U ncharted Territory
Madara drops silently from the tree, landing just at the edge of Senju territory. His eyes gleam with purpose as he strides forward, his Sharingan spinning lazily. The Senju border patrol stiffens at his sudden appearance, their chakra flaring with fear and tension. In one fluid motion, he presses a kunai against the throat of the youngest among them—a boy who cannot be older than fourteen.
"You have fifteen minutes to fetch Hashirama," he announces, his voice cold and unyielding.
The boy freezes under the blade, his wide eyes brimming with terror, while the other Senju pale visibly. Madara watches them carefully, reading their chakra for any sign of defiance or foolish bravery. Thankfully, they make the right choice. Without a word, the rest of the group scatters, darting toward the compound, their movements sharp with urgency.
Madara remains still, his kunai unwavering as he keeps the boy in place. He isn’t here to harm a child, but appearances must be maintained. He notes the erratic rhythm of the boy’s chakra—panicked and raw, like a cornered animal—and feels a faint pang of something like pity.
Twelve minutes pass before he senses Hashirama’s familiar chakra approaching, the vibrant energy unmistakable even after all these years. Other Senju follow, their chakras trailing behind like echoes, but they can’t match Hashirama’s speed.
When the Senju Clan Head finally arrives, he does so with all the enthusiasm of an old friend meeting for tea. "Madara!" Hashirama exclaims, his face lighting up with a smile so broad it borders on absurdity.
Madara suppresses a groan. The fool doesn’t even glance at the hostage. Couldn’t he at least pretend to care?
"You’re free to go," Madara tells the boy, lowering the kunai and slipping it back into his pouch. He raises his hands, palms out, a gesture of peace. The boy doesn’t need a second invitation. He bolts toward Hashirama, chakra still jittery with fear.
Hashirama, oblivious to the tension, steps forward, arms wide, as if to embrace him.
Madara narrows his eyes and thrusts the scroll with the marriage contract into the Senju’s face, halting the attempted hug. "This isn’t a social call. I’m here on official clan business."
The cheer fades from Hashirama’s face as he takes the scroll. His brow furrows as he unrolls it, his eyes scanning the contents. Behind him, more Senju arrive, their chakras brimming with confusion and caution. Uzumaki Mito, regal and sharp-eyed, is among them, her presence commanding as she strides to her husband’s side.
Madara ignores them all, his focus fixed on Hashirama. The man’s expression morphs from confusion to something heavier, darker, as he reads the marriage contract. His lips move faintly, tracing the words, and his chakra flickers with disbelief.
“What’s this?” Hashirama finally asks, his tone subdued, the usual warmth drained from his voice.
Madara arches an eyebrow. “I was under the impression you could read.”
Before Hashirama can respond, Mito steps forward, her keen eyes scanning the scroll. Her chakra ripples with growing outrage as she takes in the details. When she finishes, her eyes narrow, and a sharp gasp escapes her lips.
“You didn’t!” she snaps, rounding on her husband, her fury palpable.
“What did the idiot do?” Senju Touka asks, her voice tinged with disbelief. She steps closer, her Genjutsu-honed chakra coiling like a spring, ready to strike.
Mito’s glare sharpens, her voice cutting like a blade. “He sold our second strongest fighter—his own little brother, including all his possessions, jutsu, and seals—to the Uchiha. All for the paltry price of a ceasefire and non-interference treaty! I understand the use of omegas in marriage alliances, but this? This is disgraceful!”
Madara says nothing, his expression impassive, though a flicker of amusement dances in his eyes. He doesn’t correct her, doesn’t tell her the contract was written by Tobirama and Izuna, nor does he mention the soulmate bond.
A stunned silence falls over the group. All eyes turn to Hashirama, whose face is a mask of disbelief.
“Omega?” he murmurs, shaking his head as if trying to clear it. “Tobi isn’t…”
“You what?!” Touka’s voice rises sharply, her chakra flaring with anger as she glares at her Clan Head.
Madara crosses his arms, watching with barely concealed glee as Mito and Touka close in on Hashirama. The once-confident man takes a cautious step back, his chakra radiating guilt and unease.
“Let me explain—” Hashirama begins, but Mito cuts him off with a glare that could turn stone to dust.
The Uchiha watches Mito step forward with that deceptive grace she wields so well, her voice carrying the sharp edge of politeness that signals impending doom.
“I take it you’re here to pick up your little brother’s husband-to-be?” she asks, her tone as smooth as a polished blade. Without missing a beat, she turns to the surrounding Senju with a commanding air. “Someone fetch Tobirama and inform him of what his brother has done. I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed.”
Madara’s lips twitch, almost smirking at the thinly veiled sarcasm, but Touka’s sharp voice cuts through the moment.
“He already knows,” Touka says, holding the marriage contract up for all to see after a cursory glance. “It’s written in his hand.”
Mito freezes, her sharp gaze darting back to her husband. “Anata,” she begins, her voice dripping with faux cheer that does nothing to mask the icy fury in her eyes.
