January.
Snowflakes fell in place of rain.
Madara Uchiha carried Yanbai's coffin outside the Underground Palace.
Every year, when it snowed, Madara Uchiha would quietly do the same.
Standing beside Yanbai's coffin, Madara Uchiha looked up at the sky. He was still dressed entirely in black, his face pale in the reflected light of the snow.
Like fragments of a white dream, snowflakes fluttered down from a bank of leaden clouds.
The forest surrounding the tomb had also become a world blanketed in white.
A black shadow clung to the ground beneath Madara Uchiha's feet.
"Madara, the Battle of the Valley of the End is over. By the end of last year, even the most isolated villages had received reliable news. They know the First Hokage was gravely injured. With the daimyo of the various nations planning to cut their financial support, all the shinobi villages are getting anxious, just as expected..."
Beneath the pristine white path, Black Zetsu's voice was so faint that it seemed to be absorbed by the snow.
Madara Uchiha lightly touched the thorns on the coffin and asked offhandedly, "Are they expanding their military forces?"
"Yes," Black Zetsu said softly. "They're probably just waiting for the God of Shinobi's funeral... They can hardly wait to feast on the spoils."
"Naive..." Madara Uchiha scoffed. "Still, being able to dream is a blessing in itself."
"Madara, suppose Hashirama lives another three to five years, while those villages' daimyo start cutting their funding this year. What do you think they'll do?" Black Zetsu murmured.
"Those daimyo aren't that foolish. They won't cut off all their funding at once. After all, they're afraid of driving the shinobi villages into a corner. They'll probably still let the villages squander their funds for a few more years."
Madara Uchiha reached out