"Brother, are you insane!?"
Senju Tobirama's sharp voice echoed inside the Hokage's office. His pale fingers gripped the wooden desk as though he might crush it in half.
"Two million taels wasn't enough? Now you want to add another two million!?" His crimson eyes were practically bulging. "Do you even know how much it costs to maintain Konoha? To build it into the prosperous village you dream of? Even the ten billion ryo given by the Daimyo of the Fire Nation is barely enough to cover the basic framework, and yet you—"
Tobirama's voice faltered. He bit his tongue before finishing his thought.
And then came the words that truly made his heart skip a beat.
Hashirama Senju, First Hokage of Konoha, laughed in that carefree way of his and declared proudly,
"Also, don't you see? The reason Konoha still struggles… is because our ninjas have bad qualities!"
"...???"
For a long moment Tobirama simply stared at his older brother, as if trying to confirm whether his hearing had betrayed him.
Ninjas have bad qualities? Did his elder brother just say that openly?
If such words left this office and spread through the village, the consequences would be disastrous. The morale of the shinobi would plummet.
But his brother, his foolishly idealistic elder brother, spoke without hesitation.
Hashirama's face lit up as though he had uncovered some grand truth of the world. "Isn't that exactly what the article said? If a ninja village doesn't recognize these flaws, it means the shinobi still carry the rotten habits of the Warring States Era. This writing is absolutely right! In fact—no, it's brilliant!"
His lips smacked together in satisfaction, like a child savoring honey. His eyes sparkled as he quoted the title again:
"Turning hatred into hot soup to warm people's hearts."
It was, in Hashirama's mind, a revelation.
After all, had he not always believed in reconciling hatred with compassion? Had that not been the very reason he reached out his hand to Madara Uchiha? It was through this philosophy that the Senju and Uchiha clans had ended generations of bloodshed.
And now—now he wanted to spread that same philosophy across all of Konoha.
Tobirama, on the other hand, was on the verge of collapse.
"Brother, stop this nonsense!" he shouted, his jaw tightening. "This is absurd! It's madness! You're talking about pouring two million taels into—into—this nonsense! This money is going to vanish like meat buns thrown to a stray dog! Do you understand? It will never come back!"
His voice shook with a mixture of fury and despair.
He wanted to argue further, but part of him hesitated. On an emotional level, Hashirama's intentions didn't sound completely wrong. His elder brother wanted to heal the hidden wounds of shinobi society. But rationally… rationally Tobirama could not accept it.
It was abnormal. Beyond abnormal.
It was insane.
And worse—it was expensive.
"Your thinking is far too narrow, Tobirama," Hashirama replied with a solemn expression, his voice dropping low as if he were about to lecture a child. "You're focusing only on numbers. The most important thing is the will of the people—the will of fire! Isn't that exactly what you've always said yourself?"
Tobirama nearly choked.
Will of fire? Was his elder brother really throwing his own words back at him?
He, Tobirama, had been working tirelessly—drafting thirty-year infrastructure plans, building educational systems, securing trade agreements—and meanwhile his elder brother was wasting his days with Madara, gallivanting through forests and rivers, speaking about dreams and love.
And now… now Hashirama had the gall to call him narrow-minded?
"Am I narrow-minded?" Tobirama repeated, his eyes widening in disbelief.
The veins on his temple bulged. For the briefest instant, he almost believed his brother had fallen under some genjutsu.
But no. This was simply Hashirama being Hashirama.
"Approve the funding, Tobirama," Hashirama said firmly, his tone suddenly heavy with authority. "I am doing this for Konoha!"
Tobirama's jaw locked. "I refuse. Absolutely not. I will not let you throw away two million taels on such idiocy!"
Then came the words that sealed the argument.
"I am the Hokage!" Hashirama slammed his hand on the desk, his voice booming like thunder. "As Hokage, I order you to approve this!"
The office fell into silence.
Tobirama's lips trembled. His chest heaved with restrained rage.
At last, he muttered through clenched teeth, "Brother… you will regret this."
But Hashirama didn't flinch.
