The dying rays of the setting sun bathed the courtyard of the old Senju estate in warm orange-red light, stretching long shadows beneath the eaves.
When Shuji pushed open the courtyard gate, Grandma Momoka had her back to him.
She was carefully trimming the branches of a small potted pine, and in the tranquil evening air, the faint snip of her silver shears sounded unusually clear.
“Grandma, I’m back.” Shuji’s voice broke the stillness.
Momoka didn’t stop what she was doing.
She merely gave the slightest nod in acknowledgment.
“How did the assessment go?” she asked, her voice so even that no emotion could be heard in it.
“I passed.
I’ve officially qualified as a Special Jōnin.” “Mm.” A brief silence followed.
Then Shuji spoke again, his voice lowering slightly.
“There were two ANBU examiners.
One had silver hair and was extremely skilled in Lightning Release and taijutsu.
The other…” He paused.
“Used Wood Release.” This time, Momoka’s hands stopped.
She lowered the silver shears and slowly turned to face him.
Her eyes, which had been calm only moments before, sharpened instantly and locked onto Shuji with an intensity he had rarely seen from her.
“Did you use Wood Release against him?” “No.” Shuji shook his head and met her gaze directly.
“I only used ordinary elemental ninjutsu.” Momoka fell silent.
Only the soft rustling of leaves stirred by the evening breeze remained in the courtyard.
After a long while, a faint scoff escaped her lips.
“Hiruzen, Hiruzen…” she murmured.
“So you’ve grown that old already.” Shuji’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Grandma…
you already knew about this Wood Release shinobi?” “Mm.” Momoka made no attempt to deny it.
She picked up the shears again, but instead of resuming her pruning, she absently rubbed her thumb along the cold metal handle.
“That child is known in ANBU by the codename ‘Tenzō.’ Before that, when he belonged to Danzō’s Root, his codename was ‘Kinoe.'” Her voice grew heavier.
“He’s a defective product Danzō and Orochimaru created by piling up human lives.” A trace of something complicated passed through her eyes.
“He was fortunate enough to survive, and he can make some wood grow, but compared with Lord Hashirama…” She shook her head faintly.
“The difference is as vast as heaven and earth.” Her gaze returned to Shuji.
“And compared with you…
he’s different as well.” Shuji’s pupils contracted sharply.
Orochimaru and Danzō’s Wood Release experiments.
Kinoe.
Tenzō.
Grandma Momoka knew those codenames clearly.
“You…” Shuji’s voice unconsciously dropped to a near whisper.
“You were involved?” The shears in Momoka’s hand stopped once more.
She raised her eyes.
Her gaze was like a tempered blade, piercing straight into Shuji as though she were measuring exactly how much truth he could endure.
The air beneath the veranda seemed to freeze.
Even the evening breeze appeared to skirt around them.
A long time passed before Momoka finally spoke.
“In the earliest Hashirama-cell implantation experiments, most of the volunteers were exceptionally talented and trustworthy people.” Her expression remained composed.
“People like us.” “But the casualties became far too severe.
The village couldn’t afford to keep losing people at that rate, so the experiments were officially discontinued.” She paused.
“But the village still wanted a reliable method of controlling the tailed beasts.” “If we couldn’t continue using our own people…” Her voice became colder.
“Then outsiders were used instead.” “In the end, the village tacitly allowed Danzō and Orochimaru to continue the work.
And as for us…” Tōka glanced toward the potted pine.
“Since the experiments involved Lord Hashirama’s cells, naturally we participated to some extent.” Her words struck Shuji like one cold hammer blow after another, peeling back the bright exterior of Konoha and exposing the festering wounds hidden beneath.
Yet, contrary to Momoka’s expectations, Shuji showed none of the violent emotional turmoil she had anticipated.
His brows remained slightly furrowed.
There was gravity and contemplation in his eyes, but beneath both lay an almost chilling calm.
No furious condemnation.
No grief born from shattered ideals.
Only quiet acceptance—as though he had already expected something like this and was simply absorbing the details.
