Chapter Sixty-Two: Am I Wrong Or Not
Obito watched the old man leave quietly. Very quietly.
The old man's footsteps made soft sounds against the gravel—crunch, crunch, crunch—each one taking him further from the car and closer to a truth he wasn't ready to face.
Obito leaned his body against the car and took a deep breath. He didn't do this out of kindness. At least, not entirely.
The car's metal was cool against his back, even through his clothes, a small discomfort that helped him focus on something other than the twisting in his gut.
He was aware that the old man couldn't escape. And even if he ran, Obito could find him easily. With the Sharingan, he could track the old man's cursed energy and locate him in a short time.
The Sharingan spun lazily in his eye socket—a red wheel of awareness that turned the world into data points and energy signatures, reducing human beings to moving sources of power.
So there was no reason to worry as far as he was concerned.
No reason at all. Just an old man saying goodbye to his granddaughter. Just a child about to lose everything. Just another Tuesday in the wonderful world of Jujutsu.
But at the same time, he couldn't help but feel affected.
The feeling crept up on him like a curse itself—uninvited, unwelcome, and completely indifferent to his desire to remain emotionally detached.
The old man beside him sometimes looked at him with that sad look. That look filled with grief. It seemed as if he was asking Obito to help him. To let him and his granddaughter escape.
Those old eyes held decades of experience, of battles fought and survived, of love given and received. And now they held something else too—desperation, naked and raw and impossible to ignore.
But of course, that was impossible for Obito.
Impossible. The word sat in his mind like a stone—heavy, immovable, a fact that no amount of wishing could change.
Could he let them escape? The answer was no. He had no way to do that. Especially since the Zenin Clan wanted to use the girl's cursed technique.
The Zenin Clan. Those smiling vultures who collected cursed techniques like other people collected stamps, completely indifferent to the human cost of their acquisitions.
And until this moment, he didn't know what this cursed technique was exactly. He didn't know the way it would help them find Uraimi.
The unknown gnawed at him—a small, persistent rodent of doubt scratching at the walls of his certainty.
Finding her, as far as Obito was concerned, meant finding Kenjaku.
Kenjaku. The name alone carried weight—centuries of scheming, bodies traded like playing cards, techniques stolen and hoarded like a dragon's treasure.
If he could find that man, then he could unleash the Jujutsu world upon him. Make the strongest in the world, Gojo Satoru, go catch him easily.
The plan was beautiful in its simplicity. Point Gojo at a problem. Watch the problem cease to exist. Collect rewards. Repeat as necessary.
He couldn't tell them about the existence of a living brain that could exchange bodies with any dead person and obtain their techniques simply. As if he was saying that to his little nephew without explaining why.
"Hey, so there's this ancient brain that lives in people's skulls and steals their powers. No big deal. Just thought you should know." Yes, that conversation would go over splendidly.
He needed people to discover this matter naturally. Otherwise, there would be too many questions.
Questions like "How do you know that?" and "Who are you really?" and "Should we cut you open to find out?" The kind of questions that led to bad places.
And he did not want to become a lab rat for anyone. If they realized his special condition—that he was a soul from another world inhabiting this body—
The thought alone made his skin crawl. And not just because of the experiments. But because of the existential horror of explaining to people that he was essentially a cosmic parasite wearing a dead man's skin.
The idea alone was terrifying. If he was caught and experiments were performed on his body—
He imagined white rooms. Bright lights. Needles. People in lab coats taking notes while he screamed. The image was disturbingly vivid.
The very idea threw him into an existential crisis. And certainly, if he had to choose between trusting people and protecting himself, he would always choose protecting himself.
Self-preservation: the most basic of instincts. Even amoebas had it. Obito was just an exceptionally complex amoeba with sharingan and existential dread.
The matter wasn't evil. But every person has their own interests and their own desire to protect themselves. This is part of human nature. So he convinced himself of that.
The convincing happened automatically—a mental reflex developed over years of making choices that sat somewhere in the gray area between right and wrong.
Anyway, if the girl's technique could find Uraimi somehow, and he could obtain some information, he wouldn't need to wait.
The information would flow like water—from the girl, to him, to the Jujutsu Council, to Gojo. A chain of custody that ended with Kenjaku's head on a platter.
This information would be sent directly to the Jujutsu Council. And even if the strongest shaman, Gojo Satoru, didn't usually want to do anything, if that thing concerned his dear friend Geto Suguru—
The terrorist who wanted to eliminate all non-shamans in Japan. The best friend turned worst enemy. The emotional weak point in Gojo's otherwise impenetrable armor.
