Do ninja truly harbor ambition?
Do they dream of rebellion?
Could their rule ever last for ten thousand generations?
These questions tormented the Daimyo of the Land of Fire. For generations, Daimyo had feared the might of shinobi, and to keep their control, they had devised a subtle prison—an ideological cage known as the "Ninja as Tools" theory.
Under this belief, ninja were reduced to nothing more than weapons, emotionless blades hired to accomplish tasks for their lords. Missions were given; ninja obeyed. They were not to question morality, not to consider the greater meaning, only to complete their assigned duty.
And for a time, it worked. Many shinobi accepted this role, shackled by tradition and coin. Yet, no matter how cleverly painted the illusion, the truth did not change. Daimyo remained paper tigers—mighty in appearance but hollow within. They held titles and wealth, but no true strength.
One defiant ninja—just one—was enough to topple their throne.
Even if Senju Hashirama himself had not broken this mold, time would have. The old era of scattered clans was vanishing, giving rise to a new one—the era of shinobi villages. Power consolidated under single leaders. The Hokage could overshadow even the Daimyo, and a single rogue from a Great Village could easily conquer a minor country.
In such a world, ninja would inevitably awaken to the truth of their own power.
Uchiha Makoto knew this better than anyone. He was well aware not only of the Daimyo's current fears but also of how history would unfold.
Now, seated across from the lord of the Land of Fire, he allowed his expression to remain calm as he spoke.
"Your Highness, the battle between the Uchiha and Senju clans… has ended. Completely."
The Daimyo froze. For a heartbeat, his fan slipped from his hand and clattered against the lacquered floor.
"Ended?" His voice cracked in disbelief.
Makoto leaned forward slightly, emphasizing every word. "Yes. Entirely ended."
The Daimyo's lips twitched. He understood the blood-soaked history between these two titanic clans. Their feud had stretched across centuries, rooted so deeply it seemed eternal. That this endless struggle had simply… ceased? Impossible. Laughably impossible!
"Do you mean," the Daimyo asked, his voice low and strained, "that one side achieved complete victory? That the Uchiha destroyed the Senju… or perhaps the Senju wiped out the Uchiha?"
In his mind, that was the only possibility.
If war between such bitter enemies truly ended, then surely it was because one had been annihilated. Nothing else made sense. Even when villages were later founded, even after Konoha's rise, their struggle had never vanished—it had only gone underground, festering in politics and the seat of Hokage itself. Only extinction could end such hatred.
Peace? Between Uchiha and Senju? The thought was laughable. The Daimyo could not even imagine it.
And yet…
Makoto's lips curved into a smile. "You are mistaken, Your Highness. They have reconciled."
The Daimyo's face went slack. He almost choked on his tea.
---
Black Humor of the Shinobi World
Makoto began recounting the events. He carefully omitted the humiliating truth—that the Uchiha had been thoroughly suppressed by the Senju in recent battles. With Izuna gone, and with Tobirama's mastery of tactics designed to counter Uchiha, the clan had been cornered. That was not the kind of weakness he would reveal here.
Instead, he highlighted the dramatic conclusion. The moment when Hashirama Senju, in a display of sincerity, had raised a kunai and stabbed himself, declaring he would rather die than see the cycle of hatred continue.
Madara, against all expectations, had believed him. And thus, a reconciliation was forged.
"To achieve peace," Makoto explained smoothly, "Lord Hashirama even stabbed himself with his own kunai, showing that he would rather take his life than betray his words. It was this gesture that convinced Uchiha Madara of his sincerity."
The Daimyo blinked, stunned. His eyes darted back and forth as if searching for hidden meaning.
"You claim Hashirama… stabbed himself?" He squinted. "Are you certain a mere kunai could harm him? I have heard of his monstrous vitality—his wounds knit closed as fast as they are dealt. Was this not a performance? A staged farce to sway Madara's heart?"
The Daimyo was no fool. He had heard too many fables of men faking sacrifice for gain. He had no patience for tales of so-called sincerity.
Makoto hesitated, then shrugged lightly. "Perhaps it was an act. Perhaps it was not. But what matters is this—Madara believed it. His belief made it real."
He allowed the words to hang heavy in the air before adding slyly:
"Is this not the way of faith, Your Highness? Just as a husband chooses to believe in his wife's virtue before marriage. Even if she spent a night in an inn with a stranger—what truly matters? The truth, or the belief? To marry, you must believe. Likewise, Madara chose to believe in Hashirama's resolve. Whether the kunai could pierce his flesh or not is irrelevant."
The Daimyo's lips parted in shock. He stared at Makoto, then slowly closed his mouth, digesting the twisted but undeniable logic.
Belief was power. Belief was reality.
At last, he exhaled. "This… this is truly… gratifying news."
But though he spoke the words, bitterness churned in his chest.
---
A Nightmare Realized
For years, the Daimyo and his peers had manipulated shinobi clans. Wars between them were a gift to the throne, ensuring no single group grew strong enough to challenge royal authority. The Senju and Uchiha were the sharpest blades, each honed against the other. So long as they clashed endlessly, the Daimyo could sit comfortably in his palace, untouched.
The ideal solution was always clear: let heroes fight heroes. Let Madara and Hashirama tear each other apart, spilling their blood across the land. That was the natural order.
But this? This was disaster.
"They… reconciled?" The Daimyo muttered, his fan trembling in his grip. "You actually reconciled!"
His mind whirled. Two men who could be called gods had joined hands. Together, their power could unmake the world's balance. Madara's fire and Hashirama's wood—opposing forces now aligned. Even the combined armies of nations could not stand against them.
The Daimyo slammed his hand on the table, rattling the porcelain cups.
"Damn it all! To realize childish ideals? To spare children from the battlefield? To pursue peace in the shinobi world?" His voice rose in outrage. "Such foolish slogans—we lords used them long ago, then cast them aside like broken toys. And yet you treat them as treasures!"
His face flushed red with fury, spittle flying as he raged.
"Senju Hashirama! Uchiha Madara! You have shamed your ancestors for eighteen generations!"
His cry echoed through the chamber.
For centuries, shinobi had spilled blood to uphold clan pride. Ancestors had fought and died, hatred handed down like inheritance. And now—now their descendants had discarded that legacy, embracing peace as if it were some priceless jewel.
To the Daimyo, it was betrayal. A betrayal not only of tradition but of the delicate balance of power that kept his throne secure.
Reconciliation between gods was the worst outcome imaginable.
And yet, it had already happened.
---
Makoto sat silently through the outburst, his expression calm. Inside, he smiled.
Everything was going exactly as planned.