to hatred, his hatred to the desperate pursuit of power that would lead him exactly where Black Zetsu needed him to go.
Kaguya will be freed, Black Zetsu thought. The moon's seal will break. The goddess will return. And I'll be waiting to consume her, to absorb Isshiki, to become something more than either of them imagined possible.
And if I'm very lucky, very clever, very patient... maybe I'll find a way to evolve beyond even that. To approach—not match, I'm not delusional, but approach—the kind of existence those Origin Devas represent.
It was ambitious. Probably impossible.
But Black Zetsu had been created from a fragment of corruption that had wounded Origin Devas. If that poison could harm beings powerful enough to fight Anant, maybe—just maybe—it could be used to create something equally transcendent.
Time will tell, Black Zetsu thought. But for now, I have work to do. Seeds to plant. Corruption to spread. A village to destabilize and brothers to turn against each other.
He melted deeper into the shadows, his form becoming truly invisible, his presence undetectable even to sensors as skilled as Tobirama.
As he slid through the earth, moving away from Konohagakure toward the territories where conflict brewed and hatred festered, Black Zetsu allowed himself one last thought.
Isshiki believed he was creating a tool. But tools can be reforged. Purposes can be redefined. And a fragment of cosmic corruption, given consciousness and sixteen centuries to evolve... well. That becomes something neither god nor devil quite knows how to categorize.
I am Black Zetsu. Born from the poison that wounded Origin Devas. Shaped by an Ōtsutsuki coward. Freed by his fear. And now... now I'll see just how far corruption can climb toward divinity.
The game begins.
And by the time it ends, this world—this planet that Anant sleeps beneath, that Kaguya tried to harvest, that Hagoromo tried to save—will never be the same.
The shadows swallowed him completely.
And in the sealed room, four brothers tried to comfort each other, completely unaware that they'd been watched, that their trauma had been assessed, that their weaknesses had been catalogued.
Completely unaware that the greatest threat to their village wasn't external enemies or ancient grudges.
It was something far more insidious.
Something that had waited sixteen centuries for this opportunity.
Something that smiled with gleeful malice as it disappeared into the earth, carrying plans that would span decades and cost countless lives.
The Curse of Hatred had a new vector.
And this time, it would not be stopped by love or friendship or idealistic speeches about cooperation.
This time, it would burn until the world itself changed.
Or until Anant woke and rendered all their struggles meaningless with a single opening of golden eyes.
Part Eight: Echoes of Corruption
Three weeks after the memory-viewing incident, Izuna had not recovered.
Oh, he functioned. Trained with the Uchiha. Performed his duties. Smiled when appropriate and maintained the appearance of normalcy. But those who knew him—really knew him—could see the hollowness beneath the facade.
Madara saw it most clearly.
His brother would wake screaming in the night, not from nightmares but from visions his Mangekyō Sharingan replayed endlessly. Would stare at nothing for hours, his eyes unfocused but his chakra spiking with patterns that suggested internal torment. Would train past the point of exhaustion, pushing himself with desperate intensity that spoke of running from something rather than running toward strength.
"Izuna," Madara said one morning, finding his brother at the training grounds before dawn. "This has to stop. You're destroying yourself."
"I'm making myself stronger," Izuna corrected, not slowing his kata. His Mangekyō was active—it was always active now, spinning slowly, constantly processing, never resting. "Strength is the only thing that matters. The only thing that can't be taken away by cosmic forces or divine judgment."
"That's not true," Madara argued. "Strength can be exceeded. We witnessed that. Beings exist that make our power irrelevant."
"Exactly," Izuna said, finally stopping his movements and turning to face his brother. His Mangekyō met Madara's Eternal Mangekyō, and there was something in Izuna's eyes that made Madara's breath catch. Desperation. Obsession. Fear masked as determination. "We're irrelevant. So the only response is to become less irrelevant. To climb as high as possible before the inevitable fall."
"You're talking like someone who's given up," Madara observed.
"I'm talking like someone who's seen the truth," Izuna countered. "The village Hashirama built—it's beautiful, I'll grant that. An impressive achievement for humans. But it's temporary. Fragile. Built on a foundation that will crumble the moment real power looks its direction. And when that happens, when Anant wakes or when other Ōtsutsuki arrive or when any of a thousand cosmic threats finally notice our existence, the only thing that might matter is personal strength. Not ideals. Not cooperation. Not love or friendship or bonds. Just power."
