Fish Soup in the Snow

Thirteen years in the long river of the ninja world is but a fleeting glance, yet it is enough for a young child to grow into a tall, upright youth.

The two children who once nestled in the arms of Kaguya to listen to stories have now grown tall and slender. The youthful horns on their foreheads have shed their immaturity, replaced by the imposing air unique to the Otsutsuki clan.

This bamboo forest remains exactly as it was back then.

Only time has carved deeper marks into the grove; the clustered green bamboo has grown even taller, their interlacing branches and leaves blocking out the sky and sun, shielding the forest from most of the winter chill.

In the center of the bamboo forest, a towering temple stands in silence.

With its green tiles, vermilion walls, and upturned eaves, the bronze bells hanging beneath the eaves chime softly in the breeze, the crisp sound piercing the tranquility of the woods.

The plaque on the temple is inscribed with the three archaic characters for "Manji Temple," the brushwork vigorous and forceful, faintly revealing traces of Kaguya's own handwriting.

Dozens of mortal monks in gray robes hold brooms, piously sweeping fallen leaves and accumulated snow from the courtyard, their movements gentle for fear of disturbing the solemnity.

Incense smoke curls upward from the main hall, mingling with the fresh scent of bamboo to permeate the entire space. The incense burner outside the hall is filled with candles of varying lengths, and the accumulated ash bears witness to years of constant worship.

This place was built by Kaguya for Manji, located precisely in the bamboo forest where that betrayal and sacrifice once took place.

Every year on this day, she brings Hagoromo and Hamura here, for no other reason than the lingering guilt she cannot cast aside from her heart.

Over these past dozen years, she has selectively released the genjutsu of the Infinite Tsukuyomi, allowing a portion of humanity to regain their freedom.

They multiply and thrive on this land, while the God Tree still stands at the pinnacle of the world. Every so often, "sacrifices" are sent to the foot of the God Tree to be transformed into nutrients for the White Zetsu.

Kaguya needs this army to defend against the potential future reckoning of the Otsutsuki clan.

As time passed, three types of faith emerged in the world: faith in the creator goddess Kaguya, faith in the God Tree that is constantly offered sacrifices, and faith in the legendary Manji.

Mortals do not know the past of Manji; they only know he is a hero acknowledged by Kaguya herself, so they come in droves to pray for his protection.

"Hagoromo, Hamura, offer the incense."

Kaguya's voice remains cold, yet it carries a weight accumulated over the years that was absent before. She stands at the entrance of the main hall, gazing at the portrait hanging in the center, her eyes complex and unreadable.

"Yes, Mother."

Hearing this, Hagoromo and Hamura respectfully take the incense from the monks, light them, bow deeply to the portrait, and insert them into the burner.

The portrait in the main hall is lifelike. In the painting, the youth wears simple robes, standing tall and elegant. His dark hair flutters slightly, his lips are red and his teeth white, and his brows carry a hint of defiance and indifference—it is exactly how Manji looked back then.

Hagoromo gazes at the portrait, his inner confusion growing more intense.

Over these dozen years, his mother has told countless stories about Manji, yet she has never mentioned his fate, as if this hero simply vanished into thin air at some point.

After the worship, Kaguya does not linger; she turns and walks out of the bamboo forest, quickly disappearing from sight.

Hagoromo and Hamura, however, move slowly, waiting until they have left the temple and seen their mother depart.

Only then does Hagoromo finally speak, his voice laced with confusion: "Hamura, I always thought Manji was a hero Mother made up. Do you think he really existed?"

Hamura stops in his tracks, looks back at the temple looming in the bamboo forest, and then at the silhouette of the youth in the portrait.

He muses, "I believe he must have existed. Mother is always pragmatic. If he were merely a fictional character, she would never have expended such effort to build this temple and have mortals worship him for generations."

He pauses, then adds, "Look at the scale of this temple and the constant incense; if there were no such person, why would Mother go to such lengths?"

"That's true."

Hagoromo nods, yet remains puzzled: "But I have asked many elderly villagers, and none of them know the specific deeds of Manji. How could such a powerful figure leave no trace behind? Mother also refuses to say where he went, or whether he is dead or alive."

"Perhaps it was too long ago."

Hamura gazes at the distant mountains and says softly, "We don't know how long Mother has lived. The story of Manji might have happened a very, very long time ago—so long ago that even history failed to record it."

This explanation seems reasonable.

The doubt in Hagoromo's heart eases slightly. The two say no more and walk side by side toward the lake they often visited as children.

The winter wind carries snowflakes that fall in thick, swirling flurries, leaving the world a vast expanse of white.

The surface of the lake has frozen into a thin layer of ice, reflecting the faint light of the snow, and the vegetation on the banks is covered in deep drifts.

