The sun sank slowly beyond the western horizon, spilling its last golden rays across the tiled roofs of the Fire Daimyo's sprawling palace. Darkness crept steadily across the land, painting the sky in shades of purple and deep indigo. Though the commoners of the Land of Fire prepared their homes for the night with lanterns and candlelight, here in the seat of power, the Daimyo's chambers glowed brilliantly with oil lamps and ornate lanterns carved from precious wood.
The light shimmered across golden decorations and silk wall hangings, making the chamber look like a place untouched by dusk. Beneath the warm glow sat the Daimyo of the Land of Fire, his expression calm, his smile faint but unmistakably satisfied.
Across from him knelt a young man with sharp, hawk-like eyes—Uchiha Makoto.
The Daimyo's gaze lingered on the youth, his smile widening ever so slightly. He found Makoto to be different from the usual ninja emissaries he met: sharper in wit, bolder in tongue, and more calculating in his gaze.
"The future of the Land of Fire rests upon my shoulders," the Daimyo declared, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of noble rule. "If there is one man who commands the storm, who summons both wind and rain to serve him—it is I. The ninja clans must know their place. Their duty is to shield me, to shield the nation, from the storm—not to become the storm themselves."
His words echoed with arrogance, but Makoto only bowed his head slightly, his expression respectful while his mind churned with thoughts.
At this moment, an unspoken understanding bound the two men. The Daimyo desired balance, the preservation of noble power. He feared above all else the rise of a unified ninja village strong enough to overshadow his authority. Uchiha Makoto, for his part, had no interest in seeing the Senju and Uchiha truly unite. Not now. Not while Madara still stood at the helm of the clan.
If his elder brother remained alive and unrivaled, where would that leave him? What chance would he ever have to rise?
Makoto's lips curved faintly into a smile, carefully calculated. "Your Highness, do you truly believe that the Uchiha and the Senju—after centuries of blood and vengeance—can ever truly clasp hands in peace? Our clan head, Madara-sama, has lost more than one younger brother to Senju blades. And Izuna-sama…" Makoto let his voice drop, letting the weight of the name linger, "…Izuna-sama was struck down by none other than Senju Tobirama—the younger brother of Senju Hashirama himself."
The Daimyo's face tightened. He tapped a finger on the armrest of his chair, eyes narrowing as he considered.
"It would indeed be… difficult," the Daimyo admitted. His tone carried hesitation, but also the flicker of intrigue. He was a man who had heard every rumor, every whisper about the bloody rivalry of the two clans.
Makoto leaned forward slightly, pressing his advantage.
"Difficult? Your Highness, it is impossible. The hatred runs too deep. And yet, overnight, the fighting ceased. The Uchiha and Senju clasp hands, declaring peace. Does such a thing not strike Your Highness as unnatural? As though a grand deception is at play?"
The Daimyo's brow furrowed. His thoughts spiraled inward.
Senju Hashirama—the man called the God of Shinobi. Was such a man truly naive enough to throw away his life, his pride, and his clan's advantage just to gain Madara's trust? He had heard that Hashirama even stabbed himself with his own kunai, an act of apparent sincerity. But to the Daimyo, such a gesture reeked of manipulation.
"Senju Hashirama," he thought grimly, "is either the greatest fool in the world… or the most terrifying schemer to ever live."
And as the head of the most powerful bloodline clan in the world, could such a man possibly be a fool?
No.
Makoto read the darkening expression on the Daimyo's face and pressed harder.
"Good men, Your Highness, rarely survive long in the ninja world. More often than not, 'goodness' is nothing more than a mask—a convenient tool used to disarm enemies. Senju Hashirama appears benevolent, but in truth, such a man must be watched with the greatest caution."
The Daimyo gave a short, humorless laugh. "A terrifying thought indeed. If Senju Hashirama truly bears such ambitions, then the Land of Fire itself may one day bend beneath his will."
Makoto's lips curled in satisfaction. He bowed his head, his tone filled with deference. "Your Highness's insight is profound. Few could see so clearly."
Each word of agreement deepened the Daimyo's suspicion of Hashirama. The seed Makoto had planted began to grow.
"Then tell me, Uchiha Makoto," the Daimyo said slowly, "why do you think Senju Hashirama would go to such lengths? To risk his life, to surrender his blade, to win the trust of Uchiha Madara? What is his ultimate aim?"
Makoto's eyes gleamed as he delivered his carefully sharpened answer. "It is not to make the Uchiha Clan believe, Your Highness. No. It is to make Uchiha Madara believe."
The words struck the Daimyo like a bell tolling in the night. He sat back, his eyes widening slightly.
"Madara alone?" he asked.
"Just so," Makoto confirmed. "The clan as a whole knows well the impossibility of peace. But Madara-sama… his grief, his anger, his loneliness after Izuna's death—they have left him vulnerable. If Senju Hashirama can make him believe, even for a moment, then all the Uchiha must follow. For our clan's fate is bound to Madara's will."
The Daimyo exhaled, long and heavy. His gaze lingered on Makoto now not with caution, but with admiration.
"This young man," he thought, "possesses wisdom beyond his years. Sharp as a blade, precise as a needle. If only my daughter could be wed to such a one… the bond between the Daimyo's house and the Uchiha would endure for generations."
His mind wandered briefly into thoughts of political marriage. To a noble, a daughter was but a piece to be placed upon the board—a tool for alliances, for influence, for survival. What did it matter that Makoto was a ninja? Bloodline limit clans such as the Uchiha were among the most powerful in the world. To bind such blood to his own house would be a treasure beyond measure.
If Makoto's children bore the Sharingan…
The Daimyo's thoughts grew bold. Even if such a union gave him a child that did not carry his blood, he would raise it proudly. To claim connection to the Uchiha line was worth any sacrifice.
He masked his thoughts with a courteous nod, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed his growing fondness for the young man before him.
Meanwhile, Makoto remained oblivious to the Daimyo's schemes. His goal was singular and practical: money, resources, and influence. He bowed his head once more, speaking solemnly.
"It is only unfortunate, Your Highness, that the Uchiha place such absolute trust in Madara-sama. One day, if this continues, our entire clan may well be destroyed—dragged into ruin by the very trust we hold. And all because of the Senju."
His sigh carried weight, as though he bore the sorrow of his entire clan upon his shoulders.
And in that moment, his persona solidified. He was no longer merely Uchiha Makoto. He was a voice for the clan, a man whose every action could be painted as loyalty to the Uchiha's survival.
Not for himself.
Never for himself.
Everything—for the Uchiha.