"When did you become so cold?" Madara asked quietly.
"When I saw beings that could destroy galaxies while holding back," Izuna replied. "When I understood that everything Father taught us, everything the village represents, everything we've built our identities around... it's all lies. Comfortable lies we tell ourselves to avoid confronting the truth of our insignificance."( Cosmic Horror in true sense)
Madara wanted to argue. Wanted to point out the flaws in Izuna's logic, the ways his trauma was distorting his perspective.
But part of him—the part that had also witnessed that cosmic battle, that had felt his Sharingan bow before something infinitely superior—understood what Izuna was feeling. The temptation to embrace nihilism when faced with proof of how small you really were.
"I can't let you spiral into this," Madara said firmly. "You're my brother. I'll help you through this, whatever it takes."
"Then help me get stronger," Izuna said. "Train with me. Push me. Help me evolve my Mangekyō to Eternal like yours. Help me become powerful enough that I matter, that my existence registers as more than background noise in a cosmic equation."
Madara hesitated. The Eternal Mangekyō traditionally required transplanting another Mangekyō user's eyes. It was a forbidden technique, one that violated Uchiha taboos. And more than that, he didn't believe Izuna's problem would be solved by more power—it would just give him more destructive capacity while leaving the underlying trauma untreated.
But looking at his brother's eyes, seeing the desperation there, Madara felt something crack in his resolve.
If I don't help him, he'll try something even more dangerous on his own, Madara rationalized. At least if I'm involved, I can guide him toward safer methods. Can try to heal the trauma while addressing his need for purpose.
"Alright," Madara said, a decision made that he'd question for the rest of his life. "I'll help you. But we do this carefully. Methodically. Not out of desperation but out of calculated growth. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Izuna said, and for the first time in weeks, there was something like hope in his expression.
From beneath the training ground, buried in earth where no sensor technique could detect him, Black Zetsu smiled.
Perfect, he thought. Madara thinks he's saving his brother. But really, he's just participating in his corruption. Every technique they explore, every forbidden scroll they research, every taboo they question—it all serves my purpose.
The seeds are growing. Soon they'll bear fruit. And when they do, when Izuna dies and Madara breaks and the village fractures...
That's when the real game begins.
Part Nine: The Village's Blindness
In the Hokage Tower, Hashirama reviewed reports with growing concern.
"The Uchiha are becoming isolated," Tobirama observed, pointing to the data they'd collected. "Training separately. Declining joint missions. Pulling back from community events. It's subtle, but the pattern is clear."
"Madara's influence?" Hashirama asked.
"Maybe," Tobirama allowed. "But I think it's broader than that. Something about our trip to the crater changed them. The whole clan feels it, even if only a few know what actually happened."
"The Curse of Hatred," Hashirama said quietly. "Father warned us about it. The Uchiha tendency to isolate when traumatized, to convert pain into power-seeking rather than connection-building."
"It's more than that," Tobirama disagreed as his terrifying intelligence analysing all the things that is happening. "This feels... orchestrated. Like someone's actively encouraging the division rather than it being natural drift."
"Who?" Hashirama challenged. "We've found no evidence of external manipulation. No infiltrators. No genjutsu specialists corrupting thoughts. Just Uchiha following their natural tendencies when stressed."
"Natural tendencies that someone might be amplifying," Tobirama insisted. "I can't prove it yet. But my instincts say there's a pattern here. Something we're missing."
Hashirama sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Even if you're right, what can we do? We can't accuse the Uchiha of being manipulated without proof. That would just drive them further away."
"We watch," Tobirama decided. "We monitor. We look for the pattern. And when we find it—and I will find it—we act decisively."
"Carefully," Hashirama corrected. "The village is too new, too fragile for harsh action. We need to preserve what we've built, even as we investigate threats to it."
Tobirama nodded, but his expression suggested he thought his brother was being too optimistic, too willing to hope that problems would resolve themselves through goodwill and patience.
What neither of them knew—what they couldn't know, because the manipulation was designed to be undetectable—was that every concern they voiced, every solution they proposed, every action they took to address the problem would actually make it worse.
Black Zetsu had been doing this for sixteen centuries. He understood human psychology better than humans understood themselves that even Tobirama can't match. Knew exactly which interventions would backfire, which efforts at unity would breed resentment, which attempts to help would be perceived as control.
