The breath of death washed over you.
You tried to turn, tried to form seals, but the Cold Poison made your arms heavy as lead.
You could feel that presence pressing in to the distance where it could touch a strand of your hair.
Something cold and sticky was reaching for the back of your heart…
“Am I going to die?” The thought had barely crossed your mind when a strange heat surged up from your abdomen.
Golden light seeped out from beneath your skin and gathered behind you into a translucent shield of metal light.
A harsh “clang” rang out—like claws scraping across a steel plate.
“Gold Release?!” A shrill voice cried out in shock.
“Impossible!”
Seizing the chance, you turned despite the searing pain, and caught only a glimpse of a jet-black creature rapidly burrowing into the ground.
It had a humanoid outline, yet flowed like liquid.
Pale white eyes met yours in the last moment, filled with shock and greed.
“Don’t think you can escape!” Instinctively you pressed your palms together, and that strange energy within you surged again.
A metallic gleam burst from your palms, condensing into dozens of golden needles that shot toward the ground—but they only pierced the loose soil.
The creature had vanished without a trace.
You knelt, gasping for breath.
The Cold Poison’s attack gradually subsided, but the vision of the red moon still flickered occasionally.
Examining the spot where the dark figure had vanished, you found the soil an unnatural grey-white, as if corroded by some acidic substance.
“What was that…” You muttered, touching the spoiled soil with a finger and jerking it back at once.
Even through your glove, a bone-piercing chill met your skin—exactly like the Cold Poison in your body.
A dull thud came from the distance.
You looked up alertly and found the three attackers had fallen at some unknown moment.
Approaching cautiously, you found black blood seeping from the corners of all three mouths—they had clearly bitten through the poison sacs hidden in their mouths.
You lifted the mask of one and found an unfamiliar middle-aged face.
You removed the victim’s forehead protector.
Where the mark of the Land of Rain should have been, the surface had been crudely scratched away.
But your Sharingan’s keen sight caught faint traces: what had been engraved there might not have been the ripples of Amegakure at all, but some symbol you’d never seen—a circle enclosing nine small dots.
“A third party disguised as rain shinobi…” You pondered, then suddenly felt dizzy.
The Gold Release you’d just used had consumed a great deal of your Chakra, and the side effects were beginning to show.
You swept the scene one last time, took a few key pieces of evidence, and turned back toward the negotiation site.
Underground somewhere in the forest, Black Zetsu fled at top speed, a rare look of anxiety on its pale white face.
“Gold Release…
she’s definitely Hannya’s reincarnation!” Black Zetsu muttered through gritted teeth.
“To awaken at this very moment, upsetting my plans…
I must reassess the danger posed by Uchiha Nagi…”
Uchiha Madara pressed his back against the cold stone wall, eyes closed in concentration.
The secret chamber’s characteristic dampness mingled with the acrid smell of resin torches, but couldn’t conceal the faint scent of blood in the air.
His fingers unconsciously traced the notches on his kunai as scenes from the day replayed in Madara’s mind—Senju Hashirama’s face, always wearing that foolish smile, freezing the instant he heard the news.
“Itama is your little brother, isn’t he?” The kunai clashed, sparks flying.
Catching his reflection in the metal, Madara saw an unwarranted waver flash through his own Sharingan.
Hashirama’s pupils contracted sharply, his assault faltering for half a second.
“Reikei delivered him to the Naka River.” Madara kept his voice low, making sure only Hashirama could hear.
The words were like a dull knife, sliding slowly and precisely between the two of them.
Hashirama’s lips trembled.
“Madara!
I…”
“Next time, we’ll be enemies.” Madara sidestepped a horizontal slash and withdrew into the tree shadows.
The darkness hid his expression just so—hid that flicker of anticipation in his eyes that he himself refused to acknowledge.
In the end, Hashirama chose family.
Watching the broad back race toward the river, Madara thought those shoulders seemed more hunched than usual.
He clenched his fists, nails digging deep into his palms.
It should have been a perfect plan.
But when he truly saw the pain in his dear friend’s eyes, some long-dormant emotion surged in his chest.
“Onii-chan!”
Madara opened his eyes, his Mangekyou Sharingan gleaming faintly.
“I made that judgment in my capacity as young clan head.”
“But the elders won’t accept that explanation.” Izuna stopped before Madara, the three tomoe in his eyes revolving slowly as he looked up.
