Konoha: Superman template, the spoiled brat becomes strong.

The elders of Fengying Village were awakened at midnight.

The Third Elder sat up, rubbing his temples. The bed curtains billowed in the night breeze, but he stared at the gold thread embroidery on the curtains—the totems of the successive Wind Shadows. Suddenly, they blurred in his eyes, replaced by the face of Sasori of the Crimson Sand. "A puppet without a heart is still a fake, no matter how real it is." The voice of the young puppeteer rose from the depths of his memory. The Third Elder pressed his hand to his chest, where the warmth of Sasori pulling his beard as a child still lingered.

The Fifth Elder's candle flame suddenly popped and flared up.

He stared at the abdication ceremony schedule on the table. The ink on the still-wet characters "New Shadow" suddenly twisted into the puppet strings of a scorpion, and at the other end of the strings was the silhouette of Chiyo standing in front of the puppet platform. "Back then you said I was too soft-hearted," the Fifth Elder heard his own hoarse voice echo in the empty room, "Now...now I believe you."

As the first rays of dawn pierced through the Wind Shadow Tower, three jointly signed books were placed on Ebizo's desk.

The old advisor's teacup clattered to the ground, and a shard of celadon cut his instep, but he stared at the crooked handwriting on the paper: "Suspend the abdication ceremony" and "The succession of the throne needs to be reviewed."

A servant's exclamation came from outside the window: "The elders have gone to the altar!"

The night of the full moon came sooner than Ebizo had anticipated.

The torches in front of the Wind Shadow Tower illuminated the sand red. He stood in the center of the altar, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly—the chakra threads under his robes were already tied. As long as he shouted "New Shadow Descends," the people controlled by the spores would kneel down in a sea of ​​kneeling.

But when he opened his mouth, the expected thunderous roar did not erupt. Instead, there was a chorus of chants: "The will is not in the shadow of one man, but in the memory of millions."

The voices of the people rose like waves from the foot of the altar.

Ebizo's fingers dug deep into the wooden railing of the altar. He saw a glint in the eyes of the old woman in the front row—the one he had seen at the teahouse yesterday. Her grandson had a fever, and he had sent medicine to him. She had knelt at his feet to express her gratitude.

But now, she is holding her grandson's hand, teaching the child to read word by word: "The blood of the first generation of adults flowed into our clay figurines."

The ground suddenly cracked.

Countless vines burst forth from the ground, their bodies entwined with tiny fragments of pottery, refracting a rainbow of light under the torches.

Ebizo staggered backward, but the vines gently wrapped around his ankles and climbed up the altar.

He heard someone in the crowd shout, "It's the Truth Vine!"—a plant that, according to legend, only grows when memories are real.

On the high cliffs of the desert, White Night's cloak fluttered in the night wind.

He gazed at the light in the direction of the Wind Shadow Tower and sensed the resonance emanating from the Memory Tree—a vibration even stronger than the tremors of the earth's veins, as if someone had struck a chime deep within the tree's heart.

He closed his eyes, and his spiritual power probed into the heart of the tree through the roots of the Wood Release technique. Suddenly, a face appeared in the darkness: unfamiliar eyebrows and eyes, but with a reassuring warmth, as if he had seen it somewhere before, yet as if it had never existed.

New words are emerging on the tree trunk, each stroke like someone writing on the bark with their fingertips: "Tell me the truth, and I will wake up."

Bai Ye's fingertips gently pressed against his chest, where the heat of the First Blood Crystal suddenly softened.

He gazed at the unfamiliar face in the tree heart, the moonlight falling into his eyes like falling into a deep spring that was awakening.

The night wind on the desert cliffs whipped sand against the cloak, and the moonlight gilded the white night's eyelashes with a silver edge.

He stared at the gradually clearing light and shadow at the heart of the Tree of Memories, his Adam's apple bobbing—the face was clearly unfamiliar, yet it reminded him of the old potter he had saved in Amegakure, the flower girl who had given him directions at the border of the Land of Fire, and even the little beggar who had tugged at his clothes in the ruins of Sunagakure.

These fragments surged in his consciousness, and he suddenly realized: that was not someone's face, but the outline drawn by the memories of millions of people who remembered the First Hokage.

"I see." His voice was broken by the wind, his fingertips unconsciously caressing the blood crystals on his chest.

The heat of the first-generation blood crystal was no longer scorching; instead, it felt like a piece of warm jade that had been warmed for many years, sending gentle vibrations against the skin.

The light and shadow in the tree heart suddenly rippled, and whispers drifted in: "The clay figure was smashed, but there's still fire in the shards." "He taught us how to make bricks, but he didn't say whose wall they were to be built into."... These voices were all too familiar; they were clearly the kind of casual conversations he often heard while traveling around the world.

Bai Ye's pupils contracted slightly.

