The Senju stronghold, nestled in the mist-laced forests beyond the ravaged borders, had once echoed with unity. Now, that same unity splintered under the weight of conflicting ideals. Whispers traveled faster than kunai in the wind, and tension lingered in the air like smoke after fire jutsu—choking, invisible, and ever-present.
Inside the central council hall, stone pillars rose like ancient sentinels, bearing witness to every decision the clan had made since its inception. The floor was lined with woven tatami mats, though some had begun to fray at the edges—unlike the people within, who wore their edges openly.
Dozens of Senju stood gathered under the dim light of torches and flickering lanterns. Commanders, tacticians, scouts, and elders occupied the raised platforms lining the room's walls. At the center stood Hashirama, his arms folded, calm but firm. Itama stood just behind him, head bowed slightly, listening. Tobirama lingered a few paces back, arms behind his back, silver gaze sharp and cold.
"We're losing ground," barked Arata, a grizzled elder and veteran of countless raids. His voice carried the weight of bloodshed and battlefields. "And now we're talking of peace? With them?"
"Enough!" Hashirama raised a hand. "No one here denies the pain this war has caused. But if there is a road away from it, we must consider it."
A younger shinobi called out, "What if this is a trap? A ruse? The Uchiha lull us into peace, then strike when our guard is down?"
Others murmured their assent. Words like trap, cowards, and naive slithered through the chamber.
"We've never trusted the Uchiha," said Ayaka sharply, rising from the right-hand side of the hall. "That's not paranoia—it's experience. You forget how many lives we've lost to their flames. Their eyes. Their ambition."
"And yet," Itama interjected, his voice quiet but unwavering, "what have we become by mirroring them?"
All eyes shifted to him.
"Every ambush, every retaliation, every time we've taken vengeance into our own hands—we've fed the same hatred that fuels them. If we cannot imagine another way, then we've already lost what made us different."
An elder from the rear, Masaki, stroked his long beard. "And what do you propose, young Itama? That we kneel? Beg for mercy?"
"No," Itama replied. "I propose that we try to speak before we swing blades. That we risk the vulnerability of peace, not because we trust blindly—but because without that risk, we are destined to bleed until there's nothing left of either clan."
Hiroshi, the battle-worn jonin, stood slowly. "I was skeptical before. But I've heard the boy speak in the glade. I've seen the wounds war has carved into his soul. If a Senju like him—who nearly died at Uchiha hands—can still believe in peace, maybe we should listen."
"And what of our strength?" shouted another shinobi from the left. "If we pursue peace now, it'll divide us. It already is. I've heard it—whispers of dissent, of some refusing to fight, of hesitation during patrols!"
That was true.
Even outside the council hall, friction festered in the camp. Training grounds had become arenas for veiled tension. Sparring bouts broke down into near-lethal encounters. Meals were eaten in silence between those aligned with Hashirama's dream and those who believed peace was surrender.
Within the ranks, rifts widened.
One squad, led by Daisuke, had refused a recent retaliatory strike. Another, under Ayaka, had ignored Itama's call for restraint and taken down three Uchiha scouts without hesitation. Some called Itama a visionary; others, a liability.
Later that night, Itama stood alone near the river at the edge of camp, watching the moon shimmer over the water's surface. His thoughts were a storm—too many voices echoing inside him, too many doubts.
Footsteps rustled behind him.
"I was wondering when you'd come," Itama said without turning.
Tobirama's reflection joined his in the river. "You're breaking the clan, you know."
Itama exhaled. "No. The clan is already broken. I'm just trying to show them the cracks before it all shatters."
Tobirama's jaw tightened. "Words don't matter to the dead. All they see is the next fight. Peace only works if everyone agrees to it. And the Uchiha never will."
"Izuna didn't kill me when he had the chance," Itama replied.
"Maybe he wanted you to carry their poison back with you."
The two brothers stood in silence, the sound of the flowing river masking the rising voices of soldiers sparring—and arguing—in the distance.
Tobirama turned to go, but paused.
"Hashirama listens to you more than he should. Don't mistake that for universal support."
And then he was gone.
The following day, Hashirama convened another meeting, this one smaller—only trusted allies, leaders, and those caught in the middle.
Tempers flared again.
A captain accused Hiroshi of becoming weak. Hiroshi, in turn, condemned the "bloodlust of fools." Ayaka warned that hesitation was costing lives. Daisuke argued that rage was costing the future. The walls of the council tent felt too close, too suffocating.
Hashirama stood and raised both hands. "Enough."
The room quieted.
"Maybe it's time we accept a difficult truth," he said. "That peace will not come from the clan moving as one. Maybe it will come from enough individuals choosing to stand against hate—even when their comrades don't."
Itama met his brother's gaze. They both knew what that meant.
The clan was fracturing.
And maybe… that was the only way forward.
Like trees growing apart to reach their own light.
Like fire splitting through a forest to make way for rebirth.