More than fifty-four years had passed since the founding of Konoha.
The Uchiha, Hyūga, Sarutobi, and the Ino-Shika-Chō clans—along with many other shinobi clans possessing secret techniques—were still active within the village, preserving their bloodlines, traditions, and pride.
Only the Senju had seemingly vanished.
As far as most people knew, Tsunade was the only one left, wandering somewhere beyond the village.
But the Senju clan had never been destroyed.
Under the will of the First Hokage, Senju Hashirama, they had chosen to dissolve themselves.
Senju Momoka still remembered that moonless night.
The air had been so heavy it felt as though blood could be wrung from it.
Candlelight cast enormous, wavering shadows behind the two men seated before them, transforming the tatami room into something almost ghostly.
Lord Hashirama sat in the place of honor.
The warmth and generosity that usually surrounded him had disappeared completely, replaced by a suffocating silence.
The smell of smoke, dust, and battle still seemed to cling to him.
Beneath it lay something far heavier—a bone-deep exhaustion and sorrow that seemed to seep from his very soul.
Momoka knew where it came from.
Not long before, Hashirama had personally brought an end to the man who had been entangled with him for half his life—his rival, his friend, the man he had once called his ‘destined counterpart’: Uchiha Madara.
That battle had not merely ended Madara’s life.
It seemed to have taken a part of Hashirama’s vitality with it.
Lord Tobirama stood beside him.
His silver-white hair gleamed like cold steel beneath the dim yellow light, while his red eyes swept sharply across every senior member of the Senju clan present, Momoka included.
A night breeze slipped through the cracks in the doors.
The candle flames trembled, throwing restless shadows across the room like reflections of the unease in everyone’s hearts.
“After my brother, I will succeed him as Hokage.” Senju Tobirama’s voice broke the oppressive silence, as calm and controlled as ever.
“Madara is dead.
There is no other choice.
But the danger has not disappeared.” His gaze passed over the gathered clansmen and briefly settled on Hashirama, carrying a trace of concern so faint that most would have missed it.
Then he turned back to the others, his tone becoming sterner.
“If Konoha is ruled by one Senju Hokage after another while the Senju remain a massive, powerful clan, then in the eyes of the other shinobi clans, how is this village fundamentally different from the Senju clan of the Warring States Period?” “They will simply believe that Konoha is the Senju’s village.” Tobirama’s eyes hardened.
“That suspicion will wrap itself around Konoha’s foundations like poisonous vines.
Other clans will never truly devote themselves to building a common future if they believe they are merely living beneath Senju rule.” A candle suddenly sputtered, briefly illuminating one side of Hashirama’s face before plunging it back into shadow.
He slowly raised his head.
Those eyes, once overflowing with life like a vast forest, now resembled woodland after a devastating wildfire—nothing left but ashes and bottomless exhaustion.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and hoarse.
Every word seemed to carry the pain of a wound that had never closed.
“Tobirama is…
right.” His unfocused gaze seemed to pass through the wall, returning to the final look in Madara’s eyes as he fell.
“I killed Madara…
for the village.” His voice trembled almost imperceptibly.
“When ideals collide, no matter how deep the friendship or how overwhelming the strength…
the end is still destruction.” The agony of having killed his closest friend saturated every word.
Yet that same agony had forged something inside Hashirama—a resolve harder and colder than anything Momoka had ever seen from him.
“We created this village,” Hashirama continued, his eyes finally coming into focus as he looked at everyone in the room, “to end the endless slaughter between shinobi clans.
We built it so children would no longer have to grow up the way we did, struggling through mountains of corpses and seas of blood.” “This village must become something greater than any clan or surname.
It must be a place capable of carrying everyone’s dreams—a village that truly belongs to all of us.” He drew a slow breath.
“This is…
the best path I can find.” His voice became firm.
“To preserve the purity of that ideal…
to prevent Konoha from being seen as private property of the Senju…
to remove the source of suspicion and allow every shinobi clan to see this place as their home rather than somewhere they merely reside…” Hashirama’s gaze settled on Momoka.
“For the sake of the village, friends, brothers…
even my own flesh and blood—if they threaten the village’s future…” He paused.
“They can be sacrificed.” A torrent of emotions swept through Momoka—shock, sorrow, and a chill that seemed to sink straight into her bones.
As Hashirama spoke, something almost tangible spread outward from him like an invisible tide.
It wasn’t an attack.
It was simply the silent declaration of absolute power backed by absolute conviction.
Momoka understood with terrifying clarity that before this man, every person in the room—even all of them together—was no more capable of resisting than ants attempting to move a mountain.
The thought of opposition died before it could even take shape, crushed beneath Hashirama’s overwhelming presence and the iron resolve he had forged at the cost of killing his dearest friend.
Lord Hashirama was serious.
He had decided that the hidden-village system was the future.
