The question came to him in the space between sleeping and waking.
What does it mean to be an Otsutsuki?
Ren lay in the darkness of his quarters, staring at the ceiling where bioluminescent crystals pulsed with soft light. His body—Toneri's body—was restless in a way that had nothing to do with physical discomfort. There was a heaviness in his chest, a weight that seemed to press down on his lungs with each breath.
What does it mean to be Toneri?
The boy's memories swirled at the edges of his consciousness like leaves caught in a slow current. Childhood moments. First disappointments. The face of a mother who had died too young. The cold absence of a father who had never been present even when he was physically there.
What does it mean to be Ren?
This question was the hardest. Because Ren Yamanaka had died on Earth. His original body was ash and memory, scattered across a battlefield that seemed impossibly distant now. The consciousness that called itself "Ren" had migrated from vessel to vessel, absorbing and integrating, growing and changing with each consumption.
If a ship's planks are replaced one by one, he thought, until none of the original wood remains—is it still the same ship?
The philosophers of Earth had debated this paradox for centuries. But they had never faced it as literally as Ren faced it now.
I have worn two bodies. I have consumed thousands of minds. The original Ren Yamanaka—the boy who was born in Konoha, who trained under Yamanaka masters, who first learned to walk the paths of another's thoughts—how much of him remains?
He searched his Memory Palace, walking through corridors that stretched into infinity. Past the children's gardens. Past the elder libraries. Past the warrior halls where consumed soldiers still practiced their forms.
He found the room he was looking for: a small chamber, almost a closet, tucked away in the oldest wing of the Palace. Inside was a single chair, and on that chair sat a boy.
The boy looked up as Ren entered. His face was familiar—achingly familiar—because it was Ren's original face. The face he had been born with. The face that no longer existed in the physical world.
"You don't visit often," the boy said. His voice was thin, reedy. Fading.
"I know."
"You're forgetting me."
Ren didn't deny it. "I'm forgetting everything. Slowly. The more I add, the more the older layers compress. Blur. Lose definition."
The boy—his original self, preserved like a specimen in amber—nodded sadly. "Is that why you came? To remember?"
"I came to ask a question." Ren sat on the floor across from his younger self. "Who am I?"
The boy laughed. It was a hollow sound. "You're asking the wrong person. I'm just a ghost. A memory of a memory. The real Ren died a long time ago."
"Then who is sitting in this body? Who makes these decisions? Who loves and hates and schemes and dreams?"
"Someone new." The boy's eyes were ancient despite his young face. "Someone who contains Ren but is not Ren. Someone who wears Toneri's flesh but is not Toneri. Someone who walks among the Otsutsuki but is not Otsutsuki."
A chimera, Ren thought. A patchwork god stitched together from stolen pieces.
"Does that frighten you?" the boy asked.
Ren considered the question seriously. "It should. But I'm not sure I remember how to be frightened anymore."
He left the chamber and returned to his body, to the floating bed, to the weight in his chest that refused to lift.
—————
The melancholy persisted into the morning.
Ren recognized it now—not as his own emotion, but as Toneri's biological inheritance. The boy's body carried its own memories, encoded in hormones and neural pathways. Depression ran in the Otsutsuki bloodline, a consequence of their isolation and their cosmic awareness. When you could see the vastness of the universe, when you understood how small and temporary everything was, despair came easily.
I want to live, Ren told himself.
But the thought felt hollow. Mechanical. A recitation rather than a conviction.
I want to live, he repeated, forcing certainty into the words.
Still hollow.
"This is concerning," the Tactician observed from the Council chambers. "Your biological substrate is affecting your cognitive patterns. The Otsutsuki physiology includes neurochemical tendencies toward nihilism and suicidal ideation. We need to address this."
"How?" Ren asked. "I can't simply will the hormones away."
"No. But you can recognize them for what they are—biological noise, not genuine preference. You've survived too much to be undone by chemistry."
