The faint gold of dawn stretched over the makeshift camp like a reluctant promise of peace. The morning wind carried with it the scent of blood, bandages, and wet soil. Around the scattered tents, shinobi stirred—some cleaning weapons, others quietly speaking with comrades they had feared lost just yesterday.
Minato stood near the edge of the camp, his jonin flak rustling lightly in the breeze. Behind him, Hiruzen Sarutobi—the Third Hokage—stepped into view, fully prepared for departure. The sun outlined the white Hokage cloak with a solemn glow.
They had spent the night preparing the returning convoy: the wounded, the fresh messengers, and the shinobi Hiruzen had brought from the village.
"We'll head back today-" Hiruzen said quietly, arms folded behind his back.
"Konoha needs to hear this directly. And they need to see us—intact."
Minato nodded, his jaw clenched slightly, though he kept his voice calm.
"It'll be good for morale."
A pause lingered between them, then Hiruzen added,
"And more importantly, they need to hear about him."
Minato's eyes drifted toward the central camp. Radahn's silhouette was barely visible beyond the fluttering banners and tents.
"This war may be over-" Hiruzen said, voice low,
"but-"
He stopped and looked at Minato.
Minato didn't speak at first. The memory of Radahn standing alone, facing two Kage and a tailed beast… the complete annihilation of an army within minutes—it echoed in his mind like a bell that wouldn't stop ringing.
"Stories will be told-" Hiruzen murmured.
"Of strength… power…. Some won't believe it. Some will fear it."
Hiruzen looked at him sidelong. "You still trust him?"
"…Yes," Minato answered after a pause.
"Because when he could've done far worse, he didn't."
They began walking back toward the center of the camp.
"Even if the world calls him a monster… He chose to be our ally."
Meanwhile, Radahn remained unmoved.
He sat outside the command tent, still as stone, arms resting on his thighs, his head tilted just slightly toward the horizon. The morning sun made the edges of his golden armor blaze like a second dawn.
Shinobi moved around him with measured distance—not out of discipline, but reverence… and fear.
Then, for a brief moment, he closed his eyes.
Something stirred.
Radahn felt it—not through chakra or sensation, but like gravity pulling at his very spirit.
An old, ancient voice… or perhaps a presence… was calling to him.
He did not resist.
Darkness enveloped his vision for a moment. Silence. A void with no time, no breath, no beginning.
When he opened his eyes again…
He was somewhere else.
A blank, eternal space.
Floating there, not far from him—seated in the air as though on an invisible throne—was an old man. Beard long, robes silent, eyes closed in meditation.
And then…
The old man opened his eyes.
Golden met Purple.
Time seemed to freeze.
The void was still—so still it felt as though even time itself had paused, holding its breath.
Radahn floated in that boundless nothingness, golden armor gleaming softly under the light that had no source. His crimson-gold mane drifted gently as if caught in the currents of a formless sea. And before him… sat the man.
A figure both simple and immense.
Old, yet untouched by age. Clad in robes of pale silver, skin etched with time, and Rinnegan in both eyes—its swirl of divinity calmly observing everything—and the other eye…on his forehead , the Rinne-Sharingan, old and worn, yet pulsing with ancestral power.
He sat in stillness, legs folded, arms resting gently upon his knees, his expression as tranquil as it was profound.
Then—he opened his mouth, voice neither loud nor soft, but commanding by nature alone.
"Thank you for accepting my invitation."
Radahn remained still. His great arms rested by his sides, and though he said nothing yet, his eyes burned steadily—piercing, regal, without malice.
The old man gave a faint smile—not out of joy, but respect.
"I am Hagoromo Ōtsutsuki, once called the Sage of Six Paths."
He said it not with pride, but humility—like one introducing himself to an equal.
Radahn's brows didn't lift. His breathing didn't change. But there was a subtle shift—a stillness of listening.
Hagoromo smiled faintly, then looked upward—though there was no sky.
"When you arrived… this world felt it. Not in chakra, not in nature… but in existence. Like a star crashing silently through time. An echo that doesn't fade."
His gaze slowly returned to Radahn, eyes unreadable, but his tone never wavered.
"I do not come to bind you. Nor to challenge you. I only ask—because this world has seen gods that first brought salvation… and then brought ruin."
He floated a little closer—still calm, still humble.
"And so I must ask, not out of fear… but as a caretaker of what remains—"
"Are you here as a friend… or an adversary?"
For the first time, a breeze moved. Not wind, not chakra—but will. The air shimmered faintly around Radahn, as if his thoughts alone disturbed the space between them.
Hagoromo did not flinch.
Not before Kaguya. And not now.
Because the man before him… wasn't just strong. He was a force born from another cosmos. A god not molded by chakra—but something older. Something the Sage, in all his eons, had only ever feared encountering once:
A god who owed this world nothing.
Radahn slowly shifted. He did not raise his head in pride, nor lower it in submission. He simply existed—like a mountain older than maps, or a star that had outlived the gods who named it.
Then… he spoke.
His voice did not boom. It did not echo. Yet it reverberated, as though the very fabric of the space responded to his words.
"Fear not…"
The air trembled—not from threat, but from reassurance that came from a power that did not need to threaten.
"I bring not ruin to this realm."
Hagoromo's ancient eyes remained fixed upon him—focused, yet calm. But within, a ripple of something passed through him. Relief? Curiosity? Perhaps both.
Radahn's voice continued, steeped in a regal, older cadence—like echoes of forgotten empires etched in celestial stone.
"I am but a wanderin' soul, bound not to crown nor creed. I stride 'cross stars and shadow alike—""—a bearer of stillness, where chaos dareth reign."
He raised one gauntleted hand, palm open—not in defiance, but offering. In that moment, Hagoromo saw not a conqueror, but a force of equilibrium—
"Wherever fate shall guide mine tread… I offer not dominion, but peace. Not tyranny, but balance."
"To do what I couldn't do in mine-"
His golden eyes, glowing with the quiet fire of something far beyond chakra, met Hagoromo's again.
"If your world seek harmony… then know this—""I am not your adversary…."
Hagoromo remained silent for a moment more.
He lowered his head, not as a bow, but as a gesture of mutual respect between ancient powers.
And softly, the Sage of Six Paths smiled.
Then, Radahn lowered his outstretched hand, the gesture of peace now sealed by solemnity. His gaze did not waver as he stood tall in the blank void between realms.
The great celestial warrior—wrapped not in chakra, but in cosmic will—shifted his stance slightly.
And then, he spoke again.
"I am Radahn."
The name alone made the air still.
"Conqueror of the Stars."
Hagoromo's eyes slightly widened, his ancient soul quivering—not in fear, but in understanding. That title… it was not self-made. It was earned.
Radahn's voice deepened—each word like thunder whispered through history's bones.
He spread his arms, and in the void behind him, faint silhouettes of distant, broken constellations seemed to shimmer—silent testimony to wars no man remembered.
"I hath walked through realms of ruin and wonder. I hath faced beasts wrought from galaxies, and shattered time's own anchor to protect that which must be."
"And now… I walk your world not to conquer—but to watch. To weigh. To act, should balance shatter."
He let the words settle like cosmic dust across the empty space.
And then—
"Remember this name, Sage of this world. Not for fear. Not for worship. But for remembrance—"
"Starscourge Radahn"
Hagoromo lowered his gaze, hand to his chest—a salute not of submission, but respect.
"Then may this world remember it with gratitude… and hope."