Wringing Hands * Getting to Work

Hashirama looked at Madara.

"Madara," he began, his tone solemn, "Although you promised me before that you would become the Second Hokage of Konoha, I know that was just a temporary measure on your part."

Ban raised her eyelids slightly.

"Now I ask you," Hashirama said, "Madara, are you still willing to pursue peace with us?"

Ban stared at him, remaining silent for a long while.

Hashirama waited for a while, but received no response.

The expectation on his face gradually faded, his shoulders slumped slightly, and the smile in his eyes disappeared, replaced by a thin layer of sadness.

At this moment, Madara let out a cold laugh, "Even if I can't see your heart, I know you..."

Hashirama thought he was going to refuse, and a genuine sadness surfaced on his face.

"Her hairstyle and clothes are still incredibly outdated after all these years."

Hashirama's expression froze instantly.

Ban stood there, his shoulders twitching twice, then a muffled laugh escaped his throat, growing louder and louder until he finally tilted his head back, laughing so hard his whole body swayed.

"Madara!" Hashirama's voice rose an octave.

Madara laughed even harder, bending over. "Look at your expression, it's hilarious..."

Hashirama pouted, stood there with his arms crossed, his face full of grievance. "Madara... you haven't answered the question yet."

Ban finished laughing, straightened up, wiped away the tears that had come out of his eyes, stopped laughing, and looked at him.

"Of course I will continue to pursue peace," he said, laughing heartily, "And with you all."

He turned his head and looked at Tobirama.

"Yes, including you."

Upon Tobirama, Tobirama laughed in exasperation.

Was I originally just an add-on? This guy has really forgotten his roots. Who was actually responsible for the vast majority of the data processing and analysis?

Oh well, never mind, don't be a spoilsport. "Thank you so much."

Madara ignored him and turned to look for Izuna.

Izuna stood to the side, his hands tucked into his sleeves, watching the two of them.

Those eyes were bright and sparkling, and the corners of her mouth curved into a smile, giving her whole face an indescribable kind of kindness.

Madara felt a chill run down his spine from that expression. "What's with that look?"

Izuna didn't say anything, just looked at him, her eyes almost squinting into slits with a smile.

"Sigh..." he sighed slowly, "I never thought I'd live to see this. Hehehe."

Spot. "..."

My dear brother.

You're really weird, you know that?

At this moment, Izuna stood there, rereading the entire conversation Hashirama.

It is almost identical to the original work.

Is this the romance of the older generation? They haven't forgotten a single word they said when they were young, and can still repeat it verbatim after so many years.

That's great!

It's a pity there were no video recorders in this era, otherwise he would have recorded this scene and watched it repeatedly when he had nothing to do.

Hey, wait a minute.

He suddenly slapped his forehead.

Don't I have the Sharingan?

Damn it! Why didn't I activate my Sharingan?! Such a grand scene, such classic dialogue, all wasted! What a blunder!

Should we ask them to say it again?

No, no, no, that would ruin the epic feel!

Damn it! Why haven't I Sharingan! Uchiha Izuna! Have some self-awareness about being Uchiha!

He stood there, his expression shifting rapidly from a maternal smile to a gritted-teeth wringer, making Ban, who was standing next to him, increasingly suspicious.

Ban turned his head and looked at Mokushō.

"Hey," he said, his tone accusing, "What did you do to Izuna?"

Mokushō pointed to himself, his fox mask tilting slightly. "Me?"

"Um."

Mokushō didn't say anything, but Ban could tell from his step back that he disliked them.

Madara suspiciously withdrew his gaze, then glanced at Izuna again.

Izuna was still there, pounding his chest and muttering to himself, saying things like "Sharingan," "mistake," and "I'll definitely do it next time," arguing with himself.

Madara didn't understand, but as long as Izuna was happy, that was all that mattered.

After a while, the Jurōjin managed to manage the crowd.

The Jashin Cult followers who had been held down earlier were now lined up in several rows, squatting on the ground dejectedly under the watchful eyes of Hiroyama's Yakuza.

The Jurōjin, leaning on his cane, walked around in front of them. He didn't say anything harsh, but simply counted everyone, had them registered, and would handle the matter further later.

Then the group returned to the entrance of the Main Hall.

Izuna instructed Hashirama to use Earth Release to flatten the basement and then did some simple repairs on the overturned floor.

Hashirama clasped his Hashirama together, Wood Release, and several new wooden beams rose from the ground, patching up the gaps and restoring Bishamonten Shrine to its approximate state, at least making it look less dilapidated.

Izuna stood in the Main Hall, looked around, and nodded.

Very good, that's more like it.

