Chapter 5
"That bastard is insufferable," Izuna muttered, his voice sharp as steel while he meticulously cleaned his blade. Each stroke across the sword echoed his simmering frustration.
Madara chuckled quietly, tightening the straps of his armor with practiced ease.
"I'm glad you've finally found a worthy opponent."
"Worthy?" Izuna scoffed, lips curling in disdain. "I've never faced anyone who enraged me as much as that cursed Senju Tobirama. I swear, I'll snap his legs and watch him crawl in shame."
Madara didn't respond immediately, his eyes gleaming with something between amusement and contemplation.
Izuna had only recently begun to take the field.
For years, the stalemate between the Uchiha and the Senju had rested on the shoulders of Madara and Hashirama.
But now, with Izuna's emergence, it seemed the Senju were forced to introduce their own new weapon—Senju Tobirama.
He's grown, Madara mused silently. The boy Madara once glimpsed near the riverbank alongside Hashirama... now a man wielding blades that draw blood.
"You're enjoying this," Madara remarked, his tone almost playful. "Admit it, Izuna. It's been a while since you've faced someone who could truly challenge you."
Izuna clicked his tongue in irritation, the edge of his blade flashing as he tilted it toward the firelight.
"Enjoy it? Hardly. Tomorrow, I'll make sure that smug Senju regrets ever crossing swords with me. I'll break him, brother. Completely."
Izuna paced back and forth, the tension in his movements evident. "He's too obedient to his brother. Every time we clash, he's always looking for Hashirama, like he's tethered to that man's shadow. It's insulting."
Madara remained silent, listening to Izuna's venting as he methodically polished his own sword.
Suddenly, Madara lifted his gaze, the sharpness in his eyes cutting through the air like a blade. "How are your eyes holding up?"
Izuna paused, then scoffed, brushing off the concern with a wave of his hand. "Getting worse. But don't worry, I can still see well enough to hunt down that white-haired bastard."
"If you're ready for the surgery, we can do it anytime,” Madara said.
Izuna smirked, his eyes gleaming. "Relax, brother. Even if my eyes fail completely, I'll still find Senju Tobirama and tear him apart."
Then, with a pointed look at Madara, he added, "Just don't overwork yourself. Your eyes will be mine soon. I can't have you ruining them before that."
Madara laughed under his breath.
"Understood."
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Madara had to admit—Izuna wasn’t entirely wrong.
Senju Tobirama’s attention often drifted toward Hashirama.
It was almost predictable. If Izuna wasn’t actively chasing him down, the white-haired Senju would make a beeline toward his brother, as though his very survival depended on staying close.
A habit, perhaps? Madara mused. Foolish nonetheless, because anyone who thought Hashirama could fall so easily didn’t understand the man’s strength.
It wasn’t until much later that Madara learned Tobirama and Hashirama had two younger brothers.
They both lost to the chaos of war.
Perhaps that explained it.
Perhaps Tobirama’s constant vigilance wasn’t mere habit, but a deeply ingrained instinct born from loss.
Hashirama was the last of his family, the sole remaining link to a bloodline that had been all but extinguished. It made sense that Tobirama would fight like a man possessed to keep that fragile connection intact.
Madara smiled faintly at the thought, a discovery that amused him.
He glanced across the battlefield. Judging by the way Tobirama struggled against Izuna’s relentless assault, the white-haired Senju hadn’t even had a chance to check on Hashirama today.
“Why is the great Uchiha leader smiling in the middle of battle?” Hashirama called out, deflecting another heavy strike from Madara’s blade.
“I just made a rather interesting observation,” Madara replied coolly, before delivering a crushing blow that sent Hashirama stumbling backward.
The sound of clashing steel filled the battlefield, each strike of Madara’s blade forcing Hashirama back a step. Their battle had raged endlessly, both leaders locked in a relentless contest of power and will.
But this time, Madara’s strikes were fiercer, each one heavier than the last.
Hashirama stumbled slightly, blocking an overhead strike with his weapon, but the sheer power behind Madara’s swing overwhelmed him. His feet dug into the ground as he tried to steady himself, but before he could recover, Madara drove his sword down with one final, brutal strike.
