The academy's main hall was thick with the scent of antiseptic and sweat, a chaotic symphony of sounds and smells capturing the turmoil of what had just transpired.
Extra benches were rushed in to accommodate the crowd, yet half the students still sprawled on the floor—backs pressed against icy walls, torn uniforms revealing glimpses of bandaged skin. Med-nin in pale vests darted through the chaos, tending wounds and handing out bitter-toned tonics, patching only the most urgent injuries.
Raizen sat at the back with Squad One, shoulders pressed against a bone-chilling wooden pillar. His chest pulsed with a deep, buzzing ache—the lightning's mark still seared beneath his skin. Every breath tugged at fresh cloth, igniting a fiery sting under his shirt.
He could ask a medic to look again, but instead, he leaned back, eyes fixed on the rafters, pretending everything was fine.
The hall hummed with murmurs—whispers, groans, the occasional burst of laughter. Proctors had told everyone to wait while results were compiled and "evaluated holistically," a phrase Raizen quickly translated as: they're arguing about how badly we screwed up.
Karui sat cross-legged beside him, arms wrapped around her knees, bandages circling her knuckles and cheek. Her eyes shimmered with fatigue, still too bright, as if her body remembered the ordeal.
"This is so stupid," she muttered. "We already know who got wrecked out there. How long does it take to write 'congratulations, you didn't embarrass yourself' on a paper?"
Aika, on Raizen's other side, hugged her knees, her frizzed and singed hair at the ends. A tiny scarlet langur curled in her lap, tail twitching at the noise.
"Karui," Aika whispered, "they're deciding grades, not just pass or fail."
Karui exhaled through her nose. "Yeah. That's the stupid part."
Reina sat upright on the bench, battered but composed—bandages wrapped around her ribs and forearm, a strip of white tape along her jaw where a cleaver had nearly sliced her apart. Her blonde hair, chopped to shoulder length, hung loose today, slightly tangled. Her sword rested on her knees, hands lightly on the guard, eyes fixed forward, as if it were an enemy formation.
"You care about grades, too," she said without turning, "they decide who gets recommended for advanced squads later."
Karui made a face. "I care more about not being stuck babysitting nobles on D-ranks forever. Same thing, I guess."
Raizen's gaze wandered over the room. Squad Three gathered near the center—Samui calm as ever, Omoi lost in thought, Atsuro half-listening while an insect crawled over his hand. Kaien leaned against the wall, arms crossed—his hair messy, a slash across his sleeve revealing how close he had come to getting taken out.
Across the aisle, Squad Two was in a different world: Tetsuo sat on the edge of a bench, elbows on knees, expression flat. Mizue scribbled in a notebook with her uninjured hand; notes covered in seal diagrams. Riku stared at the floor, nervously fiddling with his headband.
Daichi sat apart on the floor, knees drawn up—shirt torn, muddy, eye swollen. His fists clenched tightly, jaw working as he watched the hall with tense focus.
He's replaying it, Raizen thought. Same as me.
Whispered rumors floated around: "I heard Squad Two failed Phase Two completely." "Yeah, but they did well in the first and third. That counts." "Daichi got floored by Karui in less than a minute." "Shut up, she'd floor you in half that time." Daichi's ears reddened, but he made no move.
Not mad at her, Raizen realized. Mad at himself.
He shifted painfully, winced, then looked forward again.
A group of jōnin and senior chūnin stood elevated, heads bent over clipboards and scrolls. Principal Kanzo was there, hands tucked into his sleeves, murmuring with an exam proctor. Takuma-sensei leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, watching students more than paperwork.
His gaze flicked over Squad One: a quick, piercing look that Raizen felt, then he moved on.
Raizen swallowed, pride swelling—he'd outwitted them, turned a losing fight into a trap. It had been clever, brutal, and effective. But it depended on his opponent's exhaustion.
"If he was fresh…" Raizen muttered.
Aika looked over. "Hm?"
"Nothing."
He pressed his thumb into a rough patch of wood, feeling the ache.
Twice now, he thought. Twice I've come in last, finishing what others had worn down. They bleed first, I clean up.
