Chapter 1 The True End
The sky above was shrouded in a suffocating darkness, as if the shadows of the Fourth Shinobi War still lingered. The battlefield was scorched and broken, and on the blood-stained earth lay a battered figure—Uchiha Madara, the man who had once been feared as the Ghost of the Uchiha.
His eyes, the once-glorious Rinnegan, were dull and heavy, barely able to open. Still, he forced them wide, staring up at the hollow sky as though something far beyond the clouds called to him.
The tall, imposing silhouette he once carried was but a memory; his frame, though still proud, had withered with defeat.
"I never saw the light at the end… it seems I was always destined for darkness," Madara thought bitterly, a faint, self-mocking laugh caught in his chest.
A sudden presence stirred the silence. He heard the familiar metallic "ding-dong" of armor, a sound etched into his memory from countless battles in the Warring States Era, when the Senju and Uchiha clashed without end.
Madara lacked even the strength to turn his head. But he did not need to. He already knew who stood there.
"Hashirama…?" His voice was hoarse, but still laced with defiance.
"Yeah," came the reply. The deep, warm voice of Senju Hashirama—Shodai Hokage—echoed with that same mixture of kindness and strength that had once made even Madara hesitate.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
"You and I… we both failed to grasp it," Madara said flatly, yet the bitterness in his tone was unmistakable.
"Madara," Hashirama replied quietly, "it was never meant to be easy. We gave all we could in our time, and now… our dreams must be left to the next generation. Naruto, Sasuke… they will do what we could not." His words carried both pain and faith.
Madara's eyelids felt as heavy as stone, sinking against his will. He pried them open again, trembling.
"You're still the same fool," he said, a faint smirk curling his lips. "Always so damn optimistic. Maybe… you're right." His mind wandered, unbidden, to those distant days when they were boys skipping stones across the Naka River, dreaming of a world without bloodshed.
"My dream is gone," Madara murmured, voice soft and fading. "But yours… yours lives on."
"I was too stubborn back then," Hashirama admitted, his tone regretful yet calm. "It didn't matter if we failed in that moment. What matters is raising those who will inherit that dream and surpass us." But they had learned it too late, and he knew it.
Madara's cracked lips curled into an arrogant grin. "Then count me out. I've always hated anyone walking behind me."
Hashirama couldn't help but smile faintly at the familiar pride. His expression softened with memories—their countless duels, their shared laughter, and the impossible dream they once believed in.
"Back when we were kids," Hashirama said, voice thick with nostalgia, "you told me that ninjas live on the edge of death. If there was ever a way to survive… it would be to face each other honestly, and drink as brothers instead of enemies."
Hashirama paused, then added gently, "Now, as two dead men… let's share that drink, as comrades."
Madara's heart stirred. It had been so long since they had spoken this openly. The coldness spreading through his body clashed with the warmth of that memory.
"Comrades…?" he whispered.
His eyes fluttered shut.
"Fine. In that case, we will…" His voice trailed off, cut short as his breath ceased forever.
Hashirama stood still, his chest aching with an unbearable sorrow. My closest friend… gone again, before my eyes. His reincarnated Edo Tensei body could not cry, but his gaze lingered on Madara's face, wishing he could return, just once more, to those fleeting days by the river.