Something stirred in Momoka’s heart.
This reaction wasn’t right.
He was too calm.
A fourteen-year-old boy had just been told one of the village’s darkest secrets.
Where was the shock that should have accompanied such a revelation?
She studied his composed profile.
Ever since Shuji had returned from the battlefield grievously wounded, her desire for him to simply survive—to live safely and grow older—had become stronger than ever.
Now that concern overwhelmed every other complicated thought in her mind.
“You…” There was a trace of probing in Tōka’s voice, but her tone unconsciously softened with an elder’s concern.
“After hearing what the village did…
aren’t you angry?” She hesitated before choosing an even stronger word.
“Don’t you feel…
disillusioned?” Shuji was silent for a moment.
His gaze passed beyond Momoka and settled on the stone lantern standing quietly in the corner of the courtyard.
Dark-green moss crawled across its weathered surface, stubbornly clinging to life beneath the fading light.
“The moral standards we use to judge an individual can’t be used to restrain a vast collective whose first priorities are survival and strength.” He paused, then looked back at Momoka.
His eyes were deep and steady.
“By the same reasoning, we can’t simply use personal morality to judge a leader forced to make choices in a cruel reality.” His voice remained calm.
“Survival and development are, in themselves, the most fundamental measure of success.
Whether an action is filthy or not depends on what it was ultimately done for…” A slight pause.
“And whether a cleaner choice actually existed.” Shuji’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Personal virtue cannot restrain the enormous beast that is a collective, nor can it be the only standard by which we judge a leader forced to wade through the mud.” Those words fell into Momoka’s heart like a stone dropped into a deep, still lake, sending powerful ripples through emotions that had remained undisturbed for years.
The insight contained within them—and the almost ruthless pragmatism behind it—made Momoka realize something with unprecedented clarity.
The child she had personally raised seemed to have changed completely.
That composure.
That understanding of the world’s complexity and its cruel rules.
Neither belonged to an ordinary fourteen-year-old.
For the first time, genuine surprise flashed through Momoka’s heart, mingling with emotions too complicated to name.
“The village needs enough power to keep the tailed beasts in check.
I understand that.” Shuji’s expression turned thoughtful.
“But isn’t the Uchiha clan’s Sharingan also said to be capable of controlling tailed beasts?
If the matter concerns the survival of the entire village, couldn’t they…” “The Uchiha?” Momoka looked at him as though he had just said something absurdly naive.
A humorless laugh escaped her.
“In the fifty-four years since Konoha was founded, that precious Sharingan they’re so proud of has been involved in controlling a tailed beast exactly twice!” Her voice hardened.
“The first time was Uchiha Madara, when he brought the Nine-Tails to attack the village.” “The second was only three years ago—the Nine-Tails’ attack!” The courtyard seemed to grow colder despite the lingering summer warmth.
“The Sharingan controlled the Nine-Tails again and sent it rampaging through Konoha.” Momoka’s expression darkened.
“The village lost the Fourth Hokage.
More than a dozen jōnin died.
Hundreds of chūnin and genin sacrificed themselves simply to draw the Nine-Tails’ attention away from civilians and critical areas.” Her eyes were cold.
“That so-called ability to ‘control tailed beasts,’ when it’s in the hands of the Uchiha, is a blade hanging above Konoha’s head—one that could fall at any moment.” Shuji fell silent.
He couldn’t refute those blood-soaked facts.
Uchiha Madara aside, the consequences of the Nine-Tails’ attack three years earlier were still spreading through the village even now.
After a moment, Shuji brought the conversation back to the more immediate problem.
“Do we need to respond to this test?” His tone had returned to its previous calm, as though the heavy discussion about the Uchiha had never happened.
Momoka’s sharp gaze seemed determined to pierce through that outward composure and uncover what he truly thought beneath it.
After a long silence, she released a weary sigh—one carrying both exhaustion and a trace of understanding.
“…Forget it.” She waved one hand as though brushing away invisible dust.
“This old woman will make the arrangements.”