The moment he asked that question, Itachi Uchiha already knew his own answer.
His bloodstained hands.
His shattered family.
His younger brother Sasuke—whom he himself had pushed into the abyss of hatred.
All of it was the price of his arrogance. The bitter fruit of his refusal to listen.
He regretted it.
With a pain that pierced to the bone—yet there was no undoing it.
Then what about you, Sage of Six Paths, a thousand years ago?
When you reached the end of your life and looked back upon it all—
Did you ever feel what I feel now?
Did your unwavering belief in your own "rightness" ever turn upon you—bringing endless regret and desolation?
The light of the Heavenly Curtain flowed silently.
One was a clan-slayer trapped in remorse.
The other was the "Divine Prince," standing on the verge of choices that would shape the world.
Across time, their resonance intertwined history's dust with personal tragedy—forming a silent requiem for ideals, arrogance, and their cost.
Within the Heavenly Curtain
Hagoromo was still reeling from Hamura's piercing questions—still grappling with the possibility that arrogance lay within himself—
When suddenly—
A blinding radiance erupted on the distant horizon.
Its color was indescribable—an amalgam of pale brilliance and icy finality. Within it pulsed an absolute will and annihilating power that seemed capable of freezing the soul itself.
It came swiftly.
And vanished just as quickly.
When their vision cleared, Hagoromo and Hamura stared toward the towering God Tree.
Where once its vast branches had been lush and green—
Now they were laden with "fruit."
No.
Not fruit.
Each branch was hung with countless human-shaped forms, tightly wrapped in dense white matter—like cocoons.
They hung silently, as if in eternal slumber.
Or as though sealed—life drained away—absorbed into the God Tree as nourishment.
The sheer number covered the lower canopy of the massive tree.
It was a horrifying sight.
"T-Those…!" Hamura's pale eyes widened. "Are they… the rebels? Mother… she…"
"No!"
Hagoromo cut him off sharply.
His face twisted with shock and fierce refusal.
"They are not 'rebels'! They are people whose needs were unmet—who expressed themselves the wrong way!"
He could not accept the horror before him being reduced to the label of rebellion.
In his heart, they were still a misguided populace—people who could have been guided through communication and understanding—not enemies to be "processed."
"Mother's actions… are too extreme!" Hagoromo growled, anguish in his voice.
"Why can't we talk? Why can't we sit down and resolve this?"
"Why must she resort to… this level of destruction?!"
"This isn't solving anything!"
Hamura turned toward him.
His expression was complicated—shock, dawning comprehension, and something like sorrow.
At this point, his brother still clung to the illusion that dialogue could solve everything—refusing to acknowledge that the conflict had already escalated to a struggle touching the foundation of rule itself.
To Hamura, Hagoromo's "understanding" now felt pale—almost self-deceptive—before such naked displays of power.
Soon, Kaguya returned.
Her white robes were unstained. Her expression serene and distant.
As if she had merely completed a trivial task.
But this was only the beginning.
In the days that followed, the world was enveloped in an unprecedented chill of fear.
Kaguya no longer remained a distant symbol.
She ruled directly—through absolute power.
A new divine decree was issued:
Because of the world's large-scale "offense" and "betrayal," it must pay a price.
At fixed intervals, every region would be required to send a designated number of people as offerings to the God Tree.
They were escorted there under the numb, fearful, or quietly resentful gazes of onlookers.
White matter enveloped them.
They were hung upon the branches.
Alive or dead—none could say.
The name given to it was simple:
Atonement for offending the divine.
Under such systematic, unmistakable terror—
All "opinions,"
All "demands,"
All "dissatisfaction"—
Were crushed into silence.
The world fell into a suffocating obedience.
No one dared question Kaguya's rule again.
No one dared pray for power.
No one dared show the slightest disrespect.
Across streets and villages, only uniform praise remained—for the greatness, mercy, and majesty of the Rabbit Goddess.
Peace returned.
But it was colder. Harsher. More suffocating than ever.
Hagoromo watched, stunned.
His heart endured a shock unlike any before.
He could not understand.
Why had the path of communication never truly been attempted—before the world slid into such icy horror?
Why did Mother choose to maintain rule through something resembling cultivation—and harvest?
Why did the people, faced with such injustice and cruelty, choose silence—or even praise?
The ideal world he cherished—of goodness within the human heart, of communication bridging divides—was fracturing before this pale and terrible reality.
Yet what he could not bear most—
Were the sacrifices.
Batch after batch of living people sent to the God Tree.
Hanging like livestock.
Turning into silent cocoons.
Each "offering" felt like a desecration—not only of life—but of the dignity and light of humanity he held sacred.
Finally—
After witnessing a particularly large sacrifice, seeing the despair and numb resignation in the eyes of those about to be consumed—
Something inside him broke.
All the pain, confusion, and anger he had suppressed reached a breaking point.
He rushed before Kaguya.
For the first time, he spoke not as a son seeking understanding—
But almost as one demanding answers.
"Mother!"
His voice trembled—but did not waver.
"What you are doing… is wrong!"
"Why must you treat them… with such cruelty?!"
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