Chapter 60: Enlightenment in the Rain
Perhaps it was because this world had always driven ninjas to slaughter one another—or perhaps some ancient sin still flowed within the blood of mankind.
No one had ever truly questioned why they fought so desperately. If it was truly for a better life, then there would be no need for killing. The landscapes shaped by ninjutsu were real—mountains, rivers, and forests could all be reshaped by their will. If they had the power to destroy, they also had the power to build.
They could have used their hands to craft a better home, transforming barren lands into places of life and harmony. Yet the ninja world was never interested in creation—it was fascinated by plunder. Instead of reshaping the world, it sought only to seize what already existed.
Ninjas were not creators by nature; they were instruments of death. Even as they longed for peace, they instinctively chose the path of destruction.
Danzo understood why.
The environment itself demanded it. Every nation, every shinobi, was forced to remain in a state of constant readiness—or risk annihilation.
Adults labored endlessly, children trained for war, and the ninja world spun in a ceaseless cycle of blood and fear. Like a wind-up puppet, it continued to move until its spring inevitably wound down.
Whether it was a family, a village, or an entire country, the struggle never ceased. For centuries, chakra users proposed countless doctrines and ideals in pursuit of peace. But all forms of peace, no matter how noble, were temporary.
There would always be those consumed by ambition—those who desired dominion over others. No matter the ideals or the organizations built upon them, they all crumbled before the allure of power.
After thousands of years of war, most had simply stopped thinking. On the surface, they obeyed their superiors and their so-called "Will of Fire," but inwardly, their hearts were hollow. They fought not for ideals but out of habit—waging wars that were both correct and meaningless.
And yet, there had once been peace—absolute peace—during the era of the First Hokage.
Why had it vanished?
And why had it returned now, in this strange and fractured age?
Danzo pondered this question often. Peace existed in every era, but only briefly. Still, two eras of peace appearing so close together was no coincidence. There had to be a hidden link between them—a truth that connected both times.
Most shinobi were too exhausted to think, while the few with wisdom lacked the means to act. Those who possessed true knowledge were burdened by power and responsibility, unable to reflect upon the world beyond their immediate duties.
But Danzo had time.
While teaching the three orphans in the Land of Rain, he found himself meditating on the nature of the world—on chakra, humanity, and the illusions that bound them all.
When Hiruzen Sarutobi, his old comrade, cast him aside out of suspicion, Danzo had been enraged. He had once confessed his ideals openly—that as the Root of Konoha, the necessary shadow of the ninja world, he existed only to protect the village.
He could not, and should not, challenge the Hokage for power. But neither should the Hokage reject him. Such distrust only weakened Konoha, dividing its strength from within. To Danzo, that rejection was the true betrayal.
At the time, he couldn't comprehend why his friend—his brother-in-arms—would turn against him at such a critical moment.
And so, he sent Aizen to the Land of Rain to fill the void. In truth, it was his own self-imposed exile.
At first, he thought Hiruzen's actions stemmed from cowardice or political fear. But as time passed, Danzo realized the deeper reason—power.
No matter how much Hiruzen trusted him, any action that threatened his authority would trigger a primal response. Like an animal guarding its territory, he would bare his fangs and drive Danzo away.
It wasn't malice—it was instinct.
Normally, such a separation would breed ambition. But the events that followed shattered Danzo's pride.
He had expected chaos, yet what came instead was peace—a fragile, eerie peace that blanketed the world after Aizen's rise.
It was not born of justice, but of fear.
Not of harmony, but exhaustion.
Still, it was peace nonetheless.
Watching the world from afar, Danzo finally understood.
Peace would come not when men desired it, but when no one could profit from war.
That revelation struck him like lightning through the downpour.
Every conflict, every death, every betrayal—everything came down to profit.
War existed only when the rewards outweighed the cost.
And when the world realized that no gain was worth the devastation—that the damage of war would always exceed the benefits—only then would peace prevail.
Perhaps the First Hokage had already grasped this simple truth. Yet even the Tailed Beasts were not enough to sustain lasting peace. True peace could only exist when both sides possessed the power for complete and equal destruction. Only then would mutual fear give birth to stillness.
But who—or what—had created this endless cycle?
When Danzo looked beyond Konoha's rise and decline, one figure stood at the center of everything.
It was Aizen.