"Have I?" Ren stared at the ceiling. "Or have I simply postponed the inevitable? Every mind I consume adds to the chorus in my head. Every identity I steal dilutes the one I started with. What happens when there's nothing left of me? When I'm just… a collection of fragments, pretending to be a person?"
The Council was silent. Even Ryuichi, usually quick with brutal pragmatism, had nothing to say.
Finally, Goro spoke. His voice was soft, hesitant—the voice of a child approaching a wounded animal.
"Maybe… maybe that's okay?"
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe being a collection of fragments is just what you are now. Maybe it's not worse than being one person. Just… different." Goro paused, searching for words. "I was just one person before you found me. One scared little boy. Now I'm part of something bigger. I have brothers and sisters I never had before. I have purpose. Is that so bad?"
Ren considered this.
"The child raises an interesting point," Isamu added. "Identity is not fixed. It never was. Even before your abilities manifested, you were constantly changing—growing, learning, forgetting. The self is a process, not a product. Perhaps you've simply… accelerated that process."
"Or corrupted it," Ren countered. "If I forget my core memories—the things that made me who I am—do I become someone else entirely? Can I unmake myself through neglect?"
"You're asking if forgetting is a form of death," the Tactician said.
"I'm asking if I'm already dead. If Ren Yamanaka died the moment he consumed his first soul, and everything since has been… an echo. A ghost wearing different masks."
"Does it matter?"
The question hung in the air of his mind.
"The entity that exists now," the Tactician continued, "has Ren's memories. His skills. His goals. His attachments. Whether that entity 'is' Ren in some metaphysical sense is a question for philosophers, not survivors. You have work to do. You have people who depend on you. Focus on the present—but not so much that you lose sight of what anchors you to your past."
"A balance," Ren murmured.
"Everything is balance. Too much future-focus leads to anxiety. Too much past-focus leads to stagnation. Too much present-focus leads to… what you're experiencing now. A loss of narrative coherence. A feeling that nothing matters because nothing connects."
Ren closed his eyes.
I am Ren Yamanaka, he told himself. I was born in Konoha. I was a Yamanaka. I learned to walk minds before I learned to walk roads. I killed my first enemy at fourteen. I loved someone once—I think. I wanted to protect something—I think.
I think.
The memories were there, but they felt distant. Like watching a play through frosted glass.
This is dangerous, he realized. My body is no longer under pressure—the Otsutsuki physiology has adapted well. But my identity might become erratic if I continue consuming without consolidation. I need to be careful. I need to choose what I add to myself, rather than simply absorbing everything available.
"Agreed," Isamu said. "We recommend a period of restraint. Minimal new integrations. Focus on organizing what we already have."
Ren nodded internally.
Enough thoughts for today.
He rose from the bed. The weight in his chest remained, but it was manageable now. Understood, if not resolved.
He had work to do.
—————
The Web Expands
The settlement operated on bureaucracy.
This was something Ren had learned quickly. For all their cosmic power and celestial heritage, the Otsutsuki were fundamentally administrators. They tracked everything—energy expenditures, population movements, resource allocations. Every citizen had a file. Every action left a paper trail.
The question, Ren reflected as he moved through the corridors, is who controls the paper.
He had identified his targets weeks ago. Two mid-level functionaries who occupied positions of quiet but significant influence.
The first was Meiko, a records keeper in the Administrative Nexus. She had access to personnel files, duty rosters, and—most importantly—the surveillance logs that tracked citizen movements. She was unremarkable in every way: average height, average build, average abilities. The kind of person whose eyes slid off you the moment you turned away.
The second was Oren, a logistics coordinator responsible for supply distribution. He determined who got what resources, which meant he knew where everything was and who needed it. More importantly, he had authorization codes for the settlement's internal transportation network.
Neither was powerful. Neither was important. Neither would be missed if they started behaving slightly differently.
That's the point.
Ren found Meiko during her lunch break, eating nutrient paste alone in a records storage room. She looked up as he entered, mild confusion crossing her forgettable features.
"Toneri? Do you have a filing request?"
