The Senju council chamber had never felt so tense.
A storm of unease crackled through the air like chakra before a clash. Elders, commanders, and advisors filled the long hall, their voices a mixture of whispers and sharp declarations. The events at Kawa-no-Mura had left behind more than just smoldering rubble—it had split the heart of the Senju clan.
Hashirama stood at the front of the room, flanked by Tobirama and a few senior officers. The Hokage's mantle did not yet rest on his shoulders, but the weight of leadership pressed heavily against him. To his side, Itama stood calmly, hands behind his back, his expression unreadable.
At the center of it all, one question threatened to unravel generations of conviction:
Can the Uchiha be trusted?
"Ridiculous," growled Elder Homura, slamming his palm on the arm of his seat. "This clan has spilled more Senju blood than any other. You would have us believe one act of mercy makes them redeemable?"
"It wasn't just mercy," Itama answered. "It was action. Izuna Uchiha didn't just hesitate—he chose to save lives. He put out fires, carried wounded. That wasn't theater. It was conviction."
Tobirama scoffed from his position near the wall. "Conviction is forged by loyalty. Loyalty to clan, not outsiders. If he had any true change of heart, he would have brought reparations—or better yet, turned on the rogue himself."
"He arrived after the rogue had fled," Itama replied, tone neutral. "He couldn't undo what was done. But he didn't stand idle, either."
A younger shinobi stood from the far left side of the hall—Captain Masaki, a sharp-eyed officer barely older than Itama. "With respect, Lord Tobirama, I was there. I saw what Lord Itama saw. Izuna helped us. That should count for something."
"Something?" a gray-bearded elder spat. "You give credit to a killer for choosing not to kill again?"
Hashirama raised his hand. The murmurs died immediately.
"The world is changing," he said quietly, though his voice carried. "It is no longer enough to rely solely on the sins of the past. If we continue to answer hatred with hatred, what legacy do we build?"
A silence followed—thick, uncertain.
Elder Setsuna, one of the oldest surviving council members, leaned forward. His voice was slow, cracked with age, but every word struck like a bell.
"I have buried three sons. All taken by Uchiha blades. I carry no love for that clan. But I remember a time when we were not so different. When our wars were about survival—not vengeance. If what Itama says is true… then perhaps it is time we look harder at our own hearts as well."
His words rippled through the chamber.
"Izuna is not Madara," Itama said. "And not every Uchiha shares Madara's hunger for domination. If there's a chance—even a sliver—that cooperation is possible, then we have a duty to explore it. Peace won't fall into our laps. We have to build it. And that begins with seeing our enemies as human."
Tobirama's eyes flashed, but he said nothing yet.
One of the mid-ranked strategists, Lady Enko, rose from the circle of councilors. "We risk everything by lowering our guard. The Uchiha are cunning, and this 'mercy' could be nothing more than strategy. They've always used emotion as a weapon."
"They've also lost loved ones, just as we have," Itama said. "Don't confuse emotion with weakness."
"You speak like one of them," Enko snapped.
"I speak like someone who has seen enough blood."
The chamber broke into sharp argument. Voices rose—some in defense of Itama's report, others damning the Uchiha, still more uncertain. The air was thick with division, the wound of war still fresh across too many lives.
Hashirama said nothing for a long time. He looked out across the crowd, scanning the faces of his clan. So many had fought beside him. So many had buried family.
And yet—it was clear.
The clan was splitting.
At last, Tobirama stepped forward. "Let us speak plainly. Itama's words are well-intentioned. But intention does not erase consequence. The Uchiha do not deserve blind trust. We would be fools to forget who we're dealing with."
Hashirama turned to his brother. "And yet we cannot dismiss every sign of hope. If we do, we are no better than those who profit from war."
"There is a difference between hope and delusion," Tobirama said coldly. "You see a glimpse of humanity and assume it represents a whole people. That's a dangerous gamble, Brother."
Another voice rose—a civilian leader from the agricultural district. "But the young see things differently. They grow tired of battle. Our fields are full of graves instead of crops. If peace is even remotely possible, we must try."
An elder commander growled, "And what happens when they stab us in the back during peace talks?"
More murmurs, louder this time. Sides were forming.
"Enough," Hashirama called, and the noise fell again.
He looked to Itama. "Your testimony has shaken this hall, Brother. Whether they believe you or not, you've forced us to think. That is no small feat."
Itama inclined his head. "My goal was never to divide us. Only to challenge us. If we allow pain to blind us, we'll never heal."
Tobirama's gaze lingered, cold and unreadable. "Words like yours are what get people killed. Don't forget that."
"I haven't," Itama answered, eyes steady. "I remember every face I couldn't save. That's why I speak."
As the council session adjourned, the leaders dispersed in quiet pairs and triads. Some shook their heads. Others wore expressions of deep contemplation. The fracture lines were forming—not just about the Uchiha, but about the very direction of the Senju clan.
In the corridor outside, Hashirama paused beside Itama.
"You've sparked something, Brother," he said.
"I only said what needed to be said."
"And it may cost us dearly," Hashirama murmured. "But perhaps that's the price of change."
They walked on.
Behind them, the Senju council—once unified in purpose—now stood at a crossroads, uncertain whether to cling to old blood or reach toward fragile peace.
And for the first time in years, the path forward was no longer clear.