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"Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!"
"Cough, cough... First time killing someone... really... cough, cough... ugh!"
The autumn wind rustled the dry leaves on the ground. Tsuru bent over, holding onto a tree for balance as his stomach churned and he gagged. He could taste bile in his mouth.
Two members of the Hagoromo Clan lay in front of him. Blood soaked into the dirt, turning the fallen leaves a deep red. The sight made his eyes sting.
"You still need a lot more practice..." Black Zetsu's voice came from Tsuru's left palm. The ink-black face frowned and looked at Tsuru's pale skin with clear frustration.
He thought that even if Tsuru had never used chakra, growing up in a Shinobi Clan would mean he understood how things worked in this world. But it seemed the Senju heir had been sheltered all his life. He had spent ten years reading, rarely seeing any blood.
"Ugh, cough..." Tsuru stood up and coughed into his fist. His hands kept trembling.
He looked down at his hands, his eyes showing defeat and confusion. "Cough, cough... I really am better suited to reading and writing after all..."
"Haah..." Black Zetsu sighed softly from his palm.
His eyes softened. He formed a hand and gently patted Tsuru's. The teasing disappeared, replaced by the calm of someone who had seen a lot. "Reading and writing are fine ways to live in peacetime. But you were born in the Shinobi world, in an age drowning in war, and you're the young heir of the Senju Clan. You don't get to hold only a brush and never a blade."
Black Zetsu glanced at the broken weapons and the blood on the forest floor. His voice became quieter.
"Do you think the Hagoromo Clan will spare people because your heart is kind?"
"If they break through the Senju border, they'll burn, loot, and slaughter their way through your people. The old, the weak, the children. None of them will be safe."
"If your hand shakes today, then tomorrow it may be your father on the ground. Or the elders who protected you for more than ten years. Or the children in your clan who haven't even had time to grow up."
"A war-torn age does not reward kindness alone. Survival always comes first!!"
Tsuru's shoulders slumped. He looked up, and some of the confusion in his eyes was replaced by something more steady.
Seeing this, Black Zetsu continued, "The fact that you threw up and felt pity means your heart is still warm. That already makes you better than the people who spill blood and feel nothing. Killing is not something to be proud of. But this era forces people into it."
"Reacting this way after your first blood is rare enough. Later, after you've seen it a few more times, the hard part will be keeping your hands steady without losing that kindness." Black Zetsu paused, and a sly smile appeared on his ink-dark face. "I'll teach you a trick to help with the guilt."
"Whenever you kill someone and start thinking you murdered an innocent, just repeat this in your heart: 'I didn't kill you. This rotten era did.'"
Black Zetsu smiled as he said it.
"I see..."
Tsuru listened in a daze. The ink-black face in his palm looked tender yet strong, and those words passed through him like a clean breeze, scattering the panic and self-loathing knotted within his chest.
He looked down at Black Zetsu. The confusion in his eyes faded, replaced by a sense of resolve.
"Thank you for your guidance, Sage Black Zetsu. I understand." Tsuru spoke with respect.
"Mm. Now you're learning." Black Zetsu nodded, a smug smile returning to his ink-black face. "As long as you understand."
"Also, your father didn't send you to the Uchiha front. He must be worried about your safety, which is why he transferred you to the Hagoromo battlefield instead," Black Zetsu said.
Tsuru scratched his head without thinking, his face showing mixed feelings. "The Hagoromo front isn't as intense as the Uchiha front, but the Hagoromo Clan shouldn't be underestimated. I heard their ancestor was the son of the Sage of Ninshū..."
"Hah? That's complete bullshit."
Black Zetsu spoke with open disdain.
"The founder of the Hagoromo Clan was only an ordinary disciple under the Sage of Ninshū. He latched onto the name Hagoromo, then had the gall to use it as his Clan name. In the end, it was borrowed prestige. Nothing more."
Black Zetsu explained it plainly.
Tsuru's eyes filled with confusion. He leaned forward half a step and asked, "Then where did the name 'Hagoromo' actually come from?"
Black Zetsu's ink-black body paused. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before answering in a flat voice.
"Hagoromo was the Sage of Ninshū's real name."
"So that's how it was..." Tsuru's eyes widened. "That's unbelievable. I always treated the Sage of Ninshū as a legend. I wasn't even sure he really existed..."
Tsuru had no idea that Black Zetsu, sitting right there, was the Sage of Ninshū's own brother.
Black Zetsu paused, and a hint of sadness crossed his face.
True. To young people like Senju Tsuru, only a few centuries had been enough to turn Ōtsutsuki Hagoromo, Asura, Indra, and Ninshū into distant mythology.
"I'm the one who finds it unbelievable," Black Zetsu muttered, his ink-black brows lifting with helplessness.
"It's only been a few hundred years, and your Shinobi history is already this muddy. Even Asura's name has become vague. Give it a few more centuries, and you people might forget where your own Clans came from."
Black Zetsu looked toward the distant Senju territory.
No wonder the Grand Sage had established the Historical Records Hall in Mount Myōboku. In the end, it was to keep these precious records from being buried under the blood and fire of this chaotic age.
Tsuru had only just stopped retching and was wiping his mouth with his sleeve when Black Zetsu's ink-black eyes suddenly lit up. The helplessness left his voice, replaced by a sly kind of excitement. "Oh, right. I just thought of an opportunity. Maybe you should go claim it."
"What?"
Tsuru froze. His hand tightened on the tree trunk, and he lowered his head toward his palm with a puzzled look. "What opportunity?"
The ink-black face broke into a mischievous grin.
"Have you heard of Hatake swordsmanship?" Black Zetsu asked, deliberately mysterious.
"I have..."
"...That's the famous sword art created by the Hatake Clan head a hundred years ago!"
"The Hatake Clan used to be small and weak, but after learning that sword art, they quickly became one of the great Shinobi Clans. Their reputation spread far and wide." Tsuru looked serious, with a hint of admiration in his eyes.
"Wrong." Black Zetsu cut in at once. "That sword art wasn't created by the Hatake Clan head at all."
"Huh?"
Tsuru's confidence faltered. He frowned. "Then who made it, really?"
"The story I heard says the old Hatake Clan head lost a battle, fled into the mountains, hid himself away, and created Hatake swordsmanship after years of bitter thought." Tsuru scratched his head, repeating what he'd heard.
"That's just the story the Hatake Clan made up to make the sword art sound like their own." Black Zetsu shook his head. "In truth, that sword art had another name, and another origin."
"Another name? What was it?" Tsuru leaned in, eyes bright with curiosity, staring at Black Zetsu in his palm.
Black Zetsu noticed the look and slowed his voice, clearly enjoying the moment.
"Have you heard of Foxfall Cliff?"
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