Warring States Period,
In the quiet, lamplit halls of the Senju estate, a mother's cry rang out like a trembling thread in the endless fabric of war. The walls, sturdy and stained with soot from years of torchlight, had heard much—grief, prayer, and celebration—but tonight, it was life being pulled from pain that echoed through them.
The wet nurse, an older woman whose hands had soothed more newborns than she could count, whispered calmly to the laboring woman, "It'll be fine. Hold on. Just a little longer." Her voice, practiced and steady, cut through the chaos like a lullaby.
Outside, beneath the weight of moonlight and legacy, stood a man clad in crimson lacquered armor. Plates of iron and leather layered his tall frame, marked with the crest of the Senju.Butsuma Senju, head of the clan, stood motionless on the engawa, the wooden walkway just outside the birthing room. His eyes were narrow, unreadable. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade not because of danger, but because it was habit, bred into bone.
He did not pace. He did not pray. He simply waited, armored as though the next war might be born alongside his children.
Suddenly, the scream within fell quiet. A final cry… then silence.
The shoji door slid open.
He stepped inside.
There, swaddled in the warm folds of linen, the wet nurse held two crying newborns. Blood still tinged their skin, and their breaths were ragged but strong. "Two boys," she said. Her voice had softened. "The one on the left came first, only by a few seconds."
Butsuma looked down. No flicker of joy passed his face—only a careful gaze, measuring something invisible in the air.
He took the firstborn from her hands. The child wriggled but did not cry again, staring up with dark eyes as if already demanding answers from the world.
"This one," he said. "Hashirama Senju. The one who will carry the will of this clan. The next leader."
Then he took the second, smaller child. This boy cried louder, though his grip curled around Butsuma's finger as if clinging to strength itself.
"And this one…" he said, voice colder than before, "Arashima Senju. He will not lead."
The wet nurse raised her brow, but dared not speak.
"He will be the storm that forges the path forward," Butsuma said. "The wind that does not follow—it cuts. He shall walk the edge."
The newborn's cries seemed to quiet, if only slightly, as if some invisible understanding passed between father and son.
Time marched forward.
Two years later, another child was born—Tobirama Senju, a boy whose icy eyes would one day burn with purpose.
Soon after, came Itama Senju, and finally the youngest, the smallest, the most fragile—Kawarama Senju.
Five sons, all born in war.
But it was Arashima, second-born, who stood outside that morning on the wooden porch. He was five years old, hair already thick and untamed, black as nightfall and tied loosely behind his ears. His eyes, dark and sharp, mirrored Butsuma's—but there was something softer in his face, a trace of his mother's gentleness that hadn't yet been beaten out of him.
He stood barefoot, a light summer kimono hanging loosely on his frame. His small hands clutched the porch's edge as he leaned forward, watching his mother cradle the youngest of them all.
"Arashima," she called softly. "Come see your brother."
He padded forward, the wooden floor warm beneath his feet. Inside the room, his mother sat on a futon, her long hair tied back, fatigue clinging to her shoulders. But her smile was warm.
She gestured to the bundle in her arms. Kawarama, barely weeks old, blinked sleepily at the world.
"Be gentle," she said.
Arashima knelt and reached out with uncertain fingers. He brushed his baby brother's cheek with the back of his hand, careful, almost reverent.
Kawarama laughed.
A small hand caught Arashima's finger and held on tightly.
His mother chuckled. "He likes you."
The words wrapped around his heart like a shawl on a cold morning.
In the background, Hashirama's laugh rang out. The eldest, only barely older than Arashima, chased Tobirama in circles, both of them giggling like fools as they ran barefoot through the courtyard. The sound of their footsteps and joy was like birdsong in the halls of warriors.
Itama, barely two, sat nearby, gnawing on a bamboo stick and watching them with wide, curious eyes. His hair was beginning to grow in, a strange mix of black and soft brown—some odd blend of heritage.
The moment was peaceful.
Too peaceful.
It never lasted.
From behind them, a deep voice echoed across the wood.
"Arashima."
He froze.
Butsuma Senju stood in the doorway, arms crossed, the edges of his crimson armor gleaming beneath the morning sun. His presence filled the space like a storm cloud casting its shadow.
He stepped forward and gripped Arashima by the forearm—not cruelly, but with the strength of one who held no space for hesitation.
"Outside," he commanded. "Training ground. Now."
Then, without turning his head, he barked again, "Hashirama! Tobirama! Come. Or be punished."
The laughter died.
The world shifted.
Hashirama and Tobirama exchanged glances. Tobirama frowned. Hashirama grinned—nervously. Both of them scrambled to their feet and followed their father out of the hall.
Arashima stepped into the harsh sun
Every day, it was the same.
Run.
Breathe.
Endure.
Bleed.
The grind of the Senju estate's daily training echoed like a sacred ritual—boots thudding against packed earth, grunts rising in rhythm with the crunch of stone under fist. Butsuma Senju believed in strength forged only through repetition. Pain was a teacher. It didn't whisper—it screamed. And only those who listened, survived.
But that day…
Something was different.
No calloused fists, no body conditioning, no sandbags strapped to legs or forced marches around the estate with bloodied knees and swollen feet. Instead, their father had said three words:
"To the forest."