The Uchiha isolation wasn't random. It was engineered. Each small decision that led them away from integration was the result of whispers so subtle they couldn't be distinguished from internal thoughts. Each Uchiha who chose clan over village did so believing it was their own conclusion, their own priority, their own response to legitimate concerns.
And the more Hashirama and Tobirama tried to address the division, the more they proved—in Uchiha eyes—that the village leadership didn't trust them, didn't respect their autonomy, didn't see them as equals but as problems to be managed.
It was brilliant manipulation. Self-reinforcing. Every attempt to stop it fed it.
And Black Zetsu watched with satisfaction as the village he'd taken weeks to infiltrate began fracturing along exactly the lines he'd designed.
Part Ten: The Forbidden Research
Two months after the crater incident, Madara and Izuna sat in a secured room in the Uchiha compound, surrounded by scrolls that should never have left the clan's most restricted archive.
"The Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan," Madara read from one ancient text, his finger tracing the faded characters. "Achieved through the fusion of two Mangekyō bloodlines. Traditionally through transplantation, but the scroll mentions alternative methods. 'Resonance between siblings. Chakra harmony achieved through shared trauma. The possibility of evolution without physical exchange.'"
"That's what happened to you," Izuna said, his own Mangekyō studying his brother's eyes. "Your evolution wasn't through transplantation. It was through exposure to power so overwhelming that your eyes transformed to survive."
"Exactly," Madara agreed. "Which means there might be other paths. Other ways to trigger evolution without the forbidden surgery."
"Such as?" Izuna pressed.
Madara pulled another scroll forward. This one was older, more damaged, its preservation seals barely maintaining coherence. "This mentions a ritual. A bonding technique between Uchiha siblings who've both awakened Mangekyō. It doesn't transplant eyes, but it links them. Creates a resonance that allows both sets of eyes to evolve together."
"Risks?" Izuna asked pragmatically.
"Death if the chakra compatibility is poor," Madara read. "Permanent blindness if the ritual is interrupted. Psychological fusion if the participants aren't mentally distinct enough. And..." he paused, his Eternal Mangekyō narrowing, "something called 'curse acceleration.' The text isn't clear on what that means."
"The Curse of Hatred," Izuna concluded. "The ritual accelerates it. Makes the participants more susceptible to the psychological patterns that define Uchiha darkness."
"Yes," Madara confirmed. "But it also promises power. Real power. The kind that might actually matter when cosmic judgment comes."
They looked at each other, brothers bound by blood and trauma, both marked by what they'd witnessed, both desperate in different ways to find meaning in a universe that had shown them how small they were.
"We could try it," Izuna said slowly. "Perform the ritual. Take the risk. Either we both die, which ends our suffering, or we both evolve, which gives us the power to matter."
"Those aren't the only outcomes," Madara argued. "We could end up worse than before. More corrupt. More dangerous to ourselves and others."
"Would that be worse than this?" Izuna asked, gesturing at himself, at his state of barely functional trauma. "I'm already broken, brother. Already corrupted by truth. What's a little more darkness compared to what we've already witnessed?"
Madara wanted to refuse. Wanted to say no, to protect his brother from this dangerous path.
But he looked at Izuna's eyes—at the Mangekyō spinning constantly, at the expression of desperation masked as determination, at the brother he'd grown up with slowly disappearing into trauma-induced obsession—and made a choice he'd regret forever.
"We'll do it," Madara said. "But carefully. With every precaution. And if at any point the ritual shows signs of going wrong, we stop. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Izuna said, relief evident in his expression.
Beneath the compound, Black Zetsu felt the decision through his connection to Izuna's Mangekyō, and his satisfaction was profound.
They're doing exactly what I needed them to do, he thought. Researching forbidden techniques. Pushing boundaries. Taking risks that will either amplify their power or destroy them—and either outcome serves my purposes.
If they succeed, Madara will gain even more strength, making him a more effective tool for breaking Kaguya's seal.
If they fail, Izuna dies, Madara's corruption completes through grief, and the path toward the Infinite Tsukuyomi becomes inevitable.
Either way, I win.
The only question was which path would prove more useful in the long term. But Black Zetsu had time. He could guide the ritual toward whichever outcome served him best when the moment came.
For now, it was enough that the brothers were committed to a path that would change them fundamentally. That would make them more powerful and more vulnerable simultaneously.
That would, ultimately, serve the plan he'd been nurturing for sixteen centuries.