Although he felt that no one would come to Bishamonten's Shrine to worship for a long time to come, he inexplicably felt that the place had to be kept clean.

Over the next five days, the reconstruction of the Land of Hot Water proceeded in full swing.

People are working with great enthusiasm.

The Jurōjin squeezed out a sum of money from the remaining public funds, hired people and building materials, and swallowed his pride to get a batch of timber and bricks on credit from the merchants, and went door to door to deliver the work.

Jurōjin. He walked around Hashirama open space, put his hands together, and rows of wooden beams rose from the ground. The framework was built quickly and steadily. The craftsmen followed behind to repair the walls, put on the tiles, and install the doors and windows. One house after another rose from the ground.

Within a few days, the surrounding scenery had seemingly returned to its state before the storm.

Even a person would know that everything is completely different now.

But the reconstruction of their hometown still brought immense joy to people.

On the night before moving into their new homes, several families hung lanterns at their doors, and children ran around in the streets, their laughter carrying far down the alleyways.

The nobles from other regions were initially very reluctant to work alongside the commoners.

Making them move stones? Making them pass timber? Making them eat at the same table as those sweaty, muddy men? It's utterly inappropriate.

But circumstances are beyond our control.

During the time they spent rolling in the mud, they finally managed to speak with the ordinary people they had previously looked down upon.

They then discovered that the common people were not as foolish as they had imagined.

On the contrary, much of the knowledge they had never heard of was very practical.

When is the best time to cast nets for fishing? When is the best time to harvest grain? How should the houses in the neighborhood be arranged for easy access? How wide should the alley be so that two carts can pass each other?

Some people taught them to use a strap to gather up their wide sleeves so they wouldn't get in the way while working, and others taught them the easiest way to sweep the floor.

These are things that people born into noble families will never have access to.

Some nobles still scoffed at it, thinking that these things of the lower classes were not worth mentioning, and were determined never to suffer like this again.

But some people started to think about it.

Have they been out of touch with Ordinary People for too long?

Leaving aside those practical tips, they discovered some loopholes just by looking at the accounts.

A middle-aged nobleman squatted by the Ruins, helping the Merchants' Association count their supplies while casually flipping through the account books.

He read two pages, frowned, and then flipped back to read it from the beginning.

"This rice price is wrong." He pointed to a line in the ledger, "Last year we imported a batch of rice from another region, and the price was more than 30% higher than here? And the wholesale price should be even lower."

The chamber of the Merchants' Association's accountant leaned over for a glance, chuckled dryly, and snatched the ledger from his hands.

The nobleman didn't press the matter, but he made a mental note of it, planning to take advantage of the Merchants again when he got back.

It's not just about accounts, but also about food, clothing, and daily necessities.

Some things that they used to consider very elegant are actually seen as cumbersome and vulgar by ordinary people.

After chatting with several commoner women, a young nobleman returned and sat there for a long time without saying a word.

He was taught from a young age all sorts of things: what etiquette to use when, what to say to whom, how to arrange seating at banquets, and the rules for gift-giving.

He originally thought these were all perfectly normal, but the women just laughed after hearing them, saying that this was tiring to listen to. They said, "Just eat, why bother with all these seating arrangements? The food will get cold, so we can all eat it the same way."

He didn't respond at the time, but after returning home, he lay on the tatami mat and tossed and turned for half the night, realizing more and more how tiring his past life had been.

He then recalled the rules of his own household: meals had to be served at three separate tables, one had to speak in a particular tone, the color of one's clothes had to be changed according to the season, and even the type of flowers planted in the courtyard were particular.

He used to think these things were respectable and a sign of good upbringing.

But now that I think about it, were all these customs really necessary?

The next day, he went to work with dark circles under his eyes.

My assigned task was to clean up the garbage in the eastern ditch. The ditch was mostly blocked by debris overturned by the storm; mud, broken tiles, and rotten wood were mixed together, giving off a rotten, fishy smell.

He was reluctant to do this dirty work, but the thought of Izuna's fan made his legs move to the construction site against his will.

The silt and gravel in the ditch were piled up to half a person's height, and flies buzzed around them.

He squatted by the canal, rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, and, imitating the old farmer next to him, reached out to scoop it up.

The moment his fingers plunged into the mud, he froze, gritting his teeth and refusing to pull his hand back.

They fished everything out of the ditch, putting the usable items in the left basket and throwing the rotten ones in the right, waiting for the Earth Release Ninjas to come and bury them.

Nobody wants the broken pieces of porcelain, so they're thrown away.

The wood? It broke, throw it away.

The comb? The pattern is quite nice, I'll put it aside for now.

This frame is still usable; keep it.

As he walked and sorted through the ditch, he looked up and wiped his sweat after a while, and saw a white-haired man squatting in the ditch next door.

