Raizen rode silently atop the giant clay bird, eyes fixed on the endless blue sky, his mind turning over everything that had happened. Before he knew it, the bird had carried him to a familiar river—the same place where he had first met Madara and Hashirama.
Landing softly on the riverbank, Raizen picked up a flat stone and flicked it across the water. And missed. Then missed again. And again. His irritation flared; maybe he just needed something to blame, and today, gravity happened to be the culprit.
"Raizen?"
A voice came from behind him. Turning, he saw a boy with a rounded, bowl-like haircut—Hashirama—walking slowly toward the water. Raizen muttered under his breath.
"Hashirama."
He returned to skipping stones—or trying to—channeling frustration into every throw. Hashirama, for reasons Raizen couldn't guess, was unusually quiet. He sat down cross-legged beside the river and buried his face in his knees.
The two of them sat like that for nearly ten minutes, each sinking into their own thoughts. Then another sound rustled the trees. A boy with wild, spiky hair—Madara—stepped out of the woods.
His eyes lit up when he saw them. "Hah! Didn't expect to run into you two here!"
He stood there waiting for a reaction. And waited. And… nothing. Raizen and Hashirama didn't respond.
Madara's grin faltered. His brow creased, and he finally shouted, "Hey! Ignoring someone is rude, you know!"
Still, neither moved.
Confused now, Madara stepped closer. Raizen's expression remained blank. Hashirama stayed hunched over.
"What's going on? Why do you both look like that? Did something happen?" Madara asked, voice more cautious now.
"I'm fine. Nothing happened," Hashirama said, voice muffled.
"Come on. You're crying. Who are you trying to fool? Tell us what happened."
"It's nothing…"
"Don't give me that! Just say it!"
"No, really—"
Madara snapped. "Enough! Just talk already!"
Hashirama finally lifted his head. Tears streaked down his face.
"My brother… is dead."
The river flowed quietly behind him, its sound heavy in the stillness.
"I came here because… when I look at this river, it feels like maybe the sadness will wash away. Madara… Raizen… you get it, right?"
Madara turned to the river too, his voice low.
"I had five brothers. All of them died in this war."
Hashirama's grief softened into understanding. Nothing needed to be explained—they both knew the same kind of pain.
"And you, Raizen?" Hashirama asked.
Raizen's gaze remained fixed on the water.
"I have no blood brothers. But last night, the Ueshi clan ambushed the Amamiya estate. One of our elders… and a young clansman… died."
His tone was flat. Not emotionless, but worn.
"In the Warring States era, death is everywhere. A shinobi never knows when it's coming. If there's any immortality, it's facing the battlefield with your eyes open. But honesty?" Raizen scoffed softly. "In a world of clans tearing each other apart, trust is the first thing to die."
Madara's hands clenched. He had watched his family vanish one brother at a time. Peace felt like something only children believed in.
"Is it really impossible… to trust each other?" Hashirama asked quietly.
No one answered.
Only the river did—flowing, steady, uncaring.