Chapter 72: The Vessel and the Master (Patreon)

The clamor of the pouring rain from the outside world was gone.

After entering this space, it was replaced by an eerie, profound silence. Not complete soundlessness, but the sensation of sinking into a thick, viscous liquid where the passage of time blurred into obscurity. It was filled with a primitive, indescribable presence.

What made Nagato's heart pound with dread and wariness was the overwhelming sense of being watched.

He could clearly feel it, every inch of this space was saturated with a cold, ancient, and utterly malignant will. The shadowy outlines in the mist seemed like countless eyes, gazing indifferently at this intruder, yet when he tried to focus, there was nothing there.

"Who are you?!"

Nagato's shouted question echoed into the distance, fading endlessly as if this place had no boundaries. Frowning, he took a step forward, choosing a direction. As he moved closer, the feeling was like walking from the shore into the ocean. A heavy pressure gradually rose, inch by inch, until it felt like it was submerging his chest, bringing unease and suffocation.

It was then.

Drip.

A drop of blood fell at his feet. But instead of hitting solid ground, it landed as if upon a water's surface, sending ripples outward. A crimson hue began to bleed into his vision.

Finally, he saw it, the sea of blood beneath his feet. His entire field of view was dominated by black and red. Yet within those colors, countless pale, bleached bones were piled before him, forming a mountain of corpses that seemed to look up at the sky.

Upon that jagged throne of stacked bones, a figure sat quietly. One hand rested casually on a bleached-white skull; the other propped up his chin with an air of languid indifference. His eyes weren't even fully open, his eyelids half-lowered, dense lashes casting shadows.

"You..."

Nagato stared up at the figure atop the mountain of bones. When he saw that face, his mouth opened slightly of its own accord.

The figure lifted his gaze slightly, looking down at Nagato below.

"..."

Silence. A deathly silence, more intimidating than any words could be.

That gaze was not merely "seeing." Nagato felt his very soul and essence being dissected, layer by layer, under that scrutiny. It was a sensation that made the spirit tremble with primal fear.

It had been a long time since he had felt anything like this—not since he had mastered the power of these Rinnegan. The last time… was when Yahiko died before his eyes, and he felt that acute, crushing sense of powerlessness. And now, under that high and lofty gaze, Nagato experienced that feeling anew. He finally realized a truth:

Within Hanzō… resides something that must never be touched.

Under that threat and unease emanating from the depths of his soul, Nagato almost instinctively averted his eyes, bowing his head. And in that moment, he felt a profound, visceral shame and resentment. He was "Pain." He was "God." And yet, here he was, cowering.

What... what is this being?!

The one Nagato now deemed "untouchable" was, of course, Hyūga Kumokawa, who resided deep within Hanzō's soul. The current scene didn't surprise Kumokawa in the least.

Given Nagato's mental state, already stretched thin by the Gedō Mazō (Demonic Statue of the Outer Path) and the Rinnegan—so much so that even after being reincarnated by Kabuto Yakushi's Edo Tensei, he remained sickly and frail, stepping into Kumokawa's domain was like a fish on a chopping block. Here, Kumokawa was the master of all, the sole law of this space.

Hyūga Kumokawa shifted his gaze away, as if he had glanced at a slightly curious antique, only to find it a shoddy imitation, a silence and boredom tinged with contempt settled over him.

"Whether you die, or he perishes, it matters not to me."

His eyes remained lowered, his voice deep, slow, and grating like stone on metal. "For the sake of those eyes, I shall spare you this once. But there will not be a next time."

Nagato wrenched himself free from the grip of fear. Hearing this, he jerked his head up, his expression darkening. He stared at the figure on the bone-mountain and spoke, his voice heavy. "Why for the eyes' sake, and not for mine?!"

These Rinnegan were his. He was born to be the "God" who would lead the world to peace. He would birth peace through pain.

But almost as soon as the words left his lips, Nagato saw it—the slightest twitch at the corner of that being's mouth. It wasn't a smile. It was an infinitesimal, disdainful flicker of annoyance.

"Hmph."

A single syllable. Devoid of any tangible content, yet a thousand times more terrifying than any words could be.

Hyūga Kumokawa finally lifted his eyes. Those deep blue pupils seemed to swirl like whirlpools beneath a calm sea, draining Nagato of all his courage. Kumokawa was once again simulating and projecting the full, overwhelming authority of the Tenseigan.

Under that lofty, dispassionate gaze, Nagato felt, for the first time, a profound sense of insignificance so alien it chilled him to his soul. Even his spirit ached. That gaze was not how a human looked at another human. It wasn't even the cold indifference with which he, as a self-proclaimed "God," looked upon "mortals." It was more like looking at... a thing.

Kumokawa's gaze was no longer appraising. It was simply observing. Nagato felt his entire being, his form, his soul, his thoughts, his very existence, was utterly seen through, pinned in place by that look.

"Do you presume to know who you are?"

Kumokawa's voice was icy and weighty, carrying a cruel, impatient omniscience. "You are merely a lowly vessel, fashioned to carry those eyes."

"Without those eyes, which are not yours, you would be nothing but a weak, insignificant insect."

As the words fell, Kumokawa raised his arm and extended a single index finger. Nagato's soul felt frozen solid. That finger, now pointed directly between his eyes, made a slight, sweeping motion.

Thwick.

A soundless, deathly stillness assaulted him. His right arm, as if it were a disassembled building block, suddenly separated from his shoulder.

But it wasn't over. Hyūga Kumokawa made another slight, effortless flick of his finger.

Thwick.

His left leg severed from his torso.

Thwick. Thwick. THWICK!

Several more cleavages appeared on Nagato's spiritual form. His limbs detached from his trunk, yet hung suspended in the air in a grotesque manner, making him look like a dismembered puppet. Luminescent white particles drifted from the severed ends.

"AAAAAH—!!!"

The agony, sourced from his very soul, was indescribable. It felt as though every muscle, every inch of skin, every bone, even his brain, was being ground to dust. A piercing, wretched scream tore from Nagato's throat.

As if the symphony of agony and terror Nagato composed with his cries brought a sliver of delight, the hoarse voice that reached his ears finally carried a trace of pleasure.

"Cherish the life that has been so generously spared," he murmured softly. "It is a delicate art—to tread upon ants without crushing them."

"Remember this. Should you ever set foot here again, regardless of whose pawn you are, I will grind you to dust."

As his words faded, the entire space seemed to "awaken." No longer the still, dead silence from before. The shadows within the mist stirred with ill-intent, and the sea of blood beneath their feet began to churn and heave.

Nagato's shattered soul was brutally kneaded by an unseen force. Invisible chains coiled tightly around him, yanking him away.