The council chamber within the heart of the Senju camp was a stark, timber-walled structure ringed by hanging lanterns, their flames flickering softly against scrolls of clan laws and battlefield maps. Long ago, it had been a sacred space—a place of unity and decision-making. But now it was a theater of division, where politics and ego clashed more often than kunai and steel.
Itama stood at the center of the room, scroll in hand, facing a semicircle of clan elders, war-scarred commanders, and influential shinobi. Among them sat Hashirama and Tobirama, flanking the highest-ranking elder, Shichiro Senju—a man whose grizzled beard and narrow eyes reflected years of conflict, loss, and, most of all, bitterness.
Hashirama looked at Itama with soft, worried eyes. Tobirama remained cold, unreadable, arms crossed tightly against his chest. The rest of the chamber waited in hushed silence, broken only by the distant murmurs of the village outside.
Clearing his throat, Itama stepped forward and unrolled the scroll.
"I've gathered you all to speak not as a warrior, but as a Senju who dreams of something more than survival," he began, his voice steady despite the weight pressing down on him. "We've fought for generations. We've shed blood, lost brothers, buried children. We claim it's for peace, yet all we've known is war."
There was a quiet shifting among the seated elders. A few glanced at each other, one chuckled under his breath.
Itama continued, "What if there's a different path? One that leads us away from endless conflict? I've laid it out here—what I call the Four Pillars of Harmony. A proposal. For a village. Not just a stronghold for Senju, but a sanctuary where all clans could coexist."
He held up the scroll for them to see.
"A village founded not on conquest, but on unity. Where shinobi are trained to protect, not just destroy. Where children grow up knowing peace, not trauma. Where leaders are chosen for wisdom, not just power."
There was a beat of silence. Then a snort from the left side of the room.
"You want us to build a playground with the Uchiha?" barked Elder Okuni, a stocky man with thick scars crossing his cheek. "Did they smash your head harder than we thought, boy?"
Laughter rippled through the chamber, some of it mocking, some simply dismissive.
Another elder, Lady Kiyoka, narrowed her eyes. "This is what you bring after hiding for months? Childish fantasy? Have you forgotten how many of our kin have died at Uchiha hands?"
"I haven't forgotten," Itama said calmly. "I remember every face. That's why I want it to stop."
"You dishonor the dead by suggesting peace with their killers," spat Elder Danzou—not that Danzou, but a sharp-eyed veteran with the same grimness. "You speak like an idealist, not a warrior."
The laughter grew. Some younger shinobi in the back glanced at each other awkwardly. A few looked down, unsure whether to join in or stay silent.
One man stood, shaking his head. "Do you even understand what you're suggesting? You want to trust the Uchiha? Our sworn enemies? Do you know what they would do if they heard this plan? They'd laugh louder than we are."
Tobirama, still silent, finally raised his hand.
The room quieted.
He stood slowly, stepping forward. "Enough. Let him finish."
The murmurs fell to a hush. Despite his disdain for Itama, Tobirama's command still held weight.
"Thank you," Itama said, nodding slightly. "This isn't about surrendering. It's about redefining victory. True victory isn't winning one more battle. It's ending the war altogether."
"By trusting snakes?" a commander growled.
"No," Itama said firmly. "By proving we are stronger than hatred."
A pause.
Then Shichiro finally spoke, his voice gruff and tired. "You've been gone too long, Itama. You think because you saw something different, that the world has changed. But the world is still the same. Shinobi die. Clans fight. And peace... is a lie we tell children to help them sleep."
He waved a hand dismissively. "You're brave. I'll grant you that. But this? This is a dream."
"And dreams," added Okuni, smirking, "belong to the dead."
Laughter again.
Even Hashirama looked pained, torn between his love for his brother and the mockery filling the room.
Itama bowed his head. Not in shame, but in finality. He had expected resistance. But the depth of their cynicism—their outright refusal to consider something different—was more than he had hoped to overcome in a single day.
He rolled the scroll back up.
"Then I will hold this dream," he said softly, "until the world is ready."
He turned to leave.
"Where are you going, boy?" Danzou sneered.
"Back to training," Itama answered without looking back. "Because when the world does change, it won't be because you were ready. It'll be because someone prepared for it."
The doors opened as he stepped out into the crisp evening air. The voices behind him continued—laughter, argument, disbelief. But as he walked, his resolve only hardened.
Outside, in the shadows beyond the chamber, Naori stood waiting. A few others from the younger ranks—Daiki, Kiyomi, and several others—watched him quietly.
"They didn't listen," she said.
"They laughed," he corrected. "Which means they heard me."
Naori tilted her head. "You're not giving up, are you?"
Itama looked to the sky, where stars had begun to break through the dusk.
"No," he said. "I'm just getting started."
And beneath his breath, the trees around him stirred ever so slightly, as if the forest itself were listening—ready to rise when the time came.