Around us, humanoid figures swiftly emerged from the shadows, encircling us with mechanical precision. Their bodies pulsed with faint energy lines, threads of power that my senses could trace—each one linked to something ancient, buried deep within the Moon itself. These were not living beings. They were puppets, animated by a craftsmanship so refined that even the most skilled masters of Sunagakure would envy it.
Hiashi and Hanabi moved instinctively into their clan's traditional Gentle Fist stances beside me. These puppets were different from people, yes—but my time in Sunagakure had taught me how to read the subtle commands behind artificial movement. For now, they were holding formation, clearly not ordered to attack yet.
"I believe we should wait," I murmured to Hiashi and Hanabi. "The puppeteer behind these constructs will come. This place hasn't been used in a very long time."
Hanabi's voice trembled slightly, curiosity edging into tension. "These puppets have internal chakra networks… I've never seen anything like it."
I had. Once—on the bodies used by Pain. But I chose not to share that detail just yet.
Hiashi and Hanabi lowered their stances slightly, recognizing the standoff for what it was. The castle before us shimmered with a subtle veil of chakra, a field that both concealed it from distant eyes and kept breathable air inside. We waited, the minutes dragging out, every breath stretching time like thread under tension.
Eventually, an elderly man stepped out from a corridor behind the puppet formation. Though aged, his body was upright, powerful. His eyes bore the Byakugan—but they held a strange sharpness, something unfamiliar. His voice, rough yet clear, carried authority.
"Who are you? You carry the blood," he said, his gaze falling heavily on Hiashi and Hanabi. Then he turned to me. "This is sacred ground. Those not of the bloodline should not be here."
At his words, the surrounding puppets shifted into attack-ready stances. In the World of Intent, I could feel the elder's will spread like a storm, guiding the puppets toward one conclusion: I did not belong.
Hiashi stepped forward, placing himself between me and the threat, his voice firm. "Stop. I am Hiashi Hyūga, patriarch of the Hyūga Clan."
Hanabi moved beside him, her posture refined, energy coiling as the nearest puppets charged strange spheres of energy in their mechanical hands.
But I raised my hand.
I focused on the spiritual threads I'd been observing all this time, tracing every puppet's link to its source. My spiritual filaments lashed out—not violently, but with precision and grace. I didn't need to destroy them. I merely severed the currents of control, intercepting and dissolving the chakra threads that sustained their movement.
One by one, the puppets collapsed where they stood.
The elder's expression tightened in shock.
Hiashi took his chance. He blurred forward with the force of a descending judgment. His Gentle Fist technique was tempered by restraint but executed with overwhelming superiority. His palm struck true—blocked, yes, but only for a moment. The elder's arm slackened, robbed of motion.
The man's eyes widened in disbelief. He recognized the style. And he despised to be a target of it.
Hiashi's second strike drove toward his chest, but the elder tried to twist his body away—only to find the air itself resisting him. Hiashi had subtly bent the wind, using elemental chakra with no hand seals, slowing his opponent's movements. A tactic born of innovation.
Before the elder could adjust, Hiashi's palm landed again, and more tenketsu were sealed. The fight was over.
Hiashi exhaled with authority. "You'll give me your name."
The old man, stunned and looking over the fallen constructs, lowered his gaze. "I am Haru Ōtsutsuki."
I stepped forward, my voice calm. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Haru. My name is Hinata. This is my sister, Hanabi—and as you've discovered, who our father is..."
Their silence was almost comical.
Hiashi's pride flickered across his face, caught somewhere between disbelief and awkward pride.
I continued, "We came here because I was guided directly by the brother of our ancestor—Hagoromo Ōtsutsuki. We seek to speak with Hamura. Yes, we know he's dead. But surely you understand—people of their level… death is not the end."
The mention of Hagoromo, and the audacity of our claim, seemed to shake Haru more than the loss of his puppets.
"Now I will allow your puppets to move again," I added. "But if they attempt another attack, I will no longer be gentle. After all… if you're a proper host, we intend to be proper guests. Let's keep things civil."
I smiled. Hanabi looked at me like I'd grown a second head. Hiashi, still glowing with recent victory, barely concealed his amusement.
