Mitokado Homura sat quietly, watching Utatane Koharu pen the last strokes of their pact. He knew her temperament too well—if he hadn't agreed to sign, she wouldn't have let him leave alive. In truth, he regretted ever stepping foot into her house today.
And yet… part of him was relieved.
If he hadn't come, Koharu would've gone to Mito-sama and Uchiha Ren Takashi alone—and he'd have been left vulnerable, exposed to both sides of the brewing conflict.
He couldn't afford that.
Homura understood one thing very clearly: Uchiha Ren Takashi's growth had been nothing short of terrifying. In just over a year, the Uchiha and even the Senju had undergone radical changes. That kind of power shift would shatter any lingering loyalty to the Third Hokage.
Only one factor still favored Sarutobi Hiruzen: Uzumaki Mito's mortality. If she died within the next year, the balance might tip back toward the old regime.
But betting everything on her death was a dangerous game.
"Haha, that's more like it!" Koharu said cheerfully. She passed over two documents—signed, sealed, and treasonous. "I've already signed. Your turn."
"Good." Homura didn't hesitate. He scrawled his signature, then tucked one copy away. With that done, he stayed seated, leaning forward.
"We'll need more than just verbal promises," he said grimly. "We should negotiate with Lady Mito for something real—shares in their industries. One for each of our families, at least."
"If we're going to jump ship, we need to become part of the Uchiha's new order. Without that, we're just expendable tools."
Koharu's eyes sparkled with approval. "You're right. I nearly overlooked that point."
She nodded firmly. "When I arrange the meeting with Mito-sama, I'll bring it up. If we can secure shares quietly—without public acknowledgment—it'll give us real leverage."
"But," she added cautiously, "I don't expect them to give us much. We were too close to Sarutobi and Danzo for too long. We were complicit in suppressing the Uchiha and even the Senju. At best, they'll tolerate us—for now."
"One share per family would already be generous," Homura agreed. "Even half a share. As long as it ties us to their success, we'll have some protection."
With that understanding, the two elders spent the next hour refining their plan—how to make contact, what conditions to propose, and how to navigate their secret betrayal until the time was right.
—
Meanwhile, news of the Uchiha clan's newest commercial venture had exploded across the ninja world.
The Research Department's seven new technologies had spurred another wave of industry bidding. Invitations were sent to daimyo, aristocrats, and wealthy merchants from every nation.
"Uchiha again?" a feudal lord murmured, reading his ornate letter. "Electricity, appliances… weren't those already in use? Hmph. Must be upgrades. Worth looking into."
"I heard their last venture made a fortune," another said. "This time, I'll invest, no matter what it costs."
"The steel company missed out before. I won't make the same mistake."
But not all reactions were so positive.
"Tch. A ninja clan turning into industrialists?" scoffed the Daimyo of the Land of Lightning. "How arrogant."
He tossed the invitation aside with disdain.
"It's one thing to profit from missions," he growled, "but now they're building empires? Are they trying to challenge our authority?"
In truth, the Land of Lightning had long held dominance in electricity and mechanical tech. Uchiha's growing influence now threatened those economic strongholds—and more dangerously, challenged the role of ninja as servants of the daimyo, not equals.
Worse still, the Fire Country Daimyo was already invested in Uchiha's industries. That made political retaliation far more complicated.
One of his aides approached cautiously. "Shall we still attend the bidding conference, Daimyo?"
"Of course," the Lightning Daimyo said coldly. "In fact, I'll go personally. I want to meet this Uchiha boy face to face—and remind the Fire Daimyo of what's at stake."
"And send word to the Hidden Cloud Village," he added. "I want their best escort squad ready. We're moving soon."
"As you command, my lord," the aide replied.
—
Deep beneath the mountain cemetery, Uchiha Madara sat in silence.
Before him, Black Zetsu and White Zetsu had just finished delivering their latest report.
"Auctioning industries? Collaborating with foreign daimyos?" Madara sneered. "This brat—Uchiha Ren Takashi—he's talented, no doubt. But why is he wasting time playing merchant?"
"Money builds influence," Black Zetsu said mildly. "And influence breeds power."
Madara scoffed. "Power comes from strength. From dominance. From fear."
He waved a hand dismissively. "All this economic nonsense… he's diluting the blood of Uchiha. If he wants to change the world, he should be sharpening his Sharingan, not selling refrigerators."
"Actually…" White Zetsu hesitated. "He's not falling behind."
Black Zetsu picked up the thread. "In the last month, Ren Takashi orchestrated the deaths of two Cloud Shinobi elites using allies. He and Uchiha Nobuhiko eliminated several Root squads. He's mastered Flying Thunder God, multi-element ninjutsu, and is now considered between Elite Jōnin and quasi-Kage level."
"All in one year," he added.
Madara raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Already that strong?"
"Indeed."
"But instead of perfecting his Sharingan," Madara grumbled, "he's playing Senju Tobirama, copying that cursed teleportation technique."
"He's even trying to ally with the Senju… it's disgraceful."
He scowled. "The Uchiha have changed. And not for the better."
Zetsu, however, wasn't bothered. He'd seen Madara's contradictions before.
Worships Hashirama. Hates Tobirama. Loves Uchiha. Distrusts them. Madara is nothing if not dramatic.
Black Zetsu had long since learned to work around Madara's pride.
Still, he gave a shallow nod. "We'll keep watching him."
"Good," Madara muttered. "And accelerate preparations. I want the next war to start soon. I want to see this Ren Takashi on the battlefield. Let's see if he lives up to the legend he's writing."
Zetsu bowed, vanishing into the earth.
Madara leaned back, eyes drifting toward the cavern ceiling as if staring through stone and soil into the distant sky.
"Hashirama," he whispered, "you were wrong."
"You dreamed of peace. But only I… I can bring it."
And in that moment, the ghost of the boy he once was flickered—running beside his dearest friend along a riverbank, filled with hopes that never came to pass.
But now?
Now only war remained.