The terrorist who wanted to eliminate all ordinary humans in Japan.
Geto's dream was genocide wrapped in philosophical justification. The worst kind—the kind that made perfect sense to the person having it.
Then Obito had 100% confidence that Gojo would go anywhere he could bring Geto from. Even if it was a place filled with special grade curses.
Special grade curses. The things that made experienced shamans wet themselves. Gojo's Tuesday afternoon workout.
Perhaps because he realized the outcome. When he imagined this matter, he released a smile without realizing it.
The smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—small, satisfied, the expression of a chess player who had just seen checkmate twelve moves ahead.
And if he had noticed, he wouldn't have stopped either.
"It would be a one-sided defeat."
The words hung in the mountain air, light and casual, as if he was commenting on the weather rather than predicting the annihilation of multiple special grade curses.
Just if that man went to that place. Even if there were four of special grade there, he would defeat them with negligible effort.
Negligible. The effort required to swat a fly. The effort required to open a door. Gojo's effort to destroy nightmares.
Especially with Domain Expansion. In a moment, they would be frozen due to the flow of information into the infinite void while Gojo looked at them with complete coldness.
He imagined the scene—curses screaming as infinity flooded their minds, their bodies freezing mid-attack, their eyes going blank as they drowned in information their brains couldn't process.
Before he grabbed Geto and eliminated the rest in short moments.
"Perfect plan."
The words slipped out like a sigh, like a prayer, like a promise to himself.
This is what he said in a short moment while looking at the trees in the forest.
The trees stood silent and patient, their leaves rustling slightly in the breeze—ssshhh, ssshhh, ssshhh—as if they were whispering secrets to each other about the strange man who talked to himself.
With such a simple plan, there couldn't be anything wrong with it.
Could there?
He had relied on himself too much in the beginning. He had thought to use the Zenin Clan to deal with Geto.
The memory of that failure still stung—a paper cut on his ego, small but persistent.
What happened there was that he only changed the story to cause a bigger problem. And by doing so, Geto survived.
Survived to continue his genocide plan. Survived to become an even bigger threat. Survived because Obito had tried to be clever.
And the idea that Japan was in greater danger. And that the future had become unclear.
The future: that foggy landscape where all his plans were supposed to work perfectly. Lately, the fog had been getting thicker.
Therefore, he decided to stop thinking that he would solve the problems himself. Instead, he would use the person who could solve every problem. Indirectly.
"I'm sorry, Gojo. But you have to be used as a tool. It's always part of your character."
The apology was directed at no one—just words spoken to trees and wind and the distant sound of temple bells.
He wasn't being cruel. But in one way or another, he felt it was cruel.
The cruelty sat in his chest like a cold stone—heavy, uncomfortable, impossible to spit out but equally impossible to digest.
Thinking about using this man. Even if no one—especially fans of the original story—wanted to think about that.
The fans loved Gojo. The invincible one. The strongest. They didn't think about what it meant to be strongest in a world that only saw you as a weapon.
Still, Gojo Satoru was the most oppressed person in Jujutsu Kaisen.
Oppressed by his power. Oppressed by everyone's expectations. Oppressed by the simple fact that he could solve problems no one else could, so he had to solve them whether he wanted to or not.
He was always treated as a weapon. And now even Obito would have to treat him as a weapon.
The circle of violence. The cycle of using people. It never ended. It just found new participants.
At this moment, he had accepted it long ago. There was no other way.
Acceptance: the final stage of grief. Also the first stage of becoming complicit.
It was impossible for him to go alone into the nest of special grade curses and fight Geto plus Kenjaku and Uraimi alone.
Alone against nightmares. Alone against centuries of accumulated evil. Alone against impossible odds.
And even if he had the Zenin Clan with him, they would lose. Because there was a fundamental difference in power between the Zenin Clan and these curses.
The Zenin Clan: proud, ancient, powerful. Also: arrogant, inflexible, completely unprepared for opponents who could do things their techniques had never encountered.
All of them could release Domain Expansion. Their techniques were destructive. In addition, Kenjaku also possessed an open-barrier Domain Expansion like Ryomen Sukuna.
Open-barrier Domain. The kind that didn't need to be contained. The kind that stretched to the horizon. The kind that made seasoned shamans retire on the spot.
And this kind of Domain could not be defeated using ordinary Domain Expansion. In addition, he also had special alliances.
Alliances built over centuries. Favors owed and collected. Bodies waiting to be worn like suits.