He finally understood—the First Generation never intended to be resurrected in some physical form. The so-called "Will of Fire" was merely a seed buried in the memories of millions. When someone tells the truth one day, this seed will sprout, allowing everyone to grow their own backbone.

He pulled out the last spore wristband from his pocket.

It was a relic left by the scorpion, with half a dried datura petal still clinging to its black carapace. "The container can't hold the wind," he crouched down, pressing the wristband into the crack in the memory tree, soil mixed with sap sticking to his knuckles, "but the igniter can." A faint rumble came from the heart of the tree, like countless people simultaneously letting out a sigh of relief, and the vines suddenly grew wildly, completely wrapping the wristband into its growth rings.

"I will be the one to start the fire," he whispered to the tree, and the wind carried his words southeastward, towards the direction of the capital of the Land of Fire.

The moonlight of the capital city fell on the silver hairpin in Qi Sui's hair.

She stood by the Suzaku Well, the chakra of a miniature wood-based chakra array in her sleeve seeping into the groundwater along the well wall.

Seven or eight people had gathered around the well. An old woman clutched a crumpled piece of paper, her knuckles white: "Young lady, can you really write?"

Chapter 950 Should the truth be worshipped or remembered?

“Your grandson was conscripted last year to repair the shrine, but the shrine was never completed, was it?” Qi Sui’s voice was like a knife dipped in honey, gentle yet sharp. “Write this down on a piece of paper and throw it into the well.” The old woman’s hands trembled as she unfolded the paper, the pencil writing crooked and uneven: “The bricks of the shrine were used to build my grandson’s grave.”

Suddenly, a "ding-dong" sound came from the well. It wasn't a pebble falling into the water, but rather like someone tapping a small gong at the bottom of the well.

Nana made a hand seal with her fingertips inside her sleeve, instantly activating the Wood Release spores in the underground water veins.

Three days later, a line of words floated on the surface of the old well in the western border of the Fire Kingdom, half a nursery rhyme drifted from the sweet water well in the eastern border, and even the royal well, heavily guarded by the History Pavilion, was stained with ink: "What we remember is the truth."

While Shige's soldiers were filling the well with shovels, Qi Sui was squatting in a street corner tea stall, eating sweet cakes.

She watched as the soldiers smashed stones into the well, and then watched as the well, which had been filled in, cracked open with a spiderweb-like pattern the next morning, and new well water gushed out. On the surface of the water floated even denser pieces of paper with writing on them—all of which were newly written notes that the people had secretly gone around to the back of the mountain the night before and stuffed into the cracks in the ground.

"Miss, do you need any help?" The tea stall owner wiped the table, the scar at the corner of his eye glowing faintly red in the morning light.

Nana recognized the cut as it was from three years ago, inflicted by the Finance Minister. She shook her head and smiled, sugar crumbs falling into her collar: "No need. They weren't filling a well, they were filling their own ears."

In the council chamber of Iwagakure, Onoki's pipe sparked as it tapped against the stone table. "The foundation of the Shadow Substitute Plan is 'the people need to be represented,'" his voice like sandpaper scraping against rock. "Now that they've remembered themselves, what are we left to be shadows for?"

The Fourth Raikage slammed his fist on the table with a "bang," his lightning chakra causing the candlelight to flicker wildly: "You're going to hand over the Kage title to a bunch of commoners who can only recite rhymes?" He suddenly stood up, his cloak swaying and overturning the teacup, but stopped at the door—he heard hushed conversations coming from outside; it was his personal guards.

"I heard that the old man at the north end of Kumogakure has brought up the Raikage's words about building a lightning rod, but the tower was never even started..." "My mother said she remembers the First Raikage teaching us that 'lightning should strike where it's supposed to strike,' not on the heads of ordinary people..."

The Raikage's Adam's apple bobbed.

He recalled passing by the training ground this morning, where the young ninjas who usually only shouted "Long live the Raikage" were gathered together flipping through old family genealogies. Someone held up a yellowed page and shouted, "Look!"

My grandfather worked on a dam with the First Raikage!

“You win.” He turned around, his cloak billowing and creating a gust of wind. “But if the People’s Knowledge Association dares to give reckless orders…” He was interrupted by Onoki’s laughter before he could finish. The old man’s wrinkles were full of relief: “They won’t, because they now remember how to walk on their own.”

The moonlight in Sunagakure is cooler than elsewhere.

Chiyo stood at the entrance of the ancestral home, clutching a half-broken piece of pottery in her hand—it had fallen from the teacup in the Ebi-zang collection.

Just now, when she went to deliver the new regulations for the abdication ceremony, she saw the old advisor burning something in front of a candle flame. Half a piece of paper floated out of the ashes, and the words "Inspector" could be vaguely seen.

"Grandma, it's time to prepare the offerings for the festival." The little maid came out of the door carrying a bamboo basket. When Chiyo looked down, a shard of pottery left a red mark on her palm.