With a grunt of pain, Hashirama fell to one knee, his breathing labored, sweat dripping from his brow. Dust rose around him, clinging to his clothes, mixing with the dried blood and grime of battle. He glanced up at Madara, who stood tall, unmoving.
“Tch,” Hashirama exhaled sharply, wiping sweat from his face. “Madara, what’s with you today? You’re really pushing harder than usual…”
Madara didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he slowly lowered his sword, allowing the tip to rest against the ground. His gaze, however, wasn’t fixed on Hashirama—it was directed toward someone else entirely.
As expected. Senju Tobirama’s eyes were on him.
The white-haired Senju had been watching them from a distance, locked in combat with Izuna, but the moment Hashirama collapsed to one knee, his attention wavered.
His crimson eyes flicked toward his brother, assessing his condition. The worry in Tobirama’s expression was subtle but unmistakable.
For a brief moment, their gazes met.
Madara’s Sharingan spun slowly, capturing everything.
Every detail of Tobirama’s expression, every trace of emotion etched into his features.
His eyes, red as blood, locked onto those of the Senju—deep, crimson pools of burning intensity meeting the cold, calculating gaze of Tobirama’s rare scarlet irises.
The world around them seemed to blur for a moment, fading into insignificance. It was as though the entire battlefield had narrowed to just the two of them.
For the first time, Tobirama wasn’t looking at Hashirama. He was looking at Madara.
Finally.
Madara let the moment stretch, savoring it, memorizing it.
The Senju’s face, still youthful yet hardened by war, bore traces of sweat and dirt from the long day on the battlefield. His pale skin, now flushed slightly from exertion, seemed almost translucent under the dim light of dusk. Dark lines of exhaustion marked the curve beneath his eyes.
Yet despite the weariness, there was a sharp intensity in those crimson eyes of his.
Madara’s gaze didn’t falter as he traced the line of Tobirama’s jaw, strong and defiant, the way his lips pressed into a thin line as if refusing to betray any sign of weakness. There was something fascinating about that quiet stubbornness, the way every inch of Tobirama’s being radiated restraint, control, and a barely contained storm beneath.
His Sharingan spun again, engraving the image of those fine, silver strands falling haphazardly over Tobirama’s brow, damp with sweat. Madara didn’t miss the way a single lock clung stubbornly to the side of his face, framing his cheek as if determined to soften the sharp edges of his expression.
Madara would remember this—every line of Tobirama’s face, every flicker of emotion in his eyes, every breath he took in that moment.
But moments like that never lasted long in war.
“Fire Release!” Izuna’s voice cut through the air, fierce and unrelenting. A wave of searing flame erupted toward Tobirama, knocking him backward with sheer force.
Madara sighed, feeling a flicker of annoyance at his brother’s overzealousness. Izuna had taken it too far, as usual.
Without hesitation, Madara raised his sword high and commanded, “Retreat!”
Izuna, caught in the heat of his fight with Tobirama, turned sharply toward Madara, his face a mixture of frustration and disbelief. “What?!”
Madara met his brother’s fiery gaze with calm authority, his voice carrying no room for argument. “It’s time to go.”
There was a pause, a tense moment where Izuna’s defiance hung in the air, but eventually, he relented. With a begrudging snarl, he backed away from Tobirama, lowering his weapon.
Madara offered him a faint, knowing smile. “Let’s head home.”
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“That damn Senju Tobirama,” Izuna muttered, his tone laced with irritation as he wiped his blade clean, the scent of iron lingering in the air.
Madara, standing nearby, allowed himself a faint smile, shaking his head slightly. “You’ve grown too fond of this rivalry, Izuna. Don’t let it consume you.”
Izuna scoffed, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. “Fond? Hardly. It’s maddening! That white-haired bastard fights like he’s toying with me.”
The battlefield around them remained as relentless as ever. The cries of soldiers, the clanging of metal, and the crackle of distant fire jutsu filled the air.
Yet, amidst the chaos, Madara’s attention drifted elsewhere.
He had noticed something, something that had become a quiet constant. A gaze that followed him, sharp and watchful, from across the battlefield.
Senju Tobirama was always watching.
It wasn’t bold or obvious—Senju Tobirama was careful. The younger man didn’t dare to look at him openly for long. It was always fleeting—a brief, furtive glance, quickly withdrawn as if afraid of being caught lingering too long on him.
