The transition was not a simple overlay of data, it was a cataclysm of the soul. Nathan, the man who had been discarded by the Blackwells, vanished into the towering presence of Hashirama Senju.
It wasn't just a memory of the Warring States Period, it was the phantom itch of scars earned in the mud, the specific metallic scent of Uchiha blood on a summer breeze, and the crushing grief of watching Kawarama and Itama's small forms lowered into the cold earth.
He remembered the river, the skipping stones, and the boy with the defiant eyes, Madara. He felt the phantom warmth of a shared dream, a vision of a village where children didn't have to die, and the subsequent ice-cold realization when that dream shattered into a declaration of eternal enmity. The most recent memory was the heaviest: the dual fall of giants. Butsuma Senju and Tajima Uchiha, locked in a dance of death until both fires were extinguished.
Two weeks had passed since that crimson day. A fragile, exhausted truce held the world in a chokehold. The Senju were bleeding, the Uchiha were broken, and both needed time to lick their wounds before the cycle of hatred demanded more tribute.
Hashirama sat in a field of tall, swaying grass, his eyes closed. He wore a matte black kimono, the fabric heavy and somber. He wasn't just meditating; he was stabilizing the collision of two lives.
The "Nathan" within him recognized the simulation's perfection, the way the wind felt against his skin was indistinguishable from reality, yet the "Hashirama" within felt the pulse of the forest itself, a rhythmic thrum of chakra that connected him to every root and leaf.
"Brother, it is time."
A voice cut through the rustle of the grass.
Hashirama opened his eyes. Tobirama stood there, a silver-haired specter of discipline. His expression was a mask of stoic iron, but Hashirama could see the tension in his brother's jaw. The funeral was about to begin.
"I am coming, Tobirama."
Hashirama said, his voice deeper, carrying a resonance that seemed to vibrate in the very air. He stood up, the transition complete. He was no longer a player in a game; he was a pillar of a clan.
The Senju burial grounds were nestled in a valley where the trees grew thick and protective. The atmosphere was stiflingly sober, a sea of white and black garments against the vibrant green of the woods. Hundreds of clansmen stood in disciplined rows, their faces etched with the weary resilience of a people born for battle.
An elder named Genji, a man whose face was a map of deep-set wrinkles and ancient scars, stepped forward toward the simple wooden casket.
"Butsuma Senju was not a man of soft words..."
Genji began, his voice rasping like dry leaves.
"He was the storm that shielded us and the earth that held us firm. He gave his life so the Senju name would remain unbowed. We do not mourn a man who died; we honor a flame that passed its heat to us. In this time of silence, remember the cost of our survival."
As Genji spoke, Hashirama's gaze drifted subtly across the crowd. He looked for a flicker of anachronistic behavior, a gaze too calculating, or a posture too casual for a high-stakes sentient universe.
In Solara, revealing oneself as a player was a legal death sentence, yet he knew the corporations would have their "eyes" here.
However, the simulation was too perfect. Every Senju present seemed fueled by genuine grief or ancestral pride. If there were other players, they were masters of the craft, hiding behind the masks of their characters.
When the speech concluded, the brothers stepped forward. The silence was absolute.
Hashirama knelt by the casket. He placed his hand on the wood, and with a silent surge of will, his Mokuton responded.
A small, perfectly carved token of dark oak, shaped into the swirling Senju crest, grew directly from the lid of the coffin, merging with it. It was a silent promise: I will grow what you planted.
Tobirama followed, placing a small, polished whetstone, a symbol of the constant refinement and sharp intellect he brought to the clan's survival.
The burial was a ritual of the elements. Several Earth Style masters stepped forward, their hands weaving signs in perfect unison.
The ground beneath the casket softened and sighed, drawing Butsuma into the belly of the land, the soil closing over him as if he were being reabsorbed by the very territory he fought to protect.
As the crowd began to disperse into the shadows of the trees, Elder Genji approached the two brothers. His eyes, sharp as kunai despite his age, locked onto Hashirama.
"The mourning is necessary, but the clan cannot remain headless in a world of wolves."
Genji murmured.
"The Ritual of the Dominant Root will take place in six weeks. Prepare yourselves. Every high-level ninja of the bloodline is summoned. It is the law of our ancestors."
"We will be ready, Elder."
Hashirama replied, his voice steady.
Tobirama nodded sharply, and with a final, lingering look at the fresh earth, Genji departed.
"The Ritual of the Dominant Root."
Hashirama thought, a grim smile touching his mind. It was a brutal tradition: a gauntlet of one-on-one duels to determine the next leader. In a world where might was the only currency, the Senju ensured their leader was the strongest among them.
It was archaic, a relic of a more savage time, but in this era, it was the only way to command absolute loyalty.
"You should not be complacent, brother."
Tobirama said, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the elder disappear.
"Everyone knows you are the strongest, but ambition breeds desperation. Some of the elders have spent years grooming disciples specifically for this moment. They will not fight with honor alone; they will fight with every poison and trick they possess to seize the seat of power."
Hashirama let out a soft, genuine laugh, the sound slightly jarring in the quiet graveyard.
"I would expect nothing less from our kin, Tobirama. To lead the Senju, one must be able to weather any storm, whether it comes from the Uchiha or our own backyard."
Tobirama's lips quirked into a rare, ghost of a smile.
"And don't think I will hold back simply because we share a mother. If you show a single opening, I will take it."
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
Hashirama replied, then his expression turned curious.
"Tell me, how is the development of that new technique progressing? The one you intended for Izuna Uchiha?"
Tobirama's gaze sharpened, the tactical side of his brain instantly engaging.
"The formula for the marking is nearly stable, and the spatial displacement is instantaneous now. By the day of the ritual, the Flying Thunder God, the Hiraishin, will be ready. I will not let the Uchiha's speed be our downfall again."
Hashirama smiled. He knew the devastating potential of that jutsu. In the hands of his brother, and eventually the Fourth Hokage, it would become a legend that paralyzed entire armies.
"One more thing, Tobirama."
Hashirama added.
"I find my understanding of Fūinjutsu lacking compared to yours. I want to delve deeper into the sealing arts. Can you provide me with the advanced scrolls from the archive?"
Tobirama raised an eyebrow, surprised by the request.
"You usually prefer the directness of your Wood Release, but I suppose a leader should be versatile. I will have the scrolls delivered to your quarters by evening."
The brothers stood in silence for a moment longer, the weight of the future hanging between them. Nathan, now fully Hashirama, felt a surge of adrenaline that no neural chip in Solara could ever replicate.
He had a month and a half. A month to refine his Mokuton, to integrate his modern strategic mind with the primal power of the God of Shinobi, and to prepare for the political and physical warfare that was coming.
He would become the leader of the Senju. He would break the Uchiha. He would build the village.
He clenched his fist, feeling the immense, coiled energy of his chakra beneath his skin. In Solara, he was a failure. Here, he would be a God.
The ninja world was about to change, and it wouldn't even know what hit it.
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