Arashima walked beside his brothers, quiet. The sun was high. The wind was soft. The trees watched them with silent judgment.
'Are we going to fight bears today?'
That thought passed between them like a shared dream. None of them said it out loud, but it clung behind their eyes.
Instead, Butsuma said nothing.
He walked ahead, his crimson armor gleaming dully beneath the trees, his back straight, like the steel of a blade that had never bent.
And then, he stopped.
He reached out toward a low branch and plucked three leaves—green, full, veins like rivers. He turned and handed one to each boy. No emotion. No explanation. Just a task.
"Balance this on your head," he said.
The brothers blinked.
"With chakra. Focus. Control it. Let it rise, not fall. Do not drop it. Understand?"
They nodded. Even Hashirama, usually more impulsive, grew serious. Tobirama was already steady as a statue.
They sat.
Legs crossed.
Spines straight.
Each placed the leaf on their head.
The forest grew silent.
They began.
From the base of their spines, faint heat stirred. Breath synchronized with heartbeat. Chakra, that invisible ocean inside them, began to ripple upward. Slowly. Hesitantly.
Sweat dotted their brows.
Hashirama's chakra surged quickly, but not chaotically. His control wasn't perfect—but he had the power of ten children. His leaf didn't even twitch.
Tobirama was like still water. Cold. Focused. Unmoving. He channeled his chakra precisely, inch by inch, like an artist painting within perfect lines.
The leaves danced on their foreheads. Balanced. Unwavering.
But not Arashima.
His breathing was ragged.
Chakra spluttered.
Control slipped.
The leaf slid down his forehead again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, he reset. Tried. Focused. Failed. His mind screamed "stay calm," but his body betrayed him. Heat surged too fast or not enough. His nerves rebelled. His shoulders trembled.
He fell forward, palms scraping against the soil.
Then, panic set in.
His chest heaved.
His throat closed.
The leaf crumpled in his fist.
He wasn't just failing. He was drowning.
The air around him thickened. Like the world had grown heavier just for him.
And then…
A shadow.
Butsuma stepped forward, looming like a crimson storm. His voice, low and frigid:
"You're wasting time."
Arashima's head jerked up. "F-Father—"
A hand reached down.
Not kind. Not gentle.
One mixed with hate and punishment.
But before Arashima could take it, two blurs rushed forward.
"Arashi—!"
Hashirama, first to break concentration, ran across the clearing, arms stretched wide. His leaf had already fallen, forgotten.
Tobirama, ever composed, followed. A hand on Arashima's shoulder, firm and grounding.
"That's enough, father—he's—"
But before the sentence finished—
CRACK.
The air split.
Butsuma didn't flinch.
He didn't speak.
Only moved.
The two brothers were flung backwards, their bodies crashing into tree trunks with brutal force. Leaves scattered. A bird took flight.
Arashima remained, staring upward.
His father took him by his hand.
'Ple-please!,father!,I'll do be-"
His father didn't listen to his slurred words.
......
The beating had continued from sunrise till sun set.
His father's fist hovered inches from his face. Rage. Disappointment. Something colder.
"You think a dull blade is useful in a war?" Butsuma snarled. "You can't even hold a leaf! You're a disgrace! Weak! Worthless! Do you want your enemies to pat your head too?! Or will they gut you while you cry?!"
The blows came like thunder.
Fists. Words. Spit. Pain.
His brothers groaned from where they slept,the next room over. Trying to ignore the sounds of fist slamming into flesh.
His mother…
She sat inside the room, eyes closed. Silent.
She said nothing.
Not because she didn't care.
Because she'd been powerless for far too long.
She couldn't say anything.
Senju clan was a highly patriarchal society after all.
Later-
He limped alone. His body screamed, every joint a forge of agony. His breath wheezed out in short bursts, each step echoing between the trees like a confession.
Through the woods, deeper into the estate's hidden paths. Places only the brothers knew.
Until he reached it.
A clearing.
One large boulder sat in the middle. A place they'd played just this morning.
He blinked through one swollen eye.
Two shapes.
Sitting atop the boulder.
Hashirama and Tobirama.
Hashirama stood first. "Hey!" he called, trying to sound cheerful. He pointed upward. "Look at that—aren't the stars kinda pretty tonight?"
His grin was shaky.
Arashima didn't answer. His mouth was shut tight. His shoulders trembled—not from pain now, but something worse. Something burning.
He looked up at the stars.
Did they laugh at him too?
Hashirama's grin faded. He slid down the boulder, walking toward his brother, arms opening.
"I know it sucks," he said softly. "But you're still my brother, Arashi. Leaf or no leaf."
He wrapped his arms around Arashima.
Tight.
Warm.
Real.
Tobirama didn't move at first. His face was stone, his fists clenched. He hated weakness. But he hated silence more.
So finally, he joined.
A hand on Arashima's back. Then another arm.
A three-way embrace, broken boys holding each other like a dam against a world that refused to be kind.
They stood there for a long time.
Stars watching.
Crickets singing.
Arashima didn't speak.
But he didn't push them away either.
Finally, Hashirama whispered:
"Sometimes I think... this whole world is broken."
Tobirama, ever blunt, added, "It is."
"Then we fix it," Hashirama said, eyes like fire.
Arashima said nothing.
But deep inside, something cracked open.