She gazed at the window of Ebizo's room, where the candlelight suddenly went out, as if someone had cut off some thought.

“Alright,” she patted the little maid’s head, her voice as gentle as cotton cloth that had been sun-dried all day, “bring out that jar of twenty-year-old osmanthus wine as well. The ancestral home festival should be lively.” The copper lamp in the ancestral home swayed in the wind, casting a warm yellow glow. When Chiyo added the last pinch of tea leaves to the clay teapot, her knuckles pressed a faint white mark on the handle.

As Ebizo's wooden clogs echoed outside the courtyard, she happened to arrange her teacups in a semi-circle—the third one from the left was his usual celadon cup, which at that moment held half a spore of the Memory Tree, floating in the tea soup like a tiny cloud.

"Grandma, this tea is more fragrant than in previous years." Hai Laozang lifted the curtain and came in, his sleeves still stained with ink.

After he sat down, his gaze swept over the teacup, his fingertip lingering on the rim of the celadon cup before he withdrew it as if burned. "Why are there only two sets of cups and saucers prepared for today's ceremony?"

“The children have gone off to play.” Chiyo pushed the teacup towards him, the spout pointing at his wrist. “I’ll tell you some stories from years past.” As the tea soup overflowed the rim of the cup, the spores quietly dissolved, creating extremely fine ripples on the surface.

Ebizo's hand, holding the teacup, was as steady as a rock, but he didn't notice half a leaf of the Memory Tree floating in the tea mist—it was sent by the Sand Village caravan on the day before yesterday, mixed in with spices and truth.

When Ebizo took his first sip of tea, his temples throbbed.

He suddenly remembered a snowy night forty years ago, when he was wrapped in Shigeru's black cloak and stood in front of the paper-burning stove.

Flames licked at the yellowed silk, and the First Hokage's edict curled into ashes in the fire. The voice of the old minister was like ice: "Destroy it, and you will be the new pillar of Sunagakure." He was only thirty years old at the time, and his cuffs were still covered with mud from praying for rain for the villagers, but he felt that burning this fire was justified—after all, someone had to choose what the people should remember.

"The tea's gone cold." Chiyo's voice was like a needle, piercing his memories.

Ebizo was surprised to find that he had finished his teacup, and a thin layer of sweat appeared on his forehead.

He reached for the handkerchief, but his knuckles knocked over the teacup, the celadon base striking the stone table with a clear sound.

There was a line of small characters on the bottom of the cup, which looked like they were written with tea stains, but slowly appeared under the moonlight: "You have lied, but you can still tell the truth."

His pupils suddenly contracted, and the handkerchief slipped from his fingers.

Laughter came from outside the courtyard as a young maid carried offerings past the window, the sweet fragrance of osmanthus wine wafting from her bamboo basket.

Looking at the words, Ebizo suddenly remembered the "Regulations for Inspectors" that he had burned that morning—those densely packed clauses were originally intended to "filter" the things that should be recorded for the people.

But at this moment, his fingertips uncontrollably reached for the tinderbox in his pocket, where half a sheet of paper remained unburnt, the ink still wet on the words "Inspectorate Authority," which suddenly burned his heart with pain.

At the same time, a layer of white mist rose from between the broken pillars of Guiyuan Shrine.

Bai Ye stood in the center of the ruins, his palm pressed against the scorched earth, the first-generation blood crystal burning hot against his chest.

He could sense the Wood Release roots underground extending along the branches of the Memory Tree, like countless transparent blood vessels, connecting the old well of the Land of Fire, the training ground of the Hidden Cloud Village, and the council hall of the Hidden Stone Village, finally penetrating into the root system of every "Mantra Vine".

"Fellow members of the Shadow Debate Society," he looked up, moonlight falling on his forehead, "tell me, should the truth be revered, or remembered?"

Chapter 951 Don't Take It Seriously

Someone in the crowd stirred—it was an old scholar from the Kingdom of Wind, who still had the note he had retrieved from the royal tomb well tucked in his pocket.

Just as he was about to speak, the scorched earth beneath his feet suddenly cracked open, and green vine shoots burst forth, blooming into snow-white flowers in mid-air.

With each petal unfurling, a scene unfolds: the grandson of an old woman from the Land of Fire coughing up blood in a brick kiln; the First Raikage squatting on a dam teaching a boy to tie knots; the Third Tsuchikage shielding villagers from falling rocks in his youth...

“This is…” The young ninja from the Land of Lightning reached out to catch the petals, the image shattering into gold dust in his palm. “This is what my grandfather told me, but he always said, ‘He’s getting senile, don’t take it seriously.’”

Bai Ye released his hand from the ground, his fingertips still damp with freshly turned soil.