"No," Ren said, closing the door behind him. "I have something else."
The strike was surgical. He didn't need to overwhelm her—she had no training, no defenses, no reason to suspect. His chakra slipped into her mind like water into cracks, finding the fault lines, the weak points, the places where pressure would shatter resistance.
Meiko's eyes went blank for three seconds.
Then she smiled—a new smile, different from the one she had worn before.
"I understand," she said. "What do you need?"
"First puppet of the day," Ryuichi observed with satisfaction. "Clean integration. Minimal trauma to the host psyche—she'll function normally in all observable ways."
"Good. I want access to the surveillance logs from the past month. Anything flagged as unusual activity. And the personnel files for Commander Zishou's inner circle."
"I'll have them compiled within the hour," Meiko said. Her voice was unchanged, her mannerisms perfect. Only someone who knew what to look for would notice the new emptiness behind her eyes.
Ren left her to her work.
Oren was more difficult—not because he was stronger, but because he was more paranoid. Working in logistics meant dealing with constant accusations of favoritism and theft. He trusted no one, questioned everything, kept his mental guard up at all times.
But even paranoid minds had to sleep.
Ren waited until the night shift, when Oren was alone in the supply depot conducting inventory. The man was muttering to himself, cross-referencing data tablets, completely absorbed in his work.
The attack came from behind. A hand on the shoulder. A surge of chakra. A battle that lasted less than a second.
"Harder than Meiko," the Tactician noted. "His natural suspicion created minor complications. But he's ours now."
Ren looked into Oren's eyes—blank, waiting, ready to serve.
"You will continue your duties exactly as before. You will report to me weekly on resource movements and any irregularities in the supply chain. If anyone questions you, you will behave normally. You will not remember this conversation."
"Understood," Oren said.
Ren released him. The man blinked, looked around in momentary confusion, then returned to his inventory as if nothing had happened.
Three puppets now. Kira in security. Meiko in records. Oren in logistics.
"The beginnings of a network," Isamu observed approvingly. "We have eyes in three critical departments. Our information access has increased significantly."
"But I've added two more minds to my burden," Ren thought, feeling the new presences settling into the edges of his consciousness. "How many more can I add before the weight becomes unsustainable?"
"That's a question for another day," the Tactician said. "For now, we have what we need. Let's focus on consolidation rather than expansion."
Ren agreed. The philosophical crisis of the morning had not been resolved, but it had clarified something important: he could not continue consuming indefinitely. Each addition diluted his core identity further. Each puppet added noise to an increasingly chaotic signal.
Quality over quantity, he decided. From now on, every acquisition must be strategic. Essential. No more casual consumption.
It was a limitation. But limitations could also be freedoms—boundaries that defined rather than confined.
—————
The Training Grounds
The week that followed was dedicated to growth.
Ren found Shane at the Special Training Grounds—a series of interconnected chambers on the settlement's outer ring, designed for advanced chakra cultivation. The rooms were pressurized differently, each one calibrated to stress the body in specific ways.
"You actually came," Shane said, surprised but pleased. "I thought you'd back out."
"I said I would train with you. I keep my promises."
"Some of them," Ryuichi muttered sardonically.
"The ones that matter," Ren replied internally.
They trained together for hours each day. Shane focused on her puppetry techniques, manipulating practice drones with increasing precision. Ren worked on his hybrid style—Earth jutsu filtered through Otsutsuki physiology, producing effects that shouldn't have been possible.
His Wood Release had evolved further. The white constructs now pulsed with inner light, resonating with the Tenseigen's distant song. He could shape them faster, harder, more intricately than ever before.
His Byakugan had achieved a new level of clarity. He could now perceive chakra flows at the molecular level, watching the dance of energy particles that composed all matter. It was beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.
His physical capabilities continued to grow. Speed that approached teleportation. Strength that could crack lunar stone with a casual blow. Durability that laughed at forces that would have pulverized his original body.
"Daily improvements," the Tactician tracked. "At this rate, you'll surpass Kage level within another month. Possibly approach legendary territory within a year."