It was impossible to defeat him using only the power of the Zenin Clan.
Impossible. That word again. It kept appearing like a bad penny, a reminder of limitations Obito preferred to ignore.
Therefore, without doubt, Obito needed the intervention of the strongest man.
---
And so, while he continued thinking, time passed much slower.
The seconds dripped like honey—thick, slow, each one lasting longer than it should.
Therefore, he decided to look at the trees. Those barriers that the old man had constructed.
The trees stood in careful rows, their branches intertwined, their leaves forming a canopy that filtered sunlight into patterns on the ground.
Obito noticed that the old man had been looking at the trees earlier. To check if these barriers were working.
Probably. Maybe. Obito wasn't sure. But it seemed like a reasonable guess.
Perhaps he wanted to check if they could protect this temple.
The temple sat in the center of the barrier like a secret—hidden, protected, waiting.
He wanted to be kind. Even if that contradicted what he wanted to do.
Kindness: that inconvenient impulse that made people do things that weren't logical. Obito hated it. He also couldn't completely kill it.
But that was to ease his conscience. And also, he had a desire to know what kind of barriers they were.
Curiosity: the other inconvenient impulse. The one that had killed approximately 87% of all cats in proverbs.
Therefore, he activated the Sharingan.
The eye spun—faster now, focused, its three tomoe rotating like wheels of awareness.
In one moment, the world became clearer.
The barrier revealed itself in layers—lines of power connecting trees, talismans pulsing with energy, the whole thing humming with purpose.
He lowered his gaze to the papers fixed on the trees.
The papers were old—yellowed with age, their ink faded, their edges curled. But the power in them was fresh, alive, vigilant.
There were thousands of them.
Thousands. Each one placed by hand. Each one imbued with energy. Each one representing hours of work, days of effort, years of accumulated knowledge.
It needed a lot of time and patience to build such an advanced barrier.
Patience: the virtue Oibo had never possessed. He admired it in others the way he admired rare insects—from a distance, with mild curiosity, completely unable to replicate it.
This man, over seventy years old, certainly knew what he was doing. He possessed some remarkable knowledge.
Seventy years of learning. Seventy years of surviving. Seventy years of watching the world try to kill him and failing.
In the end, the world of shamans is not an easy world.
Easy worlds were for people who didn't see monsters. Easy worlds were for people who didn't fight curses. Easy worlds were for people who died in their beds at eighty surrounded by family.
It could be a bright world for many who don't know its truth.
The truth: that brightness was a lie. That peace was temporary. That death waited around every corner wearing a different face each time.
Even Obito, if he hadn't realized the truth of this world because he came from another world, would be happy to be here.
Another world. The thought still made his head hurt. He was a foreigner in reality itself.
But this world is dangerous.
Dangerous: the word didn't even begin to cover it.
You could describe its danger by noting that the strongest shaman, Gojo Satoru, did not live past 30 years. Or to put it more accurately, he died at an age younger than thirty.
Thirty. The age when most people were just figuring out their lives. Gojo's expiration date.
This matter was terrifying, simply put. And unimaginable. But it actually happened.
Happened. Past tense. In a future that hadn't happened yet. Time travel was giving Obito a headache.
Therefore, Obito felt no mockery for someone who managed to live 50 years in this world, which contained a large amount of risk. And even gained great experience.
Fifty years of survival. Fifty years of looking death in the face and saying "not today." Fifty years of watching everyone younger and stronger die while he kept going.
Therefore, he stopped thinking and returned to focusing on knowing if these barriers worked.
The barriers. Right. That's what he was supposed to be doing.
It seemed their design distributed cursed energy away from the temple.
The energy flowed outward like water through channels—away from the protected center, toward the edges, where it dissipated harmlessly.
This meant that curses would be formed in a place slightly far from this location. Not expelled completely.
Formation elsewhere. Like kicking a problem down the road. Classic Jujutsu problem-solving.
In addition, the barrier seemed to prevent curses that were formed from entering.
Enter? The wording caught Obito's attention. Not "prevent curses from being formed." Just "prevent them from entering."
It didn't take much time before he understood the nature of this barrier.
The barrier revealed itself to his Sharingan—layers of protection, lines of power, a complex web designed to redirect rather than destroy.
But something specific caught his attention. Something in the existence of this barrier.
Something wrong. Something that didn't fit.
It seemed there was a problem. Why did the cursed energy seem larger than it should be?
The energy swirled around the temple like an invisible ocean—currents and eddies of negativity that should not exist in such quantity in such a remote place.
