By the time the last of the great clans reached the Konoha Alliance, word had spread far beyond the borders of the Fire Country. Curious—and perhaps threatened—shinobi from other lands had arrived as well: puppet users from the Wind Kingdom, warriors of the Libra Clan from the Earth Kingdom, and countless wandering blades who wanted to see this "miracle" with their own eyes.
Their presence wasn't exactly welcomed. The native clans of Fire bristled at the sight of foreign headbands crossing their soil, their glares sharp enough to cut through armor. No formal wars had broken out between the nations yet, but distrust was as deep as bloodlines. For every polite bow exchanged, ten grudges festered behind it.
And then, the whispers changed tone.
"The Senju patriarch is here!"
The words shot through the marketplace like a kunai. Heads turned, conversations froze. Down the central street, two young men in cloaks marked with the Senju emblem strode calmly through the crowd. Even among seasoned ninja, their presence drew stares—especially from those who recognized the dark-haired boy leading them.
"Wait, that's him—Senju Hashirama!"
"The First of the Forest himself... and his brother's here too!"
During this era, only three young names made the entire shinobi world buzz: Amamiya Raizen, Senju Hashirama, and Uchiha Madara. Two were heirs of legendary clans; the third, a no-name survivor who somehow clawed his way into history's notice. That imbalance only made it harder for the others to ignore him.
"The Senju clan actually sent their patriarch in person," someone muttered. "Looks like this Alliance just became serious."
Hashirama didn't seem to care about the attention. His wide eyes darted from stall to stall, drinking in the vibrant street. He hadn't seen anything like it since childhood—clan flags hanging beside civilian banners, ninja and merchants trading side by side instead of trying to slit each other's throats.
"Raizen… you really pulled it off," he murmured.
Tobirama followed in silence, pale eyes scanning every shadow. "Brother, stay focused. We're surrounded."
Hashirama only smiled faintly. "If I can walk through a place where clans don't hate each other, then I'd say we're safe enough."
At that same moment, inside the Amamiya compound, Raizen looked up from a pile of scrolls as a messenger knelt before him.
"Patriarch—news from the scouts. Senju Hashirama has entered the Alliance."
Raizen blinked, then let out a tired laugh. "Tch. Guess it's time to face an old friend."
By the time he stood, his shadow clone had already vanished to handle the paperwork. His real body slipped from the compound and reappeared on a bustling street lined with lanterns and laughter. There, standing amid the crowd, was Hashirama—sixteen now, taller, stronger, radiating the kind of natural energy that could crush mountains.
"Hashirama!" Raizen called out.
The older boy turned. For a heartbeat, confusion flickered across his face—then shock, then a grin that could light up the entire square.
"Raizen!"
Behind him, Tobirama's hand instinctively moved toward his weapon. "Brother, don't—"
But Hashirama had already stepped forward, laughing, and pulled Raizen into a firm handshake. "It's been years. You haven't changed a bit."
Raizen smirked. "You, on the other hand, look like you ate a tree and started growing one inside."
"Jealous, are we?"
"Only of your patience," Raizen shot back.
Tobirama crossed his arms, clearly irritated. "You two sound like you're competing for who can be more childish."
Raizen turned and squinted at him. "Tobirama, right? Still got that stick up your—never mind. You've grown, though. Less brat, more scowl."
Tobirama's jaw tightened. "You're still a punk."
"True," Raizen said with a grin. "But I'm a punk who lived."
Hashirama laughed out loud, his voice booming over the murmurs of passersby. For Raizen, it was almost surreal. Every friend from his childhood—the patriarch, old Yamamoto-san, his cousins—gone to the war. To see one face from the past, still alive and smiling, felt like catching sunlight after years underground.
"So?" Raizen asked, looking around. "How do you like it?"
Hashirama took his time before answering. "Not bad."
"Not bad?" Raizen snorted. "You've barely seen anything. Come on—I'll show you the real heart of the Konoha Alliance."
Intrigued, Hashirama followed. Tobirama hesitated, then sighed and trailed behind.
They walked beyond the marketplace, where the scent of food gave way to the quiet hum of daily life. The residential district was alive—shinobi, merchants, travelers, even farmers living in shared streets. No walls dividing them. No banners drawing bloodlines apart.
Hashirama stopped walking. His breath caught. "They're… living together?"
"Yeah," Raizen said, hands tucked behind his head. "No borderlines. No caste system. Just people trying not to starve."
For Hashirama, it was like seeing his own dream in flesh and color—a memory of what he'd once wished for but buried under years of war. A village where children don't die for their family's pride.
He whispered, almost reverently, "So this… is your essence."
Raizen didn't reply. He just kept walking until they reached a large wooden building at the end of the street. It wasn't grand, but there was a quiet dignity to it. The Senju brothers looked up at the freshly painted sign.
Four words carved in bold strokes:
Ninja Academy.
Raizen turned to them, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "If you want peace, you start with kids. Teach them loyalty—not to their clan, but to something bigger."
Hashirama stared at the sign, eyes wide. "You actually did it…"
Raizen's smirk deepened. "Konoha's foundation starts here."
And for the first time in the Warring States, hope didn't feel like a joke.