The battlefield was a canvas of controlled chaos, a masterpiece of deception painted with the blood of lesser clans and the earth-shattering power of its principal actors. To any observer—the trembling shinobi of the Nara, Akimichi, or Sarutobi clans watching from a safe, horrified distance—it was the apocalypse made manifest. The Uchiha and Senju, the gods of shinobi, were at each other's throats with a ferocity that promised the end of an era.
But for those in the know, it was a meticulously choreographed ballet. A lie, told on a grand scale, to deceive The Hardliner's who want war, for there's eye.
On the western flank, the air crackled with the scent of ozone and the sharp, clean smell of a lightning blade. Izuna Uchiha and Tobirama Senju moved in a blur of speed, their kenjutsu a deadly, hummingbird-fast exchange. Steel rang against steel, a violent, percussive music.
"Your footwork is as sluggish as your brother's idealism, Senju!" Izuna taunted, his voice a sharp counterpoint to the shriek of their clashing blades. He feinted high and swept low, his Uchiha katana aiming for Tobirama's ankles.
Tobirama, his expression perpetually carved from cold marble, didn't flinch. He pivoted on his heel, the movement so minimal and efficient it was barely perceptible. His own sword met Izuna's with a shower of sparks. "And your taunts are as predictable as the Uchiha propensity for emotional dramatics, Izuna. You've used that feint three times in the last hour. Are you running out of material, or just out of creativity?"
This was the façade. The insults were a ritual, a script they had honed over three years of this charade. Beneath the veneer of lethal intent, a grudging, razor-edged respect had blossomed into something resembling friendship. They were two brilliant minds, masters of their respective arts, and in their countless staged duels, they had found a unique intellectual stimulation. Tobirama admired Izuna's fluid, instinctual brilliance, a perfect counterpoint to his own methodical, analytical approach. Izuna, in turn, respected Tobirama's unshakeable calm and the terrifying, innovative genius that simmered beneath his stoic exterior.
They never used their full arsenal. Izuna's Mangekyo Sharingan remained dormant, its terrifying power to cast Tsukuyomi locked away. He saw no enemies here to enslave in an eternal nightmare. Tobirama's Flying Raijin, the space-time ninjutsu that could make him the deadliest assassin in the world, was similarly withheld. The specially marked kunai remained tucked in his pouch. This was not a fight to the death; it was, for them, an intense, high-stakes training session. They pushed each other to the brink, testing reflexes, refining techniques, and learning each other's rhythms so thoroughly that their movements had become a complex, intimate dialogue.
Meanwhile, at the center of the battlefield, the earth itself wept. This was where Hashirama and Madara clashed, and their duel was of a different magnitude entirely. If Izuna and Tobirama's fight was a deadly dance, theirs was a force of nature.
Massive pillars of dark wood, sculpted into humanoid forms with grasping hands, erupted from the ground at Hashirama's command. They were the Wood Human Technique, a forest of giants born to crush and consume. They thundered forward, their steps shaking the very foundations of the earth.
Against this arboreal onslaught, Madara stood unwavering, a demonic god painted in chakra. The skeletal ribs of his Susanoo materialized around him, deflecting the crushing blows of the wooden fists. With a roar that challenged the heavens, the skeleton fleshed out into a full-bodied warrior, clad in ethereal blue armor, wielding chakra blades that cleaved through the wooden titans like they were mere kindling.
"Is this all you have, Madara?" Hashirama's voice boomed, though a grin was hidden beneath his stern façade. "Your specter is impressive, but can it withstand the true power of life?" A massive dragon of twisted wood and vines shot from the ground, coiling around the Susanoo with crushing force.
"You speak of life, Hashirama, while you wield it as a weapon!" Madara retorted, his Sharingan spinning wildly, predicting the dragon's every constricting movement. His Susanoo strained, the chakra flaring as it began to break the wooden bonds. "Your hypocrisy is as vast as your forests!"
Their battle was ruthless, awe-inspiring, and terrifyingly genuine in its display of power. The shockwaves from their clashes flattened trees for miles, and the sky above them swirled with conflicting pressures. Yet, even here, in this cataclysm, there was an unspoken pact. Hashirama never summoned his ultimate technique, the Thousand-Armed Kannon, a statue of such divine wrath it could level nations. Madara, in turn, held back the full, complete form of his Susanoo and the other, darker tricks he had begun to cultivate in secret. They fought with the fury of madmen, but it was a controlled madness, a performance for an audience of one they knew was watching from the shadows. They were two titans pulling their punches, ensuring the play continued without accidentally destroying the stage.
And watching it all, from a vantage point on a raised Senju earthwork, was Toka Senju. Her arms were crossed, her sharp, intelligent eyes missing nothing. To the casual observer, she was the cold, calculating Senju kunoichi, overseeing the clan's interests. In reality, she was the director of this entire production, and her focus was razor-sharp.
Her gaze flickered between the two duels, but it spent most of its time locked on Izuna and Tobirama. In her mind, a complex tactical map was constantly updating.
Madara and Hashirama are at it again, she thought, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. All sound and fury, signifying nothing. Their 'epic' clash is full of more holes than a Nara fishing net. Hashirama left his right flank open for a full three seconds during that last exchange. Madara's Susanoo stabilization is a quarter-second slower than it was last week—he's distracted, probably thinking about that new irrigation system he wants to argue with Hashirama about later. They fight like over-excited puppies and kittens, all show and no real intent to maim.