Haru nodded slowly, as if navigating a dream.
He felt his chakra flow again, the puppets reawakening. They began to move into attack positions—until my hand touched Shinsei. The aura that surged from my body turned steel into shivers.
The puppets froze.
Only then did Haru truly understand.
We were not just guests. We were Ōtsutsuki blood come home.
And we would not be turned away.
Once the tension broke, Haru formally introduced himself as the leader of the main shinobi faction still active on the Moon.
After a moment of silence, Hiashi crossed his arms and asked with a measured tone, "Tell us, Haru… what has happened here? Why is this place so heavily guarded?"
Haru's eyes darkened. "The truth, Lord Hiashi… is that the situation on the Moon is desperate. We are in the midst of a civil war. One that threatens to destroy everything we've tried to preserve."
Hanabi furrowed her brow. "A war? Among your own people?"
"Yes," Haru said grimly. "The conflict began after the disappearance of a sacred artifact—an object entrusted to our line by Hamura Ōtsutsuki himself. For generations, we protected it under sacred duty. But some time ago, it was stolen… by forces we believe were sent from the world below."
Hiashi's eyes narrowed. "You mean… from the Earth? From Hagoromo's descendants?"
"Exactly. That theft tore our unity apart," Haru admitted, voice cracking with the weight of history. "One faction, mine, believes retaliation against the Earth is not the path to redemption. We advocate caution. Diplomacy. Understanding."
He paused, then continued, his tone grim. "But the opposing faction believes otherwise. They demand vengeance. They want to obliterate the world of Hagoromo—to cleanse it of its sins."
Hanabi shifted uneasily. "And they're winning?"
"They have seized control of the Tenseigan," Haru said quietly. "Hamura's very eyes… the source of the artificial sun that illuminates our Moon's interior. With that power, they have begun controlling Hamura's sacred puppets. Worse yet, they have turned themselves into puppets—merging their bodies with automaton cores to fight endlessly."
Hiashi clenched his jaw. "So you are losing ground."
Haru nodded slowly. "Every day. Their strength grows with each conquest. They twist Hamura's legacy into a weapon."
Hanabi glanced toward the glowing towers in the distance, her voice soft. "So this isn't just a political war… it's a spiritual one."
Haru met her gaze. "Yes. And we are nearly out of time."
Hinata listened in silence, her hands resting calmly before her—absorbing every word.
Haru led us beneath the ancient castle of Hamura and Hagoromo. There, a hidden passage twisted through stone and chakra-forged crystal, sloping downward into impossible curves—gravity itself seeming to shift and rebel as we descended. At one point, it felt like we were walking along the walls, our weight bending with the architecture. It was not a Genjutsu. It was the Moon itself, hollowed within and alive.
When we emerged into the inner world, the sight stole our breath.
An entire biosphere unfurled before us—a world turned inside out. We stood upon the inner crust of the Moon, looking down toward its core where a radiant artificial sun floated in place. Its light bathed the world in an eternal dawn. But unlike the warmth of Earth's sun, this one burned with precise, engineered intensity. It repelled matter gently but firmly, exerting a field that allowed us to walk upside down on the Moon's concave interior as if it were flat ground.
Forests clung to curved mountains that arched toward the sky. Lakes shimmered along impossible slopes. Rivers twisted midair and rejoined the land in graceful arcs. It was both beautiful and disorienting—like stepping into a dream formed by divine engineers.
But peace was nowhere to be found.
Near the base of the descent, nestled along the transition between natural wonder and artificial construction, lay a city in ruin.
Smoldering watchtowers dotted the landscape. Craters scarred the nearby valley where once-thriving villages had stood. Soldiers patrolled half-shattered walls. War banners flapped limply in the filtered light.
We saw children sitting quietly in crumbled homes. Women wept near memorial altars. Men stood solemn and broken—some missing limbs, some with marionette prosthetics crudely fused to their bodies. Puppet limbs replacing flesh.
There was no triumph here. Only survival. And sorrow.
Even so, Haru offered us a place to rest. Despite the ruin. Despite the uncertainty.
We had descended into a world at war with itself…
The Moon was bleeding. And its last defenders stood before her now.