It wasn't that his actions didn't matter. It was that victory didn't seem entirely his alone to claim.
Across the hall, Daichi finally moved—unclasped his fists, flexed gingerly, then rose without prompting. Tetsuo glanced up; Mizue paused her writing. Riku's eyes widened with worry.
Daichi bowed stiffly, apology clear in his stance.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. His words echoed through the restless hall.
"We only failed one part," Tetsuo said calmly. "That wasn't all on you."
Daichi shook his head, eyes tight. "I froze when Karui rushed me. When she switched angles. I knew what I should've done, but my body didn't move. If I'd bought us more time—"
Mizue tilted her head, studying him intently. "We planned for three engagements, faced five. Statistically, we did well."
"That's not enough," Daichi said, voice full of resolve—surprising even himself. "I want… I want to be someone they don't have to cover for."
Tetsuo nodded, faint approval in his grunt. "Use that. Don't stew in it."
Daichi nodded sharply, fists clenched—no longer helpless.
Raizen watched, respecting that fire.
A movement from Squad Three caught his eye: Kaien opened his eyes, still dark and sharp, posture tense even as he tried to appear relaxed. Arms crossed, a bandage peeked from his sleeve.
Samui mumbled something; Kaien replied with a crooked smile and a shrug, eyes sliding to the hall at large. His reputation—the lightning prodigy—is still intact.
Raizen's mind whispered, I could've done more.
Kaien's gaze was heavy with that thought, just quieter, sharper.
Everyone had done well, but none of them were top anymore—not in a field that Reina's sword, Raizen's tricks, and others had reshaped.
His fingers twitched, feeling phantom chakra whispering at him.
He exhaled and leaned back, silent. They'd be graded, but he knew—this was just the beginning.
Raizen's eyes flicked once more across the hall. Daichi stood straighter, jaw firm, eyes fixed forward. Kaien's gaze was the same—focused, unwavering.
Everyone was waiting for what the results would reveal.
Raizen felt the tingling of phantom sparks—part of the game—and knew: he wasn't done changing the outcome.
Takuma-sensei's eyes locked onto Squad One. "Squad One," called a proctor, "front row. You're up."
Raizen pushed himself to his feet, chest aching, legs unsteady.
Karui whistled softly. "Here we go."
Aika moved more slowly, clutching her langur before placing it on the bench. Reina rose last, calm and composed, sword at her hip—as if she hadn't bled and fought just moments before.
They stepped into the aisle, carrying the weight of the exam—like smoke trailing behind them.
Daichi watched them go, flames still smoldering behind his eyes.
Beside him, Kaien tilted his head, measuring—potential rivals, allies, or both.
The exam was over.
But what it ignited inside them—the real challenge—was only beginning.
Principal Kanzo waited patiently until the murmur of voices quieted completely.
"Results for the Advanced Practical Examination," he announced evenly. "We will now proceed with the rankings."
The entire hall tensed instantly.
Raizen felt Karui's knee bump his as they stood at the front. Aika was right behind them, fingers clutching the back of Raizen's sleeve. Reina stood slightly apart, shoulders squared, eyes locked on Kanzo as if pressing him to speak the words into existence.
One of the chūnin proctors unrolled a scroll and cleared his throat.
"Seventh place," he called, "Squad Nine—Inoue, Takahira, Sumi, Renga. Completed all three phases with minimal casualties, but responded slowly and struggled with territory control. You will attend additional tactical seminars this summer."
A knot of students near the middle exhaled softly; one girl fist-pumped quietly, while a boy beside her looked ready to vomit.
"Sixth place—Squad Five. Strong teamwork, but below-average initiative."
The crowd shifted, some relieved, some disappointed.
"Fifth place—Squad Eleven. High individual skill, but no cohesion. You are not solo operatives yet; remember that."
Some snickers rippled through the hall; a teammate elbowed their giggling peer sharply.
Raizen fought to hide his eye roll. They're dragging this out, he thought.
Fourth place—Squad Three. Samui, Omoi, Atsuro, Kaien."