He gazed at the shining eyes in the crowd and suddenly recalled the millions of overlapping faces in the heart of the memory tree—it turns out that the truth is never anyone's privilege; everyone who remembers has the right to speak it.

“When I tell the truth, it moves.” His voice mingled with the soft rustling of the wisteria blossoms. “When you tell the truth, it moves even more.”

Before the words were finished, a crisp sound came from the riverbank in the western border of the Land of Fire.

An old fisherman squatted on the bank, tying a strip of cloth that read, "The bricks from the ancestral hall were used to build my grandson's grave," to his bamboo raft.

As the bamboo raft entered the middle of the river, a patch of vine flowers suddenly rose to the surface, each flower carrying another piece of writing: "I remember he taught us how to make bricks, not burn graves." The fisherman's hand trembled, and the strip of cloth fell into the water, but more strips of cloth floated from upstream, like a flowing scroll.

In the mountain valley outside Yanyin Village, several miners are carving their memories onto stone tablets.

The youngest one held up the stone slab and shouted, "My grandfather said that the first Earth Shadow taught us that 'mountains should carry people, not crush them'!" As soon as he finished speaking, vines sprouted from the cracks in the rocks beneath their feet, wrapped around the stone slab, and carried it up to the top of the mountain.

In the watchtower atop the mountain, the dark guards watching over the shadow puppets suddenly covered their ears—the consciousness sealed within the puppets was now surging upwards along the vines, causing tiny cracks to appear at the puppets' joints.

In the hidden room of Konoha, the inspector's crystal mirror suddenly fogged up with blood.

He frantically wiped the mirror, his fingernails scratching white marks on it, but when the fog cleared, what he saw was not the "successful substitution" he had expected, but millions of fluttering vine flowers.

Each petal bears a name: Flower Girl, Old Potter, Little Beggar, Grandfather, Grandson...

"Don't wake up!" He grabbed the short knife on the table and stabbed it into the mirror, but the blade seemed to plunge into clear water, only creating ripples.

Emerging from the ripples was the face of the First Hokage—not the overlapping outline in the Tree of Memories, but a portrait he had seen in the History House when he was young, with a smile in his eyes: "You've forgotten, we're all still here."

The short knife clattered to the ground.

The inspector slumped to the ground, gazing at the petals fluttering in the mirror, and suddenly remembered seeing the First Hokage at the village entrance when he was twelve years old.

The old man squatted down, patted his head, and said, "Remembering what you see is more important than remembering what I taught." At that time, he nodded vigorously, but later... later he learned to "filter" memories for others, but forgot that he himself was once a person who could remember.

Inside the ancestral home of Sunagakure, Ebizo finally loosened his grip on the teacup.

He looked at Chiyo, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Grandma, I remember... I remember that handwritten edict I burned forty years ago." Moonlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the wetness at the corners of his eyes. "It said, 'Memory should be in the hands of the people, not in the archives of the historian.'"

Chapter 952 Telling the Truth

Chiyo reached out and wiped away his tears, her fingertips touching the wrinkles on his face, like touching the cracks of time. "It's not too late to tell now," she said softly. "Tomorrow at the festival, tell the children the story of this cup of tea for me."

The wisteria blossoms from outside the courtyard drifted in at some unknown time, landing in the teacup and on the palm lines of Ebizo's hand.

He looked at the petals in his palm and suddenly smiled—a smile without calculation or weighing of options, much like the way he stood in the rain after praying for rain for the villagers when he was young.

At this moment, the sky above the five countries was filled with vine blossoms.

Some stand on rooftops, tying their memories to kites; some kneel in the fields, burying their memories in newly sown seeds; some ninjas leap to the treetops, carving their memories on the highest branches.

These memories travel with the wind, the water, and the veins of the vines, going further and further away—into the hearts of everyone who remembers, and into every moment that should be remembered.

And the roots of the memory tree are growing deeper and denser underground, following these memories.

As the roots of the Memory Tree meandered underground, the black straw hat of the White Night had already swept past the eaves of the Guiyuan Shrine.

His boots were almost completely dry of morning dew—an instinct honed through twenty years of ninjutsu training, so much so that even the wind wouldn't linger for him.

The ruins of the abandoned post station are hidden in the thorn bushes on the border of the Land of Fire. Half a faded wooden sign still hangs on the rotten wooden beam. The five characters "Min Yi Tong Lian Zhan" (民驿通联站) have been eaten away by insects, leaving only "Min" (民) and "Lian" (联).

Bai Ye crouched down and tapped the half-broken pillar in the corner with his knuckles. The hollow echo mixed with the sound of a stream in the distance—the structure was exactly as described in the ancient books.

He lifted his sleeve, and a faint green light rose from the dark red curse mark on his arm.

The moment the palm touched the broken pillar, the curse seal moved as if it were alive, and fine cracks appeared on the surface of the broken pillar, with the faint shadows of vines surging inside.