The night was quiet, the kind of stillness that only deep hours can bring. A cool breeze slipped through the open window, brushing across the sparsely furnished room. Yet Shihara Emiya felt no chill at all. His body, sustained by the Impure World Reincarnation, no longer sensed temperature like the living. Still, out of habit more than need, he rose and closed the window gently. The faint click of the latch echoed like a memory.
Perhaps this small gesture was his way of clinging to life. Even as a body of earth and ash, some habits refused to die.
The house itself had been arranged for him by Senju Tobirama. Emiya did not need a bedroom or a mattress—he did not sleep—but Tobirama had insisted on providing a quiet environment, a space where Emiya could read and think. Tobirama had also explained that he wanted Emiya to observe the medical ninjutsu of this era. As always, there was an underlying purpose.
Outside, concealed in the dark, an ANBU shinobi kept silent watch. Officially, this guard was not here to restrain Emiya but to protect him and to deliver any request he might make to Konoha. In truth, Tobirama believed he could control this reincarnated body with a mere thought. Yet out of a mixture of caution and respect, he maintained the façade of freedom. The Impure World Reincarnation was already an indignity; Tobirama did not want Emiya to think of himself as a mere puppet.
"Don't stay up late tonight. Go to bed early," Emiya said absently as he closed the window. His voice was calm but carried a trace of authority. He spoke toward the shadow beneath the sill, where he knew the ANBU was hidden. "Just bring me a map of the ninja world tomorrow morning."
The ANBU hesitated. It was not his place to question such a request, but he still remembered Tobirama's precise orders. After a moment, he vanished soundlessly into the night, heading toward the Hokage's building to report Emiya's words.
Alone again, Emiya let his fingers play with the wick of the small oil lamp on his table. "I left only one way out," he murmured. His thoughts drifted to a name he had not spoken aloud in centuries. "Black Zetsu… why hasn't my ally come to see me yet?"
He stared at the flickering flame. The candlelight threw long, shifting shadows on the walls, as though the room itself breathed. If Black Zetsu had truly been tempered by a thousand years of schemes, he should have realized by now that Emiya was still his only option. Unless… unless Black Zetsu remained the same naïve creature he had once been.
The flame shivered, and with it the shadow deepened. Something stirred in the floorboards—a slick, dark presence sliding upward from the earth.
Just as Emiya's worry crystallized, a familiar voice, eerie and cold, crept into his ears. "Long time no see… Emiya-sama."
He froze. His fingers stilled on the wick. That voice was unmistakable.
A dark figure coalesced behind him, rising from the ground like spilled ink. It was Black Zetsu. The honorific "-sama" rolled from its tongue—a term usually reserved for the slugs Emiya had once raised, yet Black Zetsu sometimes used it for him, perhaps out of habit, perhaps out of cunning. Though Black Zetsu had always regarded Emiya as a pawn to be manipulated, the disparity in their power kept him cautious. To his face, at least, he remained deferential.
"It's me," Black Zetsu said again, voice wavering as it slipped back into the earth. "If you still remember me—the one who shared your dreams and was ultimately betrayed by Lord Emiya…"
"I'm sorry…" A flicker of guilt passed over Emiya's face. He lowered his head, but before the apology could fully form, Black Zetsu rose directly in front of him. For the first time in over a millennium, the two stood eye to eye.
"You didn't expect this, did you, Lord Emiya Shihara?" Black Zetsu's expression wavered between nerves and a grim sort of satisfaction. "I never imagined that after living so lonely for so long, I would have the chance to meet you again."
"Indeed…" Emiya studied him quietly. Black Zetsu looked different now—taller, more like an adult than the shadow he remembered. "You've grown taller too, Black Zetsu."
The words were gentle, almost fond, like the many times Emiya had praised Black Zetsu and the slugs in ages past. The smile froze Black Zetsu mid-thought. He had arrived prepared to unleash the harshest accusations, to batter Emiya's heart with words like fists. Yet before the first blow could land, it was as if he had punched cotton. The kindness disarmed him.
Emiya turned back to the lamp, fiddling with the wick again, letting the flickering flame dance between his fingers as if he did not notice its heat. "It's wonderful," he murmured. "More than a thousand years have passed, and yet I can still see my old companions again."
His tone held a fragile happiness, but his face betrayed a deep, unspoken sadness. Black Zetsu could feel it—an ache carefully suppressed.
"Black Zetsu… the shinobi of this era are truly remarkable," Emiya continued. "They managed to use the corpse specimens I left behind to resurrect me—a man dead for over a thousand years."
Black Zetsu gave a thin sneer, echoing Emiya's words. "Is Lord Shihara angry? Is this not the worst era you've ever seen?"
"Really?" Emiya tilted his head, a trace of self-mockery curling his lips. "They told me this is the best era they've had in a thousand years."
"That's right!" Black Zetsu's face darkened. "For the descendants of those despicable people, this is the best era. They seized chakra, fought war after war for their own benefit, and created the endless Warring States period. Even though I've spent millennia spreading your story, teaching them that chakra could save the world, they still use it to wage war!"
As expected, Black Zetsu left out his own hand in stoking those conflicts.
"Lord Shihara," he said, a strange smile twisting his features. The moment he had long awaited had arrived. "I've watched the ninjas fight endlessly. I've seen the chaos of the Warring States period. Now tell me—do you regret believing Ashura's foolish words?"
Silence stretched. In Black Zetsu's eyes, that silence was as good as surrender. His smile widened. He prepared to press further, to drive the point home.
But then Emiya spoke. "Maybe… nothing is decided yet."
His voice was distant, hollow, as if reaching back through centuries. "I remember Ashura promised me he would calm the conflicts caused by chakra. He would protect the weak from the strong. He would turn chakra into a power that saved the world from suffering, even at the cost of his own life…"
He looked down at his hands. "At first I thought this world was absurd and beyond saving. But today I met the carrier of Ashura's chakra in this generation. He is called Senju Hashirama—a descendant of Ashura."
A faint memory stirred. "I recall the surname Senju. I gave it to Ashura when we first met, one of several names I helped him choose for his descendants. The Thousand Hands symbolize unity—people coming together to reach out. Their power would quell all future disasters…"
Emiya's tone softened as he spoke of Hashirama. "I've heard about him. He gathered many people, ended the war that had lasted a thousand years, and brought the chaotic Warring States period to an end."
The sinister smile drained from Black Zetsu's face. "No…" he whispered inwardly. "You still believe in Ashura? After everything, you still—"
He wanted to scream, to shake Emiya by the shoulders. Don't be fooled again! Don't trust Ashura or his descendants. Trust only me!
But Emiya went on, voice calm yet resolute. "Perhaps Ashura's ideal is not entirely lost. Perhaps some part of it lives on."
Black Zetsu clenched his hands, dark liquid fingers trembling. The thousand-year plan, the careful manipulation of myths—all of it had been to draw Emiya back to his side. Yet here was the man himself, still looking toward Ashura's light.
In that small room, lit only by a wavering candle, the two ancient beings faced each other—one clinging to a hope older than the world's wars, the other consumed by a bitterness older than hatred itself.
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