It was he who had taught the world how to wage wars that annihilated both sides, eroding nature and technology alike. It was he who had helped Konoha escape from the vortex of public opinion, rebuild its strength, and stand alone against two allied villages. And it was because his techniques had spread beyond Konoha that the current, tense equilibrium now existed.
Under his unseen hand, every nation moved like clockwork—each one following its prescribed path, burning through its resources and soldiers without crossing the line of extinction.
Only a year had passed, yet even the most war-torn land—the Land of Rain—had begun to feel a strange, unnatural vitality.
Danzo understood. This outcome was not coincidence. It was design.
If one stripped away the illusions and looked only at the results, the world suddenly became clear in Danzo's eyes.
He murmured to himself, "So it was you, after all… Aizen."
From behind him, a calm voice replied.
"Long time no see, Elder Danzo."
A tall figure emerged from the misted shadows, his white haori gleaming faintly beneath the falling rain. Aizen, serene as moonlight, adjusted his glasses and looked upon the older man's hunched back with a faint, knowing smile.
"The courage to act… I didn't expect it would come from you first," Aizen said softly. "You've grown."
Danzo smirked, cigarette resting between his fingers. Sitting atop a rusted water pipe, he didn't bother to look back. His single visible eye reflected the rain-slick streets of the Land of Rain, where lanterns glimmered dimly through the storm.
"Don't underestimate an old man, Aizen. There are things you still can't imagine."
He took a slow drag, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that vanished into the drizzle.
"But it's strange," he continued. "I never thought that changing my perspective would let me see the world so clearly. The ninja world, chakra, humanity—it's all far more intricate than I ever believed."
Aizen's smile deepened. "That's because you finally stopped running. When you pause long enough to look around, you'll see the patterns. After all, I've never hidden anything. But most people are like frightened rabbits, fleeing from wolves—too focused on the path ahead to notice the truths on either side."
Danzo nodded slowly. "Yes… once you step beyond the limits of village and nation, you begin to understand. This world needs malice. Darkness is not a curse—it's the balance that keeps everything alive. Only when that malice is shared by all, when everyone knows they'll die the moment they act recklessly, can true peace exist."
He lowered his gaze, voice calm but certain. "Conflict will never disappear. Even if we understand each other perfectly, we'll still clash over food, beliefs, and pride. Even in the Sage of Six Paths' era, people understood one another—and yet they still divided. Understanding changes nothing. But if we can contain the struggle—if we can bind it within defined limits—then perhaps… that will be enough."
"You make a compelling argument," Aizen replied.
With a light step, he approached, walking effortlessly atop the air itself. From a sealing scroll, he summoned a small wooden table and a bottle of sake. Two cups clinked softly as he set them down.
"Would you join me, Elder Danzo? I'd like to hear your thoughts in full. Few men possess the resolve to step into the unknown. I'm curious about the conclusion you've reached."
Danzo took the offered cup without hesitation. "Thank you, Aizen. But I can't say I've reached any grand conclusion. I've simply been… thinking about this world."
"And what did you discover?"
Danzo stared into the sake for a moment, his reflection distorted by the rippling liquid. Then he drank deeply and spoke.
"The root of the ninja world. The necessary malice. The cornerstone of peace that must exist for stability to endure."
Aizen listened silently, the faint clinking of rain filling the pause.
"I've come to believe," Danzo continued, "that no single person—no lone eye—can embody peace. A single will is fragile. True peace must come from collective will—from a system strong enough to bind every village. That's what you created, Aizen."
Aizen chuckled lightly. "I merely nudged the world forward. The rest is up to those who have the courage to act."
Danzo gave a rare laugh. "Nonsense. Too much humility becomes arrogance."
"Perhaps."
Aizen took a sip, eyes half-lidded as he watched the celebration below. Lanterns glowed faintly through the mist, their reflections dancing on puddled rooftops. The laughter of children echoed faintly through the rain.
"I've always believed," Aizen said, "that progress requires more than one dreamer. The more who dare to look beyond the veil, the closer we come to truth. Like you, Elder Danzo. Shall I hold a ceremony to welcome you formally into the Seireitei?"
Danzo smirked. "Forget the formalities. I despise empty rituals."
As Aizen bowed slightly in jest, Danzo lifted his cup again, his expression softening as he looked down at the children joining the festival below—children who danced despite the rain.
For the first time in years, a faint, fleeting warmth stirred within his heart.
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