And for that future, he was prepared to pay any price—even the glory carried by the Senju name itself.
“Therefore, we have decided to dissolve the clan,” Tobirama continued at precisely the right moment.
“Those of this generation may retain the Senju name.
But the next generation…” His expression did not change.
“That includes my brother’s children and my own descendants.
None of them will bear the Senju name.” He withdrew a thick scroll from his sleeve and slowly unfurled it.
“Any clansman who chooses to formally leave the clan and adopt another surname will receive compensation from the clan’s collective assets.” Tobirama began listing the terms with characteristic precision.
“Money.
Scrolls containing secret ninjutsu.
Land.
Ninja tools.
Everything will be distributed according to the provisions written here.” “The resources each person receives will be far beyond what most could have obtained while remaining dependent upon the clan, and they will have far greater freedom to determine their own future.” The candlelight flickered across the complicated expressions of everyone present.
Once the initial shock and anger began to fade, calculation quietly took their place.
Losing the Senju name?
Of course it hurt.
But Hashirama’s words had been frighteningly clear.
And the compensation Tobirama offered was staggering.
Secret techniques and wealth that many clansmen would once have needed to risk their lives for could now be obtained simply by accepting the dissolution.
Hashirama and Tobirama would become Hokage one after the other.
The Senju’s influence would not simply disappear overnight, and no one would dare casually mistreat those who changed their surnames.
Without a unified leadership willing to oppose the decision, and without any respected figure prepared to stand at the front and challenge the brothers, resistance quickly began to melt away.
The benefits were simply too great: wealth sufficient to preserve or even improve their lives, the protection of the current and future Hokage, and above all, Senju Hashirama’s unwavering faith in the village—an ideal he had already proven with blood and fire that he was willing to kill for.
Before all of that, resistance dissolved like snow beneath the summer sun.
Some of the younger clansmen even began to show something unexpected in their eyes: anticipation.
For them, leaving behind the restrictions of an ancient clan and beginning a new life did not seem entirely frightening.
Momoka looked at the two brothers.
Outside the window, the cry of a night owl sounded almost like a funeral song for the Senju clan.
They had chosen the hidden village—the dream meant to carry the future—over the shinobi clan, the glory inherited from the past.
To erase suspicions of a ‘Senju Konoha,’ to give the other clans a genuine sense of belonging, and to allow the dream called the village to truly take root…
They had personally torn down the banner woven from generations of Senju blood and glory.
In the end, Momoka lowered her head deeply.
Resistance was meaningless.
And perhaps it wasn’t wise, either.
In the age of hidden villages, the meaning of the shinobi clan had already begun to change.
Without the constant pressure of hostile clans surrounding them, perhaps ordinary Senju truly could gain more freedom and opportunity by abandoning the clan name.
Hashirama believed this was the better system.
He believed in it strongly enough to kill Madara.
Those who abandoned the name would not suddenly become defenseless.
Hashirama was Hokage, and Tobirama would be the next.
They would also receive techniques and wealth that once demanded years of blood and sacrifice to obtain.
From the perspective of an individual clansman, it might genuinely be an easier, more prosperous road—and the path Hashirama envisioned for becoming part of the larger family called the village.
And so the once-glorious Senju clan quietly disappeared into the streets of Konoha like a receding tide.
Some adopted new surnames and scattered throughout the village like seeds.
Others stubbornly clung to the last remnants of their pride, refusing to change their names or leave the old clan community behind.
Momoka belonged to the latter group.
So did Shuji’s grandparents and parents.
In practice, they became almost as inconspicuous as those who had changed their surnames.
Many people in Konoha had no clan name at all, making it easy for the remaining Senju to fade into the village population.
Perhaps because of that, the Senju brothers quietly allowed them to remain as they were and left the old Senju estate to these final keepers of the clan’s past—a small consolation for everything that had been surrendered.
Now, only Momoka and Shuji lived there permanently.
After the first generation passed away, most of their descendants moved into shinobi apartments provided by the village or purchased homes in Konoha’s more prosperous districts.
Only during festivals and holidays did some return to the old estate, spending a little time remembering the clan’s former glory, discussing events in the village, and exchanging information.
Shuji’s father had grown up listening to stories of the Senju and remained at the old estate even after starting a family of his own.
After both of Shuji’s parents died in battle, Momoka raised him from the age of nine.
She watched him graduate from the Ninja Academy at eleven.
At fourteen, she watched him return from the battlefield against Kumogakure grievously wounded and on the verge of death.
And in the end, it was Hashirama’s cells that dragged him back from the brink.
Shuji quietly sat beside Momoka, watching her profile as she sank into memories that seemed both distant and unbearably heavy.
He didn’t disturb her.
Only when the old woman finally emerged from those complicated thoughts and gestured for him to leave did Shuji softly excuse himself and return to his room.