Uchiha Makoto's question landed like a thrown kunai, sharp and unerring.
"Uzumaki Mito, you don't want to live like this forever, do you?"
The simple words pierced Mito's heart. A moment ago, they had been exchanging polite conversation—he had even gifted her a precious secret technique as a wedding present. And now this? An unexpected verbal assault.
Why? she wondered, stunned. Why attack me so suddenly, and with such cutting precision?
What was it that Tobirama liked to say about the Uchiha again?
Ah, yes: Naturally evil.
Mito swallowed hard, the atmosphere between them turning heavy. She hesitated, buying time. Only a few seconds passed, but each one stretched like years. A part of her longed to snap back with confidence—Of course I'm happy. Hashirama loves me with all his heart.
But reality had a cruel way of smothering pretty fantasies.
Deep down, Mito knew the truth she could never admit aloud: her husband, Senju Hashirama, still carried someone else in his heart. Maybe he always had.
Sometimes, in her most secret thoughts, Mito wondered: If Uchiha Madara had been a woman, would Hashirama have resisted?
Would he have stayed faithful to their marriage, to the delicate alliance between the Uzumaki and the Senju clans?
Or would he have thrown it all away for the chance to be with Madara?
The answer frightened her.
Because she wasn't sure.
Grateful—if that was even the right word—Mito often consoled herself with the fact that Madara was, undeniably, a man. At least that single truth kept her world from collapsing entirely.
She forced her mind back to the present.
For Konoha's sake, for her own dignity, she couldn't let the silence linger. She shaped her lips into a calm smile and answered, "Of course. I'm happy."
Makoto's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Ah, that's truly wonderful. I'm really envious of the affection between you two."
But his sharp gaze betrayed him. He had seen the strain behind her smile, the flicker of pain in her eyes.
He didn't believe a single word.
To him, this was just another display of a woman's fragile perseverance.
Makoto reflected on the legendary bond between Senju Hashirama and Uchiha Madara—sworn enemies turned lifelong companions. Childhood friends torn apart by clan wars, now reconciled as adults despite the weight of history.
What a story, he mused.
If only one of them had been a woman, their saga could have been the stuff of epic romance, a love strong enough to reshape the world. Instead, their partnership remained an intense, unbreakable camaraderie—one that left Mito on the sidelines.
Right now, Hashirama and Madara were likely enjoying a rare "honeymoon" phase of renewed friendship. If not for Tobirama's constant meddling, perhaps Madara would never have left Konoha at all.
Makoto's thoughts sharpened.
No wonder Mito's life at home is… difficult.
Especially her married life.
"Mito," he continued smoothly, "would you share how you and Hashirama usually get along? I'd love to learn from your experience as a couple. This is a rare opportunity."
His words were gentle, but they concealed a deeper strategy. Makoto wasn't prying out of idle curiosity. He had a larger plan—one that required someone exactly like Uzumaki Mito.
She was perfect: a powerful kunoichi of noble blood, highly respected in Konoha, yet quietly neglected by her husband. A woman of influence who had been forced into the shadow of domestic life.
If he could awaken her sense of independence, the fire that followed could spread through the entire village. And behind Mito, his own influence could seep into Konoha like ink through paper. Even Senju Tobirama would find it difficult to oppose a movement built on the ideals of women's rights and personal freedom.
Mito hesitated again, unsure how to respond. Secrets of a happy marriage?
If she truly possessed them, Hashirama wouldn't be slipping out to meet Madara without a word.
Still, she couldn't reveal the emptiness of her reality.
"Let me think… Well, I handle the housework every day. I cook and wait for Hashirama to return. No matter how busy he is, he always comes home to eat with me, and in the evenings we… talk."
The last words were almost an improvisation. Makoto, after all, had no way to verify them.
"Truly insightful," he said with mock reverence, then pivoted unexpectedly.
"Mito, do you usually handle all the housework yourself?"
She blinked. "Hmm? Yes. Is there a problem with that?"
"Quite a significant one." Makoto's voice grew firm. "That mindset belongs to the Warring States era. An exceptional kunoichi like you shouldn't be confined to household chores. The women of this new age should break free from those constraints, dedicate themselves to their careers, and contribute to the village throughout their lives."
His words struck a hidden chord. Mito's heart gave a startled thump.
Her days were monotonous—an endless cycle of cooking, cleaning, and waiting. The loneliness had grown so familiar she almost stopped noticing it.
Makoto pressed on, his voice rich with conviction.
"Break tradition. Find your true self. A great kunoichi does not exist merely to marry and bear children. To limit her to domestic tasks is a crime. Women should discover their own purpose, pursue excellence, and strengthen the village through their talents."
Each sentence poured into Mito like a warm, bracing drink.
She listened, rapt.
Was this really her life—days of quiet servitude while her husband's heart wandered elsewhere?
Was this the best she could hope for?
Makoto's words lit a spark she hadn't known she carried. She thought of her youth, when she was celebrated as the prodigy of the Uzumaki clan, fearless and strong. When had she become merely Hashirama's wife?
Her chest tightened, and a sudden clarity burned through her: I don't have to live like this.
Makoto saw the change in her eyes and pressed the advantage.
"The new era demands a new vision. Women like you—strong, intelligent, fearless—are meant to shape the future, not linger in the kitchen. You were once a legend, Mito. Why bury that brilliance?"
Her breath quickened. Memories of her younger self flashed before her: training under the vast Uzumaki sky, mastering seals no other could touch, standing equal to any warrior.
How far she had drifted.
"An excellent kunoichi," Makoto continued, "should never indulge in the low comfort of a life half-lived. You are meant for more."
Mito's pulse thundered. His words were more intoxicating than any sake. The thought of defying expectation, of reclaiming her identity, was almost dizzying.
Why am I doing all this? she asked herself. For the village? For the clan? For Hashirama?
What had she truly gained?
Hashirama, for all his kindness, rarely saw her efforts.
And his heart… perhaps it had always belonged elsewhere.
"Your insight is… remarkable," she murmured, her voice trembling with a mixture of awe and revelation.
Makoto smiled slightly. "Mito, you are an extraordinary woman. The future of kunoichi everywhere shines brighter because of those like you. The outdated customs of the past must be swept aside. With your example, others will follow."
A flush of warmth rose to her cheeks. His praise felt dangerous and exhilarating, like stepping too close to a roaring fire.
For the first time in years, she felt truly seen.
"You flatter me," she said softly, almost shy. "But… thank you. If not for this conversation, I might have remained… lost, forever."
And there it was—a subtle, profound shift.
Uzumaki Mito, once content to endure in silence, now looked beyond the narrow confines of her marriage and her prescribed role. The seed of rebellion had been planted, and it was already beginning to grow.
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