"Ah… Raizen, can you believe it? It's been two years since we last saw each other."
The watermelon-headed boy—Hashirama Senju—turned toward Raizen, smiling warmly. Ever since they had met in that tiny village, the old grudges between them had dissolved. Both had realized that peace was the only sane option, and in that understanding, former enemies became tentative friends.
"So… you're Hashirama, huh?" Madara asked, blinking in surprise. She hadn't expected Raizen to know the watermelon-headed boy.
Hashirama grinned. "Yeah, I'm Hashirama… though, for some reason, I can't really say my family name."
Madara's cheeks puffed slightly. "Huh, I'm Madara. And for some reason, I can't say my last name either!" She eyed him like he was a pirated version of Hashirama, and her scowl softened only slightly.
Raizen cleared his throat, unimpressed by their awkward introductions. "I'm Raizen. And for some reason… my last name stays a secret too."
The two youngsters stared at him like he'd sprouted a second head, faces full of confusion and barely concealed contempt. Raizen smirked, watching them flail, and quietly picked up a flat river stone, hoping to redirect their attention.
It worked. As their eyes followed his throw, Raizen felt the old thrill of the game—the stone skimming across the water with three crisp pops before sinking on the far side.
"Ha! As expected of Raizen," Hashirama exclaimed. "Second try and you nailed it. Now only Madara's left behind."
"I'll get it this time!" Madara huffed, glaring. She bent down, grabbed a flat stone, and assumed a classic shuriken-throwing stance before flinging it toward the river.
Hashirama froze mid-thought. Shuriken stance… so she's a ninja too.
But as Madara's stone bounced across the water, it faltered and plopped into the river before reaching the opposite bank. Her mouth twitched in disbelief.
"You two bastards! You were deliberately distracting me! I'm extremely sensitive—someone standing behind me and I can't even—" She jabbed a finger at them furiously, though her words trailed off in frustration.
Raizen merely raised an eyebrow, watching her indignation unfold. Hashirama went even further: he flopped onto the ground, knees bent, head drooping like a wilted leaf, and mumbled, "Yes… I'm sorry!"
Madara's anger flared, then softened as she saw Hashirama's exaggerated apology. "No, no! You don't have to grovel so much. Honestly… part of this was my fault too."
Hashirama's voice sank lower. "I influenced you, so you didn't get the stone across. My bad."
Raizen laughed aloud, the sound echoing across the river.
Madara's eyes nearly popped. "You really have the nerve!" she shouted at Hashirama, shaking her fist.
"Whatever. My stone-skipping skill still beats yours!" Hashirama declared, springing to his feet and striking a triumphant pose.
Madara frowned, glaring daggers, ready to pounce at the slightest insult. Raizen sighed quietly, shaking his head at their squabble.
This playful clash—stones skipping across a river, egos bruised and reputations slightly dented—was a microcosm of the coming era. The great age of the Warring States had begun, but this wasn't just the Warring States of clans and battlefields—it was the Warring States of Madara and Hashirama, born from rivalry, camaraderie, and the endless push of ninja wills.