Her true concern was the western flank. Her orders from Indra were absolute, and her own burgeoning loyalty to her Husband this fragile, secret alliance had cemented her resolve. Izuna Uchiha would not die. Not today. Not ever, if she could help it.
Her advocacy mind, trained to see loopholes, contingencies, and hidden clauses, was in overdrive. She had not simply taken Indra's command at face value; she had deconstructed it, analyzed every possible failure point, and built a defensive strategy of breathtaking complexity.
Her Plan for Protection was multi-layered:
The Genjutsu Net: This was her primary tool. She had woven a subtle, wide-area genjutsu over the entire western flank, a masterpiece of sensory manipulation. It didn't affect the combatants directly, but it subtly altered the perception of the terrain for anyone with hostile intent watching from the outside. A small dip in the ground would appear shallower, a rock that could provide cover would seem insignificant, a line of sight would be minutely distorted. It was a low-chakra, high-skill technique designed to frustrate and misdirect any external assassin, forcing them to recalculate their approach and buy her precious seconds.
The Triangulated Response: She had mentally divided the battlefield into zones. She knew Tobirama's and Izuna's exact positions at all times. She had pre-calculated the angle and force needed for a Water Style or Genjutsu intervention for every square meter of their duel ground. If a threat emerged from point A, her counter would come from angle B with force C. It was a cold, mathematical equation for preserving life.
The De-escalation Protocol: She had secretly drilled with Tobirama. They had established a set of non-verbal cues—a specific flick of his wrist, a slight change in the rhythm of his footwork—that would signal a genuine, external threat. Upon seeing this, her role shifted from observer to active protector. Her first move would always be to create a barrier or a diversion to separate Izuna and Tobirama from the threat, not to engage the threat directly. Her goal was preservation, not elimination.
The "Friendly Fire" Contingency: This was the most delicate part of her plan. She had observed Tobirama for years. She knew his tells, the microscopic tightening around his eyes that meant he was about to commit to a lethal strike. She was prepared. A split second before he could land such a blow—whether by accident, instinct, or manipulation—a perfectly timed, sensory-disrupting genjutsu would wash over him, just enough to make him miss his mark. She had done it once before, two years ago, and he had never even realized it. He'd simply attributed it to a moment of uncharacteristic clumsiness on his part and Izuna's exceptional luck.
"Keep the rhythm, you two!" she called out, her voice cutting through the Mind of the central battle. Telepathy She learned from her own System Her tone was sharp, commander-like. "Don't get sloppy! Tobirama, your water clones are dispersing too early, you're wasting chakra! Izuna, your fireball's heat signature is off by ten degrees; you're getting predictable!"
Her words were criticism, but their effect was coordination. It reminded them they were being watched, that they were part of a larger plan. It kept them sharp and within the boundaries of their script.
Yet, despite all her planning, despite the flawless execution of the charade around her, a cold, familiar dread had begun to coil in the pit of her stomach. It had started as a faint prickle at the back of her neck hours ago and had now grown into a persistent, icy whisper.
It was her intuition, a sense she had learned to trust implicitly. But this was more than just a kunoichi's instinct. This feeling was intertwined with the ghost of another life, with memories of watching a bright, flickering screen in a world of strange comforts.
John… Indra… she thought, the name a silent prayer. We saw the story. We saw the script. Izuna falls. The Eternal Mangekyo is born. Madara is set on his path.
Her advocate's mind, which usually dealt in facts and evidence, was now wrestling with the phantom evidence of a future that might not come to pass. The sensation was like knowing the verdict of a trial before the final witness had even testified. It was a profound, disorienting certainty that the timeline was pressing in, seeking to correct itself.
Something is here, she realized, her eyes scanning the treeline beyond the battlefield with renewed intensity. The genjutsu net she had woven felt… pressured. Not broken, but like a spiderweb with a heavy fly struggling in its strands. There was a dissonance in the air, a wrongness that her chakra senses could feel but not yet pinpoint.
Her memories of the anime provided the context, the who, but not the when or the how. Black Zetsu. The conniving, ancient will of Kaguya Otsutsuki. He was the puppet master. He needed Izuna dead. For three years, he had been stymied. He must be growing desperate. A desperate enemy is an unpredictable one.
He won't rely on Tobirama anymore, she deduced, her mind racing. He knows I'm watching that vector. He'll try something else. Something we won't expect. A third party? A trap? A manipulated ally?
She subtly shifted her stance, her fingers twitching, ready to form seals. She tuned out the grand spectacle of Hashirama and Madara completely. Their battle was noise. The real threat was silent, patient, and moving in the shadows at the edge of her perception.
"Izuna, Tobirama, close the distance!" she commanded, her voice losing its feigned irritation and gaining an edge of genuine urgency in Telepathy it will Only Hered by Tobirama and Izuna. "Stop giving the shadows so much room to breathe!"
Both men, sensing the subtle shift in her tone, immediately complied. Their duel condensed, becoming a whirlwind of close-quarters swordplay, making it harder for any external force to intervene without hitting both of them.
Toka's heart hammered against her ribs. The feeling was intensifying. It was a pressure building in the air, the calm before the storm. Her plan was in place, her skills were honed, and her resolve was steel. But the enemy was ancient, patient, and utterly committed. He had planned for millennia. She had planned for three years.
The stage was set. The puppets danced their careful dance. The puppet master in the shadows was finally making his move. And the director, armed with foreknowledge and a fierce, protective love for the future She and Her Husband-from-another-world had seen this, stood ready to rewrite the ending. The battle for Izuna Uchiha's life, and for the soul of the future itself, was about to begin.
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