Uzumaki Mito—Senju Hashirama Must Love You with All His Heart, Right?
The tension in the reception room hung like a faint mist. A few moments earlier, Uzumaki Mito had allowed her emotions to slip into her words, questioning Kage-sama's motives. Now, realizing how her comment might have sounded, she drew a quiet breath and softened her tone.
"I misspoke," she admitted, bowing her head with a faint, dignified nod. Her crimson hair caught the light like a slow-burning flame. "Please forgive me."
Vortex Shinji gave a soft hum of acknowledgment. "Mm," he replied, neither reproachful nor indulgent. He understood her well enough to know she had not meant harm. "Still," he added, his eyes sharpening with a caution born of diplomacy, "remember that even careless words can travel farther than we intend."
He stepped closer, his voice low so the guards outside could not overhear. "It's one thing to speak doubts in private, Mito, but if the Kage himself hears anything that sounds like distrust, the alliance between the Uzumaki clan and the Akatsuki Ninja Village could suffer."
Mito inclined her head again, accepting the reminder. "You're right. I understand."
With that, she turned toward the door. When she slid it open, a breeze carried the faint scent of ink and fresh parchment from the corridor. Kazuma, the quiet attendant, waited outside. He bowed respectfully and gestured down the hall. "Mito-sama, Lord Uchiha is ready to receive you."
Mito followed him through the wooden hallway, each step as measured as a temple bell. Despite her years—years that would have weighed heavily on most shinobi—her movements remained graceful and assured.
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Uchiha Makoto looked up the moment the door opened. His dark eyes, sharp as a hawk's yet warm with courtesy, immediately brightened. He rose from behind his desk in a fluid motion and inclined his head in greeting.
"Mito-sama," he said with a smile, "I did not expect Konoha to send you personally. It is an honor."
Mito's lips curved in a polite smile. "Tobirama is consumed with village matters, and as for Hashirama—" she paused, a flicker of amusement crossing her eyes—"he and Madara are away on a mission together. So the task fell to me."
Makoto nodded and extended his arm toward the seating area. "Then I am twice honored. Please, have a seat."
They settled into low chairs across a lacquered table. A pot of fragrant tea steamed gently between them. The initial formalities gave way to easier conversation, and soon the room felt warmer, almost domestic.
Makoto studied her for a moment, then spoke with genuine admiration. "Mito-sama, forgive my boldness, but you look no different from a sixteen-year-old girl. I can hardly believe how radiant you remain. Is there some secret to your youth?"
Mito let out a soft laugh, melodic as falling water. "You flatter me, Lord Makoto."
But Makoto was not exaggerating. Though she had lived far beyond the years most shinobi could hope for, time had left no mark on her face. Instead, her maturity lent her an elegant charm—an ageless beauty that seemed to glow from within. Perhaps, Makoto thought, she had already mastered the Yin Seal, a legendary technique whispered to preserve one's vitality.
The thought stirred a spark of envy—and ambition. If she truly possesses the Yin Seal… Tsubaki Shizuku must have it as well. I can't let Senju Hashirama be the only one to enjoy such blessings.
Aloud, he said lightly, "If there is such a secret, Mito-sama, perhaps you might teach it to Tsubaki Shizuku. A woman's beauty is, after all, her most precious treasure."
Mito raised a graceful brow, an amused gleam in her eyes. "Ah… it seems Kage-sama cares very much for this Tsubaki Shizuku."
Makoto seized the opportunity to play his part. "Indeed," he said without hesitation, his tone warm and earnest. "From the moment I first laid eyes on her, I knew she was the one. Now I am fortunate enough to call her my wife. Naturally, I wish to give her the finest wedding gift I can."
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady. "If you truly possess such a technique, Mito-sama, I would gladly offer any price for it."
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Mito's face—surprise, perhaps even a touch of envy she did not wish to admit. She did not know this Tsubaki Shizuku, yet the way Makoto spoke of her stirred an inexplicable pang. Why should another woman receive such devoted love, while I…
But she pushed the thought aside.
"There is no need for payment," Mito said after a moment, her voice gentle but resolute. "Among the Uzumaki, we have a technique known as the Yin Seal. It is still in its early form, but it draws near to what you describe—preserving youth and storing vast reserves of chakra. Consider it my wedding gift to your bride, from an elder to a younger of our clan."
Makoto allowed a flash of delight to reach his eyes. "Mito-sama, your generosity humbles me. Thank you."
He had not expected the fabled technique to fall into his hands so easily. Even in prototype, it was a treasure: the hardest step in any jutsu's creation was the leap from nothing to existence. With Mito's blueprint, Tsubaki—and his research team—could refine it into perfection.
Mito inclined her head gracefully. "It is but a small thing," she said. Yet she found herself curious. "Tell me, Lord Makoto… what bride price did you present for this marriage? I have heard whispers of a staggering sum."
Makoto smiled, unabashed. "Three point six eight billion ryō," he said with quiet pride. "A figure that reflects not only the sincerity of the Akatsuki Ninja Village in our alliance with the Uzumaki clan, but also my own devotion to Tsubaki Shizuku. Money, after all, is the simplest way to prove one's heart."
The number made Mito's eyes widen, though she quickly masked her surprise behind a composed smile. "An astonishing gift indeed," she murmured.
Makoto's voice softened, almost conspiratorial. "I have already delivered the amount to the Uzumaki elders. It is both an alliance offering and a token of my love."
He knew well how to perform for his audience. In truth, his feelings for Tsubaki were still young, more desire than love. But Mito seemed to respond to the image of a steadfast husband, and if her opinion of him grew favorable, it could only benefit Akatsuki.
After all, when Senju Hashirama eventually passed on, power in Konoha would shift to Tobirama—a man whose mistrust of the Uchiha and suspicion of outsiders was legend. Winning Mito's goodwill now might one day shield his village from Tobirama's schemes.
Mito regarded him in silence for a long moment. "How enviable," she said softly at last, though her smile did not quite reach her eyes.
I am the Hokage's wife, she thought, a trace of bitterness slipping through. The so-called noblest woman in all Konoha, perhaps in the entire shinobi world. Yet even with all Hashirama's affection, I have never known such single-minded devotion…
Makoto, sensing the faint melancholy behind her composure, met her gaze. "A good woman like you, Mito-sama," he said gently, "surely Hashirama-sama must love you with all his heart."
For the briefest instant, something flickered in Mito's expression—surprise, longing, perhaps the faintest wound—but she quickly looked away, hiding whatever emotion threatened to surface.
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Later, when their meeting concluded and Mito prepared to depart, Makoto walked her to the door. The late afternoon sun painted the corridor in amber light, gilding the edges of her hair. They exchanged a final, courteous farewell.
"May our clans grow ever stronger together," Makoto said.
"Indeed," Mito replied, her voice calm but thoughtful.
As her footsteps faded down the hall, Makoto allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. He had gained far more than he expected: the goodwill of the Uzumaki matriarch, the beginnings of the Yin Seal technique, and perhaps a subtle ally within Konoha's highest circles.
Far away, Mito stepped into the quiet dusk, the cool air brushing against her ageless skin. She could not entirely shake the echo of Makoto's words. Hashirama must love you with all his heart…
Did he? She wanted to believe so. Yet the question lingered like a shadow, delicate and persistent, as the evening wind carried her home.
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