“They’ve begun to question your decisiveness, saying that toward the Senju—especially Senju Hashirama—you…”
“Show softness of heart?” Madara let out a cold laugh, reaching out to ruffle his little brother’s black hair.
It was a habitual gesture from childhood, and Izuna instinctively shrank his neck, a crack appearing in his grave expression.
“Those old men hide in the rear.
What right do they have to judge decisions made on the battlefield?”
Izuna grabbed Madara’s wrist—slender fingers that nonetheless carried a disproportionate strength.
“But this really is our chance to take down the Senju!”
“And then what?” Madara cut him off.
Let the memorial tablet at the Naka Shrine gain new names?”
The words weren’t even finished before Madara himself was startled—these were clearly things Hashirama often said.
Izuna keenly caught his brother’s wavering, hurt flashing through his eyes.
“I’ll punish myself.
Tell Father and the elders I’m voluntarily confining myself for three days.”
Izuna opened his mouth, but in the end only bowed deeply.
“…Understood.”
The stone walls were covered with the Fire Release hand-seal diagrams passed down through generations of the Uchiha, flickering in and out of the torchlight.
“I heard you let the Senju prisoner go.
A soft-hearted young clan head?”
That slightly husky female voice came from behind, and Madara’s pupils contracted sharply.
You leaned against the door frame with your arms crossed, watching Madara with an ambiguous half-smile.
“Why are you here?” Madara’s voice was drier than he’d expected.
You didn’t answer immediately, walking unhurriedly inside and stopping before him.
“Tell me the truth: was it for strategy, or…”
“This is the last time.” Madara turned his face away, evading your penetrating gaze.
Candlelight danced across his sharply defined profile, casting layered shadows.
You suddenly reached out and pressed your hand against Madara’s chest.
Through the fabric you could feel his strong heartbeat.
“You carry too much in here.
One day it will kill you.”
Your voice rarely softened.
“The Uchiha’s future doesn’t need a sentimental clan head.”
Madara caught your wrist to pull it away—but didn’t use any force.
“Then what do you think the Uchiha need?”
“Power.” You answered without hesitation.
“Pure power, enough to crush everything, just like…” A flash of gold suddenly passed through your left eye, so fast it might have been an illusion.
Madara keenly caught the change.
“Your eyes…”
“I should go on patrol.” You stepped back, the strangeness in your eyes already gone.
“Three days before the full moon, the elders plan to launch a raid on the Senju compound that day.” You turned toward the door, then paused.
“Oh, and that Senju brat named Itama…
he’s in the hunter’s cabin downstream of the Naka River.”
Madara jerked his head up.
“How do you know?”
Waving a hand without turning around, you said, “Because I was the one who took him away from Reikei.
The child was burning with fever—half a day later and he wouldn’t have made it.”
You turned half your face at the door, a meaningful smile curling at the corner of your mouth.
“Tell me, wouldn’t you call that soft-hearted too?”
The torch suddenly spat out a shower of sparks, casting their shadows in violent dance across the walls.
By the time the light steadied, the doorway was empty.
Only Uchiha Nagi’s last words still lingered in the air.
Madara stood alone in the middle of the dark chamber, his right hand unconsciously rising to his chest.
It was heavy there—heavy with his promise to a dear friend, heavy with his expectations for his brother, heavy with the burden of his entire clan, and…
with a ridiculous dream of peace he himself refused to acknowledge.
The flames on the wall stretched his shadow long and distorted, like a hawk about to spread its wings.
The night dew was heavy.
The great gate of the Senju compound slowly opened before Hashirama and Itama.
The night-watch clansmen held up torches, orange light flickering over the two weary faces.
Itama instinctively shrank behind his elder brother.
When he’d left home it had been early spring; now, returning, it was deep autumn.
His thin clothes were already ragged, and Hashirama’s outer robe wrapped around his shoulders hung far too large.
“Young clan head!
You’ve finally returned.” Senju Toka leaped down from the watchtower, her gaze sweeping over the small figure behind Hashirama with some surprise.
“Young master Itama?”
Hashirama tightened his grip on his brother’s icy hand.
“Toka, where is Father?”
“The clan head and all the elders are in the meeting hall.” Toka lowered her voice.
“They’ve been waiting since evening.
No one dares to rest.”
She hesitated, then added, “Word came from the Uchiha side—Madara released a group of our prisoners.
The clan is discussing how to respond.”
The corner of Hashirama’s mouth lifted almost imperceptibly, then pressed back into a straight line.
He looked down at Itama—the boy’s dirty face was full of apprehension, his lips cracked from prolonged thirst.