His white hair stood out starkly in the morning light.

Tobirama Senju squatted by the canal, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, bending over to pull out a piece of rotten wood blocking the canal's opening.

Next to him was a stack of sorted items, with usable items neatly arranged and useless items piled up on the other side, waiting for the Earth Release Ninja to come and bury them.

The young man paused for a moment, then walked over, squatted down, and started working.

The two men, separated by half a ditch, silently sorted through the mud for a while. Their hands were covered in mud, and their fingers were stinging from the broken tiles.

The young man held it in for a long time, but finally couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Lord Tobirama."

Tobirama didn't look up, still untying a bundle of soaked rope in his hands. "Hmm."

"Someone like you," the young man carefully chose his words, "Why are you still doing this kind of work with us?"

Tobirama stacked the few usable pieces of hemp rope he had salvaged to one side. "The work's been assigned here, so I'll get to work."

"No, but you..." the young man gestured, "You don't have to take the job. Someone of your status, if you say you don't want to do it, who can force you? Or you could hire someone to do it for you, right?"

Tobirama paused, then looked up at him.

"I can," he said. "Then who will do the work in the end? You'll do double? Are you willing to?"

"But... this is dirty."

"I find the work assigned to me dirty and push it to others, but don't they find it dirty too? Okay, enough talk, get to work."

The young man stood there, speechless for a long time.

He thought that powerful figures like him were bound to be arrogant.

He expected to hear some empty rhetoric about Konoha, or a few complaints.

No, there isn't.

In his eyes, the act of working itself has nothing to do with status or strength.

He'll do the work; if he's the one who needs to do it, then he'll do it.

He squatted there, stunned, for a long while. An old farmer next to him nudged him. "What are you daydreaming about? Keep working! We have to finish clearing it before dark, or we won't have anything to eat!"

He snapped out of his daze and lowered his head to continue scooping.

By dusk, they had cleaned the irrigation ditch.

The young nobleman stood on the shore, straightened his back, and rubbed it, which ached so much it felt like it was about to break.

He ignored the rumbling sound of Earth Release Ninjas burying trash behind him and looked at the ditch in front of him.

The bottom of the canal was clean, the water flowed smoothly, and the moss on the canal walls had been scraped off. The setting sun shone on the water, making it shimmer like broken gold.

He stood there, looking at the section he had cleared with his own hands, and a warm feeling suddenly welled up in his chest.

This is the section I cleaned! It's so clean! Much cleaner than everyone else's!

He admired it for a while with great satisfaction, then suddenly realized what was happening.

No, what am I so proud of?

I'm a nobleman. I don't even have to sweep a single fallen leaf in my yard. When did it become my turn to be proud of building irrigation ditches?

But that sense of pride wouldn't leave him, making him frown in distress, feeling both ashamed and unable to resist glancing back at the canal.

It is indeed clean.

He wiped the mud off his hands on his trousers and stopped worrying about it.

Speaking of which, Izuna also set a rule that you could only eat after you finished your work.

If someone reports you for slacking off, and it's verified, you won't get any food that day.

In the first couple of days, many nobles tried to put on airs and dawdle on the sidelines.

When it came time to eat, everyone else who had finished their work lined up with their bowls to get food, while they could only squat on the sidelines and watch. They couldn't buy food with money, and Izuna had cut off their attempts to steal it.

These nobles could tolerate missing one meal, but after missing two, they started to see stars.

By the third day, they were all getting up earlier than the last, squatting on the construction site before dawn waiting to be assigned work, afraid that someone else would beat them to it.

The young man had nothing to complain about; compared to his elders, he was much more accepting of the situation.

Only a fool would refuse to bow down when they're already living under someone else's roof; he's not going to be a fool.

He stood in the line for food, holding his bowl; there were more than a dozen people ahead of him.

The mixed soup in the pot was steaming hot, and the woman in charge of the ladle was ladling it into bowls one spoonful at a time. Radishes and taro floated in the soup, and occasionally a small piece of meat could be scooped up.

When it was his turn, the woman scooped up a full spoonful and added an extra half spoonful.

The young man paused for a moment, then, seeing the kindness in the woman's eyes, bowed his head, thanked her, picked up his bowl, found a place to sit down, and began to eat his rice.

He used to never even look at this kind of soup, but after finishing his work, eating a bowl of it brought him a unique sense of satisfaction.

He ate everything in the bowl, even drinking the broth, then put the bowl aside and let out a long sigh.

Cool!

The sun had completely set, leaving only a faint, dark red afterglow on the horizon.

The workers on the construction site gradually returned from work, lined up to get their meals, and squatted in groups of three or five on the open ground to eat.