Hashirama stood at the edge of the battlefield, his hands tucked into his sleeves. He had watched for far too long.
Madara was locked in combat with Genya, Itachi and Shisui were barely holding on, Guy's steam was fading, Kakashi's Sharingan had already closed, and Jiraiya's chakra was nearly depleted.
Those young people of Konoha, those ninja whose names he did not know but who all wore Konoha forehead protectors, fell one after another amid the tide of White Zetsu, then climbed back up, only to fall again.
Enough.
Hashirama pulled his hands out of his sleeves.
With every step he took, cracks spread across the ground like spiderwebs, like tree roots, like the pulse of the earth.
The rain parted around him on its own, forming a dry circle.
His hair stirred in a windless current, and his expression was no longer that of the cheerful old man who had bet with a camel.
He was Hashirama Senju, the God of Shinobi, the man who had brought peace to a war-torn world.
He walked toward Obito.
Obito was directing the White Zetsu army's assault on Konoha's defensive line when a sudden chill ran down his back.
He whipped around and saw Hashirama approaching, unhurried, as though out for a stroll.
But that oppressive presence was like a moving mountain. With every step closer, the air grew heavier.
Obito's hand clenched abruptly. Hashirama had already locked onto him-not with his eyes, but with his presence.
It was an invisible, inescapable lock that only someone at the very pinnacle of the battlefield could impose.
Orochimaru had just climbed off the ground. Black Zetsu had used the power of Yin Release to stabilize his mind.
But the combined blows of Tsukuyomi and Kotoamatsukami still left his body trembling faintly.
Bracing himself against