Funeral

Hashirama Senju had just seen off the allies from other clans who had come to pay their respects when he sensed something amiss in the direction of the side entrance. He pushed his way through the crowd behind the mourning hall.

The wide sleeve of his coarse mourning robes brushed the white chrysanthemums arranged along the edge of the altar, sending two or three yellow-centered, white-petaled flowers tumbling onto the blue-gray floor tiles.

He crossed the distance in a few strides, placing himself squarely between Tobirama and the unfamiliar noblewoman.

He took a protective stance in front of his younger brother, his body casting a shadow over both Utsusemi and the young guard behind her.

The new Senju Tribe head, who usually wore a cheerful smile, now had his brow furrowed.

His dark eyes narrowed, but his gaze did not settle on the breathtakingly beautiful noblewoman.

Instead, it remained fixed on the young guard behind her, whose head was bowed.

The child was huddled behind the noblewoman, with only half a shoulder visible, yet Hashirama clearly sensed a familiar Chakra fluctuation.

Faint but real, the pull of shared blood was impossible to mistake.

Itama Senju's right hand trembled with nerves as he clutched Utsusemi's sash.

That morning, he had still been crouching at the edge of the old battlefield across the Naka River, parting the wild grass to pick up forgotten belongings left by shinobi.

He had wanted to piece together, from those rusted sword guards and shattered Forehead Protectors,

exactly what had happened over those ten years.

An Ōtsutsuki contract ritual gone out of control had thrown him and Utsusemi straight from ten years ago into the present.

It was not until he found that intelligence scroll in an abandoned camp and Utsusemi deciphered the words that a chill went through him.

[Butsuma Senju and Uchiha Tajima killed each other.]

Utsusemi had braved the risk to accompany him back to the Senju Clan Compound, all so he could see his father off one last time.

But the eldest and second brothers before him were no longer the people in his memories who would tousle his hair and slip him Military Rations Pills.

They were shinobi who now stood at the pinnacle of the Shinobi World, and the killing intent and pressure radiating from them weighed on his chest like a mountain.

He couldn't help remembering the five adult shinobi who had surrounded and tried to kill him, and even breathing became difficult.

He told himself that he was the youngest son of the Senju, and that he had to protect Sister Utsusemi, who couldn't even use Ninjutsu.

But the instinct in his bones screamed, Run! Take her and get out of here, quickly!

Only reason held him back. This is your father's funeral.

These two are your own brothers. You have to stand here.

A draft suddenly sent the candle flames in the mourning hall flickering wildly, and Hashirama gently rested his hand on the child's thin shoulder.

Chakra from the same source rushed in through his palm, bursting open the floodgates of their shared blood like a surging tide.

That resonance was etched into their genes, a mark flowing in the blood of the Senju Tribe that not even death could erase!

The moment the words left his mouth, a memory plunged into his mind.

It was the night before they set out on the mission. His eldest brother, still a boy himself, had smiled and pulled him aside, slipping three Military Rations Pills into his ninja tool pouch.

None of them had expected that the mission to leave the settlement and gather intelligence would be their final parting.

Ten years—enough time for new weeds to grow on the battlefield, enough time for the clan to slowly forget a youngest son who had vanished long ago.

Itama lowered his head and stared at his unchanged palms.

The ritual involving that Ōtsutsuki bronze mirror had sent him leaping straight ahead ten years.

His very existence was a paradox.

His name had long since been carved into the wooden board listing the fallen in the Senju Clan shrine. Presumably, it was covered in dust by now.

Would my eldest brother... still remember me?

Hashirama Senju's fingers jerked back as though burned by an invisible fire.

Those words of condolence sliced open a wound that had long since scabbed over.

Condolences? For whom?

For my father, who died taking Tajima with him?

For my youngest brother, whose bones were buried long ago by the Naka River?

Or for this "living person" before me, whose face matched that of the dead?

Itama seized the chance to bury himself in Utsusemi's shadow.

Hashirama's throat tightened. The heavy scent of flowers on the two of them mingled with incense, making his eyes sting.

The child kept his head bowed, holding even his breath. His black-and-white hair stood out starkly in the candlelight.

Half snow, half ink, it was like a wound that fate had torn apart and then crudely stitched back together.

Who is he?

My youngest brother, Itama Senju, who died ten years ago?

A ghost who walked out of my memories in the form of a seven-year-old?

Or some phantom distorted by a Chakra technique?

Or has fate cruelly given form to my deepest obsession?

Hashirama Senju felt terribly cold in the mourning hall, though it was only early autumn. The draft carried the chill of the Naka River in the depths of winter, making him shiver.