Chapter 25: Shattered Illusions

The war moved forward, but its echoes lingered.

The Sand's retreat left behind more than just corpses and broken weapons—it left ghosts. The kind that lived in the hollow stares of the wounded, in the silence of the survivors. The kind that whispered, asking if the battle had truly been necessary, if the cost had been justified.

Ōtsutsuki Ryūsei stood at the edge of the battlefield, his golden Byakugan gazing at the horizon that would soon be stained with more blood. His mind, however, was elsewhere—buried beneath the weight of what came next.

Konoha had won this battle.

But the war was far from over.

The Cost of Leadership

Sakumo Hatake and Ryūsei walked through the aftermath. Medics rushed between the injured, their hands glowing with chakra as they tried to mend what could still be saved. Some shinobi clung to life, their bodies covered in makeshift bandages. Others were beyond help—their still forms wrapped in white, waiting for burial.

Ryūsei stopped beside one body. A young shinobi. Barely sixteen. His forehead protector still gleamed despite the blood that coated his uniform. A kunai was gripped tightly in his hands—as if even in death, he refused to let go of the fight.

"He was in my unit."

The voice belonged to a jōnin, his face pale and drawn. His eyes were dull, empty. "I told him to fall back. He didn't listen."

Ryūsei said nothing.

This was war. Not the kind written in history books—the kind that smelled of iron and rot, the kind that reduced dreams to ash.

Sakumo exhaled, his expression grim. "We'll need to move soon. Hiruzen wants us back at the frontlines before the Sand regroups."

Ryūsei nodded, though he barely heard the words. His gaze lingered on the dead genin for a moment longer before he turned away.

There was no time for mourning.

A War Without End

By nightfall, the war machine was already moving again.

Inside Konoha's war tent, maps stretched across wooden tables, inked with red and blue lines marking territories won and lost. The room smelled of sweat and exhaustion.

Hiruzen Sarutobi stood at the center, his Hokage robes dusted with dirt from the battlefield. Around him, Konoha's finest strategists debated their next move.

"We've secured this region for now," one said, pointing at the scorched landscape where the battle had taken place. "But the Sand won't stay idle. They'll retaliate."

"Their forces were weakened," another countered. "It'll take them time to reorganize."

Ryūsei listened, his mind already steps ahead.

"They don't need time," he finally said. His voice cut through the argument like steel. "They just need desperation."

The room fell silent.

"The Sand has lost too much to turn back now. They won't retreat—they'll throw everything they have at us. And when that happens, we won't be dealing with just puppets and poison. We'll be facing monsters."

A grim understanding settled over the room.

Shinobi fought best when cornered. And the Sand was cornered.

Seeds of Power: The Next Step

As the meeting concluded, Ryūsei stayed behind. His mind wasn't just on the war—but on what he needed to do next.

His chakra seed pulsed within him, resonating with the changes that war was bringing.

Uzumaki Mito had succeeded in forming her own chakra seed, refining her bloodline into something purer, something more advanced.

Orochimaru, too, had taken the first step. But he remained neutral, watching and waiting—his ambitions still clouded in secrecy.

Tsunade's own seed was still in progress, her path not yet fully formed.

But for Ryūsei, the journey was only beginning.

The Yamata no Orochi technique was now on his agenda.

Not as a weapon, not as a tool—but as a means to collect and transform the scattered bloodlines left in the wake of war.

The battlefield was littered with the remains of bloodlines that should have never been lost. Clans wiped out. Techniques buried with their last users. Strength that could have been preserved.

Ryūsei would not let that power vanish into history.

This war would take many things from him.

But it would also give him something in return.

He would ensure that the fallen were not forgotten.

That their legacies would live on through him.

The First True Transformation

The battlefield had changed him, but it was not enough. If he was to break free from the limits of human evolution, he had to take the next step.

Alone, in the depths of the forest far from prying eyes, Ryūsei sat cross-legged, his chakra resonating in perfect harmony with his surroundings. He had felt it ever since the battle—a shift, a spark waiting to ignite. His chakra seed was no longer just an abstract concept.

It was ready.

The process was not meant to be painless.

His chakra surged, expanding outward. His body trembled as his blood, his very cells, fought against the transformation. It was as if his own existence was rejecting what he sought to become. But he did not waver.

Memories flooded his mind—echoes of an ancient legacy imprinted in his very being. He saw the Moon Ōtsutsuki, their celestial techniques far beyond anything the world had ever known. He saw the raw power of his ancestors, the knowledge they wielded effortlessly.

And yet, he was different.

He would not become them.

He would become something new.

The pain peaked, his chakra flaring in a brilliant glow. His body felt like it was shattering apart and being rebuilt at the same time. His Byakugan sharpened, his perception deepening. His chakra—once vast but controlled—now felt boundless.

The first step was complete.

But this was only the beginning.

Ryūsei exhaled, his golden Byakugan gleaming in the darkness.

He had broken past a threshold few could even perceive.

But the price had yet to be determined.