The next morning was quiet.
The Senju compound, though still heavy with mourning, felt… different. The air was cooler, fresher, as though the night's breeze had carried away some unseen weight.
Children played quietly in the courtyard. Their laughter was subdued but genuine, small rays of warmth after the grief of the funeral. Clan elders gathered near the main hall, speaking in hushed tones about matters of succession and diplomacy.
And in the gardens, something had changed.
---
It was subtle—so subtle that most would dismiss it.
The soil was a little darker, richer. The flowers Hashirama had planted long ago seemed to stand taller, their colors more vivid despite the season. Even the ancient trees, scarred by years of wind and rain, appeared slightly fuller, their leaves swaying with a gentler rhythm.
More importantly, the chakra flow beneath the land had shifted.
Shinobi with sensitive chakra senses—usually the medics and sensory types—paused as they passed through the gardens.
"Strange," murmured one kunoichi, frowning as she placed her hand on the bark of a tree. "The flow here feels… calmer. More even."
Another young Senju genin nodded slowly. "Yeah. It's like the land's… breathing. You feel it?"
They shrugged it off, blaming the lingering emotional resonance of the funeral. But the feeling stayed, quietly unsettling yet oddly comforting.
---
At the edge of the compound, Soromon watched.
He didn't need to meditate or weave seals. The "seed" he had planted the night before was already spreading. Not wildly, not uncontrollably—just enough to nudge the natural chakra network of the land into a more harmonious pattern.
Konoha's soil had long been saturated with the residue of battles, drenched in the chakra of countless warriors. That chakra was chaotic, scarred. It made the land restless, unstable.
But now…
Now it was beginning to remember balance.
---
Later that day, Tobirama walked the gardens.
He didn't believe in omens. He didn't trust feelings. But even he noticed something was off.
He crouched by a patch of earth, brushing his fingers lightly over the soil. It was richer, more alive than it had any right to be after a single night. The nearby trees felt stronger, their chakra circulating more smoothly.
He frowned, straightening. "What did you do?"
Soromon was already there, leaning quietly against a tree. "I planted the seed you asked for."
"This isn't natural," Tobirama said sharply.
"Neither is war," Soromon replied calmly. "Your brother left scars on this land—scars from battles fought in the name of peace. I'm simply teaching it how to heal."
"And what does that accomplish?"
"Balance. Growth. This is only the beginning. Over time, the soil will stabilize. The chakra flow will strengthen. Those who live here will feel it. Their bodies will heal faster. Their training will bear fruit more easily. Small things… that add up over decades."
Tobirama narrowed his eyes. "So you're reshaping the land itself?"
Soromon smiled faintly. "I'm only reminding it how to grow. Nothing more."
---
That evening, whispers spread among the Senju.
One boy, recovering from a training injury, noticed his pain fading faster than usual. A kunoichi felt her stamina improving during simple exercises. Small, barely noticeable improvements.
The elders didn't believe it at first. But then they walked the gardens, touched the trees, felt the soil.
Something had shifted.
---
But beyond the compound walls, not everyone was blind.
On the outskirts of Konoha, Uchiha Naori, a sharp-eyed kunoichi with an advanced Sharingan, paused mid-patrol. Her eyes scanned the faint chakra currents in the distance.
"…What is that?" she whispered.
The Senju compound glowed faintly in her vision, not like normal chakra but with a strange harmonic pulse, layered and deep. It wasn't aggressive. It wasn't even directed. It just was—like a stone dropped into a still pond, sending ripples outward.
She narrowed her eyes. "The Senju are hiding something."
---
That night, as the village slept, Soromon remained in the garden.
He looked up at the sky. Konoha was quiet now, but the ripples would spread.
A single seed was nothing. But over time, it would grow into roots.
He closed his eyes, speaking softly to no one.
"Change doesn't need to be loud. It only needs to begin."
The garden seemed to breathe with him.