Those stolen glances, hesitant and fleeting, only made it more intriguing. And though they were subtle, Madara could feel them, sense them cutting through the chaos of the battlefield.
Madara didn’t mind. In fact, he welcomed it.
There was something almost satisfying about the way Tobirama’s eyes sought him out in every battle, even if only in quick, hidden glimpses. As though unable to resist, yet unwilling to be obvious.
And Madara? He had no intention of letting Tobirama’s attention waver.
“Keep your actions in check, Izuna.” Madara’s tone grew more serious. “I’ve spoken with Hashirama. There may be a truce soon. Don’t get lost in your thirst for conquest.”
Izuna clicked his tongue. “Don’t tell me that brat’s been going easy on me out of respect for his older brother. How pathetic.”
Madara’s eyes narrowed slightly, his expression unreadable. “If you already know that, then perhaps you should exercise some caution yourself. I’ve been watching. You’ve been attacking him relentlessly, yet he’s barely retaliated.”
For a moment, Izuna fell silent.
His lips curved into a dark, twisted smile. “Is that so?” Izuna said quietly, his voice low and dangerous. “Then next time, I’ll make sure he has no choice but to fight me with everything he has. I want to see what that self-righteous face looks like when it’s twisted in pain. I want to see Senju Tobirama break.”
His fingers brushed against the blade of his sword as if in anticipation, and the Sharingan flickered to life in his eyes, glowing like crimson embers in the dim light.
There was a wildness to him, a feral energy that bordered on obsession.
“Careful, Izuna.” Madara’s voice carried a quiet authority that left no room for argument. His Sharingan spun lazily, almost as if to remind Izuna of who he was speaking to. “Don’t lose yourself in your hatred. We fight to win, not to destroy ourselves.”
Izuna didn’t reply immediately. He cast one last glance toward the battlefield, where the Senju forces were retreating into the distance. His smile faded, replaced by a steely resolve.
“Fine,” Izuna said with a shrug. “But if there’s no truce, don’t blame me for what happens next time I face Senju Tobirama.”
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"IZUNA!"
"TOBIRAMA!"
The two names were shouted in unison, breaking through the cacophony of war as Izuna collapsed to the ground.
For a brief moment, the battlefield fell into an unnatural silence, frozen in the weight of what had just occurred. All eyes turned toward the bloodied figure lying motionless on the ground, his body drenched in crimson.
Madara moved first, faster than anyone else. His steps were swift, frantic, closing the distance in seconds as he dropped to his knees beside his brother. He cradled Izuna tightly in his arms, his expression uncharacteristically frantic. Blood stained Madara's hands, and his breath came in quick, uneven bursts.
"Izuna, stay with me," Madara's voice was low, urgent, betraying the iron composure he usually carried.
But Izuna, even in his weakened state, was seething with rage. His eyes flared with hatred, and he shouted hoarsely,
"Senju Tobirama! You bastard, come back here!" His voice cracked from both pain and fury.
Across the field, Tobirama stood frozen in place, shock etched clearly on his pale face. His usually calm, calculating eyes now flickered with unspoken fear as he stared at Izuna and the blood pooling around him. He hadn’t moved since Izuna’s collapse, and the blood pooling around the younger Uchiha seemed to seep into the ground, staining the very air with tension.
Tobirama’s gaze remained fixed on Izuna’s crumpled form in Madara’s arms.
“TOBIRAMA!”
The voice startled Tobirama out of his daze, but before he could react, a fist slammed into his face with brutal force.
The force of the blow knocked Tobirama back. He staggered backward, nearly losing his footing. His head snapped to the side.
A trickle of blood ran down the side of his mouth, and his face began to swell from the impact.
“Tobirama!” Hashirama’s voice thundered again, filled with fury and frustration.
“I told you—how many times have I told you to control yourself?!” Hashirama’s voice was low and seething now, his breath coming in harsh gasps. His fist was still clenched, trembling slightly as though he was holding back from striking Tobirama a second time.
Madara, still crouched beside his wounded brother, looked up, his expression momentarily betraying his surprise. He hadn’t expected Hashirama to react so violently—not toward Tobirama, not like this. Madara’s eyes narrowed, observing the sudden fracture in the usually unbreakable bond between the Senju brothers.
Tobirama said nothing.