A doubt arose in Obito's mind.
Doubt: the unwelcome guest that showed up at every party and refused to leave.
In the beginning, what was the cause of this doubt? This temple area was very far from the city.
Far from people. Far from hospitals. Far from schools. Far from graveyards. Far from all the places where negative emotions concentrated.
Cursed energy was created from all the residents of Japan. But usually, the amount of cursed energy differed depending on the place where the largest number of people gathered.
People: the factories that produced cursed energy. More people meant more negativity. Simple math.
That generated a larger amount of negative energy. Generally, hospitals, schools, places where death was common like graveyards.
Hospitals: fear and grief in concentrated form. Schools: bullying and anxiety and the terror of growing up. Graveyards: mourning and loss and the cold reality of mortality.
But this place was a very remote temple. There shouldn't be many bad things happening there compared to the cursed energy being produced and expelled outside.
The math didn't add up. The energy was there—Obito could see it, feel it, almost taste it—but the source was invisible.
There was something wrong.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. The word repeated in Obito's mind like a warning bell.
Even using the Sharingan, Obito couldn't deduce a logical reason for generating this amount of cursed energy.
The Sharingan saw everything. The Sharingan understood everything. The Sharingan was currently very confused.
Honestly, as far as he was concerned, this place was capable of generating a first-grade curse.
First-grade. The kind that required multiple experienced shamans to defeat. The kind that left trails of bodies behind them.
But thanks to this barrier, which spread cursed energy outward, it greatly reduced the formation of curses with lesser power.
The barrier worked. That was the irony. It worked so well that the problem it was hiding remained invisible.
Obito tried to extend his reasoning. But he stopped and sighed.
The sigh escaped his lips—soft, frustrated, the sound of a man who had just realized he was going to have to care about something he didn't want to care about.
It didn't matter to him. He didn't want to delve into this place. And he wasn't a hero to think about solving any problem.
Not a hero. Never a hero. Heroes died young and got remembered in songs. Obito preferred to live and be forgotten.
But at the same time, he copied the sealing process of the barrier.
The Sharingan spun—recording, memorizing, storing the barrier's structure for future use.
To use it if he needed it sometime.
Sometime. Maybe. Possibly. Always good to have options.
Thus, time passed without him realizing it, trapped inside a whirlwind of his thoughts.
The thoughts circled—plans and counter-plans, possibilities and probabilities, strategies and contingencies. A whirlwind that kept him occupied while the real world kept moving.
But that wasn't long enough. Because after a little over an hour, he heard sounds coming from the temple gate.
The gate creaked—a long, slow sound like old bones complaining about movement.
One minute. Two minutes. The sounds began to approach.
Footsteps on gravel—crunch, crunch, crunch—growing louder as they came closer.
And there he saw the old man. Beside him, a small girl. Maybe ten years old.
The girl walked with the easy confidence of children—unaware of dangers, trusting in the adults around her, completely oblivious to the fact that her world was about to end.
Out of curiosity, he activated the Sharingan and looked at her.
The Sharingan spun—faster now, focused, hungry for information about this girl who was supposed to be special.
He wanted to know why this girl was special. How she would make them know Uraimi's location.
The answer came immediately. And it was not what he expected.
An amount of cursed energy swirled around the girl's body.
The energy moved like living thing—coiling, twisting, wrapping around her like a second skin made of negative emotion.
And the girl's body seemed like a mad vessel of negative fluctuations swirling around the soul and body.
They were fused together. Incredibly. Completely. Irreversibly.
The human presence had completely disappeared. Replaced by something that resembled a curse entirely.
A curse. She was a curse. The evidence was right there in front of him, visible to his Sharingan, undeniable and disgusting.
He stepped back and took a defensive stance.
His feet moved before his brain finished processing—muscle memory from years of combat, survival instinct overriding conscious thought.
Without hesitation, he looked at the old man. Doubt appeared directly on his face.
Could it be?
Did this old man want to face him again? And he brought a curse? Was she the reason for the amount of cursed energy?
The cursed energy. The barrier. The remote temple. The girl. Pieces clicked together in Obito's mind, forming a picture he really didn't like.
This bastard. He shouldn't have let him go alone. He must have done several things inside. Prepared this plan.
The old man's sad eyes. His desperate pleas. All an act? All leading to this moment?
Obito cursed himself. He wanted to swear.
The curses formed in his mind—colorful, creative, deeply satisfying to imagine but inappropriate to say aloud in front of a child, even a child who might be a curse.
