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The sun rose slowly over Konohagakure, casting golden light across rooftops that had once been humble huts but now stood as stone-built homes, watchtowers, and winding streets filled with shinobi of every age and rank. What began as a fragile alliance between clans was growing into a true nation.
Akari stood atop the Hokage Monument-in-progress, where only Hashirama's likeness had begun to take shape. The rock beneath his sandals was cool, the breeze crisp as it swept through his long, black hair. Below him, life pulsed. Children trained in yards. Merchants set up their stalls. Patrols shifted at regular intervals.
And yet—peace had never felt heavier.
Behind him, steps approached. He didn't turn.
"You've been quiet," Madara said, folding his arms as he stepped beside him. "Not like you."
Akari's violet gaze followed the distant edge of the village walls. "There are whispers again. More from the east this time. Former Takigakure shinobi who never accepted our presence."
Madara's lips twitched into something between a smirk and a grimace. "Then we silence them."
"You know as well as I do, Madara," Akari murmured. "We can't silence every fire before it starts. One day, someone will light one from within."
Madara's expression darkened. "Then we'll teach them that fire burns back."
Akari turned to look at him. "And when the fire is a child? Or a neighbor? Will we still strike first?"
Madara didn't answer at first. "If they threaten what we've built—yes."
Akari's gaze lingered on him, unreadable.
—
Later that evening, in the council hall, Hashirama addressed the clan heads, his words measured, his voice strong despite the fatigue in his eyes.
"We've begun negotiations with the Land of Lightning. Their daimyo has agreed to send representatives. It's a step toward broader peace."
Some heads nodded. Others muttered.
Madara, seated silently in the corner, let the talk pass around him until he stood. "And what if they come not to talk, but to measure our weakness?"
"They won't," Hashirama said. "Because we'll show strength—through unity."
"Unity only works when all parts move together," Madara replied. "Some still resist. Maybe it's time we stop asking them to join... and give them no choice."
The room fell silent.
Akari's voice cut through. "And if they only resist harder, knowing we've abandoned diplomacy?"
He stood near the wall, arms folded.
"The enemy of peace is not opposition," he said, "but impatience."
The words echoed louder than he intended. But he didn't flinch.
Hashirama gave him a faint smile, grateful.
Madara's eyes were unreadable.
—
That night, Akari sat alone atop the Senju garden shrine, lit faintly by the glow of fireflies and the moon. The scent of pine and stone was familiar—almost comforting.
A letter rested in his hands. Intelligence from the border.
"Small militia forming near the Lightning border. Intentions unknown."
He sighed.
The peace they had fought for was holding, but it was fragile, like a thin thread pulled taut between mountains.
And he—he was the tension keeping it from snapping.
He would carry that weight.
Because someone had to.