Fish Soup in the Snow

For more than a decade, time had passed in the Ninja World like a fleeting glimmer, yet it had been enough for two children to grow into tall young men.

The two children who had once nestled in Kaguya's arms and listened to her stories

were now tall and slender. The childishness had faded from the small horns on their foreheads, replaced by some of the stern bearing unique to the Ōtsutsuki Clan.

The Bamboo Forest remained much as it had been all those years ago.

Only the years had left deeper marks among the trees. The thick bamboo had grown taller, its interlaced branches and leaves blocking out the sky and keeping most of winter's chill at bay.

At the heart of the Bamboo Forest

stood a majestic temple, quiet and still.

Its gray-tiled roof and vermilion walls were crowned with upturned eaves. Copper bells hung beneath them, chiming softly in the breeze, their clear notes piercing the stillness of the forest.

Three ancient-looking characters, "Manji Temple," were written across the plaque above the entrance. The strokes were vigorous, and faintly reminiscent of Kaguya's handwriting.

Dozens of mortal monks in gray robes held brooms as they devoutly swept fallen leaves and snow from the courtyard. Their movements were gentle, as if they feared disturbing the solemn peace.

Incense curled up from the main hall, mingling with the fresh scent of bamboo and filling the temple grounds. The burner outside the hall was packed with incense sticks of varying lengths, and the pile of ash showed that people had been praying here for years.

This was the temple Kaguya had built for Manji, on the very site of the Bamboo Forest where the betrayal and sacrifice had taken place.

Every year on this day, she brought Hagoromo and Hamura here. She came for no other reason than the guilt in her heart that she could never let go.

Over the past decade, she had selectively undone the Infinite Tsukuyomi, freeing some of humanity.

They had made their homes and multiplied across the land, while the God Tree still stood atop the world. Every so often, "sacrifices" were sent beneath its branches, where they became sustenance for the White Zetsu.

Kaguya needed this army to defend against any reckoning that might one day come from the Ōtsutsuki Clan.

As time passed, three faiths took root in the world: faith in Kaguya, the creator god; faith in the God Tree, to which sacrifices were still offered; and faith in the legendary Manji.

Mortals knew nothing of Manji's past. They only knew that Kaguya herself had called him a hero, so they came in droves to pray for his protection.

"Hagoromo, Hamura, offer your incense."

Kaguya's voice was still cool, though the passage of time had lent it a greater weight. She stood at the entrance to the main hall, gazing at the portrait hanging in its center, her expression impossible to read.

"Yes, Mother."

At her words, Hagoromo and Hamura respectfully accepted incense sticks from the monks. They lit them, bowed deeply before the portrait, then placed them in the burner.

The portrait inside the hall was lifelike. The young man in it wore simple robes and stood tall and graceful, his dark hair flowing lightly in the breeze. With red lips and bright teeth, his eyes and brows held a trace of defiance and calm. It was Manji as he had been all those years ago.

As Hagoromo gazed at the portrait, his confusion grew.

Over the past decade, their mother had told them countless stories about Manji, but she had never mentioned how his story ended. It was as if the hero had vanished into thin air at some point.

After the prayers, Kaguya did not linger. She turned and walked out of the Bamboo Forest, soon disappearing from sight.

Hagoromo and Hamura took their time. They left the temple only after their mother had gone.

Hagoromo finally voiced the question that had been troubling him. "Hamura, I always thought Manji was a hero Mother made up. Do you think he really existed?"

Hamura stopped and glanced back at the temple, half-hidden among the bamboo, then at the outline of the young man in the portrait.

"I think he must have existed. Mother has always been practical. If he were just a fictional character, she'd never have gone to such lengths to build this temple and have mortals worship him for generations."

He paused, then added, "Just look at the size of the temple and the incense that's been burning here all these years. If Manji weren't real, why would Mother do all this?"

"That's true."

Hagoromo nodded, but still looked puzzled. "I've asked quite a few of the older villagers, but none of them know the details of Manji's deeds. How could someone so remarkable have left no trace at all?

"Mother has never been willing to say where he went in the end, or whether he lived or died."

"Perhaps it was simply too long ago."

Hamura gazed at the mountains in the distance and spoke softly. "We don't even know how long Mother has been alive. Manji's story might have taken place so long ago that even history failed to record it."

The explanation seemed reasonable enough.

Hagoromo's doubts eased a little. The two said no more and walked side by side toward the lakeside where they had often gone as children.

