The world twisted as chakra thundered through the earth. A colossal wooden dragon—longer than a city block and coiled like a serpent—glided over the shattered wasteland. Its scales shimmered with living growth and green light, each pulse echoing the heartbeat of primordial forests. Beneath each plate, roots wove like veins of the world itself made visible.
Upon the dragon's mighty brow stood two figures eternal in legend yet lost to time: Madara Uchiha, his posture proud and wind-whipped, long black hair streaming like a war banner; and Hashirama Senju, calm smile tempered with the gravity of gods, his crimson armor reflecting the dying light of an ashen sun struggling to pierce the toxic haze of a ruined sky.
The land beneath them was a graveyard of history—cracked earth stretching to the horizon, fissures running for miles like unhealed wounds. Once Villages lay flattened into patterns of rubble and glass. Even the sky looked poisoned, heavy clouds sagging under the residue of chakra that had torn at reality itself. This was not the world either man had built—it was something reborn and corrupted, shaped by powers their age had never known.
Madara's red armor gleamed against the bleakness, catching flickers of firelight from the distant burning plains. The air was thick with the metallic tang of chakra decay. His Sharingan glowed like molten coals, the tomoe spinning slowly as he scanned the horizon—ever calculating, ever hungry. There, in the distance, space itself wavered, distorting like heat haze but far more unnatural.
Madara's voice, low and iron-edged, broke the silence."Heh. It's been too long since the earth trembled for a real battle. Tell me, Hashirama—did our descendants grow so weak that they had to summon the dead to fix their failures?"
It was more than mockery. It was the lament of a warrior who'd given everything to shape a world that no longer remembered how to fight.
Hashirama's laugh came warm and rich, the sound of rivers cutting through old stone. "You're smiling already, Madara. Don't tell me you're not enjoying it—a battlefield where the stakes actually matter."
Despite himself, Madara's lips curved into a predator's grin. "Happy? No. But alive, perhaps. A world emptied of weakness… now that's worth fighting in."
Beneath them, the wooden dragon rumbled, descending toward their destination—a vast dome of chakra that shimmered like an enormous bubble, iridescent under the sickly light. The barrier stretched for nearly a mile, its surface rippling with seals so complex they seemed to breathe.
Outside the dome floated four crimson-cloaked figures, motionless as statues, suspended by an energy that defied gravity. Their eyes spun with shifting geometric patterns that hurt to look at—shapes that changed meaning with every blink.
Hashirama leaned forward, placing a hand on the dragon's brow. "Looks like our welcoming party's ready. You never do attract simple enemies, do you?"
Madara's Sharingan flared brighter. "I'll take them on."
Before Hashirama could reply, Madara vanished upward in a blur, chakra crackling in the sky like a thunderstorm being born.
"Susanoo!"
The word carried the weight of ancient law. Azure flames erupted around him, forming a skeletal giant that rapidly solidified—bones, sinew, armor, and at last the divine eyes of a war god. The colossal blade it wielded shimmered like a fragment of the heavens, so sharp it bent light.
Madara's laughter rolled across the battlefield. "You four—don't bore me! I've made gods kneel before my Blade!"
The Susanoo's blade cleaved downward, a blow that split clouds and carved fissures across the wasteland. The shockwave rippled for miles.
Infront of the dome like barrier, one of the red-cloaked figures—slender, long-haired, her every motion steeped in lethal grace—stepped forward. She unsheathed a narrow sword, the blade exuding a condensed darkness so sharp it cut light itself, Sending a slash of darkness towards the incoming attack.
The two forces met in utter silence.
No explosion, no roar—just the death of sound. Space buckled where the attacks collided, folding into a singularity that devoured light and meaning. Then, with a crack like shattering glass, the world snapped back into place. Both stood suspended—equal, unyielding.
Hashirama's voice carried amusement. "Oi, Madara! Your opponent doesn't seem impressed. Want a hand?"
"Shut it, Hashirama!" Madara barked, exhilaration gleaming in his eyes. "This one's mine."
He dove again, Susanoo's wings cutting through the toxic clouds, each flap creating shockwaves that flattened the ruined ground.
Below, Hashirama observed with a small smile. "You never change, old friend. Always first into chaos."
"And you," Madara roared back between blows, "always lecture instead of fighting!"
Their banter echoed even as Susanoo clashed again with the woman's impossible blade. Sparks cascaded like meteor showers.
