Black Zetsu returned to the Akatsuki base with a grim expression, shadows clinging to his every step. A rare, uneasy silence surrounded him—he, the architect of countless schemes, was now gripped by genuine anxiety.
The moment he emerged into the dim corridor, Obito approached, voice impatient and tight.
"Zetsu. What did you find?"
Black Zetsu didn't answer immediately. His pitch-black face remained impassive, but inwardly, his fury burned. He stared at Obito, utterly displeased—though Obito couldn't see it behind the murk of his mask.
Suppressing the anger in his heart, Black Zetsu spoke in a low, tightly-controlled voice.
"Obito. What exactly happened between you and Uchiha Gen? I want every detail. Word for word."
Obito furrowed his brow, then exhaled slowly.
"…Let me think."
He recalled that strange night. Gen's calm smile. His measured tone. The quiet acceptance of death. There was something deeply off about him—and even in death, he lingered.
Obito recounted the events to Black Zetsu, omitting nothing. The bizarre sensation of power, the word-based contract, the unexpected enhancement of his visual prowess. The Mangekyō Sharingan that radiated with an oppressive, foreign chakra.
Black Zetsu's frown deepened with every word.
"Concept enhancement? A Mangekyō that boosts others' dojutsu?" He muttered, half in disbelief. "That's unheard of."
"…Could he have been lying?" he added after a pause. "Deliberately misleading you?"
"At the very least," Obito said, his tone bitter, "my own eyes changed. And I was bound by some kind of contract jutsu."
Black Zetsu fell silent.
You fool, he thought coldly. Itachi didn't fall for it—but you did. You, the supposed heir of Madara.
Obito, oblivious to the internal criticism, pulled the bottle from his cloak and casually tossed it to Black Zetsu.
"In any case, his eyes triggered some kind of apocalyptic ability. If there's a way to reverse the disaster with these, we should find it."
Black Zetsu caught the container carefully.
Even sealed, the Mangekyō radiated a suffocating pressure—foreign, ancient, as if something else was watching him from inside.
"…It's a good idea," he said slowly, never taking his gaze off the swirling tomoe. "But we know nothing of this ability. Rushing could trigger something far worse."
As he pondered, a smooth voice interjected from behind.
"Why not let me try them?" White Zetsu offered casually. "Might be fun. I could figure them out."
Black Zetsu turned and glared, his voice sharp and cold.
"No. Absolutely not. We don't even know if this pair of eyes is cursed. Gen may have embedded a failsafe—a resurrection clause, a contamination effect, or worse. Transplanting them could unleash it."
He glanced at Obito.
"And White Zetsu would be a perfect host for any hidden contingency."
Obito nodded reluctantly. "I thought the same. That's why I haven't touched them."
Not that you'd understand the danger even if you had, Black Zetsu thought bitterly.
After a pause, his tone softened slightly.
"What about Itachi? Has he said anything?"
Obito snorted. "He claims he didn't know Gen had awakened the Sharingan. He only remembered him as a clerk in the Military Police. Completely clueless."
Black Zetsu fell into another thoughtful silence, turning the bottle over in his hands.
"…Even if Itachi knows nothing, this can't remain buried for long. If that celestial body is going to collide… then this is no longer a personal matter but instead a global one."
"Itachi will be involved. Whether he wants to or not. And so will the rest of the Akatsuki."
Meanwhile—Deep Beneath Konoha:
In the cold, silent chambers of the Root headquarters, Danzo Shimura sat hunched in his secret sanctum, fingers clenched over his right eye. His breath came in shallow bursts.
His expression twisted in agony.
Since the day Shisui's Sharingan had suddenly changed—its visual prowess vanishing without warning—he had known no peace.
Outwardly, he feigned calm. Inwardly, he was unraveling.
"The Ninja World… needs nuclear peace…"
"This world should not have any ninja…"
"Only annihilation can bring true harmony…"
Shisui's voice—cold, hollow, otherworldly—echoed in his mind like a mantra from the abyss. Danzo had tried to resist. He had suppressed memories, rejected foreign chakra, and undergone isolation rituals.
But the voice persisted.
And the twisted ideas it brought… grew louder.
"Kotoamatsukami… does it truly exist? Or was it always a curse?"
The thoughts wormed through his consciousness—twisting, multiplying. They mocked him. They persuaded him. Images of a dead world—a peaceful, silent void—haunted his waking moments.
He clenched his fists, nails tearing his own skin.
"Shisui…" he growled, hoarse and desperate. "You planned this… this cursed eye was your trap all along!"
Overcome by torment, he suddenly raised his trembling hand—fingers poised to gouge the eye from his skull.
But he stopped.
Frozen mid-motion.
His arm quaked.
No… I can't… I need this eye… This is my power… My legacy…
But the voice continued, drowning him.
"Nuclear peace… End all shinobi… It is the only correct path…"
Danzo fell to his knees, drenched in sweat, vision blurring.
I am Danzo… The Root of Konoha… I am the one who decides the future… not this whispering corpse!
Then something worse happened.
A surge of pain radiated through his body—violent, unnatural. The Wood Release cells began to rampage. Vines burst from his skin, sprawling chaotically across the chamber.
"Not now—damn it!"
He focused chakra to suppress the riot. After several agonizing seconds, the growth slowed. The trees froze. His breathing steadied.
But something had changed.
He didn't notice the twisted, dead wood—once grown from Uchiha Gen's corpse in the depths of Root—merging with his own runaway vines.
Didn't see the fusion.
Didn't feel the curse returning to him.
The corrupted essence of Gen's wood release silently crept back into Danzo's body—merging, hiding, waiting.
And then… it touched the newly embedded Sharingan on his right arm.
A faint, sickly aura passed through the eyes.
Corruption.
Infection.
Possession.
Danzo slowly stood, unaware of the change. His mind, fraying at the edges, clung to one desperate truth:
I am Danzo. I am the Root.
But deep inside…
That was no longer entirely true.