The heavy silence of the conference chamber shattered when Senju Tobirama's voice exploded, sharp as a kunai drawn too fast.
"Who are you calling a copycat?"
His face, usually pale and composed, flushed an angry shade of red. The neat documents scattered across the table rattled under the weight of his fury. These plans, these carefully laid-out strategies for the future of Konoha's industries and military structure—every single one was born of his sleepless nights, of his cold, relentless logic.
To accuse him of plagiarism?
Unthinkable.
Tobirama clenched his jaw until it hurt. I wrote every word. Every number. Every calculation is mine.
If there was plagiarism here, it was someone else shamelessly stealing his ideas, not the other way around.
The accusation stung deeper than any blade. For Tobirama, a man who prided himself not just on his genius but on his scientific rigor, even the suggestion of such dishonor was intolerable. He could endure being called cold. He could endure whispers of cruelty. But a plagiarist? A copycat? Never.
Especially not from him.
The inherently evil Uchiha, who with their cursed Sharingan could copy the ninjutsu others had spent years creating. To Tobirama, that was the height of shamelessness, an insult to the very concept of dignity.
And now Uchiha Madara—his greatest enemy, his brother's closest friend, the man who had personally slain his own brother Izuna—dared to cry thief before him?
Unforgivable.
"Madara," Tobirama growled, chakra crackling faintly at his fingertips. "Don't think that just because you possess the Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan, I will yield to your nonsense. My brother still stands here!"
But Madara's lips curled into a cruel smirk. He slammed a palm against the wooden table, the echo reverberating across the room. His tall figure rose slowly, aura swelling like a storm cloud blotting out the sun.
"I called you a copycat dog," Madara said, voice low, each word deliberate as though hammered into stone. "Are you deaf, Senju Tobirama? Or are you just pretending not to hear me?"
A hush fell over the chamber. The air itself seemed to tremble between them.
Madara rarely wasted breath on arguments. He was a man of fists, fire, and finality. But this—this was different. Before him stood the very man who had struck down his beloved brother Izuna. Madara's heart ached at the thought, a wound that never closed.
I couldn't avenge you, Izuna, he thought bitterly, staring into Tobirama's livid face. But if I can humiliate him here, if I can grind down his pride before his peers, then at least… I've given you this much justice.
"Explain it then," Madara pressed, his Sharingan spinning faintly as he leaned forward. "Explain to me, clearly, who you claim plagiarized whom?"
Tobirama slammed his hand down in turn. "Your Uchiha clan! With those cursed eyes of yours, you've copied my ninjutsu countless times. And now you dare—"
The room trembled with their hostility. The walls, lined with the banners of the clans who had sworn loyalty to the new village of Konoha, seemed to shrink under the weight of two of its founders clashing.
Several clan heads shifted nervously. Whispers began. If a fight broke out here, within the very heart of the village, who would stop it? Could anyone?
"Garlic bird, garlic bird!" one anxious ninja suddenly blurted out, trying to defuse the tension with the strange local saying. "It's not easy, Tobirama-sama! Even if you can't win against Lord Madara, just… copy him! Do it for the sake of the village! No one will blame you!"
A ripple of nervous laughter, forced and uneasy, spread across the room. Other voices chimed in, desperate to keep the storm from breaking.
"Yes, yes, Lord Tobirama, there's no need to escalate—"
"Madara-sama, please, restrain yourself. This is Konoha, after all—"
And then, the warm, booming voice of Hashirama Senju cut in, the only one with the authority to place himself between the two titans.
"Ah, come on, brother," Hashirama said, scratching the back of his head awkwardly as he stepped forward. "Madara doesn't mean any real harm. He just… likes to say things directly."
But Madara did not relent. He crossed his arms, eyes gleaming like twin embers. Let them talk. Let them all see. The various clans of Konoha were no fools. They had long kept one eye on Akatsuki Village, where a certain Uchiha Makoto had risen. They knew the truth: Tobirama's brilliant ideas were not unique.
The so-called "Shadow Hokage" had simply been outpaced.
Tobirama's chest tightened. His breath came short. He wanted to shout, to tear the accusation apart.
"I did not plagiarize!" he barked, but the words rang hollow against the murmurs in the room. His face turned ashen. His mind screamed. Why won't they believe me?
It was Makoto. Always Makoto. That accursed Uchiha from Akatsuki Village—he was the thief, not Tobirama! Yet no one saw it that way. Not even his own brother seemed willing to defend him outright.
Madara's cold snort cut through the silence. The faint curl at the corner of his lips spoke volumes. Victory, quiet and cruel.
Tobirama swallowed hard, forcing himself to steady. He could not afford to lose composure here. He was the Second Hokage, the man entrusted to safeguard Konoha's future. If he fled now, if he admitted defeat, he would never be able to raise his head again.
So he straightened, forced the storm inside him into a razor's edge of calm. "It is coincidence," he declared. "Pure coincidence that Uchiha Makoto's actions resemble mine."
But his words sounded desperate, even to himself.
The ninjas exchanged looks. None openly laughed—they were professionals, disciplined warriors of Konoha—but behind their carefully blank faces, Tobirama saw it. The ridicule. The doubt. The pity.
They think me a clown.
He clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into flesh.
"No!" Tobirama's voice thundered, echoing louder than before. "I did not plagiarize! These are my ideas. My strategies. My visions for the future of Konoha. Let anyone who doubts me bring forth proof!"
The silence that followed was suffocating.
And then—
"Brother," Tobirama turned desperately to Hashirama, his last anchor. "You know me. You know I've been working on these ideas for days. You believe me, don't you?"
Hashirama hesitated. His brow furrowed. He looked between his furious younger brother and his ever-arrogant best friend.
Coincidence… three times? Can such things truly happen?
Hashirama's heart ached. As the eldest, he wanted nothing more than peace between them. But Tobirama's stubborn pride made reconciliation impossible, and Madara's spite only poured oil onto the fire.
In the end, he sighed. Even if I don't believe… I must protect him.
"I believe it," Hashirama said firmly.
Tobirama's heart surged with emotion. His eyes burned. Big brother…
The weight that had been crushing him seemed to lift, if only slightly. Despite everything—their constant arguments, his brother's frustrating softness, even his questionable loyalty to the Uchiha—Hashirama still chose him in the end.
Across the room, other voices quickly rose to echo the First Hokage.
"Yes, yes, Hashirama-sama is right. It's coincidence!"
"Of course Lord Tobirama would never stoop to plagiarism."
"I have always trusted Lord Tobirama's wisdom."
The chorus rang hollow, but it was enough. Enough to shield Tobirama from total humiliation, enough to plaster over the cracks—at least for now.
Madara's smirk lingered, unbothered. He said nothing more, content to watch his rival stew in barely-contained frustration.
And in that silence, Senju Tobirama swore to himself: One day, Uchiha Madara. One day, you will regret mocking me.
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