"Come here, Mako."
The Daimyō's voice carried warmth rare for a man who ruled by blade and decree. The girl beside him—Princess Makoto—stepped forward and sat quietly at his side, her movements graceful, unhurried.
Even in this war-torn world, she radiated calm. And that calm was what made every minister in the hall nervous.
From his place near the dais, Amamiya Raizen watched the exchange carefully. That gentle tone, that affection in the Daimyō's eyes—it wasn't the kind of fondness a father showed a child. It was the kind of weight one placed on an heir.
So that's why the court's been whispering, Raizen thought. The girl's not just a princess. She's a candidate for the throne.
And in the Warring States, succession was bloodier than any battlefield.
After the royal family finished their formal greetings, the ministers stepped forward one by one, bowing and murmuring well-rehearsed words of loyalty. Then came the shinobi.
The air sharpened instantly.
Because here, in this era, ninja were power—the real spine behind every nation's throne.
Even the Daimyōs needed them. Feared them. Used them.
"The Senju Clan, represented by Senju Hashirama, offers their blessings to His Majesty."
The voice of the herald echoed across the courtyard.
Hashirama's figure drew every gaze. The Senju weren't the largest clan in the Land of Fire, but their reputation towered above most. They were the first called up after the Uchiha—a subtle declaration that made tension crackle like lightning.
"Damn Senju…" a Uchiha whispered under his breath. Teeth clenched, glare burning.
Because in this world, the order of presentation meant power. And the Senju stepping forward before the Uchiha? That was a public taunt wrapped in ceremony.
Next came the counterstrike.
"The Uchiha Clan, represented by Uchiha Izuna, extends congratulations to His Majesty."
No Madara. Of course not. He never came to these farces. His younger brother Izuna was enough.
One by one, clans took their turns. Power introduced itself politely.
When the Amamiya Clan was called, a single jōnin stepped forward, bowing deeply before the Daimyō. Raizen remained seated near the ruler—an arrangement that made half the room frown.
When had a minor clan like Amamiya become that close to the throne?
Let them wonder. Raizen didn't bother explaining politics to people who wouldn't live long enough to understand it.
Then came the envoys from other lands—shinobi who'd crossed borders without invitations, pretending to bear gifts but really carrying curiosity.
The Daimyō's birthday had become an arms exhibition.
"The Libra Clan offers gifts to His Majesty."
"The Menzo Clan extends its blessings."
"The Mizukage envoy from the Land of Water offers treasures of the sea."
"The Uzumaki Clan from Uzushio congratulates His Majesty!"
Raizen's head lifted at that last name.
A tall red-haired man stepped forward, flanked by attendants. His chakra pulsed like a steady flame. But the real shock came from the small figure behind him.
A girl.
Twelve, maybe thirteen. Hair like molten red silk, eyes bright and fearless. Her chakra… Raizen could feel it thrumming even from across the courtyard.
If that man's vitality is a torch, he thought, then hers is the damn sun.
The red-haired girl caught him staring. Her brow furrowed, lips pressed tight. Then—
"Hmph."
A single dismissive snort. Perfectly regal for someone who barely reached his shoulder.
Raizen blinked and looked away, rubbing his nose. Right. Staring at kids in royal ceremonies. That'll end well.
But when he turned, he caught the faintest curve of a smile on her lips before she glanced elsewhere.
By midday, the formalities ended. The Daimyō gave a long speech that half the crowd didn't hear, servants poured wine, and the courtyard became a marketplace of polite conspiracies.
Ninjas who'd slaughtered each other's clans last month now pretended to chat about weather. Everyone was watching everyone else.
And then a familiar voice interrupted Raizen's thoughts.
"Didn't expect to find you sitting with the nobles, Raizen."
He turned. Senju Hashirama, seventeen, smiling like the world wasn't on fire.
"Didn't expect you to show up in person, either," Raizen shot back.
"Come on," Hashirama laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "I want you to meet someone."
He dragged Raizen toward a group near the Uzumaki delegation.
"This is Amamiya Raizen, head of the Amamiya Clan."
Then, gesturing to the others, "And this is the Uzumaki delegation. Uzumaki Hiden, and his daughter—Uzumaki Mito."
Raizen froze for half a heartbeat.
Mito…?
His eyes flicked toward the red-haired girl—same sharp glare, same sun-like chakra.
"The future First Jinchūriki of the Nine-Tails," he thought silently. "Right now, just a kid. But still… terrifying."
Mito frowned, crossing her arms. "Why are you staring at me like that?"
Raizen coughed. "Just… admiring your clan's vitality."
"Creep," she muttered under her breath, cheeks faintly red.
Hashirama's laugh cut through the tension. "You two get along fast!"
Yeah, Raizen thought, forcing a smile. Fast, like an incoming kunai.
He looked at the two of them—Hashirama, all boundless optimism; Mito, proud and fiery. Neither of them knew how history would chain them together.
But maybe this time, Raizen mused, it doesn't have to end the same way.
The thought lingered, dangerous and tempting, as laughter filled the Daimyō's garden.