Hashirama flinches, his broad shoulders sinking slightly under the weight of her tone.
“Not only did you sell Tobirama to the Uchiha,” Mito continues, her chakra lashing out in waves of cold, unforgiving rage, “you also made him write the contract? Just how much of a heartless bastard can you be?”
Touka picks up the thread without missing a beat, her anger bubbling over like lava. “No wonder I haven’t seen him since the battle. He probably locked himself in his lab to get away from you!”
Madara clears his throat, drawing their attention back to him. The scene is entertaining—watching Hashirama squirm under the combined wrath of his wife and cousin. As funny as it would be to send the Senju on a wild goose chase for someone they can’t find, there is no time for this. “Actually,” he interjects smoothly, his deep voice cutting through the tension, “he isn’t locked in his lab.”
All eyes turn toward him.
“He’s at the Uchiha compound,” Madara states matter-of-factly, letting the words sink in. “Tobirama overexerted himself last night while treating Izuna’s injuries, so I had him put on bed rest.”
The Senju collective freezes, their chakra spiking with disbelief and shock. Madara watches their emotions ripple outward like cracks in glass, careful to keep his own expression neutral.
He deliberately withholds the finer details—the reckless audacity of Tobirama sneaking into Uchiha territory, bypassing every defense to reach Izuna’s room unnoticed. He omits the heart-stopping moment when he’d sensed Tobirama’s chakra next to his injured brother. No, it’s better they believe Tobirama had walked in freely, as if it were a planned and sanctioned visit. The truth would only sow more chaos.
“I’m here for my nephew,” Madara declares, his tone hardening like tempered steel.
“Nephew?” Hashirama repeats, his confusion palpable, chakra flickering with genuine puzzlement.
“Yes,” Madara snaps, his glare sharp enough to cut. “The one you are holding hostage.”
Hashirama blinks, his chakra bristling with disarray. “What are you talking about? We don’t have your family. I would never allow—”
“Don’t lie to me.” Madara’s voice drops into a deadly growl, his Sharingan flaring as his temper flares. The red of his gaze burns like embers in the growing tension, and Hashirama freezes under the intensity of his glare. “Your brother told me everything. I know your elders kidnapped Haruto and are using him to blackmail Tobirama into doing their bidding.”
The declaration slams into the group like a physical blow. Hashirama’s chakra sputters with shock, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for words. Behind him, Mito and Touka exchange furious glances, their expressions hardening into icy resolve.
Some of the people that followed Hashirama flinch. This isn’t enough to proof their involvement, but they at the very least knew and didn’t do anything to stop it.
Madara doesn’t let up, his voice cold and unrelenting. “You claim to stand for peace and unity, but you allow your own kin to be treated as pawns, as tools to be traded and manipulated? Spare me the platitudes, Hashirama. I’ve already seen the depths to which your clan will sink.”
Hashirama takes a hesitant step forward, his hands raised as if to placate. “Madara, I swear I didn’t know—”
“Save it,” Madara cuts him off, his patience wearing thin. “I don’t care for your excuses. You will retrieve Haruto and return him to me. Now.”
The demand hangs heavy in the air, the weight of Madara’s fury settling over the gathering like a storm cloud. Hashirama swallows hard, his gaze darting to Mito who frowns as she takes the contract from her husband’s hands, her sharp eyes scanning its contents with the efficiency of someone used to dissecting legal documents. She pauses, her gaze zeroing in on a particular clause. Her lips press into a thin line, and her chakra spikes with controlled fury.
She points to the section regarding Haruto, and Touka, standing close enough to read over her shoulder, gasps audibly.
Mito continues reading, her chakra flaring brighter with each passing second. By the time she looks up, her energy is a tempest of barely restrained wrath. Her focus, however, bypasses Hashirama entirely. Madara feels a flash of vindication at that—Hashirama deserves every ounce of her ire.
“Fetch Haruto. Immediately. And give him to his uncle,” Mito orders sharply, her tone brooking no argument.
One of the nearby Senju stiffens, their chakra flickering with hesitation. But a single glare from Mito, her chakra lashing out like a whip, sends the unfortunate clan member scrambling toward the compound without a word.
Madara inclines his head slightly toward her, acknowledging her decisiveness. She, at least, seems to understand they have no choice but to give him the boy. He turns his attention back to the gathering as a whole, his voice cutting through the tense silence like a blade.
“You have one week to deliver Tobirama’s belongings,” he announces, his tone cold and imperious. “There better not be anything missing or destroyed.”
“Madara—” Hashirama begins, his voice pleading, but Madara cuts him off with a venomous glare.
“You’re aware that taking my nephew hostage to coerce my brother-in-law into breaking the contract constitutes an act of war, correct?” Madara hisses, his Sharingan burning crimson as he steps forward. The raw power in his chakra causes several Senju to take an instinctive step back. “Don’t make this worse for yourself. You’re already on thin ice. I’d rather not involve the daimyo, but if you push me any further, I will.”