The return to the Senju compound was a funeral march masquerading as a homecoming. The jubilant cheers that should have greeted the safe return of their children were strangled in the throats of the clansmen. Instead, a heavy, suffocating silence lay over the fortified village, broken only by the hushed sobs of mothers clutching their rescued sons and daughters too tightly, and the low, furious murmurs of fathers whose shame was eclipsed only by their lingering terror.
Mito Uzumaki moved through the crowd like a ghost. Her usual regal composure, a hallmark of her lineage, was fractured. The vibrant crimson of her hair seemed dimmer, as if the memory of the blinding white light had leached its color. She held her head high, a princess's duty, but her hands, clasped tightly in front of her, betrayed a fine, constant tremor. It wasn't the fear of death that haunted her—the Uzumaki were weaned on stories of whirlpools and sea monsters, their spirits as resilient as their famed fuinjutsu. No, what unsettled her to her very core was the nature of the power that had saved her. It was not a jutsu. It was not a technique. It was an edict, a silent command issued to reality itself, and reality had obeyed, erasing twenty men from its fabric. That kind of absolute authority was something her soul, attuned to the complex seals that bound and shaped the world, could not easily process.
A small group of Senju children, their faces pale and smudged with dirt and tears, huddled near the main gate, too shaken to seek out their homes. They fell silent and parted like reeds before a current as four figures approached.
The eldest, Hashirama, was a boy whose unruly black hair and open face usually radiated a contagious, almost naive optimism. Today, that light was banked, his brow furrowed with a concern that seemed too old for his years. Beside him, Tobirama was a study in contrast—hair as white as bone, eyes the color of fresh blood, his sharp features set in their customary severe expression, though a flicker of intense curiosity burned within his analytical gaze. Bringing up the rear were the two youngest, Kawarama and Itama, their softer, gentler features pinched with an anxiety they couldn't fully comprehend.
"Mito," Hashirama said, his voice softer than usual, lacking its typical boisterous energy. He gestured with his head. "Come on. Let's get you inside."
It was an unspoken rule in the Senju clan, one enforced not by decree but by shared experience: you never, ever upset the Senju princess, Tōka. The consequences were swift, painful, and universally known as the "Senju Princess's Fist of Love." The mere sight of Hashirama, the clan heir, gently guiding Mito away was enough to quell any lingering chatter and send the other children scattering to their own families.
The walk to the main family residence was short and silent. As they approached the door, it slid open with a sharp shhh. Standing there was a girl of seven or eight Year Old, her dark hair cut in a practical bob, her hands on her hips. This was Tōka Senju. Her eyes, usually sparkling with mischievous energy, were now dark pools of worry. The moment she saw Mito, her stern posture melted. She rushed forward, her small hands reaching up to cup Mito's face, her thumbs gently stroking her cheeks.
"Mito," Tōka breathed, her voice laced with a rare vulnerability. "Are you alright? You're not hurt, are you? Tell me you're not hurt." Her gaze scanned Mito from head to toe, searching for any sign of injury.
Mito managed a small, shaky smile, placing her own hands over Tōka's. "I'm alright, Sister Tōka. Truly. I'm not hurt."
The reassurance was enough for Tōka's worry to swiftly transmute into a cold, simmering rage. Her jaw tightened. "Our own clansmen," she seethed, the words dripping with venom. "Filthy, honorless traitors. To kidnap their own kin… to threaten children…" She couldn't even finish the sentence, her small fists clenching at her sides.
Hashirama wisely said nothing, instinctively taking a half-step back. He had been on the receiving end of his elder sister's "affection" more times than he could count, usually after one of his idealistic but poorly thought-out pronouncements. He recognized the storm brewing behind her eyes and had no desire to be its lightning rod.
Tōka shepherded them all inside the quiet house. The familiar, warm space, usually a sanctuary, felt different now, the air still thick with the day's horrors. She turned her fierce gaze back to Mito, the anger giving way to a burning, insatiable curiosity.
Finally, she set the tea down with a little more force than necessary and fixed her gaze on Mito. The curiosity in her eyes now outweighed the rage. "Mito," she began, her voice carefully controlled. "The stories are already flying around the compound like crazed bats. They're calling him a dragon. A god. Tell me. Is the War God of the Uchiha… is he really that powerful?"
At the question, all four boys perked up. Hashirama's concern was edged with a strange, hopeful fascination. Tobirama's crimson eyes narrowed, his mind already whirring with calculations and tactical assessments. Even Kawarama and Itama leaned in, their fear momentarily overshadowed by the allure of the legendary figure.
