The moment Uchiha Madara and Uchiha Izuna stepped into the command tent, every Uchiha present rose to their feet. Years of blood-soaked campaigns had carved the brothers' authority into stone; anyone foolish enough to defy them was already a footnote in the underworld.
Madara took his seat at the head of the table, expression unreadable. "Status of the Senju?"
No wasted breath. No gentle lead-in. Just war.
A veteran Uchiha straightened, voice tight. "Patriarch, the Senju advance force has nearly reached Baichuan Gorge. Predicted arrival: midday tomorrow."
Madara's eyes narrowed. A cold spark flickered behind them.
"Hashirama."
His name hung in the air like a blade. Frenemy, rival, the only man who mirrored Madara's rise step for step. After years of clashes, they knew each other's strength the way swords know whetstones. And they knew exactly what would happen when they met again.
A young Uchiha swallowed hard. "If Hashirama-sama is leading… does he intend to fight our clan to the death?"
The tension spread like frost. Everyone in the tent had grown up on stories of Hashirama and Madara, twin storms whose collisions tore landscapes apart.
Madara finally spoke, voice quiet, heavy. "Konoha's pressure leaves him no choice. If the Senju don't finish this war quickly… Konoha will finish it for them."
Silence hit the tent like a hammer.
Konoha.
The name everyone hated bringing up.
Because the truth was simple and terrifying: Konoha was now stronger than both clans combined. And the southern Fire Country was the last unclaimed region on the map.
Whether the Senju or Uchiha admitted it or not, they all knew the same thing.
Konoha would come for them next.
Madara saw the fear even through their stoicism. His expression hardened.
"Our enemy—right now—is the Senju. Not Konoha. Focus."
His voice snapped the clan back to order. Discussions resumed until the torches burned low.
The Next Months
April saw the Uchiha and Senju crash into each other again. Madara and Hashirama clashed like natural disasters, leaving veterans numb with awe and terror.
By May, both clans had mobilized fully. Madara fought alongside Izuna; Hashirama alongside Tobirama. Their duels shook the battlefield so brutally that even distant scouts felt the pressure.
And far to the north, Konoha watched.
Waiting.
Wanting the Uchiha and Senju to break each other so the southern conquest could begin.
But even knowing the trap, neither clan could stop. Too much blood had been spilled. Too much hate had settled into the bone.
On May 17th, the two clans prepared for a decisive battle on the Great Plains.
That night, something went wrong.
Madara's Weakness
"Brother? What's wrong?"
Madara staggered. A stabbing pain ripped through his eyes, blurring his vision so violently he nearly collapsed. Izuna rushed to him, catching his arm.
Madara forced a breath, reopening his eyes—only to see a haze, like the world was melting into fog.
"What… is this?"
He wiped at his eyes, but the blurriness didn't budge.
Izuna's voice shook. "Brother, talk to me."
Madara didn't answer. Not until he tried—and failed—several more times to clear his vision. Only then did he stop moving, shoulders rigid.
"Izuna… my pupil power is almost gone."
Izuna froze.
Mangekyō users had all seen the warnings etched in the Uchiha ancestral hall:
great power devoured itself.
Overuse meant blindness.
Madara was only twenty-one. According to every recorded case, he shouldn't face this for at least another year or two.
But Konoha's rise had pushed him too hard.
Too many wars.
Too many Mangekyō techniques unleashed back-to-back.
Madara's vision was failing early.
"These eyes… may not last much longer."
A flicker of unwillingness flashed in his blurred gaze. The upcoming battle with Hashirama would demand everything the Mangekyō could offer, and he knew it.
If his sight failed now…
If he couldn't use the Mangekyō freely…
The Uchiha clan might not survive what came next.