Kai had finally obtained what he wanted—a living sample of Hashirama's flesh and blood.
Though Bloodlines could be extracted from hair, saliva, or even skin particles, nothing matched the purity and regenerative stability of living tissue—especially when that tissue came from the legendary Sage Body of Hashirama Senju.
For Hashirama himself, it was barely a scratch. With his monstrous healing factor, the wound had closed before Kai even wiped his blade. No hand seals. No effort. Just an idle shrug, like flicking away dust.
But obtaining the tissue sample was only one part of the resurrection plan.
Kai couldn't simply press a button and bring Izuna Uchiha back from the grave.
The lab where the work would be done had to be prepared. High-grade medical instruments, chakra regulation amplifiers, artificial organ incubators, and forbidden jutsu seals—all needed to be custom-built or sourced discreetly. Chakra-modulating stasis tanks, bloodline compatibility matrices, and pathogen isolation chambers weren't exactly shelf products you could order from a village catalog.
And most importantly, none of this came cheap.
Even for Konoha's most powerful shinobi.
Fortunately for Kai, money was no longer a concern.
The Uchiha clan's coffers had been fattened after decades of mercenary commissions and wartime trade. Their private banks could rival daimyo vaults. And if more was needed? Well, he still had an old friend who could print trees and, if pressed, break mountains to mint gold.
He could always shake down the Fire Daimyo. After all—
"Not giving?""I'll give you another chance to reorganize your language."
It was a joke, mostly.
Probably.
With their immediate objectives aligned, Madara and Hashirama left the Hokage Tower together, carrying a large wooden crate filled with white liquor—Kai's payment to Madara for services rendered, and perhaps a small bribe to keep him pacified for the time being.
The crate was heavy, but neither of them noticed the weight.
As they walked side by side—one a war-hardened idealist, the other a cold-eyed revolutionary—their path curved eastward, toward the unclaimed wildlands that lay between the newly rising ninja villages. Their next task?
Capture the tailed beasts.
Not as weapons. Not as trophies. But as necessary security measures.
Hashirama, after seeing what just one bijuu could do—flatten a fortress, leave entire clans in ruin—was unwilling to let them roam the continent, wild and unsealed.
And Madara?
Well, ever since witnessing the future—where the Nine-Tails became his personal summon and Susanoo-enhancing mount—he had developed an unsettling affection for the idea.
"If I can get one of those," he said idly, "I might finally defeat you in a fair fight."
Hashirama only laughed.
Madara didn't.
He was completely serious.
Back at the Hokage Tower, Kai remained behind with another, less volatile companion.
Senju Tobirama.
Middle-aged. War-weary. Still sharp as a kunai. And still deeply suspicious.
"Sir," Tobirama said with polite neutrality, "is there anything you need?"
Unlike Hashirama, who wore admiration on his sleeve, or Madara, whose reverence was buried deep under layers of rivalry, Tobirama's attitude toward Kai was more… pragmatic.
He didn't like him. But he understood his value.
And more importantly, he understood the hierarchy. With Hashirama and Madara both yielding to Kai's authority, there was no room for Tobirama to protest.
Kai didn't beat around the bush.
"You want to see the future?"
Tobirama blinked. "…Me?"
"Unless you're scared."
"Of course not!"
Kai smirked. Without another word, he reached forward and activated his World Transfer.
The chakra flared with a silent surge of power.
Tobirama vanished alongside him.
[Space-Time Node: Naruto World No. 2]
They arrived within seconds.
Kai's World Travel wasn't flashy or noisy—it was like stepping through a mirrored breath of air. But the shift in energy was palpable.
The gravity. The tension. The atmosphere of a war-ravaged timeline clung to the skin like ash.
Standing on the outskirts of Konoha's outer ring, they immediately sought out the Hokage Tower.
And there—waiting within, arms crossed, already alert—was Tobirama No. 2.
He was older.
Tired-looking.
His robes were trimmed in darker hues, a subtle indication of wartime leadership.
But his eyes—sharp and suspicious—were unmistakably the same.
The two men locked eyes.
And at the exact same time, both said:
"What?"
"Are you… Senju Tobirama?"
"You came from the First Year of Konoha?"
"…You're me?"
There was a long, frozen pause.
Then:
"You look like you've aged twenty years and lost twenty battles."
"And you look like you just crawled out of Hashirama's backpack, you pampered second-stringer."
"You're the so-called 'me' that got stabbed by two Cloud Village thugs and needed saving?"
"Oh please, if I were you, I'd have wiped them out to the last shinobi."
"Big talk for someone who's clearly still in his older brother's shadow!"
"At least I have a shadow, you wrinkled relic!"
The verbal barrage escalated with comical speed.
They weren't just angry—they were insulted. Personally.
As if each saw in the other the embodiment of every failure, every compromise, every moment they had chosen diplomacy over destruction.
And neither one liked the reflection.
Middle-aged Tobirama was the impetuous visionary.
Old Tobirama was the hardened tactician.
And in their eyes, each version had failed in a way the other never would.
Kai folded his arms and watched with an amused expression.
Tobirama vs. Old Tobirama.
He'd seen Madara and Obito argue over ideology. He'd seen Naruto scream at his younger self. But this?
This was pure gold.
"Cruel enough. Tasty enough," he thought.
Still, when the chakra levels in the room began to spike, and both Tobiramas looked about two insults away from launching elemental jutsu, Kai raised his hand.
"Enough."
They stopped mid-snarl.
"Did I bring you here to argue with your future self like a pair of feral cats?"
They looked away in sync, muttering apologies.
Kai pressed the advantage.
"If either of you start again, I'll bring Hashirama here and have him hang both of you from the village gates with a sign that says 'Clones in Crisis.'"
Silence.
A beat later, both nodded, chastised.
They knew Hashirama would do it.
With a smile.
Kai reached into his scroll and withdrew a sealed parchment marked with Minato's signature.
"This," he said, "is the improved version of the Flying Thunder God Technique."
Both Tobiramas turned with genuine interest.
Old Tobirama's eyes lit up.
"Minato… that boy really has outdone himself."
Middle-aged Tobirama grinned. "So he really becomes the Fourth Hokage?"
Kai nodded. "And then some."
The two began reading the scroll together, temporarily forgetting their feud.
Tobirama's pride in his invention was strong—but it was tempered by his greater love of progress. To see someone surpass his technique? That was not humiliation.
It was legacy.
Meanwhile, Kai checked in with the older Tobirama about current affairs.
"Kagami and Danzo?" he asked.
"Already en route to Sunagakure. We should receive word soon."
"And the Mist and Stone?"
"Still posturing. Small skirmishes near the Iron Country border. Nothing decisive."
Kai nodded. "Plenty of time, then."
"Plenty," Tobirama agreed. "But the longer this simmers, the more likely someone will make a fatal mistake."
"And if they do?"
"Then we control the narrative."
He paused.
"I won't let Konoha be caught off guard again."
Kai gave him a rare, approving nod.
After a while, the scroll study session ended.
Kai stood and stretched.
"You'll be sent back in an hour," he told middle-aged Tobirama.
"Manage your time."
He turned to go.
"I've got a new world to visit."
And with that, he disappeared—his figure folding into space like a flame into fog.
The two Tobiramas stood in awkward silence, still holding the scroll.
"…You really couldn't handle two Cloud thugs?"
"…You really let Madara talk you into a drinking contest?"
"…Tch."
"…Tch."
They both turned away.
But later that night, they stayed up comparing notes.
In quiet voices, without arguing.
And when the hour passed and one vanished…
The other stood at the window for a long time, looking toward the stars.