He had let the old man stay with his granddaughter for too long. He was supposed to come out after half an hour.
Half an hour. That was the deal. That was the limit. That was what Obito had agreed to in his head.
But he felt that period was too short. So he gave them more time. He didn't call them.
Kindness. Stupid, inconvenient kindness. The same kindness that had led him to let the old man go alone in the first place.
But now he was beginning to feel regret.
Regret: the breakfast of champions. Obito was currently eating a very large serving.
He didn't know why the old man brought this disgusting curse. This curse that had taken the form of this small girl.
The form was perfect—too perfect. The round cheeks, the bright eyes, the innocent smile. All of it a mask over something rotten.
Of course, no one could see this if they didn't possess special eyes or the ability to sense cursed energy at an intense level. Or even special grade.
Special grade sensing. The kind that let you feel curses forming miles away. The kind that let you see through their disguises. The kind Obito had because of the Sharingan.
The only reason granting Obito the right to see this evil cursed energy was his technique, the Sharingan.
The Sharingan: gift from another world. Curse in its own right. Tool that showed him truths he sometimes wished he couldn't see.
With disgust, Obito said:
"Old man, how dare you bring this curse?"
His voice came out cold—colder than he intended, but appropriate for the situation. Probably.
He focused his cursed energy. He was ready to fight seriously.
The energy gathered around him—dark, dense, prepared for violence.
Because he was able to know that the girl's energy was certainly one of the most dangerous types of cursed energy he had seen. But at the same time, he couldn't classify it.
Unclassifiable. Unknown. Unpredictable. The three things Obito hated most in combat.
"What are you saying?! She's my granddaughter!"
The old man's voice cracked with outrage—genuine outrage, as far as Obito could tell.
The old man stared at him. His face was shocked. He took his fighting stance.
His body shifted—feet apart, hands raised, energy gathering. But his movements were slower than before. Weaker.
At the same time, his cursed energy moved to strengthen himself. But he was still affected by his internal injuries. And his cursed energy was low.
The injuries from their previous fight—still healing, still hurting, still limiting what he could do.
Therefore, his stance was full of weaknesses that Obito could exploit.
Weaknesses: openings in his defense. Points where a single strike could end the fight. Obvious to the Sharingan.
But he didn't.
He didn't move. He didn't attack. He just stared.
He stared at the old man's face for less than a second. Using the Sharingan, he observed his facial expressions with greater accuracy.
The micro-expressions—muscle twitches, eye movements, subtle shifts that revealed truth or lies.
And he concluded coldly.
Was he telling the truth?
But that was impossible. She was definitely a curse.
Definitely. Absolutely. Without question. Except...
Obito was between two choices.
Choice one: this man was the best actor in life and deserved an Oscar.
Choice two: he was telling the truth and didn't realize the power of the girl beside him. Or what she was.
The Oscar option seemed increasingly unlikely. Old men with sad eyes and broken hearts didn't usually give award-winning performances.
Therefore, instead of looking at the old man, he looked at the girl.
And was surprised.
She was looking at him with complete calm. As if she was looking at something that posed no threat to her.
Her dark eyes were clear and untroubled—the eyes of a child who had never known real fear, who trusted that adults would handle everything, who had no idea what she really was.
"Older brother, are you okay?"
Her voice was soft. Gentle. Kind. Exactly the voice of a ten-year-old girl.
She asked softly, quietly, sweetly. In a way that suited a girl of ten years.
It was perfect. Too perfect. The kind of perfect that made Obito's skin crawl.
But what Obito could see—
Her body was a corpse. Filled with negative energy. Rotting from the inside while the outside stayed young and fresh.
Her body was a corpse filled with negative energy. And the voice coming from her was different from what Obito saw. Significantly.
Like looking at something surreal. Something that shouldn't exist. Something that made his brain hurt trying to process.
It was as if he was looking at something fantastical. Something disgusting.
Disgusting: the only word that fit. A beautiful package containing something rotten.
Therefore, he said nothing. He just stared at her. Trying to explore what was happening at this moment.
The Sharingan spun—analyzing, searching, looking for answers that weren't coming.
But the girl approached her grandfather's leg. The grandfather who was in a defensive stance.
Her small hand touched his leg—a gesture of comfort, of reassurance, of a child trying to help.
She told him there was no need to fight.
"Grandpa, please don't do anything dangerous."
Then she stood in front of Obito.
Small. Fragile. Innocent. Completely unaware that the man looking at her saw a corpse wrapped in negative energy.