Behind her, the other three crimson figures began forming seals faster than mortal eyes could follow. Energy gathered—dark, cold, geometric. The dome flickered, its surface crawling with symbols that shifted when viewed from different angles. A deep hum resonated through the air, bypassing sound and vibrating in the bones of all who heard it.
From the ground, dark tendrils rose like serpents, wrapping around Susanoo's legs, trying to anchor the giant.
Hashirama moved instantly, hands forming seals."Wood Release: Deep Forest Emergence!"
The ground split as titanic trees erupted upward, each trunk wider than towers, branches spiraling like arms of ancient gods. The forest surged toward the cloaked enemies, its roots hungering to crush.
Madara scoffed. "Still trying to cage the world with trees, Hashirama?"
"And you," Hashirama called back with a grin, "still burning everything you don't understand."
But their foes adapted. The woman's blade moved through higher dimensions, slicing through wood and chakra constructs like mist. Her companions' chanting deepened, creating a storm of symbols that warped space around them.
Then she spoke."Remnants of a failed age. Return to the void and make way for the new world."
Her words bent the air itself—an authority born of something beyond chakra.
Madara's Sharingan spun faster, the crimson whirl tightening. "Show me your new world," he growled, "and I'll show you what it means to lose everything."
One of her companions locked eyes with him—and his pupils changed. Red tomoe bloomed, perfectly replicating Madara's Sharingan. The figure mirrored his movements, hand for hand, seal for seal.
A second Susanoo began to form—identical in every way.
Hashirama's face hardened. "They can mirror even the essence of jutsu. Technique for technique… will for will."
Madara snarled. "Then let's see if your imitation can bleed."
The twin titans collided. Every movement, every strike, mirrored flawlessly. Each clash split the ground further, the shockwaves rewriting the landscape into canyons of molten stone.
Hashirama drew on the world itself. "Wood Release: Thousand Hand Vortex!"
Behind him, a mountain of wooden arms rose from the earth, spiraling into a living storm. The pressure distorted the air, creating new weather systems in seconds.
But the enemy leader raised her sword. It elongated beyond the physical, becoming the concept of cutting itself. She swung once.
Reality divided.
The thousand arms were severed cleanly, dissected precisely. The unleashed chakra tore open colors that didn't exist and sounds that resonated in bone. Mountains cracked miles away.
Hashirama's colossal forest collapsed, splintering into shards that rained down like snow burning.
Madara steadied his titan, eyes wide not with fear—but awe. "Finally," he whispered, trembling with exhilaration. "A blade worthy of my hatred!"
Susanoo roared again, and the duel resumed—sword against sword, each blow shaking the dome to its foundations.
Hashirama unleashed True Several Thousand Hands, the Buddha-like avatar towering like a living mountain, its sheer presence bending gravity. The air turned gold as divine energy radiated outward, healing the scorched earth even as it prepared to destroy.
Thousands of hands descended—but the woman stepped through folded space, her sword spinning in a circle. The colossal attack met an invisible barrier and was redirected, its energy inverted against itself. The Buddha cracked under its own unleashed might.
Her voice resounded, crystalline and merciless."Your age of war is over. Return to dust, and let a purer world take root."
The words hit like commandments.
Madara's laughter was defiant like a thunder flash. "You'll need more than sermons to erase me!"
His Susanoo swung in one final, devastating arc, a strike meant to split heaven and earth. The mirrored Susanoo matched it perfectly. Both blades met and froze—equal in amount of force both carrying.
The clash silenced the battlefield. Even the air seemed afraid to move.
Above them, the chakra dome began to crack, lines of white light racing across its surface as reality strained under the pressure. Time wavered, flickering between past and future, between the old world and whatever this was becoming.
Hashirama stood on his dragon, battered but unbowed. His voice was soft, filled with both respect and melancholy. "It seems, Madara… even legends have limits. Perhaps the world no longer needs gods like us."
The final shockwave rolled through the dome, breaking it apart in a cascade of light and sound that shook the horizon.
When the dust settled, the battlefield was frozen—a portrait of divine struggle. Madara and Hashirama still stood, proud and defiant, facing the unbroken silhouettes of their enemies, whose eyes spun with geometric patterns mysterious that defied comprehension.
Somewhere in the distance, the echoes of their battle rippled through dimensions unseen—past, present, and future trembling at the edges.