Wood Style was, in essence, a bloodline formed by fusing multiple chakra natures, and such a change would be integrated into the owner's genes and could even be passed down to descendants.
It was just a pity that none of the first Hokage's descendants had ever successfully awakened this Kekkei Genkai.
This child, Shinichi's train of thought, was perhaps fundamentally different from Orochimaru's back then, from the very beginning.
When Orochimaru led the experiment in those days, he took the transplantation route, directly implanting the cells into volunteers and hoping they would take root in the new hosts and express the power of Wood Style.
That was a path from bloodline to ability.
Shinichi, however, was clearly planning to approach it from another direction. He intended first to understand the Ninjutsu principles of Wood Style itself, starting with the fusion mechanism of change in chakra nature to find a theoretical point of entry, and then to work backward from there to deduce what experimental plan would allow the transplanted cells to successfully produce Wood Style.
This was a reverse-engineering path from ability to bloodline.
Rather than conducting experiments first and then searching for the principles, it was better to thoroughly understand the principles first and only then conduct the experiments.
This was classic Shinichi-style thinking.
Solve the problem at its root, instead of repeatedly gambling on luck at the surface level.
With that thought in mind, the third Hokage immediately picked up his pen and wrote two words on the application form: approved.
...
Another three days passed.
At this point, only three days remained before the official establishment of the Ninja Way Origins Research Society, and unfamiliar faces from various places had already begun appearing in Konoha one after another. However, their numbers were not yet large.
Most of them were simply representatives from nearby small countries and villages who had arrived in advance.
Meanwhile, in a desolate stretch of barren mountains a hundred kilometers away from Konoha, the night wind wailed and the rain poured down in torrents.
Inside a dilapidated ancient temple that had been abandoned for who knew how many years, Isshiki Otsutsuki was, as usual, holding a yellowed Buddhist scripture in his hands and turning the pages expressionlessly.
Those crooked lines of writing, those stale platitudes that repeated over and over about compassion and enlightenment, he had read them for a thousand years and grown tired of them for a thousand years, but in order to find Shibai's whereabouts, he entered every temple he came across and read every scripture he found.
And after reading Buddhist scriptures for so many years, it had gradually become a habit.
In any case, he had nothing else to do.
No one knew how much time had passed when, outside the temple, the sound of footsteps suddenly rang out.
The footsteps were neither hurried nor slow. They landed one after another on the mountain path filled with pooled rainwater and scattered stones, steady and forceful, carrying with them a completely undisguised swagger.
Isshiki Otsutsuki set down the Buddhist scripture in his hands and raised his eyes toward the temple gate.
Who could it be?
At this moment, he had completely transformed himself into the appearance of an ordinary monk, suppressing his own existence to the absolute minimum. Every trace of his aura, every abnormality, every sign that belonged to his identity as an Otsutsuki had been layered over and concealed, leaving behind only the outermost layer of this shell, that wandering monk named Jigen, or rather, monk Ichisun.
In this state, anyone who saw him, even Kaguya herself if she were standing before him as she had in those days, would, unless they looked closely, only think that he was an ordinary monk who had wandered here to take shelter from the rain.
But disguising himself to this extent came with a price. When he suppressed his existence to this level, his senses would also weaken according to the standard of an ordinary person. He could not detect abnormalities in his surroundings in advance, could not actively perceive the flow of chakra nearby, and all of his basic physical qualities would drop to the level of a normal monk.
Of course, all of this was based on one premise: no one made a move against him.
The moment anyone tried to harm this shell, even if it was only the instant the thought arose in their mind, they would immediately discover just what kind of terrifying power was hidden inside this seemingly ordinary monk.
So at this moment, Isshiki Otsutsuki had no idea who the uninvited guest outside the temple actually was. However, judging from the rhythm and force of those footsteps, he could roughly determine the posture of the person approaching, striding forward with head held high, full of spirit, and carrying a kind of pride that felt entirely natural.
On a stormy night like this, in such a remote and desolate wilderness, anyone who could still walk with such a stride was clearly no ordinary person.
As the footsteps drew nearer and nearer, he finally saw the appearance of the newcomer clearly.
An ordinary-looking middle-aged monk appeared before Isshiki Otsutsuki, and the moment he saw this monk, Isshiki Otsutsuki frowned inwardly and sighed to himself at the trouble.
Indra.
Or rather, Indra's reincarnation, Madara Uchiha!
And when the middle-aged monk who had stepped into the temple, or rather, Madara Uchiha, saw the monk inside, his own steps halted as well, and he too frowned inwardly.
Because before stepping into this ruined temple, he had not sensed the presence of anyone inside at all.
This was simply unbelievable. Even though he was now old and physically weakened, no longer at the peak of his former strength, he was still Madara Uchiha.
In the current Shinobi World, there should not be anyone capable of escaping his perception!
Who was this guy?
At the same time, outside the ruined temple, the torrential rain still poured down like a waterfall, and thunder continued to roll unceasingly through the mountain valley.
On the mountain path outside the temple, another figure was now walking through layer after layer of rain curtain, heading unhurriedly toward this abandoned ancient temple.
It was a young monk, no more than thirteen years old, yet his appearance was extraordinarily remarkable. The endless rain around him quietly parted to either side, as though even the heavens themselves could not bear to wet his robes.
His steps were calm, his expression peaceful, and he held a string of bodhi prayer beads in his hand as he walked through the storm at an unhurried pace, looking so at ease that it was as though he were merely taking a stroll on an ordinary spring afternoon.
And so, on this night, three fake monks, wearing three completely different faces, were about to meet head-on in the same ruined temple that had been abandoned for who knew how many years.