The tension in the Senju encampment had not faded since Itama's presentation in the council chamber. Word had spread quickly—The Forgotten Son of Senju Dreams of Peace, they called it. Depending on who told the story, it was either the act of a visionary or the naïveté of a fool. Around campfires and training fields, shinobi whispered and laughed, debating whether Itama's survival had dulled his mind or sharpened it beyond their comprehension.
But not everyone found humor in the situation.
Hashirama Senju stood at the cliffside overlooking the river where his people often trained. His long, dark hair flowed in the wind, and his arms were crossed tightly across his broad chest. The sound of water crashing against stone was loud, but not loud enough to drown the words echoing in his mind.
"True victory isn't winning one more battle. It's ending the war altogether."
He exhaled sharply.
From behind, familiar footsteps approached. Without turning, Hashirama spoke.
"You heard what they said."
Tobirama came to a stop beside him, white hair glinting in the fading afternoon sun.
"I heard," Tobirama said curtly. "They're not wrong."
Hashirama's gaze didn't shift. "They laughed at him."
"They should have."
That earned Tobirama a sidelong glance.
"He's reckless, Hashirama," Tobirama continued, his tone sharp, crisp like cold steel. "He returned after vanishing for months, speaking of visions and alliances. Of peace with the Uchiha. It's lunacy."
"Is it?" Hashirama asked softly.
Tobirama's frown deepened. "Don't tell me you believe in that fantasy."
Hashirama didn't answer immediately. The wind tugged at his robes as he stared toward the horizon.
"He was brave to say it," Hashirama finally murmured. "To speak of peace in a room built by war."
"Bravery isn't the same as wisdom."
"No," Hashirama admitted. "But it's the beginning of it."
There was silence between the brothers, heavy with all the weight of their history—of the war they'd both fought in, of the blood they'd spilled and the ideals they had once shared but slowly lost sight of.
"He spoke from his heart," Hashirama continued. "And they mocked him."
Tobirama narrowed his eyes. "Because he challenged the foundation of what they believe."
"That foundation is cracked," Hashirama said firmly. "You've seen it too."
Tobirama didn't deny it, but he didn't agree either. Instead, he turned to go. "The world doesn't change because someone dreams, brother. It changes when the dreamers win."
As he left, Hashirama remained where he was, eyes narrowing with purpose.
---
The next day, Hashirama entered the council chamber, uninvited but not unwelcome—his presence was too commanding to deny. The elders were gathered again, some discussing upcoming deployments, others still murmuring about Itama's "vision."
Hashirama's arrival silenced them all.
He stepped forward and placed his hand on the center table. His chakra pulsed slightly—subtle but enough to draw every eye in the room.
"You laughed at my brother," he said, voice low but powerful. "You mocked him for dreaming of peace."
"Hashirama, we meant no disrespect," said Shichiro, hands folding in an attempt to seem calm. "But Itama's words were—"
"True," Hashirama interrupted.
Gasps flickered through the room like sparks.
"He's right," Hashirama continued. "We've become so entangled in the rhythm of war that we've forgotten the song of peace. What was once our goal—true peace—has become a myth, something we dare not even consider."
Kiyoka stood. "With all due respect, Lord Hashirama, idealism does not feed our children or guard our borders."
"No," he said, "but hatred doesn't either."
Okuni scowled. "This again? Are we now to believe both of you have lost your minds?"
Hashirama's eyes turned to him, sharp and unyielding. "Do not mistake restraint for madness. I've led this clan into battle. I've buried comrades. I've carried their names in my heart so long, they're carved into my soul. I know war."
He stepped forward, and the table creaked beneath the force of his chakra-laced palm.
"But I also know something else. When Itama returned from death itself, he came back with more than just survival. He brought back hope."
"You defend him because he's your brother," Danzou muttered.
"I defend him," Hashirama said coldly, "because he's right."
Silence fell again.
"You all speak of strength," Hashirama continued, "but you cower from the idea of peace as if it were a poison. Strength is not in the swing of a blade or the casting of a jutsu—it is in knowing when not to strike. Itama saw that. And I'll be damned if I let you tear him down for it."
Shichiro rose slowly, face unreadable. "You would put his vision above the consensus of the clan?"
"I put the future above the present," Hashirama said. "If you cannot see beyond your hatred, then step aside. Because if peace is to be carved into this world, someone must plant the seed."
"And you believe Itama is that someone?" Kiyoka asked, skeptical.
"I believe he is the first spark," Hashirama answered. "And I intend to protect that flame."
---
Later that evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountain ridges, Hashirama found Itama alone, sitting at the riverbank where the water gleamed with orange light. The younger Senju was quiet, knees drawn up, scrolls of chakra theory and diplomatic texts spread around him.
"You're not giving up," Hashirama said, stepping beside him.
"I thought about it," Itama admitted, not looking up. "But it's like trying to put out your own heartbeat. It just won't stop."
Hashirama smiled faintly. "They'll come around."
"I doubt that."
"I don't," he said, sitting beside him. "I defended you today. The elders may not understand yet, but they heard me. Just like they heard you."
"Even Tobirama?"
Hashirama exhaled. "He's harder to reach. But he's not as far gone as he seems. Give him time."
Itama looked at his older brother, surprise in his eyes. "You really believe in what I said?"
"I always have," Hashirama said. "I just forgot. You reminded me."
They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the river.
"It's going to be a long road," Itama murmured.
"Yes," Hashirama replied. "But we'll walk it together."
And in the gathering dusk, the first stars blinked into the sky—like scattered sparks of a distant fire, waiting for someone to gather them into a flame.