This drew a bigger reaction—Omoi slumped, rubbing his face as if told he only got second dessert. Atsuro blinked in surprise, fingers twitching as a tiny bug scurried up his sleeve. Samui absorbed the news with a shallow nod, unreadable.
Kaien's jaw clenched once. He said nothing, but his eyes—sharp as blades—spoke volumes.
"Third place," continued the proctor, "Squad Fourteen. Exceptional support and extraction work—your timing saved several squads from failure."
Raizen glanced at a nearby cluster of students—one with glasses and ink-stained fingers, another carrying a massive scroll. They looked stunned but quietly proud. Good, he thought. Not just the loud ones.
The proctor's gaze dropped back to the scroll.
"Second place—Squad Two. Tetsuo, Mizue, Daichi, Riku. Outstanding in Phase One—offensive tactics, quick responses, engagement. You fell short in Phase Two, but your overall performance keeps you in the top tier."
A collective breath was taken around Squad Two.
Riku slumped, relief flooding him. Mizue's pen paused mid-scratch, then resumed as she recorded details. Tetsuo exhaled slowly, a faint smirk forming.
Daichi's head dipped briefly, then lifted again—no smile, but shoulders less hunched, more firm.
"And finally," the proctor lifted his voice, "first place—Squad One. Reina, Karui, Aika, Raizen."
For a moment, the hall seemed to fall silent. Then it roared with whispers, applause, and an incredulous, "Of course it's them," from the back.
Karui whistled softly through her teeth. "Hah."
Aika's eyes widened; she clapped a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking with a silent, relieved laugh.
Reina didn't move, but her chin lifted slightly, eyes still fixed on the podium. Pride flickered in her gaze—controlled and fierce.
Raizen felt a mix of hot and cool melt inside him—satisfaction sharp as glass. The words 'Number one' carried weight, fitting perfectly.
Beneath that, a quiet, stubborn thought: They dragged you there.
He envisioned Reina holding the line when their ribs screamed, Karui taking hits to break through defenses, and Aika trembling over seals she barely managed from exhaustion.
He'd been clever. Dangerous. But not alone.
"Top seven squads," Kanzo announced, regaining attention, "you've passed the exam. Your summer break will proceed as scheduled."
A few cheers erupted. Someone in the back shouted, "YES!" before being shushed.
"To those outside the top seven," Kanzo continued, scanning the hall, "you've also completed the exam, but with gaps that must be addressed immediately. You'll have a shortened summer and attend mandatory training. Let today be the start of your improvement, not your failure."
A heavy sigh swept through a section of the room; a bandaged boy lightly slammed his fist on his thigh, jaws clenched. A girl with a wrapped ankle stared at the floor, eyes bright with frustration.
Raizen watched them for a moment.
Those could have been us, he thought. Different fates, different injuries, different choices...
Takuma stepped forward at Kanzo's gesture.
"We'll hold detailed debriefs for each top squad," he said. "You don't improve just by getting a number. You improve by understanding why."
He nodded at Squad One. "You're up first."
Karui muttered, "Of course," under her breath.
They moved closer, while others shifted aside. The hall stayed still, leaning in—private or not, these talks mattered.
Takuma looked over the notes on the clipboard, then set it down with a slight frown.
"Squad One," he said. "Overall ranking: First."
Karui smirked.
Aika fidgeted.
Reina's gaze sharpened.
Raizen fought to stay impassive.
Takuma's lips curled slightly.
"Category breakdown," he listed. "Top scores in adaptability, combat initiative, risk tolerance. Above-average teamwork. Below-average self-preservation."
A few snickers spread; Karui coughed to hide laughter. Aika's cheeks reddened.
Reina's eyes narrow slightly at "above-average teamwork," as if insulted.
"Phase One," Takuma continued. "Terrains handled well, responses quick, strengths used effectively. That's squad work."
He glanced at Reina. "Your calls were clean. You didn't freeze when plans broke—good captainship."
Reina nodded slightly.
"Phase Two," he added. "You faced an ambush and turned it around. Clumsy but effective counters. Karui."
Her gaze snapped up.
"Stop taking hits just to out-stubborn the world," he said. "Your toughness is good, but it's no strategy substitute."