He remained where he was, head bowed low, as though the weight of Hashirama’s anger pressed down on him like a physical burden. Blood continued to drip from his split lip, a slow, steady stream that stained the front of his armor. His cheek throbbed where Hashirama’s punch had landed, already swelling into a dark bruise.
“Senju Tobirama!” Izuna’s voice rang out, hoarse and raw from pain but still filled with venom. Despite the blood soaking his clothes, despite the way Madara held him firmly in place, Izuna’s gaze locked onto Tobirama with burning intensity.
“If you have any courage left, come here and finish this!” Izuna spat, struggling against Madara’s grip. His Sharingan spun wildly, fueled by rage, his whole body trembling with the effort to rise. “Come here, you coward!”
Madara’s arm tightened around Izuna, holding him back with a quiet but firm strength. “Enough, Izuna,” he said, his voice steady, though the tension in his tone was unmistakable. “You’re injured.”
Turning to Hashirama, Madara's expression darkened, his voice cold and steady. "We end this here today."
Without waiting for a response, Madara raised his voice, addressing the Uchiha soldiers across the battlefield.
"Withdraw!"
The command was absolute, final. The Uchiha forces hesitated only a moment before obeying, retreating from the battlefield at their leader's behest.
Izuna seethed quietly in Madara's arms, while Hashirama stood tense, his fists still clenched.
Back at the Uchiha compound, Madara had to spend considerable time convincing Izuna to calm down and rest. It hadn’t been easy—his brother had always been stubborn, but tonight, with fresh wounds and burning frustration, Izuna was especially difficult.
“The injuries are bad, but seeing how you’re still swearing non-stop, I suppose you’ll live,” Madara said dryly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Izuna, lying on a futon with his torso bandaged, huffed, “Next time, that bastard won’t be so lucky. I’ll make sure he—”
“Enough,” Madara cut in, voice calm but firm. “Focus on healing. There will be other battles.”
Izuna scowled but didn’t argue further. Madara remained seated by his side for a moment longer, silently observing his brother’s tense expression before rising to his feet.
Izuna scowled but didn’t argue further. Madara remained seated by his side for a moment longer, silently observing his brother’s tense expression before rising to his feet.
The night had deepened, cloaking the Uchiha compound in a chilling stillness. Most of the clan had retired to their quarters, leaving only the soft rustle of the wind through the trees and the occasional crackle of torches lining the pathways.
As he left the room, Madara’s mind drifted back to the events on the battlefield.
Hashirama’s reaction still surprised him.
It wasn’t the first time Madara had seen Hashirama angry, but something about the way he’d handled Tobirama felt different. Ruthless.
And then there was Tobirama himself.
Madara could still picture the young man sitting silently beside his brother. The younger Senju hadn’t fought back, hadn’t argued, hadn’t even dared to meet his brother’s eyes. From the beginning to the end of that scene, Tobirama had remained silent, enduring Hashirama’s fury without a word.
Madara’s lips pressed into a thin line as he recalled the fleeting expressions on Tobirama’s face—shock, shame, something else hidden beneath the surface.
Madara didn’t like unfinished thoughts.
They lingered, unanswered, nagging at the edges of his mind like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.
He exhaled slowly, stepping out into the cool night air. The compound was quiet now. The sky stretched vast and dark above him, stars scattered across the horizon.
As the night deepened, a faint rustling sound broke the stillness.
Instinctively, Madara’s eyes sharpened, and he turned toward the source of the disturbance. His hand moved slightly, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword.
“Come out,” Madara said. “I won’t ask again. Show yourself, or I will act.”
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, slowly, a figure stepped forward into the dim light.
Senju Tobirama.
Madara’s gaze remained steady, unyielding, as he took in Tobirama’s appearance.
Even at this distance, Madara could see the angry red swelling on Tobirama’s cheek, stark against his pale skin. There were faint traces of exhaustion etched into his features, no doubt from the long battle earlier that day.
The younger Senju still wore his battle uniform, though stripped of the armored plating and fur collar that usually adorned it. Without the protective layers, Tobirama appeared worn, as if the very air of the battlefield still clung to him, weighing him down.
Yet despite his weary appearance, Tobirama’s posture remained rigid, tense.
