The battlefield was not made of stone or grass.
It was made of memory.
Tatsuro stood beneath the ancient roots of the Grand Hollow Tree—a forgotten meeting ground known only to the oldest clans. Hashirama sat in a meditation stance, surrounded by blooming moss. Madara stood against a twisted branch wall, arms folded, Sharingan dim but present.
Izuna lay nearby on a stretcher, unconscious and pale.
His chakra was unraveling.
"What the hell did this to him?" Tatsuro asked quietly.
Madara's jaw clenched. "A Senju."
Hashirama's eyes flickered up. "No one from my command. I swear it."
"It wasn't just chakra," Madara said, teeth grinding. "It was like... something ancient. Something inside him trying to crawl out."
Tatsuro knelt beside Izuna, placing two fingers on his forehead. With a whisper, he activated his Eyes of Continuum—a gift from his first wish.
He saw timelines twist.
Lives fracturing like glass.
And in one moment—brief but blinding—he saw it:
A Jashinite symbol glowing beneath Izuna's ribs.
Hidden in blood.
"Someone cursed him during battle," Tatsuro said. "Subdermal sigil. Reactive on adrenaline. Probably linked to that… thing we sealed."
Madara's fists clenched. "He's my brother, Tatsuro."
"I know."
"We're not letting him die."
"I said I know."
Tatsuro moved to action.
Kaede arrived minutes later, carrying the Black Lotus Root—a legendary medicinal chakra conductor he had grown in secret from his third wish.
Guts appeared silently, standing behind Hashirama.
Raikō—now walking, talking, and already practicing chakra control—watched from the tree limbs above, a child with eyes too ancient for his age.
The ritual was dangerous.
Tatsuro carved a seal into his chest.
Blood for blood. Soul for soul.
He poured his own chakra—interwoven with his wish-forged origin—into Izuna's core.
The boy screamed.
His Sharingan activated on instinct—three tomoe, spinning violently.
Then stopped.
Izuna gasped and sat up, hand to his chest, eyes wide.
He looked at Madara.
Then at Tatsuro.
"…It's gone," he whispered. "The fire… it's gone."
Later, under the canopy of silence, Madara and Hashirama stood alone with Tatsuro.
"You didn't have to do that," Hashirama said. "He's not your kin."
Tatsuro looked toward the stars. "That boy is many things. But he's also the reason you two still stand together."
Madara snorted. "You think too highly of us."
"No," Tatsuro said. "I just think you don't see how close the world is to burning."
Hashirama stepped closer. "Then let's stop it together. Senju, Uchiha… Tatsugan."
The three men extended their hands.
And for the first time in recorded history, three great clans formed a silent pact.
A promise:
To fight the darkness that grows beneath the soil, not just the one standing in front of them.
One Month Later.
Tatsuro sat in the war chamber with his clan council.
Kaede. Guts. Takeshi. Elder Rin. And Raikō, who now trained under Kaede and called her "Auntie."
Tatsuro unrolled the war map.
"Word from the east," he said. "A new cult cell. Not Jashinists. They wear gray robes. They use glass weapons. And they bleed black."
Guts spat. "They're breeding more of those things."
Kaede scowled. "We need allies."
"We have allies," Tatsuro said. "Hashirama. Madara. The pact holds."
Takeshi pointed. "But their clans are still at war."
"Then we change the battlefield."
He pointed at the map.
"The Valley of Mist. Neutral ground. Forgotten in the last border redraw. We make it ours."
"A new stronghold?" Kaede asked.
"No," Tatsuro said, eyes glowing faintly.
"A birthplace."
The following moon cycle:
Tatsuro and Guts led the Tatsugan into the Valley of Mist.
It was hell.
The fog clawed at skin. The water was acidic. Creatures slithered with no eyes.
But Tatsuro tamed it.
He carved symbols into the rock, bled chakra into the air, and activated the ancient core hidden beneath the land—another remnant of his second wish.
What rose was not a fortress.
It was a living structure, forged of crystal, bone, and chakra flow.
A sentient haven.
Fort Ashvale.
The first true home of the Tatsugan Clan.
And its heart pulsed with awakening.
Meanwhile.
Deep underground, within the ruins of the Jashin temple, something stirred.
A man awoke in darkness.
Not quite human.
His skin was parchment white, stretched over bones too long. His eyes were golden, slit like a serpent's.
And in his hand was a seal etched in flames.
"Time to visit the forger of flame," he whispered.
"Time to test the one who dares shape fate."