Recently, however, the Heavenly Curtain had shifted almost all the blame and accusations onto him!
It portrayed him as a pitiful figure who craved immortality, betrayed his closest friend, feared his own children, and might ultimately be betrayed by them in a karmic cycle of retribution...
Was he really that kind of person?
Bucket after bucket of filth had been dumped on him, accusation after accusation piled upon his head. The sacred halo he had built over thousands of years as the Sage of Six Paths was practically being smeared black and crushed beneath their weight!
Who could put up with this?!
"It truly is... infuriating!"
A cold light flickered in his eyes, but in the end, all he could do was let out a helpless sigh.
Within the Pure Land, constrained by the barrier of laws separating it from the living world—as well as the "restrictions" left behind when he had been schemed against—he possessed immense power and knowledge, yet found it difficult to directly interfere with the world of the living.
More importantly, any being capable of creating a Heavenly Curtain that spanned the entire shinobi world and freely rewrote the histories of its greatest figures likely possessed power far beyond anything he could imagine.
Even if he managed to find whoever was behind it, he might not necessarily be able to contend with them...
The frustration and helplessness left this former "savior," now the "master of the Pure Land," deeply irritated.
Suddenly, as though he had caught hold of a flash of inspiration, his brows knitted tightly.
"Wait!"
He recalled an earlier segment of the Heavenly Curtain—the absurd yet disturbingly convincing story about himself being reeled away by a "fishing rod," after which his good and evil consciousnesses supposedly merged, and his "good self" ultimately replaced him as the Sage of Six Paths!
The moment the thought crossed his mind, the Sage of Six Paths' face darkened so completely that it seemed ready to drip with water, and even his breathing tightened slightly.
"Judging by the way that whoever is behind this Heavenly Curtain freely fabricates stories and slanders people..."
He muttered to himself as an extraordinarily terrible possibility—one that sent a chill down his spine—surfaced in his mind.
"Could it be that... in some future Heavenly Curtain broadcast, or perhaps even in reality itself, some inexplicable person will suddenly appear..."
"Claiming to be the 'real' Sage of Six Paths, returned at last?"
"And insisting that I'm nothing more than a 'fake'... a 'substitute incarnation'?"
Once the thought took root, it spread through his mind like an incurable disease.
The Sage of Six Paths' expression became extraordinarily colorful once more.
It was a complicated mixture of absurdity, fury, vigilance, and a trace of... panic that even he himself was unwilling to acknowledge.
He could hardly imagine such a scene: some being appearing out of nowhere, waving the banner of "the original has returned" and "the truth must be revealed," standing upon the moral high ground as it accused him—this supposed "good self"—of usurping his position, distorting the original's will, and perhaps even leading the shinobi world down the wrong path...
And he, the Sage of Six Paths who had safeguarded the cycle of souls in the shinobi world for thousands of years, would have to face accusations and rejection from... himself?
The mere thought of it nearly overwhelmed his reason with a nauseating sense of disgust and humiliation that seemed to arise from the very foundation of his existence.
It would not merely destroy his reputation—it would completely overturn and insult the very meaning of his existence!
"I absolutely cannot allow something like that to happen..."
A cold light gathered in his eyes. The irritation born of helplessness gradually gave way to a deeper, more resolute vigilance... and a latent hostility.
In his mind, the threat posed by the Heavenly Curtain had risen to a level that could shake the very foundation of his existence.
Beneath the stillness of the Pure Land, unseen undercurrents began to surge. At last, this ancient Sage shifted his attention from mere observation to finding a way to respond to this personal war of narratives being waged against him from the depths of the unknown.
The dust of travel could not conceal his sharpness, nor had the long journey dulled the cold light in his eyes.
When the familiar yet unfamiliar outline of the Ninshū's mountain gate came into view once more, Indra's footsteps paused slightly.
He slowly exhaled the stale breath that had been weighing on his chest for so long, and an indescribably complicated emotion flashed through the depths of his eyes.
Years ago, burdened by the pain of being misunderstood and uncertainty about the road ahead, he had left in silence.
And now, he had returned.
He returned with the cold understanding forged through witnessing the devastation of the shinobi world; with all illusions about the "truth" of his father shattered, leaving only resolve; and with a path of his own choosing—a path that would brook no doubt.
At this moment, his heart was as hard as iron, and his steps were steady and resolute.
"Hey! You over there! Who are you? Sneaking around outside the gates of the Ninshū? If you don't want trouble, get lost while you still can!"
A shout filled with impatience and contempt shattered the silence before the mountain gate.
The speaker was a young disciple dressed in the standard attire of the Ninshū. Apparently on guard duty, he carried the arrogance of youth in his features and the instinctive hostility of an insider toward an outsider.
Indra slowly turned his head.
He said nothing.
He merely looked at him.
That gaze was cold and unfathomably deep, like the bottom of an ancient frozen lake. There was no warmth belonging to a human being within it—only the absolute indifference of one looking down upon an insect, along with a sliver of frigid killing intent that had abruptly solidified after being offended.
"Gah—!"
It was as if an invisible icicle had pierced the disciple's heart. His arrogance froze instantly, the color drained from his face, and boundless terror replaced it.
His lips trembled. Instinctively, he tried to force out a placating smile, while his knees went weak, nearly causing him to collapse to the ground and beg for mercy.
"Too late."
Two icy words left Indra's lips.
The next moment, his figure vanished from its original position as if he had teleported, only to appear before the disciple like a phantom. There were no Hand Seals and no elaborate Ninjutsu—only a strike of the hand, simple to the extreme yet so fast that it surpassed the limits of human sight, descending through the air with Chakra condensed to a terrifying degree!
Slash!
The sickening sound of bone and flesh being severed rang out.
A head, its face frozen in shock and boundless terror, tumbled into the dust amid a fountain of spraying blood.
The headless body swayed before collapsing limply to the ground.
Indra cast an indifferent glance at the head on the ground, as though he were looking at nothing more than a speck of dust.
He raised his foot and gave it a casual kick. Like a battered ball, the head rolled away, tumbling across the ground until it struck the steps with a dull thud.
"Trash."
His cold assessment was not loud, yet it carried clearly through the silent mountain gate.
At some point, several disciples of the Ninshū had gathered nearby.
They stared, dumbfounded, at the bloody and brutal scene. Their eyes were filled with incredulous horror, bone-deep fear, and barely suppressed anger and hatred as they looked at Indra.
The air seemed to freeze, with only the scent of blood silently spreading through the surroundings.
Indra paid it no heed, as though he had merely cleared away some weeds blocking his path.
He withdrew his gaze and started toward the interior of the Ninshū, his expression terrifyingly calm.
"INDRA—!!!"
A roar filled with fury, heartbreak, and disbelief exploded like thunder!
Indra's brow twitched almost imperceptibly. He stopped walking and slowly turned around.
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