Kakashi's Move, Minato's Intervention

Obito lay flat on his back, the back of his head resting on shattered rocks, his eyes half-open as he watched the pale violet curtain of light slowly descend from the sky.

His white robe was soaked through with muddy water, the grayish-white fabric clinging to his body like a damp shroud. His hands lay spread at his sides, his fingers slightly curled, the gaps beneath his nails packed with black soil and dried blood. His chest barely rose or fell; each breath was so shallow that it seemed he was testing whether his lungs could still function. After the Ten-Tails had been extracted, his body was like a lamp drained of oil—the wick still smoked, but the flame had already gone out.

His eyes had no focus. Not because he was blind, but because his consciousness was wandering at the edge of his body, like someone standing at a cliff's edge, one foot already hanging in the air while the other still hesitated. His lips were slightly parted, several bleeding cracks splitting the dry skin, dark purplish-red beneath the moonlight.

The God Tree was still breathing. The Rinne Sharingan at the top of its crown was still projecting that violet-black pillar of light toward the moon. The air was thick with the sickly sweetness of decay and the scorched rust smell of iron. On the distant battlefield, the shriveled bodies pierced by the God Tree's branches still swayed faintly. Some were still breathing. Some had stopped. The fallen ninjas lay in all manner of poses—some curled up, some with their arms spread wide, some still clutching weapons, some with empty hands. There was no pain on their faces, only the blank look of people hollowed out from within.

Kakashi knelt less than ten meters from Obito. His left knee