Karui opened her mouth, then nodded once. "Yes, Sensei."
"Aika."
She straightened, almost knocking her langur off her shoulder.
"You kept supporting your team—supports, seals, medical—when others would panic. That's rare. Never call it 'doing nothing.'"
Her eyes shimmered with tears; she swallowed and nodded.
Takuma turned to Raizen.
"And you," he said.
Raizen swallowed.
"You're clever," Takuma said simply. "Too clever sometimes."
This drew some laughs.
"You weaponized basic jutsu, turned genjutsu into misdirection, and your Birdcage finish was praised for being 'innovative' and 'deeply concerning.'"
Someone back in the crowd chuckled, "Deeply what—"
Takuma ignored it.
"You took a nearly lost fight," he said, "against a superior opponent, and turned it into a trap. That's what Kumo expects."
Raizen felt the praise hit him—warm, dangerous.
Takuma's tone sharpened.
"But you only succeeded because you got fried first."
The warmth vanished.
"You push your luck," Takuma warned. "Relying on others to patch you up or thinking your opponent won't finish you—this gamble with your body isn't sustainable. We don't have spare Raizens."
Raizen grimaced. "You sure? I could use one."
Some kids laughed. Takuma stayed serious.
"Listen," he said, voice low, "if you keep winning by almost dying, one day you'll skip the 'almost' part. That's not drama. That's math."
Raizen met his gaze, throat tight, forcing himself not to look away.
"…Yes, Sensei."
Takuma nodded once, satisfied.
"Phase Three," he continued, "you succeeded in your main goal—guarding the rendezvous point—while under heavy pressure. But you burned through chakra, stacked injuries, and relied on last-minute miracles."
He tapped the clipboard.
"That's why your grade is: 'Outstanding, high risk, candidate for advanced placement—if you survive.'"
He smirked faintly. "Personally, I'd like to see that happen."
Karui scoffed, "You designed half this exam, after all."
Takuma grinned. "Exactly."
He grew serious again.
"Squad One," he said. "Be proud of your performance, but beware of your limits. This exam shows you can be exceptional, but it doesn't mean you're done learning."
Reina bowed slightly. "We understand, Sensei."
He looked at them one last time.
"You may sit back down."
They moved back to their spot near the pillar. As they went, Raizen felt eyes on them—curious, competitive, admiring, resentful—a mix.
He dropped onto the bench with a grunt, chest aching.
Karui flopped beside him, exhaling sharply. "Outstanding, huh? Sounds like 'we won, but everyone's stupid.'"
Aika carefully settled, cradling her langur. "I… didn't realize support roles scored so high," she muttered, voice small but pleased.
Reina stayed standing a moment, watching the next squad's call-up with quiet focus. Tetsuo rose calmly as Squad Two moved forward.
"They scored real," Reina said softly.
Raizen looked up.
She didn't look back, eyes on Daichi—now being told about their second-place finish. Even from here, Raizen saw him bow his head—not in shame, but in acceptance.
"In truth," Reina said, "we're strong. Dangerous. Not as unbreakable as we pretend to be."
She finally looked at him with a tired smile. "Number one means everyone will be aiming for us next time."
Raizen chuckled. "Great. I've always wanted to be a target."
"But…" Aika hesitated, "Isn't that a good thing? Being number one?"
Reina considered and then nodded. "It's good. But it's also a responsibility. We can't slack now."
The council chamber was too bright.
Seira squinted against the radiance of the Giant Tenseigan, its vast, layered pupil staring down from the far wall like a second, merciless moon. It pulsed with slow, steady light—each beat a pressure at the back of her skull, in her bones, in the fractures along her ribs where the elder's last strike had nearly caved her chest in.
Pale chakra restraints wrapped her wrists and ankles, suspending her a hand's breadth above the cold white floor. Her robes hung scorched and torn, dried blood blooming like rust along one side. Every breath hurt.
She would not let them see that.
"Senator Seira Ōtsutsuki," intoned the eldest councilor, his voice echoing off the porcelain-smooth stone. "By the authority of the Lunar Council, you stand accused of treason."