Only the bare branches remain, pointing toward the sky like a plain ink wash painting.

The snow is deep enough to cover their ankles, and every step leaves a deep footprint, the "crunching" sound beneath their feet ringing out with particular clarity in the silent world.

"Big Brother, look! Someone is fishing over there!"

Hamura suddenly stops, his eyes lighting up as he points toward the lakeside.

"Oh? Indeed."

Hagoromo follows his gaze and sees, amidst the vast whiteness, a crude thatched hut appearing abruptly by the lake. Its roof is covered in thick snow, looking like a white pom-pom.

On the bank in front of the hut, a man sits quietly on a rock, holding a fishing rod.

He wears a thin, black-and-red long robe.

The hem of his garment is gently stirred by the cold wind, yet he shows no sign of feeling the chill. His dark hair is draped loosely over his shoulders, making his skin appear even fairer against the backdrop of the snow.

"Strange, no one has ever lived in this place before. When did a thatched hut appear?"

Hagoromo was puzzled; this lakeside was their secret childhood base, and after more than a decade of absence, it had undergone such a transformation.

"Let's go, let's take a look."

Hamura's curiosity was piqued, and he walked toward the shore first, with Hagoromo following closely behind.

The closer they got, the clearer the man's features became.

He sat sideways, his profile defined by smooth lines and deep, contemplative eyes. A faint smile played on his lips as he held the fishing rod with composure, as if the surrounding wind and snow had nothing to do with him.

"..."

Hagoromo and Hamura exchanged a glance, both seeing a sense of inexplicable familiarity in the other's eyes, yet they could not recall where they had seen him before.

"Sir, fishing in the snow—what a poetic scene."

Hagoromo stepped forward, cupping his hands in a salute with a smile, his tone filled with a touch of admiration.

Most mortals nowadays were busy struggling for their livelihoods, either working the fields or staying at home.

Who would be idle enough to go fishing in the middle of winter, braving the wind and snow?

"Splash!"

Just then, the fishing rod dipped sharply. The man flicked his wrist, a flash of silver scales darted through the air, and a plump, fresh fish was hauled up!

"How lucky! To catch such a large fish!"

Admiration flashed in Hamura's eyes; a fish of this size was truly rare in the lake during winter.

The man slowly turned to look at them, his smile gentle, yet his gaze seemed to see through time itself: "You two have arrived quite conveniently. Would you like to join me for a bowl of fish soup?"

Hagoromo and Hamura exchanged a glance, both seeing pleasant surprise in the other's eyes, and they nodded in unison: "Many thanks for your kindness, sir."

The interior of the thatched hut was simple, furnished only with a wooden table, a few chairs, and some firewood stacked in the corner. The hearth fire was burning brightly, radiating warmth that stood in stark contrast to the icy world outside.

The man skillfully prepared the fresh fish, placed it into an earthenware pot, added water, ginger slices, and some unknown seasonings, then set it over the fire to simmer.

Before long, the rich aroma of fish soup filled the air, the savory scent making one's mouth water.

The pot was brought to the table. The moment the lid was lifted, white steam billowed out. The soup was milky white, the freshness of the fish blended with the subtle sweetness of wild berries, making it truly mouth-watering.

"Mmm, it smells so good!"

Hagoromo and Hamura picked up their wooden spoons, scooped up a mouthful of soup, and tasted it.

The rich, savory flavor exploded on their tongues. There was not a hint of fishiness, only the tenderness of the fish and the depth of the broth. A warm current flowed down their throats, dispelling the chill from their bodies.

"Your cooking is excellent!"

"This fish soup is even more delicious than what Mother makes!"

Hagoromo couldn't help but exclaim.

"Indeed, drinking a bowl of fresh fish soup in the dead of winter is truly wonderful."

Hamura nodded repeatedly, drinking the soup in large gulps, his face full of satisfaction.

Manji sat to the side, smiling faintly.

His culinary skills had been honed through necessity. All those years at Mount Myōboku, facing those "immortal delicacies" made of insects and fungi, he had found them impossible to swallow. He had been forced to take matters into his own hands and study the culinary arts; over these thousands of years, he had long since mastered the craft.

Once they were full, the fire in the hearth began to die down.

Manji slowly stood up, preparing to leave.

Hagoromo and Hamura hurriedly rose and cupped their hands. Hagoromo asked: "Thank you for your hospitality, sir. May I ask your name, so that we may repay you in the future?"

Manji turned around, his gaze lingering on their faces for a moment: "I have no name. I am merely a person forgotten by time."

He paused, a meaningful smile tugging at the corners of his lips: "Repayment will come in time; we shall meet again."