And she said something he couldn't believe.
She told him his control was better than the old man's control.
Which was obvious. Obito knew that. He used the Sharingan, which greatly enhanced cursed energy control. Her observation wasn't surprising.
This was obvious, and he knew it greatly. Because he used the Sharingan, which allowed him to greatly enhance control over cursed energy. So her words weren't surprising.
Not surprising at all.
The real surprise was that she managed to see that in a fraction of a second.
One fraction. Less than a heartbeat. The time it took for light to travel from her eyes to her brain and back.
For most people learning to control cursed energy, the most important thing in this matter was the ability to sense and interact with cursed energy. For anyone.
Sense. Interact. Two skills that took years to develop for ordinary people.
And if people with less talent needed a lot of time and interaction with cursed energy and curses to achieve this level, talented people could learn naturally.
The difference between untalented and talented. The gap that separated those who survived from those who died.
That was the difference between the untalented and the talented.
The girl was talented. Terrifyingly talented.
Therefore, as far as Obito was concerned, this girl was terrifyingly talented. She could discover that matter in less than a fraction of a second. Without having any sensing techniques. Or even a special advantage allowing her to see cursed energy like what Obito did with the Sharingan.
No Sharingan. No special eyes. Just pure, raw, terrifying talent.
But that didn't just make him cautious after hearing her. He even looked at her coldly, saying:
"Who are you? And how can you speak to me, curse?"
He didn't say this out loud. He said it in a low, deadly voice.
He didn't say that out loud. He said it in a low, deadly voice.
The words were for him alone—a reminder of what he was seeing, what he was dealing with, what he might have to do.
He was ready to attack the girl at any moment. But he decided first to extract some information. Since she possessed the ability to take forms that appeared human. Even to experienced shamans.
He looked at the old man. Experienced shaman. Totally fooled.
But to his surprise, the girl seemed unaffected. She even made a gentle sound before saying playfully:
"What are you saying, older brother? I'm alive, as you can see. What is a curse?"
Her head tilted. Her expression curious. The perfect picture of innocent confusion.
If Obito hadn't seen her true form, he would have said he believed her.
He would have. Completely. Without question.
But now he was sure that the girl in front of him was a curse. At least, that's what he could describe her as. Seeing the negative energy coming out of her, which could only be released by curses.
Only curses released that kind of energy. Only curses had that kind of presence. Only curses looked like that to the Sharingan.
"Older brother, I really love learning."
The words were bright and cheerful—the kind of thing a child said when asking for a new toy or permission to stay up late.
Obito snorted when he heard her voice.
The snort escaped before he could stop it—half laugh, half disgust, completely confused.
Then the old man approached. He grabbed her and moved her back slightly. He placed her behind him. Then he spoke, saying:
"My granddaughter. I swear she's not a curse. Believe me."
His face looked into Obito's eyes. He seemed ready to die.
His face looked into Obito's eyes. He seemed ready to die.
The old man's eyes held no lies. No deception. Just desperation and love and the willingness to sacrifice everything.
The girl looked at her grandfather. She smiled. As if she was telling him there was no need to worry.
Her smile was sunshine. Pure and warm and completely wrong coming from something Obito's eyes showed as a corpse.
Obito was silent at this scene.
Silence stretched between them—long, uncomfortable, filled with unspoken questions.
He didn't know what to say.
On one hand, he was sure this girl was definitely a curse.
On the other hand, this girl could speak very normally. As if she was a small ten-year-old girl. Of the kind, sweet type.
The sweet type who asked about learning. Who reassured her grandfather. Who looked at strange men with curious eyes instead of fear.
What was happening now?
Was he wrong?
But that was impossible. He could definitely see her in that disgusting form.
The form was right there—visible every time he looked at her through the Sharingan. A corpse wearing a child's face. Negative energy wrapped in innocence.
Was he wrong?
The question repeated in his mind, over and over, like a cursed song he couldn't stop hearing.
But that was impossible. He could definitely see her in that disgusting form.
The Sharingan didn't lie. It couldn't lie. It showed truth—harsh, ugly, undeniable truth.
So what was happening?
What. Was. Happening.
Obito stared at the girl. The girl stared back. The old man stood between them, trembling, ready to die for something Obito's eyes insisted was already dead.
The mountain wind blew through the trees—ssshhh, ssshhh, ssshhh—carrying the sound of temple bells in the distance. Ding. Ding. Ding. Each chime marking another second of impossible uncertainty.
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END OF CHAPTER
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