Naruto: End of the Shinobi World

That meant that he, the one who remained in the human world, had no choice but to continue onward alone—to walk the path of ”salvation and rebuilding” that he had chosen for himself.

Whether thorns or swamps lay ahead, no matter how heavy the price he had to bear, he had to keep walking. He had to walk until the day the ”peace and hope” he had promised finally arrived—or until the moment he, too, no longer had the strength to go on.

The image within the Heavenly Curtain slowly froze on the complicated yet resolute figure of the Sage of Six Paths, standing alone amid the ruins of the world and gazing up at the Moon.

His first destination was the place where the sacrifices to the God Tree had taken place.

”I don’t know if I’m still in time.”

Hagoromo remembered that a sacrifice had taken place only recently. Three days afterward, the God Tree had transformed into the Ten-Tails. He did not know whether those people had already been transformed into white creatures.

Once his presence had completely vanished into the distance, the shadows across the scorched earth began to writhe and gather in an eerie fashion.

Black Zetsu emerged silently, like the thickest drop of ink seeping from a wound in the earth.

He possessed no fixed form, yet seemed to embody pain more tangible than any physical being.

Even the surrounding light appeared to dim as he ”raised his head.” His entire being was fixed upon the bright moon in the sky, as though he wished to turn his gaze into a blade capable of piercing the seal itself.

A hoarse voice squeezed out of the void, every syllable steeped in the agony of being cut by a thousand blades.

”Mother, don’t worry...”

The vow echoed through the empty world without a single listener, yet it was more deafening than any clamor.

Then, in an instant, pain crystallized into a hatred cold enough to freeze the soul.

”Hagoromo, this is all your fault!”

The icy hatred in that voice seemed enough to chill even the marrow of those watching beyond the Heavenly Curtain.

His quiet thoughts of Hamura were but a fleeting crack of complexity amid that overwhelming hatred.

Then, as if called back by the earth itself, Black Zetsu silently sank away, leaving behind only a deeper shadow that seemed capable of devouring all light.

Time suddenly accelerated within the Heavenly Curtain.

The scene followed Hagoromo’s wandering footsteps as though it were his shadow.

He was no longer a godlike figure upon the battlefield, nor a rebellious son.

He had become a lone restorer.

He bent amid the ashes of civilization, searching for survivors as insignificant and fragile as grains of dust.

Those who had crawled back from the edge of hell were gaunt and hollow-eyed. Yet when they saw this towering figure healing the land’s wounds and bringing fresh water and new life, a faint light gradually returned to their numb eyes.

”A Sage...”

They fell to the ground, calling out through choked sobs.

At first, the title was spoken only here and there. Then it gathered like a stream, until it became an honorific that echoed throughout the newly formed settlements.

”The Sage of Six Paths.”

Hagoromo listened and accepted their reverence. As he nodded gently, perhaps even he did not fully realize that there was a faint sense of comfort—and immersion—in having some immense emptiness within him partially filled.

He began traveling even more tirelessly, as though he wished to use endless creation and protection to cover memories he could not bear to face.

And so, among the ruins, crude shelters became villages. Villages grew and became connected by marketplaces, while the outlines of simple towns emerged through curling smoke from cooking fires.

He walked among them, listening to the trivial concerns of ordinary lives and sharing in the smallest joys of a good harvest. The profound loneliness that had lingered within him since his brother’s departure to the Moon seemed to gradually fade amid the warmth of human life.

Yet reality and the cold vision of the Heavenly Curtain overlapped.

Beneath the skies of the shinobi world, the real Black Zetsu was also looking upward alongside countless others.

The seemingly disordered images within the Heavenly Curtain continued to pass by, but that Moon alone was undeniably real—a mark of humiliation and despair nailed into the heavens.

Mother was there, sealed away and forgotten.

Black Zetsu’s consciousness churned violently. Before such undeniable evidence, the obsession he had carried for a thousand years gave way instead to an immense confusion.

Mother... You can see this Heavenly Curtain too, can’t you?

The silent question was filled with helplessness.

All his meticulous schemes and endless years of waiting suddenly seemed laughable and powerless before a seal on such a monumental scale.

The path to salvation remained hidden in the deeper mists of the Heavenly Curtain, leaving only bottomless uncertainty to gnaw at his will, which had once been as unyielding as stone.

Within the Heavenly Curtain, the river of time seemed to flow peacefully.

Hagoromo appeared to have found a purpose—a rhythm to his life.

He happily offered guidance to the first farmers, settled minor disputes, and watched children chase one another between newly built homes.

The feeling of being needed, revered, and regarded as everyone’s sole hope was like a warm stream, continually washing over the cold and lonely corners of his heart.

He remained busy. He continued creating. Under his care, the seedlings of civilization slowly and tremulously began to spread their leaves.

Until—

One day, without the slightest warning—

A completely different energy suddenly descended upon the world. It was unimaginably tyrannical, like the first roar of a colossal beast awakening deep within a planet after countless ages of slumber—or an invisible hammer from beyond the heavens smashing violently into the world’s very network of energy!

BOOM—

There was no actual sound, yet it shook the soul more deeply than thunder.

The ocean of chakra surged into a raging tempest, while the streams of natural energy were thrown into chaos and began to boil.

This power was so unfamiliar, so overwhelmingly powerful, that it lay completely beyond the boundaries of anything they understood. It carried a cold, undeniable sense of intrusion.

Almost at the same instant—

The pastoral gentleness vanished completely from Hagoromo’s face.

The calm eyes that had been immersed in the ordinary warmth of human life instantly sharpened like those of an eagle sighting its prey. The rings of the Rinnegan emerged clearly within his eyes, rapidly turning as they reflected the direction from which that invisible eruption of energy had originated.

There was no cry of shock.

Not a moment of hesitation.

Whoosh—!

His body tore through the air, becoming a streak of light that shot straight toward the distant heavens.

There was no trace of the gentle compassion of a protector of humanity in the way he rushed forward. All that remained was the absolute focus, chilling battle intent, and extreme vigilance of a supreme being confronting an unknown threat—one that he had to investigate personally.

Within the Heavenly Curtain, the Sage of Six Paths, Hagoromo, hovered in midair.

Then, without warning, a figure dressed entirely in white appeared before him.

The newcomer wore immaculate white robes of an ancient and strange design, utterly out of place in this world.

His face was youthful, even possessing a delicate beauty that transcended gender. Yet there was not the slightest warmth in his pale eyes—only the indifference of someone looking down upon insects, along with strange patterns faintly visible deep within his pupils, as though they could perceive the very essence of energy.

”Who are you?” Hagoromo’s voice broke the deathly stillness.

The man in white raised his brow almost imperceptibly. Hagoromo’s ability to speak beneath the pressure he had deliberately released seemed to surprise him slightly, but that faint surprise was immediately swallowed by deeper indifference.

”Ōtsutsuki Graywhite.”

His voice was calm and emotionless, yet it carried an innate arrogance engraved into his bloodline and the very hierarchy of his power, as though merely speaking his name were already a form of generosity toward the one hearing it.

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