Fake.
That was the clear conclusion that surfaced in Kaguya's mind.
The events revealed by the Heavenly Curtain—though the broad framework matched—
Her descent.
Planting the God Tree.
The betrayal.
Devouring the Chakra Fruit.
Pacifying the chaotic world.
Giving birth to Hagoromo and Hamura…
All of these aligned, in general outline, with the key turning points she remembered.
But the details were filled with distortions—half-truths and outright fabrications woven together.
The one behind this…
Was someone piecing together fragmented legends and inventing the rest?
For a fleeting moment, Kaguya felt the thought was absurd.
Yet she dismissed it just as quickly.
Whether it was true or false no longer mattered much to her.
Sealed within this eternal loneliness, time itself had long since lost meaning.
Since her imprisonment, her world had been nothing but endless, empty confinement.
But the appearance of this "Heavenly Curtain" was like a faint ray of light cutting through everlasting darkness.
Even if the story was twisted, it was still a story about her.
There were images.
Voices.
Conflict.
Change.
That alone made it far more interesting than facing infinite void alone.
For the first time in ages, her stagnant sense of time seemed to move again—even if only faintly.
Very well…
Kaguya thought coldly.
True or false—it made the eternity less unbearable.
In fact, she almost found herself curious about what further fabrications the Heavenly Curtain would produce.
Would it depict in detail how those two unfilial sons sealed her?
She did not feel anger at being misrepresented.
If it had shown everything exactly as it happened, she might have found it dull.
Watching events even she, the central figure, did not know about—
Was that not far more interesting?
—
Above, the ambitious daimyō did not immediately act recklessly.
But their craving for "divine power" began to spread quietly, like a contagion.
Under their subtle orchestration, commoners gradually began to step forward.
In various forms, they made appeals to Kaguya.
They offered lavish sacrifices.
Held grand ceremonies.
Yet at the core of their prayers lay something different.
Not favorable weather.
Not family safety.
But requests—sometimes veiled, sometimes blunt.
"Great Rabbit Goddess, grant us the power to serve and protect you!"
"Allow us humble mortals to receive a fragment of your divine radiance, so we may better spread your glory and safeguard your peace!"
At first, Kaguya ignored them entirely.
To her, such pleas were like wind brushing against stone—without impact.
Her focus remained on guiding Hagoromo and Hamura, and on watching the skies.
But the petitions did not cease.
In fact, because the first supplicants were not punished, the movement only intensified.
Crowds grew larger.
The tone of the prayers grew more urgent—almost impatient.
Finally, during one especially large gathering, the noise and the atmosphere of "desire"—which had long since crossed into entitlement—disturbed Kaguya's already unsettled mind.
She grew annoyed.
There was no lecture.
No explanation.
Kaguya merely raised her hand.
In the next instant, invisible force swept across the gathered crowd like a violent gale.
Every person—regardless of rank—was hurled away from the core region of the God Tree, crashing into the dust in disarray.
Several of the loudest leaders suddenly felt crushing pressure, as though bound by unseen shackles. Their strength vanished.
"Silence. Withdraw."
Her voice echoed directly within their minds—cold, emotionless. A divine decree. A thunderclap.
The crowd fled in terror.
But once fear faded, something else remained behind in many hearts.
Resentment.
"We worship her so devoutly, serve her faithfully, and only ask for a little power to serve her better… Why is she so stingy?"
"Are we truly nothing more than weeds in her eyes?"
"Perhaps… the Goddess is not as benevolent as we believed."
At first, such thoughts were whispered only in secrecy.
They dared not confront Kaguya.
But they were unwilling to let go.
Soon, they found a new focus—
Hagoromo and Hamura.
The two "divine princes" appeared far gentler than their mother.
They often walked among the people.
Helped resolve practical problems.
They had earned genuine affection.
To some, they were heirs to divine blood—yet approachable.
Thus, certain individuals—driven either by ambition or desperate longing—turned to the brothers instead.
They knelt before Hagoromo and Hamura, pleading tearfully:
"Noble Lords, have mercy on your humble believers!"
"We only wish for a sliver of power—to better serve the Goddess and defend this hard-won peace!"
"You were born with such great power. Surely you can share even a fragment of divine grace?"
Hagoromo and Hamura were stunned.
Then troubled.
Their power was innate—flowing naturally from their mother's bloodline.
They learned to control it.
To understand it.
To use it.
But how could one "grant" a power bound to blood and essence to someone without that foundation?
It was beyond their comprehension.
They tried to explain—power came from bloodline and cultivation. It could not simply be bestowed.
But those blinded by desire interpreted the explanation as evasion—or perhaps as a test.
Their pleas grew more persistent.
Murmurs of dissatisfaction surfaced.
Why were the Goddess and her sons so "stingy"?
The brothers exchanged glances.
They saw the same confusion in each other's eyes.
Beneath the surface of devotion, they sensed a current they did not yet fully understand—
But instinctively knew was dangerous.
Their mother's cold dismissal had not extinguished the flames of desire.
It had merely redirected them.
And now, quietly, that fire was beginning to burn at the very foundation of this seemingly unbreakable era of peace.
—
Across the shinobi world, many viewers frowned as they watched.
They could feel it.
Something was about to go wrong.
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