Rows of Ōtsutsuki elders sat in rising tiers around the chamber, their pale eyes fixed on her—some cold, some curious, a few openly furious. Their robes were immaculate. Their hair was bound in elaborate coils and knots. Not one of them bore a single fresh wound.
They had not been there when the elder died.
"State the charges," said another, a woman with thin lips and eyes like frozen glass.
A scribe in the lower tier unrolled a scroll.
"Count One," he read, voice crisp. "Murder of High Elder Ryouga Ōtsutsuki during an emergency convocation."
A murmur rippled through the chamber; even now, the word murder seemed to offend them more than the dead man's absence did.
"Count Two. Willful interference with the Giant Tenseigan's judgment of an Earthling intruder."
A sharper wave of reaction—hisses, snapped breaths, fists tightening on armrests.
"Count Three. Facilitating the intruder's escape despite clear contamination risk and demonstrated offensive potential."
The scribe rolled the scroll back up and bowed. "These are the charges brought before this council."
"Do you deny them?" the eldest asked.
Seira lifted her head.
Her throat was raw. When she spoke, her voice still came out clear.
"I killed Ryouga," she said. "I would do it again."
A few elders actually flinched at the calm in her tone.
"He drew first blood," she continued. "On the boy."
"The Earth-born," someone spat.
Seira shifted her gaze to the speaker—a councilor in the second row, veins standing out around his eyes. "On the Heir," she corrected.
Several voices rose at once.
"Blasphemy—"
"Hamura's Heir will not be born in the dirt—"
"The Tenseigan chose our line—"
"Enough," the eldest snapped, a flare of pale chakra crackling around his seat. The room fell abruptly silent.
He turned his gaze back on Seira.
"You claim," he said slowly, "that the Earthling was Hamura's Heir."
Seira's fingers twitched uselessly against her restraints. She remembered the boy hanging in the shrine, wrapped in chakra bands, suspended before the Giant Tenseigan's gaze. How its light had flared—not in rejection, not to devour—but in answer.
How his own left eye had burned in response.
"I do not 'claim' it," she said. "We all saw the resonance. We all felt it. His chakra synchronized with the Giant Tenseigan's field. His heartbeat matched its pulse."
"A contaminant can mimic many things," the ice-eyed woman cut in. "Parasitic chakra. Infection. The Earth is diseased; who knows what they twist their jinchūriki into down there?"
"He was not a jinchūriki," Seira said. "His coils were unmarked. His lineage—"
"You assume lineage from a pattern," another elder snapped. "From an aberrant flare in a system that has been perfectly balanced for centuries."
The Giant Tenseigan's light pulsed again, as if offended by the word aberrant.
Seira felt the pressure in her skull sharpen for a heartbeat, then fade. No one else reacted. Or pretended not to.
"You killed a sitting High Elder," the eldest said. "In this chamber. During ritual."
"He broke the ritual first," Seira replied. "The convocation was to judge the anomaly, not destroy it in a fit of fear."
"You interfered with the Tenseigan's will," the ice-eyed woman insisted. "You shielded the Earthling from full contact. You disrupted the extraction field."
"I stopped Ryouga's lance from piercing his heart," Seira said. "That is all."
It wasn't all.
She didn't mention the subtle twist of her fingers at the last moment, the way she had bent the chakra field so the Giant Tenseigan's pull skimmed off the boy's life instead of devouring it. Just enough to establish a link, not sufficient to reduce him to fuel.
She hadn't had time to do more.
"You call that 'all'?" the second-row councilor said, voice rising. "You compromised the purity of our greatest relic for the sake of an Earth-born stray. You let its attention dwell on him long enough to infect it with his filth—"
"The eye is not fragile," Seira cut in, sharper than she intended. "Hamura's legacy is not porcelain to be tucked away and forgotten. It reacted because it recognized something. Someone."
"Or because you tampered with it," the ice-eyed woman said. "You have always pushed the boundaries of acceptable interaction with the Giant Tenseigan, Senator. Your research into resonance fields, into partial synchronization—"
"My research kept it stable through three solar storms," Seira said. "You praised me then."
"That was before you used that knowledge to betray your own," another elder hissed.
