The Senju and the Uchiha were already strong—top of the top among bloodline clans in this world. Now they were shaking hands in peace… terrifying.
And then there were Hashirama Senju and Madara Uchiha. At the thought of the power those two possessed, the daimyō's mind raced farther and farther ahead.
His mood turned foul—in truth, downright awful.
Yet he couldn't show it, not with Uchiha Makoto sitting before him. Makoto was an Uchiha too. With Uchiha and Senju giving up war for peace, surely he should be happy as well.
After all—he didn't look like a born killer, a youngster who loved running around a battlefield swinging kunai and shuriken.
Today you cut someone down; tomorrow someone cuts you. Who doesn't want to live a little longer?
Makoto eyed the daimyō's stiff smile, then chuckled and teased:
"Your Highness, your expression seems… off.
"Are you feeling unwell?
"Shall I fetch a medical shinobi to look you over?"
Plainly he wished the Uchiha and Senju would kill each other until the rivers ran red, until both clans withered, until they were wiped out together—yet here he was mouthing polite platitudes.
That was filthy politics.
"N-no… that won't be necessary.
"I just… didn't sleep well last night."
Caught off guard by Makoto's sudden concern, the daimyō could only fob him off.
"Oh? Then do take care of yourself, Your Highness.
"The Land of Fire's future rests on your shoulders."
Makoto's ideological consciousness was exemplary.
For now he would sing the song of whichever mountain he stood upon. He could pile a bit more weight onto the daimyō's shoulders today; when he'd grown sturdier, he'd help share the load. Now wasn't the time.
The daimyō's face brightened at once.
Yes. The Land of Fire did rest on his shoulders.
Uchiha Makoto's sense of duty was even higher than he'd thought.
The heavy atmosphere eased a little.
"Not only that…
"Hashirama Senju has a grand design.
"He intends to join Lord Madara to found a shinobi village, gather all the clans of the shinobi world… and, in the end, sweep the land clean—
"Then rebuild the order of the shinobi world."
Makoto hadn't forgotten business. Time to dose that honest man, Hashirama, with a little medicine.
He wasn't inventing slander out of thin air, either.
It was truly Hashirama's ideal—found a village, take in the clans… as for 'sweeping the world'—call it the plus version.
Makoto sketched Hashirama's blueprint in glowing strokes, talking on and on.
But in the daimyō's ears those words turned piercing.
Found a village; gather all clans; sweep the world. He had no doubt that Hashirama and Madara could do all three if they joined hands.
For the two of them, a Susanoo wrapped around a wooden Buddha—flattening the shinobi world wasn't a joke.
To sweep the world? Frankly, a matter of minutes. Not even a week.
Three days.
Unifying the shinobi world would be easy.
Too easy.
Why didn't Hashirama do it? Because he was kind; he wanted peace, not a throne.
The daimyō, of course, thought otherwise.
First, build an organization—found a village.
Next, recruit—draw in the clans.
Finally, sweep the realm.
Was this not the classic three steps to rebellion?
Hashirama Senju—what are you really after?
Rebuild the order of the shinobi world?
For peace?
He almost felt embarrassed to call it out.
You're eyeing my robes, that's what you're doing. Shameless.
Couldn't you at least concoct a better excuse?
You shinobi would link arms, with you as the lead elder, becoming a single community of interest.
After that, who decides in this world—the daimyō and nobility, or you shinobi?
Terrifying. Truly terrifying.
Hashirama Senju—you are too terrifying.
As a political animal, the daimyō was instinctively sensitive to such things.
Some changes don't hinge on whether you wish them or whether you can; as events unfold, the water finds its own level. Power seeks out a master more suited to itself.
The robe symbolizing the daimyō's authority would slip itself over Hashirama's shoulders—whether he wanted it or not. Worthy ministers would appear on their own to clear away obstacles like the daimyō.
"What a remarkable idea."
The daimyō's hands clenched the armrests without meaning to, and he smiled without smiling at Makoto.
Outside, the sky was dimming, a ray of sunset hanging at the horizon.
He suspected he wouldn't need a bed tonight—he wouldn't be sleeping anyway.
Makoto's smile only grew brighter. He knew he'd achieved his aim.
The more the daimyō dreaded and feared the Senju–Uchiha reconciliation, the better for him.
"Your Highness, by the look of it, you approve?"
"Mm… I have a slightly different thought."
The daimyō spoke as his head shook and shook, bobbing like a rattle-drum.
Approve Hashirama's plan to found a village, gather the clans, and sweep the world?
Only if he had taken leave of his senses.
For a thousand years their diplomatic objective had never changed: create a divided shinobi world.
Have the Uzumaki and Senju join hands against the Uchiha; the Hyūga ally with the Uchiha and fight again; and the Kaguya, the Kurama… in short, divide the shinobi world.
"Your Highness, I think so too. As for the union of Senju and Uchiha, I also have a different view."
Makoto nodded.
At that, the daimyō's eyes lit up.
He found himself eager for what Makoto would say next.
"As a pure-blooded Uchiha, I believe the Senju and Uchiha cannot possibly set aside a thousand-year feud and truly shake hands.
"It's sheer nonsense."
The daimyō nodded before he knew it.
See?
How authentic Uchiha that sounded.
This was a bona fide Uchiha—Plain Yellow Banner stock.
The Senju? Heretics with bad teeth.
They all had to be burned.