"Assuming I survive that long," Ren thought. "Assuming I remain coherent that long."
The existential questions hadn't disappeared. They lurked at the edges of his consciousness, emerging in quiet moments, during the spaces between breaths. But he had learned to compartmentalize them, to acknowledge their presence without being consumed by them.
I will address them, he told himself. But not yet. Not until I'm secure.
—————
The Boss Problem
His immediate supervisor was a petty man named Joshin.
Joshin oversaw the maintenance division with the fervor of a man who had no other source of meaning in his life. He tracked every minute of his subordinates' time, criticized every minor deviation from protocol, and took personal offense at any suggestion that his methods might be improved.
In Toneri's memories, Joshin had been a source of constant anxiety. The supervisor delighted in humiliating his workers, in finding faults where none existed, in exercising power simply because he could.
He needs to be controlled, Ren had decided weeks ago. He's too close to me, too involved in my daily life. If he notices anything unusual, he'll cause problems.
But there was the memory issue.
Each mind Ren controlled added to his mental burden. Joshin wasn't particularly intelligent or skilled, but his psyche would still take up space. More noise in an already crowded signal. More fragments competing for attention.
"We need a different approach," the Tactician suggested during their evening strategy session. "Full control may not be necessary. What about subtle influence? Enough to make him favorably disposed toward Toneri without requiring complete domination."
"Risky," Isamu countered. "Subtle influence can fade over time. Can be detected by sophisticated mind-readers. We'd be leaving a loose end."
"But the alternative is adding another voice to the chorus," Ren pointed out. "My identity is already under strain. I felt it this morning—the dissociation, the questioning, the difficulty distinguishing my thoughts from the thoughts of those I've consumed. Adding Joshin might push me past a tipping point."
"Then what do you propose?"
Ren considered the options.
"Indirect control. We don't touch his mind at all. Instead, we use our existing puppets to manipulate his circumstances. Meiko can alter his personnel file—add commendations, suggestions for promotion. Oren can ensure he receives favorable resource allocations. Kira can… discourage anyone who might compete with him for advancement."
"Make him happy," Goro summarized. "Happy people don't look too closely at their subordinates."
"Exactly. We don't control his mind—we control his environment. We become the source of his good fortune without him ever knowing we exist."
"Elegant," the Tactician approved. "And sustainable. No additional mental burden. No risk of identity contamination."
"Agreed," Isamu said. "We implement this strategy immediately."
The plan was set in motion that night. Meiko adjusted files. Oren redirected resources. Within days, Joshin found himself mysteriously praised by upper management, awarded a bonus he hadn't expected, nominated for a supervisory excellence recognition.
His attitude toward his subordinates softened. Not dramatically—he was still fundamentally petty—but enough. He stopped scrutinizing Toneri's work so closely. Stopped questioning his schedule. Stopped being a problem.
"A threat neutralized without violence or consumption," the Tactician observed with satisfaction. "Perhaps this should become our default approach. Preserve resources. Maintain stability."
Ren agreed.
He had learned something valuable this week. Power wasn't just about domination. It was about efficiency. About achieving goals with minimal expenditure. About understanding that sometimes the best victory was one your enemy never knew they'd suffered.
He looked out his window at the Earth, hanging blue and distant in the void.
I am still Ren Yamanaka, he told himself. Changed, yes. Expanded, yes. But still me. Still the boy who learned to walk minds. Still the man who refused to die.
I will remember that. I will hold onto it. No matter how many fragments I collect, no matter how many voices join the chorus, that core will remain.
It has to.
Because if it doesn't—if I lose myself entirely—then all of this is meaningless. Just a monster consuming the universe, with no purpose, no direction, no identity at all.
He closed his eyes and descended into his Memory Palace. Tonight, he would visit the old chambers. The original rooms. He would sit with the ghost of who he had been, and he would remember.
Because forgetting was not an option.
Not yet.
Not ever.
End of Chapter 33.