He stood at a careful distance from Madara, as if unwilling—or perhaps afraid—to come any closer. His head was bowed slightly, and his hands were clenched at his sides, fingers digging into his palms.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Madara’s eyes narrowed slightly. He could see the faint tremble in Tobirama’s fingers.
“What is this?” Madara asked. “Are you here to finish what your brother started?”
Tobirama’s jaw tightened.
“I came…” Tobirama began hesitantly, his voice barely above a whisper, “… to apologize.”
Tobirama kept his gaze low, refusing to meet Madara’s eyes, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his discomfort.
Madara’s eyes flicked over him, studying every nuance of Tobirama’s expression.
Apologize?
That wasn’t what Madara had expected. And yet, something about Tobirama’s presence here, alone in the dead of night, suggested there was more to this visit than mere words of regret.
Madara remained silent, waiting. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the soft whisper of the wind weaving through the compound.
Tobirama took a slow, steadying breath before lifting his head at last, his eyes meeting Madara’s.
“I’ve come to apologize,” Tobirama repeated, voice firmer this time. “And… I have a proposal for you.”
His Sharingan flickered for a moment, crimson spinning as though memorizing every detail of Tobirama’s face. The wind stirred again, rustling the leaves overhead, the sound echoing in the stillness.
“I know this war can’t go on forever,” Tobirama said carefully. “We’ve both lost too much. Our clans have lost too much.”
Madara remained silent, the shadows playing across his face as he watched Tobirama. The silence stretched once more, until Tobirama finally continued.
“I want to discuss a truce,” Tobirama said, each word dropping like a stone into the still water between them. He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before adding, “Not with my brother. Not with the Senju. With you.”
For a brief moment, the wind stirred, rustling the leaves around them. The night grew colder, yet the tension between them burned like fire.
Madara’s eyes narrowed slightly, a smile playing at his lips. “You’re bold, Senju Tobirama,” Madara said quietly. “Walking into enemy territory alone, making such a statement… You must either be desperate or very foolish.”
Madara took a step forward, closing some of the distance between them, the crunch of gravel beneath his feet unnaturally loud in the silence.
“Tell me,” Madara continued, “which is it?”
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Madara slowly unwound the bandages from his eyes.
Each movement was measured, deliberate. Beneath the dim glow of the oil lamps, his fingers brushed over the last layer of cloth, pausing briefly before he pulled it away completely.
For a moment, he kept his eyes shut. The air felt colder without the bandages, a strange, weightless sensation replacing the constant pressure.
When he finally opened them, the world flooded in—a blinding brilliance that made him wince. His eyes instinctively closed again, and with a quiet exhale, he rubbed them gently.
After several breaths, Madara opened them once more, slower this time, allowing his vision to adjust. His surroundings sharpened into clarity, shadows and shapes falling into place.
This was the first time Madara had seen the world again since undergoing the eye surgery.
Madara activated his Sharingan.
There was no searing pain, no sensation of his chakra being drained by the relentless demands of his eyes.
Instead, it felt… fresh.
Alive.
Almost as though he were awakening the Sharingan for the first time.
It seemed Senju Tobirama had not deceived him after all.
“I know Izuna’s vision is deteriorating.” Tobirama’s voice had been steady, though there was an edge of hesitance beneath it. “I’ve noticed it in his battles against me. His strikes are no longer as precise as they once were. At first, I thought it was my imagination, but after several encounters, it became clear—Izuna is losing his sight. And you, Uchiha-sama, aren’t far behind him.”
Madara had remained silent that night, his gaze cold and unreadable, but Tobirama had pressed on.
“I have a proposal,” Tobirama had said, after a brief pause. His hands had disappeared into his robes, and when they emerged, he was holding two scrolls.
The younger Senju made no move to approach Madara directly, as though wary of breaking the unspoken boundary between them. Instead, he crouched and placed the scrolls carefully on the ground, pushing them forward just enough for Madara to see.
Madara’s Sharingan had been active the entire time, tracking Tobirama’s every movement.
“This…” Tobirama had hesitated, glancing briefly at the ground before meeting Madara’s gaze once more. “…is my research on your clan’s eyes. I apologize for interfering, but neither you nor Izuna is in a good state. These scrolls contain my observations from battles with Uchiha Izuna, as well as a detailed method for performing the eye transplant surgery.”
There had been no response from Madara, only the faint flicker of his Sharingan in the dim light.
