"Click!"
The heavy oak door closed behind Renjiro as he entered, sealing him in the sanctum of Konoha's power. His chakra field, already active, instantly mapped the room with exquisite detail. He felt a lot of things. Most of all, he felt the presence of the man seated there—a chakra signature that was both a comforting hearthfire and a banked volcano, weathered and dense with the weight of decades of leadership.
The soft scratch-scratch of a writing brush ceased. Renjiro sensed the minute shift in the Hokage's posture, the setting aside of the tool, the focus turning to him like a spotlight.
"Renjiro," Hiruzen's voice was warm, "It has been a while since we last saw each other. Too long. It is good to see you again."
A soft, dry chuckle escaped Renjiro's lips.
Hiruzen's chakra flickered with a pulse of confusion. "Is something amusing??"
Renjiro didn't answer with words, not at first. Slowly, deliberately, he raised a hand and gestured, a single, elegant motion that drew a line from his own face, tracing the path of his clouded, silver eyes, which were fixed on a point just to the left of the Hokage's shoulder.
The reaction in Hiruzen's chakra was instantaneous. The warm, welcoming energy froze, solidified, then contracted with a sharp, inward shock. There was a beat of profound, awkward silence.
Renjiro could almost feel the old man's gaze sharpening with dawning horror and realisation as it truly saw the milky, unfocused orbs that offered no reflection.
"Oh…"
The word was a soft, defeated exhalation. The carefully maintained tension Renjiro had sensed in the room upon entering seemed to deflate, replaced by a heavier, more sorrowful atmosphere.
"My… my apologies, Renjiro," Hiruzen said, his voice several degrees quieter. He found it rude to use the word see in front of a blind person.
"None are necessary, Lord Hokage," Renjiro replied, "The war took much from everyone."
He heard the faint shff of fabric as Hiruzen reached for something on his desk, followed by the distinctive clink of metal on porcelain. A moment later, the familiar, rich scent of finely cut tobacco reached him.
It was a delayed sensation; before his blindness, he would have seen the pipe, the first puff of smoke, and then smelled it.
Now, the aroma arrived alone, a disembodied ghost of a habit he knew well.
"Your time in the First Division… I trust it served you well?"
It was a probing yet open-ended question. Renjiro inclined his head. "I did what I could, Lord Third."
The Hokage would not let the humility stand. "Do not downplay your role, Renjiro," he said, "The strategic disruptions you orchestrated along the numerous borders… you saved this village a great deal of trouble and countless lives. If not for…" He paused, and Renjiro felt the brief, uncomfortable shift in the air where the words 'your injury' hung, unspoken.
"…If not for the circumstances, many believe the war might have concluded far sooner."
Renjiro offered a slight, dismissive wave of his hand. "The past is a country I prefer not to revisit."
"Perhaps," Hiruzen began, "But the past has a way of informing the present. The conflict escalated to a point… a dire point… where we were forced to consider measures we had hoped to avoid."
He took another long pull on his pipe.
"We had to involve the tailed beasts."
Renjiro's head jerked up a fraction, his blind eyes widening imperceptibly. This was new information.
"You did?" The question was out before he could filter it.
Hiruzen leaned back in his chair, "We did. Against Kumogakure. We located the vessels for the Eight and Tw-Tails and… forcibly triggered a controlled rampage. The devastation compelled the Raikage to withdraw his forces from a critical front to contain the catastrophe within his own forces."
Renjiro's mind raced, 'Damn… making a tailed beast rampage to force a Kage's hand. Obito wasn't original at all.'
Hiruzen leaned forward again, the pipe being set aside with a soft tap. The Hokage's hands clasped together on the desk, his chakra signature focusing into a laser point of intent.
"Which brings me to the reason for this summons," Hiruzen said, his tone becoming brisk, official.
"I will be direct. An audit of wartime contributions has concluded that you, Renjiro, had the highest strategic impact of any shinobi in your entire age group. Perhaps of any single operative outside of the Sannin or Minato. Such service cannot go unrewarded. And so, I wish to present you with your reward personally."
A slow, genuine smile curved onto Renjiro's lips. This was it. This was the moment. His mind flashed to something Minato had told him a few years ago. The future hokage was rewarded for his contribution to the village with access to the Second Hokage's notes on the Flying Thunder God technique.
A forbidden jutsu.
Hearing the words contributions and reward only made Renjiro feel warm as he was sure his contributions were at least similar to Minato's, pre-war, of course.
'Wait…' a treacherous thought whispered. 'They wouldn't count me starting the war as a negative contribution, would they?'
He shoved the paranoia aside. This was recognition. This was power.
"I am honoured, Lord Hokage," Renjiro said, his voice smooth.
He heard the sound of a drawer opening, the slight grunt of effort from Hiruzen, and then a solid thump as an object was placed on the desk between them.
Silence.
Renjiro's smile faltered. His chakra field swept over the object. It was a jar, about the size of a cantaloupe, made of thick, opaque glass or ceramic. He could discern no further details.
After a long, awkward moment, Renjiro cleared his throat.
"Lord Hokage… you are aware I cannot see what you have placed before me."
Hiruzen's response was dry, almost teasing. "You are a very capable sensory-nin, Renjiro. I have every confidence you can discern its nature."
Suppressing a sigh, Renjiro did as instructed.
He narrowed the focus of his already-active chakra field, concentrating it on the jar until his perception passed through the ceramic. And then his heart, for the first time in years, genuinely skipped a beat.
Inside was a substance, a clump of… matter.
But it was unlike any organic matter he had ever sensed. It thrummed with a chakra that was terrifyingly familiar. It was a vitality so profound it felt like standing in the heart of an ancient forest, a life force so potent and pure it was dizzying.
It was a signature he had encountered only once before, etched into the very DNA of the world, and more recently, in the twisted, parasitic clone of White Zetsu he had fought.
It was the cells of Hashirama Senju.
His voice was barely a whisper, filled with a reverence that was entirely unfeigned.
"What… what is this substance?"
Hiruzen's voice was low and solemn. "Those are the preserved cells of the First Hokage, Hashirama Senju. His unique vitality is encoded within them." He paused, letting the immensity of that statement settle in the room.
"I am giving them to you. I want you to use them. Use them to restore your vision."
Every nerve in Renjiro's body went cold. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a mask of stark alarm. He actually took a half-step back, recoiling from the jar as if it were a live serpent.
"Lord Third… that is… the risks…" He shook his head, the motion sharp, frantic.
"The gift is too great. I couldn't possibly. A forbidden jutsu from the archives would be a more than sufficient reward."
"The reward is not negotiable, Renjiro," Hiruzen's voice cut through his protest, iron finality in its tone. There was no room for argument, no space for debate. It was not a suggestion; it was a command wrapped in the guise of a gift.
"This is what you need. This is what Konoha needs from you. Your sight. Restored."
Renjiro stood frozen, his mind a whirlwind of terror, ambition, and shocking, dizzying possibility. Or at least he wanted it to appear so. There was no way he was not going to accept this reward. Besides the tailed beast, these were the next powerful things in the whole shinobi world.
Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out. His fingers brushed the cool, smooth surface of the ceramic jar.
He felt the vibrant, terrifying life within it resonate against his chakra, a siren's call from the age of gods. He curled his fingers around it, lifting it from the desk. The weight of it was far more than physical.
"I… accept, Lord Hokage," he said, his voice hollow.
Inwardly, he thought.
'Maybe… maybe I might get the Rinnegan after all…'
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