Part Eleven: The First Crack
Three months after the crater incident, during a routine joint training exercise between Senju and Uchiha forces, something went wrong.
It started small. A Senju chunin making a comment about Uchiha aloofness. An Uchiha genin responding with a barb about Senju arrogance. Normal banter, the kind that happened constantly in a village where former enemies tried to coexist.
But this time, it escalated.
Words became insults. Insults became challenges. Challenges became an actual fight—not sparring, but genuine combat, with intent to harm rather than teach.
Hashirama and Madara arrived simultaneously, drawn by the chakra flares, and stopped the fight before anyone died.
But the damage was done.
"What the hell was that?" Hashirama demanded, looking at both groups. "We're allies. We're village-mates. This kind of violence against each other is unacceptable."
"They started it," an Uchiha jonin argued. "Called us arrogant. Said we thought we were better than everyone else."
"You do think that," a Senju jonin shot back. "Walking around with those Sharingan eyes like they make you special. Looking down on anyone without a bloodline limit."
"That's not—" Madara began, but he was interrupted.
"It is true," the Uchiha jonin insisted. "We are special. We are stronger. And we're tired of pretending otherwise just to make the Senju comfortable."
The words hung in the air like poison.
Hashirama looked at Madara, hoping his friend would contradict the statement, would reassert their shared vision of equality and cooperation.
But Madara hesitated. Just for a moment. Just a fraction of a second where doubt crossed his face.
It was enough.
"So that's how it is," Hashirama said quietly. "We build this village together, we create something unprecedented, we talk about unity and cooperation... and underneath it all, you still think you're superior."
"That's not what I—" Madara started, but Hashirama was already walking away.
"We'll discuss this later," Hashirama said over his shoulder, his voice cold in a way Madara had never heard before. "When you've decided whether you're committed to this village or just using it as a convenient alliance while maintaining Uchiha supremacy."
Madara stood frozen, watching his best friend—the person he'd dreamed of building a village with since childhood—walk away in disappointment and anger.
And in that moment, something inside him cracked.
He doesn't understand, Madara thought. He didn't see what I saw. Didn't feel his eyes bow before something infinitely superior. He's still operating under the delusion that everyone is equal, that cooperation is enough, that idealism can overcome the reality of cosmic hierarchy.
We're not equal. Not in ways that matter. Not on the scales where survival is determined. The Uchiha are stronger, and pretending otherwise just weakens everyone.
The thoughts felt like his own. Felt like reasonable conclusions drawn from experience and observation.
He didn't notice the subtle wrongness in them. The way they twisted truth into something uglier. The way they took his trauma and weaponized it against his relationships.
Black Zetsu, watching from the shadows, smiled his putrid yellow smile.
The first crack, he thought with satisfaction. Not a break yet. Not a full corruption. But the foundation is damaged. The trust is wounded. The friendship is compromised.
Now I just need to keep applying pressure. Keep creating situations where Madara feels misunderstood, where Hashirama feels betrayed, where both of them slide toward the inevitable conflict that will define their generation.
The village will survive this crack. Will patch it over with apologies and renewed commitment. But cracks don't heal—they just get covered. And the next stress, the next trauma, the next moment of doubt...
That's when everything shatters.
Part twelve: The Ritual Prepared
Six months after the crater incident, in the dead of night, Madara and Izuna prepared for the forbidden ritual.
They'd spent months researching, verifying each step, ensuring they understood the risks and procedures. The ritual space was marked with seals more complex than anything they'd attempted before—circles within circles, symbols that predated modern chakra theory, geometric patterns that seemed to pulse with their own internal logic.
"Last chance to back out," Madara said, though he already knew his brother wouldn't take the offer.
"We've come this far," Izuna replied. "And I need this, brother. Need to know that I can still grow. That I'm not trapped in this state of traumatized helplessness forever."
They took their positions, facing each other across the ritual space, their Mangekyō Sharingan already active and spinning.
"The ritual will link our chakra systems," Madara explained, reviewing one final time. "Create a resonance between our eyes. If it works, both our Mangekyō will evolve to Eternal. If it doesn't..."
"We die or go blind," Izuna finished. "I know. It's worth the risk."
Madara wanted to argue. Wanted to say no, this is insane, we're risking everything for power we might not even need.
But looking at his brother—seeing the desperation, the need, the way trauma had hollowed him out and left only this obsession with strength—Madara couldn't refuse.
I'm doing this to save him, Madara told himself. To give him something to hope for. To restore his sense of purpose and agency.