The winter wind swept great flakes of snow through the air. They fell in a swirling curtain, leaving the world a vast expanse of white.

A thin sheet of ice had formed across the lake, reflecting the faint gleam of the snow. Thick drifts covered the plants along the shore.

Only bare branches reached toward the sky, like strokes in a monochrome painting.

The snow came up over their ankles. Each step left a deep footprint and made a soft crunch, startlingly clear in the silent landscape.

"Big brother, look! Someone's fishing over there!"

Hamura suddenly stopped, eyes lighting up as he pointed toward the lakeshore.

"Oh? You're right."

Hagoromo followed his gaze. Through the endless white, a small, crude thatched hut stood by the lake, its roof buried under thick snow like a white ball of fluff.

On the bank before the hut, a man sat quietly on a rock, holding a fishing rod.

He wore a thin black-and-red robe.

The wind stirred its hem, but he seemed not to feel the cold. His dark hair fell casually over his shoulders, and against the snow his complexion looked even fairer.

"How strange. No one's ever lived here before. When did this hut appear?"

Hagoromo was puzzled. This lakeshore had been their secret spot as children. They hadn't come here in more than a decade, and now it had changed so much.

"Come on. Let's take a look."

Curiosity got the better of Hamura, and he headed for the bank first. Hagoromo followed close behind.

The closer they got, the more clearly they could see the man.

He sat turned slightly to one side, his profile finely sculpted, his eyes deep-set, and a faint smile playing on his lips. He held the rod with easy composure, as if the wind and snow around him had nothing to do with him.

"..."

Hagoromo and Hamura exchanged a glance. They both saw an inexplicable familiarity in each other's eyes, yet neither could remember where they had seen him before...

"Sir, fishing in the snow—you've got quite a flair for it."

Hagoromo stepped forward, clasped his hands in greeting, and smiled. There was a note of admiration in his voice.

Most mortals had to work to make ends meet these days, either farming or staying at home.

Who would have the time to go fishing in the dead of winter, braving the snow and wind?

Plop!

At that moment, the fishing rod suddenly dipped. The man flicked his wrist, and a flash of silver scales appeared as a plump fish came flying out of the water!

"Lucky you! What a huge fish!"

A note of admiration flashed in Hamura's eyes. A fish of that size was a rare sight in the lake during winter.

The man slowly turned to face them. His smile was warm, but his eyes seemed to see through time itself. "You two have come at just the right moment. Would you like to join me for a bowl of fish soup?"

Hagoromo and Hamura exchanged a glance, delight in both their eyes. They nodded at once. "Thank you for the kind offer, sir."

The thatched hut was sparsely furnished, with only a wooden table, a few chairs, and a pile of firewood in the corner. The stove burned brightly, filling the room with warmth—a stark contrast to the frozen world outside.

The man deftly cleaned the fish, placed it in an earthen pot, and added water, slices of ginger, and some ingredients they didn't recognize. Then he set it over the fire to simmer.

Before long, the rich aroma of fish soup filled the hut, making their mouths water.

When he set the pot on the table and lifted its lid, steam billowed out. The broth was creamy white, and the savory scent of fish mingled with the sweetness of wild fruit. It was enough to make anyone's mouth water.

"Mmm, that smells delicious!"

Hagoromo and Hamura picked up wooden spoons and tasted the soup.

Its rich, savory flavor burst across their tongues. There was no fishy taste at all, only the tender freshness of the fish and the depth of the broth. Warmth flowed down their throats, driving away the cold that had clung to them.

"You're an amazing cook!"

"This fish soup is even better than Mother's!"

Hagoromo couldn't help praising it.

"Indeed. A bowl of delicious fish soup in the middle of winter really hits the spot."

Hamura nodded repeatedly as he gulped down the soup, his face full of contentment.

Manji sat to the side, smiling faintly.

He had honed his cooking skills over time. All these years on Mount Myōboku, he had been served all manner of "sage delicacies" made from insects and fungi.

He had found them impossible to stomach, so he'd had to cook for himself and study the art of cooking. After several thousand years, he had become quite the expert.

Once they had eaten their fill, the fire gradually died down.

Manji slowly rose, preparing to leave.

Hagoromo and Hamura quickly stood and clasped their hands in thanks. Hagoromo asked, "Thank you for the meal, sir. May I ask your name, so I can repay you someday?"

Manji turned around and looked at them for a moment. "I have no name. I'm just someone the years have forgotten."

After a pause, a meaningful smile curved his lips. "You'll have the chance to repay me. We'll meet again."