The great hall of the Uchiha clan was heavy with silence.
Dozens of eyes, sharp as steel, stared toward the man who stood at the center. Their leader—Uchiha Madara—faced them with the weight of history pressing down on his shoulders.
The blood feud between the Uchiha and the Senju had lasted for generations. Countless lives had been taken on both sides; entire families extinguished in the flames of endless war. Yet now, Madara stood before his clan with a proposal that cut against centuries of hatred.
"Hashirama…" Madara's deep voice rolled like distant thunder. "I have felt your sincerity. And all of this—all of my choices—are for the sake of the Uchiha!"
His words reverberated in the hall, but not all who heard them were convinced.
Among the gathered crowd, Uchiha Makoto narrowed his eyes. He knew this moment was crucial. Madara's aura was immense, his chakra oppressive, suffocating. It weighed upon the clan like a mountain, leaving even seasoned warriors breathless.
And yet, Makoto refused to bow.
"Madara-sama," he said, forcing his voice through the pressure, "have you forgotten Izuna-sama's dying wish?"
The words fell like a kunai piercing silence.
At once, the entire room seemed to hold its breath.
Makoto's chest burned as Madara's chakra pressed harder, but he stood tall, his gaze steady. He could see it—the faint flicker in Madara's expression, the tremor of pain behind those crimson eyes.
"Izuna…"
The name alone was enough to unravel Madara's control. His suffocating presence faltered, the pressure around Makoto easing in an instant.
Makoto drew a deep breath, his heart pounding. It worked.
Uchiha Izuna—Madara's younger brother, his closest kin—remained the one wound in Madara's heart that could never heal. Izuna had fallen to Senju Tobirama's blade, his life stolen in the midst of battle. Madara might speak of peace with Hashirama, he might bury his hatred in pursuit of a new future, but the memory of Izuna would always gnaw at his soul.
Makoto's eyes gleamed. If there is one thing that can sway Madara, it is Izuna. And if I can wield that memory, then perhaps… I can shape the clan's path myself.
---
Madara's face twisted, his eyes clouded with grief as he whispered under his breath.
"Izuna… Izuna, I'm sorry."
He closed his eyes, his voice rough.
"Hashirama… he is willing to sacrifice everything for peace. Even his own life. If I cannot do the same, then how can I stand beside him? Forgive me, Izuna. I cannot avenge you."
The crowd stirred uneasily. Whispers rippled among the clansmen, uncertain, divided between rage and weariness.
But Madara raised his voice, strong and clear, echoing through the chamber.
"My clansmen! Izuna was my dearest brother, my flesh and blood. He died at the hands of Senju Tobirama, and in my heart, I swore to take Tobirama's head and lay it before Izuna's grave. That was my vow. That was my hatred."
He paused, his eyes sweeping over every face before him.
"But vengeance will not bring Izuna back! Killing Tobirama will not end this endless cycle of death—it will only condemn our children to more war, more graves, more Izunas to mourn."
Madara's hand clenched into a fist. His voice thundered, raw and commanding.
"We have fought the Senju for too long. The land itself has been dyed red by our blood. But now—now, Hashirama and I share a dream! A dream of a village where Senju and Uchiha, once sworn enemies, can stand as brothers. A village where children will no longer die in battle, where clans need not be enemies, where we may walk forward as one!"
The hall was silent, every heart caught in the storm of his conviction. Madara's words painted a future none dared imagine. Peace. Brotherhood. A world beyond endless hatred.
And yet—was such a dream truly possible?
Makoto's lips curved faintly. So this is the speech… the grand vision that sways the clan.
The truth was that the Uchiha were weary. Generations of war had hollowed their souls. Even the proudest warriors had grown tired of burying their kin, of sending their children to die. Though some hearts burned for vengeance, others longed desperately for rest.
And Madara's words—like Hashirama's dream—offered them that.
One by one, expressions softened. Some nodded. Others closed their eyes, imagining children growing up without bloodshed. The tide was turning.
Makoto knew it. This is the moment to play my part.
---
He stepped forward, his expression troubled, his voice hesitant—as though torn by inner conflict.
"Madara-sama… so your mind is made up."
He clenched his fists, his voice tight with feigned struggle.
"In that case… revenge… revenge for Izuna-sama… I can only…"
He let his words trail off, then exhaled heavily, as though resigning himself to a bitter truth.
"…I can only follow your will."
The hall shifted, a wave of murmurs rippling through the clansmen. Some looked relieved, others skeptical.
But Makoto wasn't finished. His eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade.
"Even so, Madara-sama," he said firmly, "I cannot place blind trust in the Senju. To gain another's trust, you must stand behind them… and strike when they least expect it. Only then do they reveal their true hearts."
His words rang with warning, his tone edged with prophecy.
"There are villains in the Senju clan," Makoto declared. "Do not forget that. A thousand years of blood will not vanish in a single handshake."
The clansmen stirred again, restless. His warning struck deep, for every Uchiha knew the truth: not all Senju were like Hashirama. Some, like Tobirama, carried nothing but suspicion and hatred in their hearts.
Makoto's eyes glinted. Yes, Madara… one day Hashirama will betray you with his own hand. And later, even Black Zetsu will pierce your heart. You cannot escape the knives in the dark.
He bowed his head slightly, masking his thoughts. Outwardly, he appeared cautious, loyal. Inwardly, he sharpened his plans.
Because he knew: the peace Madara envisioned would never hold.
---
Madara, however, lifted his head high, his Sharingan glowing faintly as he looked beyond his clan toward the horizon.
"Perhaps you are right, Makoto," he said at last. "Perhaps there are villains among the Senju. But Hashirama… Hashirama is my friend. If I must gamble the Uchiha's future, then I will gamble it on him."
His words were resolute, yet in his eyes, Makoto saw it—the hesitation, the shadow of doubt that Izuna's memory had stirred.
For now, Madara buried it deep.
For now, he chose peace.
But the seed of conflict remained, hidden in his heart. And Makoto knew: one day, that seed would bloom into chaos.