Tobirama’s voice had grown quieter, more uncertain. “I know that, historically, the success rate of the procedure has been low. Many Uchiha have lost their remaining vision after attempting it. But I’ve noticed patterns… Perhaps the failure isn’t just due to the eyes themselves. It might have something to do with the surgical technique. I’ve detailed a revised method based on my hypothesis. And… there’s also a medicinal treatment. If applied after the surgery, it could promote healing and improve the chances of success.”
Tobirama had lowered his head slightly, speaking quickly. His hands, still resting on the scrolls, had trembled ever so slightly.
“I didn’t mean to harm your brother. I was just… caught off guard.” There was a faint quiver in Tobirama’s tone, betraying the anxiety he tried to conceal.
“I hope what I’ve brought today can be of use to you and him. I truly wanted to perform the procedure myself, but given the circumstances, I understand that neither of you would trust an outsider—least of all someone who nearly killed you both on the battlefield.”
Tobirama hesitated before continuing, his gaze flicking briefly upward, uncertain but resolute. “If you don’t trust me, you could test my theory on another member of your clan. If it succeeds, then perhaps you could consider using it yourselves.”
Tobirama had paused then, bowing lower, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
“I’m sorry for what you’ve both endured because of me. My brother holds your clan in high regard, Uchiha-sama. He believes in the possibility of peace between us. He doesn’t know about any of this. If I’ve offended you tonight, please don’t hold it against him. I hope that your surgery succeeds. Perhaps then, we can begin discussions on peace between our clans.”
Madara recalled how, at that moment, Tobirama’s expression had shifted.
The younger Senju had tried to force a smile, but the attempt had been feeble, brittle, as though he were on the verge of breaking. His lips had trembled slightly, and for the briefest of moments, Madara had seen the vulnerability in his eyes.
The faint tremble of Tobirama’s lips, the unsteady rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed, and the way his eyes glimmered in the dim light—Madara absorbed every detail, committing it to memory.
For a moment, time itself seemed to stretch.
In the charged silence, Tobirama’s vulnerability lay bare—raw, unspoken, and achingly human.
“I should go,” Tobirama had said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper, cracking at the edges as if it might shatter entirely. His eyes flickered down for a brief second before rising again to meet Madara’s unwavering stare. “I hope to hear good news from you soon, Uchiha-sama.”
Even then, the white-haired man did not dare turn his back on Madara immediately. He stepped back slowly, cautiously, maintaining that careful distance. Only when he reached the shadows did he turn, his form melting into the darkness like a fleeting ghost.
The memory of that night returned to Madara in vivid detail.
Even now, Madara could recall that trembling smile—the way it had faltered, as though Tobirama had been on the verge of tears but refused to let them fall. The sight had left an impression, one that lingered long after Senju Tobirama had disappeared into the shadows.
Madara exhaled slowly, his throat dry, parched.
He realized with a sharp jolt that the feeling wasn’t just in his throat—it spread deeper, like a fire smoldering beneath his skin, burning from the inside out. His body felt unnaturally tense, as though a relentless thirst had taken hold of him.
But it wasn’t a thirst that water could quench.
it was something more sinister, something primal that clawed at the corners of his mind.
It was a craving that no battle, no victory, could satisfy. Only one thing could. Only one person.
Senju Tobirama.
That name alone was enough to stoke the embers of the fire within Madara.
Madara’s gaze darkened, his Sharingan flickering to life again.
No matter how Madara tried to suppress it, the hunger only grew. It was as though something within him had been awakened, something that would not be silenced until he had Tobirama before him again.
He had faced countless adversaries, conquered endless battles, yet nothing had ever unsettled him in this way.
It was no longer enough for Madara to catch those fleeting, furtive glances Tobirama cast his way—the moments when, despite the tension between their clans, despite the battles fought and the blood spilled, Tobirama’s gaze would briefly linger on him.
No, those stolen moments, those cautious glances were insufficient now. They fed something dark within Madara, but they didn’t satisfy it.
Madara wanted more.
Madara wanted all of Tobirama’s attention, undivided and inescapable. He didn’t want a fleeting gaze. He wanted those sharp, calculating eyes fixed solely on him.
A craving to possess.
A need to break something as unyielding as Tobirama and watch it shatter beneath his touch.
