The sun sank.
Dusk thickened.
Though electric lights had not yet spread widely, the room of the Land of Fire's daimyō was bright as day.
The lamps wavered.
In their glow, the smile on the daimyō's face grew clearer.
That smile openly showed his appreciation for Uchiha Makoto.
"The future of the Land of Fire rests on my shoulders.
"If anyone in this country can summon wind and rain, it is I.
"Those shinobi clans ought to shelter me from the storm—obediently."
In outlook and in stance, Makoto and the daimyō shared a temporary understanding.
The daimyō did not want the Uchiha and the Senju to unite, and he wanted no village powerful enough to sweep the shinobi world.
Makoto, for now, didn't want that either—without the big brothers falling, how would he ever rise?
"Your Highness, do you truly believe the Senju and the Uchiha can shake hands and even abandon a thousand years of blood feud?"
"Our clan head, Lord Madara—several of his brothers died at Senju hands. Lord Izuna died to Hashirama's brother, Tobirama."
Makoto kept guiding the daimyō with words.
"To accomplish that… would be very hard," the daimyō said, shaking his head.
He knew the sordid history between Senju and Uchiha all too well.
Who could have imagined that overnight they would clasp hands and simply stop fighting?
Do neither of your clans wish to avenge your dead?
Especially that Senju clan head, Hashirama—staking his life to win Madara's trust… with a kunai to his own body, no less.
Setting the kunai aside, the daimyō truly doubted Hashirama's motive. Could a man that naïve and foolish exist?
There could be very few like that in the entire shinobi world.
Either Hashirama was an idiot—or a deeply calculating schemer, thick-faced and black-hearted, ruthless even to himself.
As the leader of a top bloodline clan, could he be an idiot?
Obviously not.
Hashirama Senju was terrifying.
The daimyō shook his head, imagination running wild.
Makoto's "Hashirama Senju Threat Theory" sent his thoughts spiraling.
Who could have guessed that in this treacherous world a man would appear with absolute power and strict self-restraint, a true good man?
Without question, Hashirama was a good man.
As clan head, it was enough that he could fight—everything else had his external brain, Tobirama, to handle.
But Makoto had no intention of sparing such an honest man. In most cases, good men end up staring down gun barrels.
Nobility is the epitaph of the noble; baseness is the pass of the base.
Makoto felt a little base himself—but blame, if any, lay with the innately malicious Tobirama Senju and his fondness for clan prejudice.
Now—
Strike while the iron was hot; keep dosing the medicine.
Listening to Makoto's words at his ear, the daimyō's face darkened slightly; his reply carried pointed meaning.
"The Senju clan head must have grand designs."
"Your Highness sees clearly."
Makoto slipped the blade in, eager to widen the wound.
The more wary the daimyō grew of Hashirama, the more profit for Makoto later.
Onward. Onward.
"Then, Your Highness—why do you think Hashirama would go to such lengths—even at the cost of his life—giving up a chance to kill Lord Madara and instead winning his trust? What is his true aim?"
The daimyō stroked his chin, thinking.
He could hardly blurt out what he really thought—"Hashirama wants to rebel!"
And if… Hashirama truly intended rebellion?
When America threatens you with WMDs, you had best actually have them—the same logic applied here.
So he put it properly: "To let the Senju and Uchiha shake hands?"
"To make people believe the Senju and Uchiha can shake hands," Makoto corrected.
"To make the Uchiha believe?"
"Not the Uchiha—the one is Madara Uchiha.
"The Uchiha clan knows it's impossible."
The daimyō's eyes widened despite himself; he regarded Makoto with new respect.
So young, yet so seasoned. Though this was their first day meeting and he didn't even know Makoto's tastes, he already felt the impulse to marry him a daughter.
Daughters, to a daimyō, existed above all for marriage alliances and binding hearts.
Makoto—so what if he was a shinobi?
It was hardly unheard of for nobles to ally with shinobi clans through marriage, becoming a community of interest.
You in me and I in you—if the daimyō's line and the shinobi formed that bond, the Land of Fire's lord could finally sleep soundly.
If anything happened down the road… change the role and relist the company.
Besides, Makoto was an Uchiha—born of a top bloodline clan, eyes already bearing three tomoe. Even if Makoto dallied with his wife and left a child, even if the daimyō wore a bright green hat, he could magnanimously pretend not to see.
He'd raise the child well—after all, taking on such a prize was no shame.
Countless nobles dreamed of such chances and had no way to get them.
Bloodline clans never offered them.
Their devotion to their kekkei genkai was beyond imagining; some were downright deformed in it—yes, the Hyūga.
Even in marriages with nobles, once a child showed a bloodline limit, the clan would take the child back at once.
Not even a daimyō could break that rule.
The more the daimyō looked, the more pleasing Makoto became—but Makoto had no mind-reading. He didn't know the thoughts in the lord's head.
All he wanted from the daimyō now was money.
"It's a pity the Uchiha believe in Lord Madara.
"One day, sooner or later, the Uchiha will head toward extinction—because of the Senju."
Makoto sighed.
He had to set his persona in stone.
Everything he would do in the future—was not for himself.
It was all for the Uchiha.