He knew it was useless. Fill the earth back in, and the roots would still be buried there. Lime, clay, and seals only treated the symptoms. The roots lay more than a hundred meters underground, embedded in the rock strata, in the earth's veins, beneath the entire stretch of land from the Land of Fire's Western Frontier to its Southeastern Frontier.
Perhaps not just the Land of Fire.
Perhaps the God Tree's roots lay beneath the entire continent.
White Zetsu didn't emerge from underground. They grew from the roots. Like mushrooms growing from mycelium: as long as the mycelium lived, the mushrooms would never stop coming.
Chisen turned, walked back to camp, and sat beside the fire. He drew the sword from behind his waist and laid it across his knees. The fire was small, but its warmth bathed his face. He held his hands close to it. The firelight shone through his fingers, illuminating the scar that ran from the web of his thumb, across the back of his hand, and into his palm. Red and raised, it looked like a wound that hadn't yet dried.
Owl came over and sat opposite him.
"Lord Chisen."
"Mm."
"Do you think the White Zetsu have already emerged?"
Chisen watched the flames.
"I don't know."
"If they've already emerged, then-"
"Then we kill them," Chisen said. "One comes, we kill one. A hundred come, we kill a hundred. Until the roots wither."
Owl fell silent for a while.
"Will the roots wither?"
Chisen didn't answer. He knew the answer, and so did Owl. The roots wouldn't wither. As long as the God Tree remained underground, as long as the remnants of the Ten-Tails slumbered somewhere he knew nothing about, the roots wouldn't wither. You could kill a thousand White Zetsu, ten thousand,