Yet at the same time, there was a dark fascination in the thought of holding those shattered pieces in his hands, piecing them back together, shaping them into something new.
Something entirely his.
The memory of Tobirama kneeling before him that night, trembling yet refusing to yield, twisted deeper into his mind. Madara had not missed the slight tremor in Tobirama’s hands, the barely concealed fear lurking behind his composed façade. But that fear had not driven Tobirama to flee—it had made him kneel, made him offer himself, however unknowingly, before Madara.
Madara clenched his jaw, his breath coming in slow, measured intervals, yet the fire inside him raged on. His fingers curled tightly, as if trying to grasp something that was just out of reach.
A twisted smile ghosted across Madara’s lips.
He knew he would find no peace until he confronted this need.
But peace wasn’t what he craved.
No, he wanted something far darker.
He wanted to see Tobirama’s defiance crumble beneath him, wanted to hear that carefully measured voice crack, wanted to feel the fragile strength that Tobirama clung to so desperately give way beneath his hands.
Madara didn’t want a fleeting victory.
He wanted to carve himself into Tobirama’s very existence, to leave behind a mark so indelible it would remain long after the fires of war had faded.
Madara’s breath slowed, but his pulse quickened.
If I had pushed further that night… would he have broken?
Madara could have done it—could have shattered the cold, composed mask Tobirama wore so well. Could have driven him past the limits of restraint, past the brink of composure, and watched as he finally gave in, as tears welled in those defiant eyes and fell.
And the thought of it made Madara’s throat dry, his chest tight with a hunger that had nothing to do with blood or battle.
How would Tobirama cry? Would his voice falter, trembling on the edge of words too painful to form? Would those fierce, calculating eyes grow wide with vulnerability as he tried—and failed—to maintain control? The mere thought of it sent a shiver down Madara’s spine.
Only Senju Tobirama could ease this burning thirst—this insatiable craving that gnawed at his soul.
Yet, beneath that consuming thirst lay something far more dangerous. A dangerous pull toward the one person who had dared stand before him that night, trembling yet unyielding.
And Madara could not decide whether that pull would lead to destruction—or something else entirely.
That had been a week ago.
A week since Izuna had been gravely injured. A week since Senju Tobirama had stood in Madara’s courtyard.
Madara’s gaze drifted to the distant horizon, where the sky was beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn. He closed his eyes briefly, the memory lingering like a phantom touch.
The faint rustle from the next room reached Madara's ears.
Izuna's room.
For a moment, silence followed, but then it was shattered by the sound of a low chuckle, which soon turned into a full, unrestrained laugh.
Madara rose, his expression unreadable as he walked toward Izuna's door. He pushed it open without knocking, stepping into the dimly lit room where Izuna sat on the edge of his bed, fingers brushing lightly over his eyes—the new eyes.
"Hahaha! It's as if l've been reborn!" Izuna exclaimed, his voice filled with exhilaration. He activated his Sharingan, crimson light swirling in his irises as he looked at Madara, grinning broadly.
"Brother, it's incredible. I feel invincible."
Madara didn't say a word, only smiled faintly as he observed Izuna's unrestrained joy.
"Prepare for battle, brother. Let the Senju know—let them tremble." Izuna's grin widened, dark with excitement.
"With this power, I can't wait to crush them. Especially that white-haired bastard. Senju Tobirama."
Izuna leaned back slightly, laughter spilling from his lips, but his voice grew colder.
"I swear, this time I'll break his legs. I'll humiliate him in front of everyone—“
Izuna never finished the sentence.
A sharp, wet sound pierced the air.
Izuna's laughter froze in his throat, replaced by a strangled gasp. His eyes widened in shock as he looked down to see the glint of a tantou buried in his neck. Blood welled around the blade, spilling down his chest in dark rivulets.
His gaze slowly rose, trembling, to meet Madara's eyes.
There was no rage, no hatred in Madara's expression—only a calm, unnervingly gentle smile.
"B-Brother..?" Izuna choked out, his voice a mangled whisper, broken by the blade lodged in his throat. His hands reached up instinctively, grasping weakly at Madara's wrist, but his strength was already fading.
Madara's grip on the tantou remained steady, unyielding. He leaned in slightly, his voice soft, almost tender. "You've done well, Izuna. You've fulfilled your role. But this... this is where it ends."