After a long silence, Tobirama exhaled slowly. His head dropped slightly, and his voice softened. "Fine. If this is what you want, then so be it."
He scribbled his signature on the approval slip and shoved it into Hashirama's hand. "Two million. But only this once. If you want more in the future, earn it yourself. And take this chance to distance yourself from Madara Uchiha."
Hashirama beamed like a child receiving candy. "Marvelous! I knew you would understand, Tobirama!"
Without waiting another moment, he clutched the paper like treasure and practically ran from the office. "I'll go put the crates away with Madara right now!"
Tobirama's fingers twitched at his side. He wanted to smash something.
Instead, he collapsed into the chair and rubbed his temples.
"This is dangerous," he muttered. His gaze fell on the book his elder brother had left behind. "This damn 'New Ninja'… ever since he read it, his mind has been unraveling. I must study it carefully."
His eyes narrowed. "I won't let a book destroy the First Hokage."
---
Meanwhile, in the capital of the Fire Nation.
The atmosphere was tense, heavy with unspoken threats.
Inside the grand reception hall, Uchiha Makoto strode across the polished floor. His steps were measured, confident, but his eyes carried the shadow of calculation.
Seated on an ornate sofa, the Daimyo of Fire waited impatiently. His fingers drummed against the armrest. The moment Makoto entered, the Daimyo sprang to his feet.
"Makoto," he hissed, his face red with fury. "Do you even realize what you've done? You are using my name to exploit the nobles! Already, they are planning to unite against me. Do you want open rebellion?"
Makoto's bow was graceful, his tone smooth as silk. "Your Highness, there is no need for alarm."
"No need—?" The Daimyo's voice rose, cracking under his anger. "You call this no need for alarm? You claim to support me, yet you act behind my back, staining my reputation!"
"Your Highness," Makoto said again, this time more firmly, "the Akatsuki Village has always stood firmly at your side. Everything I do is for the sake of your reign."
The Daimyo's glare didn't soften.
"This incident could grow into a scandal," he snapped. "If the nobles truly unite, even I cannot predict the outcome. Do you understand the risk you've created?"
Makoto inclined his head. "I understand, but please listen. Akatsuki Village is in need of funds. Without them, we cannot continue our preparations."
The Daimyo barked a laugh, though there was no humor in it. "Funds? Your village just took ninety billion ryo in dividends! Ninety billion! Even for me, that is a fortune. And yet you dare stand here and claim you lack money?"
Makoto's expression never wavered. "That fortune has been invested wisely, Your Highness. Every coin serves one purpose—to prepare for Senju Hashirama."
At the mention of the name, the Daimyo's anger faltered.
"Hashirama…" he muttered.
Makoto pressed forward. "The First Hokage is too powerful. No single man can hope to defeat him. To oppose him, we need numbers. That is why I have recruited three thousand reserve shinobi. Trained, armed, and ready to be wielded as blades at your command. They will serve both to defend Your Highness and to crush Hashirama Senju when the time comes."
The Daimyo leaned back slowly, eyes narrowing.
Yes… he knew the terror of Hashirama's strength. He had seen the forests bloom from nothing, the ground itself reshaped by one man's jutsu. The First Hokage was a monster cloaked in kindness.
If Akatsuki Village truly had three thousand shinobi ready… perhaps there was hope.
Makoto's voice was steady, persuasive. "Please, Your Highness. Look at the records yourself."
From his sleeve he produced a ledger.
Within its pages were carefully fabricated accounts—columns listing the costs of training thousands of shinobi, the creation of supply chains, medical corps, even a factory for explosive tags. Each number had been designed to impress, to justify, to persuade.
Of course, it was all fiction. Akatsuki's coffers remained flush with wealth.
But Makoto's smirk, hidden beneath his polite bow, said it all:
If you doubt me, Your Highness, then send your accountants to investigate.
I dare you.
The Daimyo slowly turned the pages, his brow furrowing deeper with every line.
Makoto remained silent, waiting, as the heavy air of the hall pressed down.
---
(To be continued…)
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