Mito fell silent. Her gaze drifted to the middle distance, the scene at the riverbank replaying once more. The silence stretched, becoming uncomfortable.
Tobirama, impatient and ever the skeptic, broke it. "Sis, I'm sure whatever it was, it's being exaggerated. Those evil Uchiha, they rely on tricks and their cursed eyes. No single shinobi, not even Father, could—"
THWACK!
Tōka's fist connected with the top of Tobirama's head with a sound like a rock hitting a melon. "Shut up, Tobirama!" she snapped. "I wasn't asking for your opinion. I want to hear it from Mito, who was there." She rubbed her knuckles, glaring at her younger brother, who scowled and rubbed his sore head.
Mito's eyes refocused, shifting from the memory to Tōka's face. Her expression was unreadable, a mixture of awe and deep confusion.
"Sister Tōka," Mito said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Can you travel one hundred meters in half a millisecond?"
The question was so absurd, so outside the realm of any known shinobi capability, that it hung in the air, nonsensical.
Tobirama, still nursing his head, snorted. "That's impossible. The Body Flicker has its limits. The chakra expenditure, the physical strain… no one can travel that fast. The air friction alone would—"
Mito cut him off, her gaze still locked on Tōka. "The War God of the Uchiha… he traveled over a hundred meters, killed twenty kidnappers, and saved all thirty of us…" she paused, letting the immensity of the statement sink in, "...within two seconds."
A stunned silence swallowed the room. Hashirama's jaw had gone slack. Tobirama's analytical mind short-circuited, his objections dying before they could form. Kawarama and Itama just stared, their eyes like saucers. The feat was not just impossible; it was mythical.
Mito continued, her voice gaining a strange, rhythmic quality as she recalled the precise sequence. "He used some kind of swordsmanship I've never seen or heard of. Before he began, he inhaled… he inhaled a vast amount of air into his lungs, like he was drawing in the power of the world itself. And he said the name…"
She closed her eyes, picturing it perfectly, the words leaving her lips with ceremonial clarity. "Sun Breathing: Thirteenth Form. Hinokami Kagura: Celestial Star Exploding Strike."
The name, foreign and poetic, felt alien in the Senju household.
"I saw his movements," Mito whispered, her eyes still shut. "He moved like light itself. It was a sword dance… beautiful and terrible. He slashed every kidnapper with one perfect strike. And those who were slashed… they turned to ashes instantly. And then, even the ashes… they disappeared within a millisecond. As if they were never there at all."
CRASH.
The sound of shattering ceramic ripped through the silence. Tōka, who had been reaching for a cup of water, had frozen upon hearing the words "Sun Breathing." Her hand had gone limp, and the glass had slipped from her fingers, exploding on the wooden floor in a shower of fragments and water. She didn't even seem to notice. Her pupils were dilated, her face pale. Her breath hitched in her chest.
'Sun Breathing… Hinokami Kagura…'
The words echoed in her mind, not as foreign concepts, but as names from a deep, half-remembered dream. A dream of a world drenched in the blood of demons, of a boy with hanafuda earrings, of a dance passed down through generations to fight a primordial evil. A life that was not this one.
'No… it can't be. That was a story… a fantasy from before…'
Her mind raced, a torrent of confused thoughts and half-formed memories. The Breathing Techniques were supposed to be a secret art from another world, a world she had only known in fleeting, phantom glimpses. How could an Uchiha, in this world of chakra and clans, know them? And not just know them, but master a form she was sure had never existed in that other life—a thirteenth form? A Celestial Star?
She looked up, her composure utterly shattered, her voice a shaky whisper as she asked the question that now defined her entire reality.
"Who… who is this Uchiha Indra?" Her eyes were wide, filled with a terror and a curiosity that went far beyond the battlefield. "How… how can he perform Sun Breathing? A technique from the world of demon slayers…"
She stared at the shocked faces of her brothers and Mito, her next thought a silent, earth-shattering scream in the confines of her own skull.
'Is he… is he like me? A reincarnator?'
The mystery of the War God had just deepened into an abyss, and Tōka Senju felt herself standing on its very edge, staring into a past life that was no longer just her own.
[Sorry guy's i was have some work and my job was has free time but if work was coming it will be become hectic I will complete my work to 2 to 3 day's after that I will daily post 2 to 3 chapter's please understand my situation and please support me]
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