The Senju Clan and the Uchiha Clan—two names that carried the weight of centuries of blood, hatred, and glory. Both clans had risen as towering giants within the Shinobi World. Their battles were legendary, their feuds endless, and their rivalry eternal. Among all the bloodline clans, they stood at the very peak.
And now, those two titans had shaken hands and declared peace.
For ordinary people, this might have been a sign of hope, a light in the endless darkness of war. But for the Daimyo of the Land of Fire, it was nothing short of terrifying.
Because peace between the Senju and the Uchiha didn't just mean fewer battles on the battlefield—it meant the birth of something that could easily threaten the authority of the Daimyo himself.
The Daimyo sat silently, his heavy robes weighing on him like chains. He thought of Senju Hashirama, the man known as the "God of Shinobi," and of Uchiha Madara, the incarnation of power and destruction. What would happen if the two truly united? The answer was all too clear.
They could sweep across the entire Ninja World in mere days.
The Daimyo's face darkened. His mood, already poor, had sunk to something far worse. It wasn't simply bad—it was dreadful, suffocating. Yet, he couldn't let it show.
Because standing before him was Uchiha Makoto.
Makoto, despite his young age, was already sharp-eyed, observant, and carried the aura of a true Uchiha. Though he wasn't a battlefield butcher like some of his clansmen, he represented the Uchiha clan nonetheless.
If the Uchiha had truly abandoned war for peace, then surely Makoto would be delighted, right? That's what the Daimyo told himself.
But deep down, he was unsettled.
Makoto, watching the Daimyo's forced composure, allowed a faint smile to play on his lips. He tilted his head slightly and said, half in jest:
"Your Highness, your expression seems… a little strained. Are you perhaps feeling unwell? Should I summon a Medical Ninja to examine you?"
The Daimyo nearly choked. In truth, he secretly hoped that the Uchiha and Senju would destroy each other—fight until rivers of blood flowed, until corpses piled high, until both clans were nothing but ashes. That was the ideal outcome. But now? Now he had to swallow his disappointment and force a polite smile.
This was the dirty game of politics.
"No, no need," the Daimyo said with a wave of his hand. "I simply did not sleep well last night."
"Oh, I see," Makoto replied with mock concern. His smile deepened, but his eyes glittered with something sharper. "Then Your Highness must take good care of your health. After all, the future of the Land of Fire rests upon your shoulders."
The words were light, but their weight pressed into the Daimyo's chest.
For a moment, the nobleman straightened his back, pride stirring. Yes, that's right, he thought. The Land of Fire truly does rest upon my shoulders.
His expression softened, and he looked at Makoto in a new light.
This boy… his awareness is higher than I imagined.
The suffocating tension in the hall eased. But Makoto wasn't finished.
"Not only that," he continued smoothly, "Senju Hashirama harbors a grand vision. He intends to unite with Lord Madara to establish a Ninja Village—a true home for shinobi. He wants to gather every clan, bring them together, and eventually sweep across the entire Ninja World. His goal is nothing less than to rebuild its very order."
The words were deliberate, calculated like a kunai thrust. Makoto wasn't inventing lies out of thin air. This was indeed Hashirama's dream. But by sharpening it, framing it differently, he turned it into something terrifying in the ears of the Daimyo.
The Daimyo froze. His fingers gripped the armrests of his chair until his knuckles turned white.
A Ninja Village? Gathering all the clans? Sweeping across the Ninja World?
He didn't doubt for a second that Hashirama and Madara could accomplish this. The thought of the Great Buddha of Wood standing beside Susanoo-clad Uchiha Madara was enough to make his stomach twist.
Three days. That's all it would take for them to unify the world.
And yet, Hashirama hadn't done it. Why? Because he was a man who sought peace, not domination.
But the Daimyo didn't see it that way.
"First, he creates an organization… then a village… then he gathers clans… finally, he sweeps across the world. Isn't this the textbook path to rebellion?"
His mind whirled, his heart pounded.
Hashirama… what exactly are you planning? Peace? Or the throne itself?
"An incredible idea," the Daimyo finally managed to mutter through gritted teeth, forcing a smile that looked more like a grimace.
Outside, the setting sun painted the sky crimson, as though the heavens themselves had bled.
But inside, the Daimyo felt only cold dread.
Tonight, he knew, he would not sleep.
Makoto, however, beamed. He had achieved his goal. The deeper the Daimyo's fear of the Senju-Uchiha alliance, the greater his own influence would grow.
"Your Highness," Makoto said lightly, "it seems you approve of this vision?"
The Daimyo stiffened. "Approve? Ha! I have… a slightly different opinion." His head shook rapidly, like a rattle drum. Approve of Hashirama's plan? That would be madness.
For a thousand years, the Daimyo's foreign policy had been clear: divide the Ninja World. Never allow unity.
Let the Uzumaki ally with the Senju to restrain the Uchiha. Let the Hyuga clash with them in turn. Let the Kurama, Kaguya, and other clans fight endlessly. That was the true path.
Unity was the nightmare.
Makoto nodded thoughtfully, then said, "Indeed, I share a different opinion as well. As a pure Uchiha, I cannot believe that the Senju and the Uchiha could truly abandon their millennium-old feud. To shake hands in peace? It's absurd. Simply impossible."
The Daimyo's eyes lit up. His heart leapt.
"Yes!" he thought. "This boy speaks like a true Uchiha of the Bordered Yellow Banner!"
Makoto's words sounded like a promise of endless blood and flames. To the Daimyo, they were music.
The Senju… heretics, every last one of them.
And if Uchiha Makoto remained true to his words, then perhaps, just perhaps, the balance could yet be preserved.