Uchiha Sogetsu leaned at an angle against the window ledge.
Moonlight washed over his half-loosened robe, giving him a cool, distant air.
He lowered his gaze to the girl curled beside him like a kitten—fast asleep, her face peaceful—and sighed, rubbing at his throbbing brow. "Looks like I have to move up the timetable on researching the First Hokage's cells."
After a long, candid talk with Hikari, he finally grasped the shape of Eight-Thorn Mark.
Among the Mangekyō Sharingan's known techniques, it might be the most terrifying—not because it burns or pierces like Amaterasu and Tsukuyomi, but because it behaves like a mass, strengthened, Kotoamatsukami-class compulsion. If your chakra touches the caster's, your will, chakra, and even memories can be overridden—wiped and replaced—until you're a puppet.
But no jutsu is free. Eight-Thorn Mark consumes ocular power continuously for as long as it holds a target, and the more people branded at once, the faster it chews through vision—like a pump running dry.
As for its practical limitation—"must touch chakra"—Sogetsu discovered the clan's ancestors had already patched it for Hikari: both of her Mangekyō are engraved to also wield Tsukuyomi and Amaterasu. Tsukuyomi's moonlight can "count" as contact, stamping the brand at range.
Of course, layering techniques means double the drain. A monster of an engine—and it guzzles fuel.
Even with Hashirama cells, unless he wanted to treat Hikari like a disposable tool (which he didn't), they'd have to ration its use.
The night slipped past without further words.
At dawn, after a night to "consider," Hanzo finally agreed to receive them.
Sogetsu donned his ANBU mask again and sank into the Spectator path mindset—an ANBU's habits, an ANBU's cadence—shadowing Tsunade with Hikari at her side.
Amegakure's skyline was a tangle of steel—pipes crisscrossing in dense lattices, spires studded with conduits. Few lived high up; most homes clung low, under the rain.
Their guide took them into a dark, wet artery of the city. The maze of intersecting ducts, the sameness of every junction, the starved light—perfect for survival and assassination-proofing. Hanzo feared death; this labyrinth made killing him hard.
They stopped before a plain sliding door.
"Please enter. Lord Hanzo awaits in the inner room," the Ame-nin said.
Tsunade pushed through the corridor and slid open the innermost door.
"Long time no see, Princess Tsunade."
Across a low table with two steaming cups, an old man in a kimono sat seiza. A steel respirator masked his face; loose hair hung down. The body had withered with age and war, but the air around him was still edged—hardened, patient, dangerous.
"You've gotten old, Hanzo."
Unimpressed, Tsunade sat opposite, weighing the man who once beat her team.
"Spare me the lip," Hanzo said, lids heavy as he sipped. "Say what you came to say."
"Tch. Still unpleasant." Tsunade folded her arms. "You've heard the Warring States sealing record—dangerous figures sealed in that era. We're here to inspect."
"I've heard." A crease touched Hanzo's brow; for the first time his eyes lifted, flat and sharp. "So that's your reason."
"We'll just be checking." Tsunade's smile turned needling. "I do wonder how much strength the 'demi-god' has left."
"Is that Konoha talking, or you?"
The room tightened. Without moving, Hanzo felt like a tiger showing fangs. Cold crept up the spine—old killing aura stirred.
"Don't make that face," Tsunade murmured, lifting a cup. "Does hiding down here make you feel safer?"
"Enough," Hanzo growled, a vein beating at his temple.
"Smell it? The rot, the filth, the stench rolling off you now," Tsunade said, setting the cup down. "You're old, Hanzo. Your breadth is gone. All that's left is a man shackled to power and control."
"I said enough, Tsunade!"
The floor boomed.
Chakra roared out like a flood; killing intent flung tatami aside. Metal rang in a blur; shockwaves rippled the room. Sogetsu caught Hikari to his chest and sprang back a dozen meters as Ame-nin flooded the perimeter.
Amid the dust, Hanzo and Tsunade braced fist-to-fist—both still seated—while the floor spider-webbed with cracks from the pressure alone.
Watching in his Spectator state, Sogetsu finally understood why the Third Hokage had sent Tsunade along.
This was a probe.
The world was turning stormy again, and Ame sat at a crossroads. Konoha needed to know where Hanzo stood—and how much of the "demi-god" still remained. The "Warring States inspection" was just a polite pretext.
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