After that late-summer meeting in Konoha Year 10, time seemed to have been slowed by an invisible hand, or filled with thick glue, flowing slowly and heavily for two whole years.
Spring, Konoha Year 12.
The cherry blossoms still bloomed, the Naka River still rushed on, missions were issued as usual, and most children still went to the Ninja Academy on time.
On the surface, Konoha was even calmer than it had been two years earlier.
The various clan academies had not been abolished, but they no longer flaunted themselves. The Will of Fire had been dutifully added to their curricula, and far fewer children skipped class.
There were no major wars on the borders or unrest within, and trade grew more prosperous by the day. Even Toyoda Sake had found its way onto the banquet tables of many great clans, though their hosts only vaguely introduced it as a new brew from the south.
But there was something indescribably wrong about this calm. It was like the oppressive air before a storm, stifling enough to make one's chest tighten with unease, or the superficial, unhealthy flush on a gravely ill person's face after being force-fed a powerful medicine.
Everyone knew what lay behind this calm.
Hashirama Senju was still there.
Two years had passed, but his health had not improved. He remained pale and gaunt, often needing someone to support him. He spent most of his time in a quiet room steeped in the smell of medicine, gazing absently at the honeysuckle he had planted himself in the courtyard, now tall and spreading like a canopy. He rarely attended formal occasions anymore and seldom even set foot in the Hokage Building.
Yet as long as he was still there, even if he merely took an occasional assisted walk along