With a final, deliberate twist of the blade, Madara ended it. Izuna's body went limp, his eyes still wide with disbelief as life drained from him.
Madara pulled the blade free with precision, blood dripping from its edge.
He placed his brother's body gently back on the bed. Izuna's eyes, still open, stared vacantly into nothingness.
Madara reached out, fingers brushing over Izuna's face, and carefully closed his eyelids. For a moment, he lingered, his hand resting on Izuna's cheek, his expression unreadable.
From outside, the muffled sounds of footsteps and voices grew louder, concerned whispers approaching the door.
"Master, is something wrong?" one of the servants called.
Madara rose, his expression once again composed. He opened the door slightly, just enough to be seen.
"Izuna has passed. He succumbed to his injuries from the battle with Senju Tobirama despite all efforts to save him." His voice was calm, cold. "Prepare the funeral arrangements. Send word to the Senju clan—I wish to meet with them."
The servants recoiled at the sudden news, but it wasn’t the words that froze them in place.
It was the glint of Madara’s new eyes, glimpsed through the narrow gap of the door.
They blazed crimson in the dim light, silent and menacing, casting a shadow of dread that clung to the air like a suffocating fog.
Mangekyou Sharingan.
.
.
.
“I’m sorry for everything you had to endure,” Hashirama said softly, his hand gripping Madara’s shoulder firmly, the weight of regret heavy in his voice.
Behind him, Tobirama stood silently, head bowed low as though bracing himself against an unseen burden.
Madara’s gaze never wavered, fixed unrelentingly on the younger Senju.
Though Tobirama hid it well, Madara noticed the faint, involuntary tremors that coursed through his body.
Tobirama was trying to mask his emotions, but the signs of unease were unmistakable to Madara.
“I don’t want Izuna’s sacrifice to be meaningless,” Madara said. “It wasn’t just Izuna who gave his life. Countless others have fallen. This war should end.”
“Yes, yes, it must,” Hashirama agreed hastily, his hands clapping firmly against Madara’s arms in a gesture of reassurance. “Thank you for coming here and saying this.”
Madara remained unmoved. “Remember, you owe me for this,” he said flatly.
The words landed like a quiet, sharp blade—calm on the surface but charged with something deeper.
It was then that Tobirama stiffened behind Hashirama. He seemed to snap out of his daze, his eyes locking onto Madara for the first time.
Hashirama, oblivious to the undercurrents at play, pulled Madara into an embrace, holding him tightly. “Fine, it will be your decision. Thank you, Madara.”
Madara didn’t resist the hug, but his eyes never left Tobirama. His gaze was steady, unyielding, devouring every flicker of emotion that crossed Tobirama’s face.
“You owe me,” Madara repeated, his voice quieter this time but with an edge of finality.
Tobirama, still standing behind his brother, stared at Madara.
Madara devoured every flicker of emotion that Tobirama dared to show.
The mask of cold indifference Tobirama always wore was cracking, layer by layer. He tried to conceal it, but Madara saw it all—every weakness exposed in the dim light of the meeting. The slight tremble in Tobirama’s fingers, the way his breath hitched when their eyes met, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow.
Hesitation.
Fear.
And desperation.
All of it played out in those luminous eyes.
Madara’s gaze traced the shifting emotions reflected in those eyes, taking in every detail as if they were carved into glass—fragile, ready to shatter with the right pressure.
Madara’s focus never wavered, not even when Hashirama pulled him into a tight embrace, murmuring words of trust and gratitude.
Ah, that thirst again.
It clawed at him, hollow and insistent. Only this time, Madara knew what he wanted, knew exactly what could quench it.
Senju Tobirama.
The thought gnawed at him, consuming rationality with a slow, simmering hunger.
Madara absorbed every fractured expression with quiet satisfaction, a hunter studying his prey.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of Madara’s lips.
Deep inside, he felt the familiar burn return—an insatiable thirst, one that no amount of war or conquest could ever quench.
The thirst gnawed at Madara, sharp and consuming, more intense than it had ever been before.
Yes, this was far from over.
The hunt had truly begun, and Tobirama—whether he realized it or not—was already ensnared.
The only thing left was timing. Madara would take his time.
This was only the beginning.