The ritual will work. We'll both evolve. And maybe, with that evolution, Izuna will finally be able to process what we witnessed. Will finally be able to integrate the trauma instead of drowning in it.
They began.
The seals activated. Their chakra started flowing, mixing, creating patterns that shouldn't be possible in normal physics. The Mangekyō in both sets of eyes spun faster, synchronized, began to resonate.
And Black Zetsu, hidden in the compound's foundations, reached out through his connection to Izuna's Mangekyō.
Not to sabotage. Not to interfere overtly.
Just to... guide. To nudge. To ensure the ritual succeeded but with specific modifications.
Let it work, Black Zetsu decided. Let both their eyes evolve. Let them gain the power they seek.
But in gaining it, let them also gain something else. Let the Curse of Hatred accelerate as the scroll warned. Let their psychological darkness deepen even as their ocular power increases.
Let them become stronger and more corrupt simultaneously.
Because power without corruption is dangerous to my plans. But power combined with corruption...
That's perfect.
The ritual completed.
Both brothers gasped, their eyes burning, their chakra systems permanently altered. When they opened their eyes again, when their Mangekyō became visible once more, the patterns had changed.
Izuna's Mangekyō had evolved. Not to Eternal—that required different conditions—but to something unique. Something the ancient texts called "Resonant Mangekyō." His eyes carried an echo of Madara's Eternal pattern, a reflection of his brother's evolution, giving him similar power without the same mutation.
"It worked," Izuna breathed, testing his new vision. "I can feel it. The degradation is slower. The power is greater. And the world... the world looks different through these eyes."
"Different how?" Madara asked, his own Eternal Mangekyō examining his brother's transformed eyes.
"Clearer," Izuna said. "Less merciful. I see weakness now. See the gaps in people's defenses. See the ways they lie to themselves about their insignificance. It's like the ritual stripped away comfortable illusions and left only truth."
Madara felt a chill. That wasn't how the evolution should work. Power shouldn't change perception of human worth. Shouldn't make you see people as weak or pathetic or beneath consideration.
But before he could voice concern, Izuna smiled—and it was his brother's smile, genuine and warm, the first real smile Madara had seen in months.
"Thank you," Izuna said. "For doing this with me. For helping me become strong enough to matter. I know I've been difficult these past months. Know I've worried you. But I feel better now. Feel like I have purpose again."
Madara wanted to trust that. Wanted to believe the ritual had healed his brother rather than damaged him further.
But some instinct—his Eternal Mangekyō perceiving patterns his conscious mind couldn't articulate—whispered warnings he chose to ignore.
He seems better, Madara rationalized. He's smiling. He's hopeful. The darkness in his chakra is probably just aftereffects of the ritual. It'll fade as he adjusts to his new eyes.
Everything will be fine.
It was the kind of lie people told themselves when they couldn't bear to acknowledge the truth.
The kind of lie that would cost more than anyone could imagine when the consequences finally came due as he don't see the eyes of Izuna which is filled with sinister and if he look carefully then he can see the Black shadow inside Izuna eyes.
[END OF CHAPTER EIGHT ]
The stage is set. Black Zetsu, freed from Isshiki's absolute control, has witnessed the cosmic truth and reformulated his plans. He understands his own origin now—a fragment of corruption that wounded Origin Devas, crafted into consciousness by a coward. Izuna has been infected with the first whispers of despair and power-hunger. Madara's mutated EMS carries traces of cosmic authority. The four brothers believe they've shared their burden equally, unaware that their trauma has become a weapon pointed at their hearts. Part B will show the corruption spreading, the village beginning to fracture, and Black Zetsu's manipulations growing bolder as he works toward his ultimate goal: consuming both Kaguya and Isshiki to become something unprecedented.
Black Zetsu's manipulation is complete. Izuna is corrupted, though both he and Madara believe he's healed. The village is fracturing along Uchiha/Senju lines despite everyone's best efforts. Hashirama and Madara's friendship is cracking under the pressure of misunderstanding and trauma. The forbidden ritual succeeded, giving Izuna power while accelerating his corruption. Every piece is positioned exactly where Black Zetsu needs it. The path toward war, toward Izuna's death, toward Madara's final corruption, toward breaking Kaguya's seal—it's all inevitable now. The only question is timing. And Black Zetsu, who has waited sixteen centuries, can wait a few more years for everything to fall perfectly into place.