Shinsuke could barely breathe. Ten minutes. That's all it took for Senju Hashirama to make "hopeless" feel like a generous word. If he didn't have an Amamiya-sized chakra pool, he'd already be fertilizer under one of those monster-sized wooden Buddhas.
And that was with Hashirama holding back.
Yeah. Holding back.
Shinsuke had thrown everything he had. Every trick, every burst of chakra, every escape pattern Yamamoto-san drilled into him until he puked. Didn't matter. One in every ten exchanges, Hashirama would still slip through his guard like he'd been choreographed by the gods.
Jōnin-level? Sure. On paper.
Against Senju Hashirama? He might as well have been a frightened academy kid waving a kitchen knife.
Even so, he refused to stay down.
"I'm still too weak…"
His voice cracked as he pushed himself up from the dirt. His uncle's face flashed behind his eyes—the young man who'd shielded him years ago. The one whose blood pooled in the mud while Shinsuke could do nothing but cry.
Back then he swore he'd grow strong enough to stop that from ever happening again.
Except here he was, feeling just as helpless as when Uncle Kei died.
But giving up wasn't an option. Not today. Not with the battlefield drowning in screams and smoke. Not with the clan's last line collapsing around him.
"Even if someone like me is useless… I'll still give everything I've got. For Konoha's future… even if it kills me!"
Shinsuke straightened, shaking, barely holding himself together. His eyes locked with Hashirama's, hard and desperate.
For a moment, Hashirama froze.
That look…
He'd seen it before.
A long time ago.
On another Amamiya kid with too much stubbornness for one lifetime.
"Young one," Hashirama murmured, voice raw, "why do you fight?"
Shinsuke didn't answer at first. He just looked around—at the scattered bodies, at his clanmates falling one by one, at the mud soaked red.
Then he glared back at Hashirama.
"Why fight? For my friends. For my clan. For the village we shed blood to protect!" His voice rose. "Even if it costs everything!"
The air pulsed around him. His chakra erupted, wild and unstable, crackling like a lightning storm trapped between his palms. A blinding white light bloomed.
"Dust Release… Primary Realm Stripping—!"
Pain sliced through his hands as the technique formed, his vision tinting scarlet from the strain. The sphere detonated forward, racing straight toward Hashirama.
Hashirama's expression softened.
"So you've found it… your reason."
He smiled—an old, tired smile—and clapped his hands together.
"Sage Art… Fivefold Rashōmon!"
Five titanic demonic gates tore out of the earth, each one slamming into place with a thunderous roar. Shinsuke's Dust Release hit the first with a flash like a sunburst.
The first gate shattered.
The second cracked and folded.
The third exploded into splinters.
The fourth stopped it cold.
When the dust settled, Shinsuke collapsed to one knee, shaking, drained to the marrow.
"Failed…?"
His voice broke.
Everything he had poured into that strike—every drop of chakra, every ounce of rage and hope—had amounted to nothing.
It felt cruel. Unfair. Like the world itself was telling him he didn't get to matter.
Shinsuke sucked in a ragged breath and forced himself upright again.
Hashirama's strength was beyond comprehension. That wasn't new. But despair? That wasn't allowed. Not for him. Not anymore.
"I'm not done…"
His hands lifted one last time, trembling violently. A brighter glow gathered between his palms, hotter and more unstable than before.
"This is my… last Dust Release."
His vision dimmed, then sharpened again. He thought of the patriarch's lecture about the Will of Fire. Of Nasha. Of that idiot Hatake Hoshino. Of Raizen-sama standing tall even when the world crushed him flat.
"This is my choice!"
His voice cracked as he roared. "My Will of Fire!"
Chakra surged. Blinding white light erupted, the technique shaking itself apart in his hands.
"Dust Release… Boundary Stripping—!"
But Hashirama suddenly blurred forward.
"Enough."
He appeared beside Shinsuke like a gust of wind, one hand closing over Shinsuke's wrists. The unstable Dust Release shattered instantly into harmless sparks.
Hashirama's eyes held confusion… grief… and something gentler than Shinsuke expected.
"This war is over."
His voice carried across the battlefield, firm and final.
"The victory belongs to Konoha."
The fighting around them faltered. Senju, Uchiha, and scattered clans all paused, staring.
"I, Senju Hashirama, surrender to Konoha. On behalf of my entire clan."
He looked over the ruined battlefield. The bodies. The smoke. The kids who'd never see another sunrise.
The memory of three boys standing on a cliff edge flickered in his mind—dreaming of peace, swearing impossible promises to the wind.
He'd thought he'd grown past that dream.
Forgotten it.
But looking at Shinsuke…
He realized it hadn't died.
It had just been waiting.
...
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