Along the way, Itama had barely spoken.
He’d asked only one question, over and over: “Will Father be angry?”
“Follow me.” Hashirama tightened his hold on his brother’s hand and strode toward the largest Japanese-style building at the center of the compound.
“Is that…
young master Itama?”
“Didn’t they say he died at Uchiha hands?”
“Where did the young clan head…”
The murmuring died at Hashirama’s sharp look.
From behind the paper door of the meeting hall, bright light leaked out, along with the heated debate of the elders.
Hashirama took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy door.
More than twenty gazes flew at him like arrows.
At the head of the long table sat Senju Butsuma, the clan head known for his severity, his hands folded before his chin.
His sharp eyes flickered with emotion the instant they landed on Itama.
Seated on the right, Tobirama shot to his feet, his chair scraping harshly across the floor.
“Itama!” The usually composed white-haired youth’s voice trembled.
The scroll in his hands fell to the ground without his noticing.
“Second brother…” Itama took half a step forward, then stopped timidly.
The elders’ scrutinizing stares made him tremble involuntarily.
Surprise, suspicion, and calculation flickered across their deeply lined faces.
Butsuma raised a hand, gesturing for Tobirama to sit.
His voice was perfectly calm, without a single ripple.
“Explain this.”
Hashirama gave Itama a gentle push forward.
“Madara had someone bring Itama to the Naka River.
Father, the Uchiha are not the cruel, heartless people we imagine.
They could easily have—”
“Absurd!” The elder in the third seat on the left slammed the table, his grey beard trembling with rage.
“Does the young clan head truly believe Uchiha Madara is soft-hearted?
There must be a scheme behind this!”
“That’s not it!” Hashirama stepped forward, his broad shoulders shielding his brother from the stares.
“There are no seals or curses on Itama’s body.
They simply—”
“Simply what?” another elder sneered.
“Simply that they suddenly grew merciful?
The Senju and Uchiha have fought for a thousand years—every meeting is a fight to the death!
Has the young clan head fallen under a Sharingan illusion?”
The temperature in the hall plummeted.
Hashirama felt Itama’s small hand clench desperately at the hem of his clothes, felt his brother’s rapid breathing through the fabric.
Butsuma kept his posture, only a slight tightening of his jawline betraying his emotion.
“As the Senju’s young clan head,” the senior elder at Butsuma’s right slowly began, his voice like a dull knife cutting flesh, “you could clearly have detained Uchiha Madara until our reinforcements arrived.
Why would you abandon such an opportunity for the sake of one prisoner?”
Hashirama’s chest heaved.
He remembered the look in Madara’s eyes as he stood in the tree shadows saying, “Next time, we’ll be enemies.” He remembered the stone towers the two of them had stacked by the Naka River as children.
He remembered the pain of being forced to cross blades on countless battlefields.
How could he explain any of this?
Who would understand?
“Enough.” Butsuma finally spoke, his low voice silencing all discussion.
“Senju Hashirama, for releasing the enemy, you are confined to the dungeon for one month.
Itama will be examined by the medical unit and, once confirmed unharmed, placed under Tobirama’s care.”
The hall erupted in uproar.
Hashirama felt Itama’s hand suddenly tighten; the boy turned and hugged his waist, burying his dirty face in Hashirama’s chest.
Hashirama gently stroked his brother’s straw-like hair and raised his head to meet his father’s eyes.
“I’ll go to the dungeon willingly.
But I don’t think I did anything wrong.”
His voice was soft, yet it silenced the entire hall.
“War is full of decay.
And so are your hearts.”
Butsuma’s pupils contracted sharply.
Hashirama released Itama, placing the boy’s hand into the grip of Tobirama, who had come to stand beside them at some point.
The white-haired youth clutched his little brother’s wrist tightly, his other hand resting on the kunai at his waist, watching the elders warily.
“Father, I’ll be taking my brother out now.” Tobirama didn’t wait for a response, pulling Itama outside.
His movements looked rough but carefully avoided the injury on Itama’s arm.
After the door slid shut, the meeting hall fell into dead silence.
Butsuma kept his posture, the candle flame casting deep shadows across his angular face.
Hashirama turned and walked out, his wooden clogs making dull sounds on the tatami.
“Hashirama.” Butsuma called out suddenly.
Hashirama stopped at the door, not turning back.
“Remember your station.” Butsuma’s voice was uncharacteristically weary.
“The future of the Senju clan…”