"Betray?" Seira's laugh came out cracked. "Betray what? Your comfort? Your certainty that Hamura's will begins and ends on this rock?"
A ripple of anger surged through the room.
The eldest lifted a hand, and the chakra restraints around her wrists tightened, biting into skin. Pain flashed white-hot up her arms. She swallowed it.
"You speak as if you know Hamura's will," he said softly. "As if it has been whispered into your ear alone."
Seira tilted her head back, looking past him, up at the Giant Tenseigan.
Its pupil was vast, layered rings within rings of luminous chakra. When she was very young, she used to imagine she could see shapes within it—distant continents, seas, the ghost of the Earth below. That was before she'd learned to read chakra patterns instead of fairy tales.
Now she saw something else.
A faint, residual echo of a boy's small, stubborn heartbeat. A thread—a web—stretching down, down, down, out of their perfect silence and into the noisy, violent world under the clouds.
"You all sit here," she said, "pretending the world below is a stain on your shoes. Hamura descended to that world. He walked among them. He split his legacy between Moon and Earth because he did not fear mixing."
Several elders visibly bristled at that.
"The Earthlings corrupted his teachings into ninjutsu," the ice-eyed woman snapped. "They weaponized ninshū. They turned communion into combat. You would feed that back into the Tenseigan?"
"I would follow where it points," Seira said.
Her gaze met the Giant Tenseigan's for a heartbeat.
Its light dimmed and flared in a slow, almost thoughtful blink.
"You will not have the chance," the eldest said, voice hard now. "Your crime goes beyond heresy. You killed a High Elder. You allowed a dangerous, unknown, and high-potential to escape containment. You jeopardized the integrity of the Giant Tenseigan."
He raised a hand.
"We should unmake her," the second-row councilor said at once. "Strip her chakra, break her coils, return what we can to the eye. Set an example."
Murmurs of agreement followed.
"Execution is the traditional sentence," the ice-eyed woman said smoothly. "Swift. Clean. We do not need lingering traitors."
The eldest's gaze flicked toward the Giant Tenseigan.
Its next pulse came a fraction of a second faster.
Seira watched him watching it.
You feel it too, she thought. You just won't admit it.
He lowered his eyes.
"No," he said. "Not execution."
That caused a stir.
"Elder—"
"Lord Councillor—"
"Silence," he snapped.
He looked back at Seira.
"You do not deserve death," he said. "Death would free you. Hamura's traitorous children on Earth fear death. We do not."
He gestured, and the chakra restraints around Seira shifted, bands unwinding from her wrists and ankles only to coil around her torso instead, pinning her arms to her sides.
"You deserve to be made… irrelevant," he said. "A problem removed from the equation."
He nodded to the scribes. "Record this: Senator Seira Ōtsutsuki is to be stripped of her title. Her chakra shall be sealed, and her body shall be confined to stasis in the Deep Vault. Her name will not be spoken in this chamber again. Her research will be reviewed and purged of any dangerous contamination."
The ice-eyed woman smiled thinly. "A living warning."
"A living risk," the second-row councilor muttered, but he did not argue further. Tradition had been satisfied. Mostly.
Seira felt the color drain from her face.
They wouldn't kill her. They would bury her alive in time.
Her chakra, locked. Her body, frozen. Her mind, trapped in a box beneath the surface of the moon, while the web she'd seen stretched down and away, out of reach.
"You fear me that much?" she asked quietly.
"No," the eldest said. "We fear where your madness would lead others."
His gaze flicked, almost imperceptibly, toward the Giant Tenseigan again.
"And we will not allow it to spread."
He lifted his hand.
Sealing specialists stepped forward from the shadows at the edge of the chamber, their masks smooth and featureless, their chakra already coiling into complex patterns. Pale sigils bloomed in the air around Seira, spiraling inwards.
The Giant Tenseigan's light flared in protest.
For a heartbeat, Seira felt it—felt the connection snap taut, like a string pulled between two points: her and the boy. Earth and Moon. Potential and fear.
He's still there, she thought, dizzy.
Her lips curved, even as the sigils tightened, even as cold seeped into her limbs.
