A Cold Night's Judgment
The wind howled through the shattered halls of the once-great Moon Ōtsutsuki Clan. Fractured pillars stood like gravestones, bathed in pale moonlight, casting long, twisted shadows over the ruins. The air carried the scent of dust and something older—the echoes of a civilization now reduced to nothing.
Ōtsutsuki Ryūsei stood among the dead.
Before him knelt the last survivors of the war that had consumed the Moon—a withered servant of the Branch Family, a dying man barely able to keep himself upright, and a single child, Toneri Ōtsutsuki, barely a year old, clutching the hem of his caretaker's robes.
Ryūsei's gold-tinged Byakugan gleamed under the celestial glow, unreadable and cold. His presence was a weight upon the survivors, suffocating, pressing down like the final judgment of an executioner.
His voice, when it finally came, was devoid of emotion.
"Why should I spare you when you killed my partner?"
The elder did not flinch. Their breath was slow, deliberate, as if already resigning themselves to the fate before them.
"I have no excuses," they murmured, voice heavy with age and regret. "What was done cannot be undone."
Ryūsei said nothing.
The elder inhaled sharply. "But I was a servant. I did not wield the blade. I did not command the armies." Their voice cracked, dust and sorrow clinging to every syllable. "The war was not mine to wage."
The wind carried the words away, scattering them among the ruins.
Ryūsei's gaze remained unmoving. "And yet, you stood by while my kin were slaughtered."
The elder's lips thinned. "And what of your kin, Ryūsei?" Their voice, once meek, sharpened into something edged. "The Main Family bound us in servitude, carved seals into our foreheads, stole our will, our future. Did you truly believe that injustice would never bear consequences?"
Ryūsei's expression did not change, but the weight of his chakra deepened.
"You justify genocide with oppression?"
The elder held his gaze. "I justify nothing. I only speak the truth."
A heavy silence stretched between them.
Then, Ryūsei moved.
A flicker of motion—his palm hovering just above the elder's heart. Chakra pulsed, ready to strike, to erase them from existence in a single breath.
The elder did not move.
They simply closed their eyes.
They were ready.
But then—a sound.
Soft. Fragile.
Toneri whimpered.
The small child trembled, clutching at the elder's robes with tiny, desperate hands. His Byakugan, pure and pale, glowed faintly in the moonlight. He did not cry, did not wail—he simply held on, too young to understand what was happening but instinctively afraid to lose what little he had left.
Ryūsei stared down at the child.
His hand lowered.
A long exhale.
"…You live. For now."
The elder's eyes opened. They did not bow. They did not thank him.
They only nodded.
Ryūsei turned away, the wind tugging at his cloak. "Come," he commanded, his voice softer now, but no less firm. "You sought me out for a reason. Speak."
The elder hesitated, then followed, carrying the last heir of the Moon Branch Family.
The past could not be undone.
But the future was still unwritten.
Konoha: The Meeting's Unraveling
The council chamber was thick with tension. The air smelled of ink and parchment, but beneath it, something heavier lingered—the scent of war, of change looming just beyond the horizon.
Around the table sat Hiruzen Sarutobi, Danzo Shimura, Jiraiya, Orochimaru, Tsunade, and Ryūsei.
Before them, resting within an intricately sealed scroll, was the White Zetsu specimen.
A silent reminder of an enemy neither fully human nor fully divine.
Jiraiya leaned back, arms crossed. "So, what exactly are we dealing with here?"
Orochimaru's golden eyes glinted with intrigue as he studied the scroll. "A failed experiment," he murmured, fingers tapping against the table.
Hiruzen frowned. "An experiment for what?"
Orochimaru's smile deepened.
"To create an Ōtsutsuki."
Silence.
Jiraiya's casual posture vanished. "You're saying someone—someone here, on Earth—is trying to become one of them?"
Orochimaru nodded. "Not just one. Many."
Danzo's lone eye flickered toward the scroll. "Then this specimen is of extreme strategic value. We should dissect it immediately."
Tsunade scowled. "You think of nothing but weapons, Danzo."
Ignoring her, Orochimaru reached for the scroll. "Let's see what secrets it holds."
Tsunade moved to unseal it—
And everything went wrong.
The containment seal unraveled too quickly.
A pulse of chakra.
Then—
The White Zetsu burst free.
A pale blur of tendrils and shifting mass lunged at Orochimaru, latching onto his body like a parasite.
"Orochimaru!" Jiraiya shouted, moving—
"Don't touch him!" Orochimaru's voice was sharp, halting them mid-step.
His body convulsed as the Zetsu merged into him, its flesh twisting and sinking into his skin, becoming one with him. His golden eyes widened, pupils dilating, his entire form writhing as foreign chakra invaded his system.
Then—he stilled.
The room held its breath.
Orochimaru exhaled. And then he laughed.
Low. Amused. Fascinated.
Jiraiya took a cautious step forward. "What the hell just happened?"
Orochimaru flexed his fingers, his expression almost hungry. "Fascinating… It doesn't just mimic—it assimilates." His gaze darkened. "This thing isn't a soldier. It's a neutralizer."
Danzo's eye gleamed. "A perfect infiltrator."
Orochimaru chuckled. "More than that." He turned his gaze to Tsunade. "I can feel its influence. If left unchecked, it could consume the host's identity, take over completely." His fingers twitched. "It's a weapon designed to erase bloodlines."
A heavy silence settled over the room.
Then, Orochimaru shuddered.
His skin twitched, rippled— the Zetsu still lingering beneath, refusing to separate. His chakra began to destabilize, a sickly white hue pulsing under his veins.
Tsunade's eyes flashed. No.
Without a second thought, she stepped forward, hands glowing with Wood Release chakra.
"Hold still," she ordered.
Orochimaru smirked. "Oh? Do you have a solution, my dear Tsunade?"
She ignored him, placing a hand over his chest. Wooden tendrils sprouted, latching onto the remnants of the Zetsu, feeding off its chakra—absorbing, purging.
The pale flesh burned at her touch, writhing in agony as the wood drank it dry.
Orochimaru inhaled sharply, his body trembling—then, suddenly, it was gone.
The Zetsu peeled away, its remnants dissolving into ash, leaving only Orochimaru behind.
He took a slow, deep breath, rolling his shoulders. "Hah… Well done, Tsunade."
She scowled. "I didn't do it for you."
Hiruzen finally spoke, voice heavy.
"This changes everything." His gaze swept across the room.
"The question now is—who created them?"
No one had an answer.
But they all knew war was coming.
To Be Continued…