"You can't unsee him," she said hoarsely. "You can pretend, but the eye remembers. And so will you, when it calls again."
"Enough," the ice-eyed woman snapped.
The seals closed.
Light speared through Seira, not burning, not gentle—just absolute. It hollowed her out from the inside, folded her chakra into itself, packed it into a knot so dense it might as well not exist.
Her last clear thought as sensation drained away was not of the council, or of Ryouga, or of the chamber.
It was of a boy in a forest, chest bandaged, eyes turned up toward the sky with the stubbornness of someone who refused to know his place.
Find your way here, she thought, though she doubted he'd ever hear it. Or tear a hole big enough that I can see you from below.
Then the world narrowed to a point and vanished.
Her body went limp in the restraints.
The seals dimmed.
"Take her to the Vault," the eldest said.
The masked sealers bowed and carried Seira's suspended form out of a side archway, pale chakra still wrapped around her like a cocoon.
The councilors began to talk at once, voices rising—arguing about protocols, about contamination, about how to adjust future monitoring of Earth's chakra signatures.
It was noisy enough that no one noticed the small figure in the upper gallery slip back from the carved lattice.
⸻
Toneri pressed his back to the cold wall, heart beating too fast.
He wasn't supposed to be there.
Children weren't meant to attend High Council sessions. They were supposed to sit in the learning chambers, listening to tutors drone about lineage and purity and the shame of the Earth tribes.
But when the whispers had started—treason, a Senator, the Giant Tenseigan itself disturbed—he'd followed the chakra trail, slipping into a shadowed niche above the chamber and peering through the carved screen.
He'd seen Seira.
He'd seen the restraints. The blood. The way she'd held herself anyway.
He'd heard the charges.
She killed a High Elder.
She let an Earthling escape.
An Earthling with… what had they called it? High potential. Contamination. Dangerous resonance.
He edged forward until one pale eye could catch a sliver of the Giant Tenseigan through the lattice.
Its light had calmed again. Almost.
If he squinted, he could still see the faintest tremor in its glow, like a bell that had been struck too hard still shivering along its rim.
An Earth-born boy had done that.
An Earth-born boy that Seira had called Heir.
Toneri's hand lifted to his own chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his robe.
The tutors always said Hamura's true legacy lived here, on the moon. That their people alone were worthy to attend the Giant Tenseigan. That the Earth was a failed branch.
But the eye had answered something down there strongly enough to shake the council.
Strongly enough to break a Senator.
He swallowed, throat dry.
Below, the council's voices rose and fell, arguing about "tightening the barrier," "watching the Earth more closely," and "never again allowing such an anomaly to reach the shrine."
Never again.
Toneri turned his head, looking through another gap in the lattice at the distant curve of space beyond the far window.
The Earth hung there like a colored stone—blue, green, white. No detail from here. No villages, no forests, no boy.
Just light.
He wondered what kind of child could make the Giant Tenseigan stir.
He wondered what kind of threat.
He wondered why, if the Earth was so corrupt, Hamura's eye hadn't simply crushed the boy the moment he was brought before it.
He. Escaped. The phrase lodged in his mind, stubborn.
Or, more accurately: She let him escape.
Toneri's fingers tightened on his robe.
Seira would be taken to the Deep Vault. He'd overheard enough stories about that place to know what it meant. She would be sealed away, turned into a cautionary tale. Her name would stop being spoken everywhere but in whispers and curses.
The Earth, though… the Earth would keep spinning, with shinobi training, unaware of the storm their boy had stirred.
He stepped back from the lattice, last glance at the Giant Tenseigan—its rings turning slowly, unblinking, watching everything and nothing.
He wondered—was that a promise?
Or a challenge?
Silently, he walked away, the council's disputes fading behind him, the image of Earth burned into his mind.
He didn't know whether to protect it or punish it,
But one thing was clear—
For the first time, the world below felt no longer distant.
It was connected.
To the Tenseigan.
What kind of threat?
Why, if the Earth was so corrupt, didn't Hamura's eye just crush the boy there?
He escaped. That phrase lingered stubbornly.
Or, more precisely: She let him.