Senju Makoto had more or less figured out the current mechanics of his cheat.
By disrupting the original plot, he could forcibly extract the bloodline power of "Otsutsuki Hagoromo" from the sealing space. The greater the disruption, the higher the reward—but the accompanying risks also climbed exponentially.
With his current "small stature" and somewhat awkward status, his top priority was finding a large enough protective umbrella. He needed to be able to do as he pleased to quickly complete his initial accumulation.
His experience of being repeatedly beaten down by society in his previous life told him that out in the world, three percent is hard work, while ninety-seven percent is your background. Without a background, it's easy to become a small fry that anyone can squeeze.
After much thought, who in the entire Konoha could be a better umbrella than Senju Hashirama—the man who treated the Nine-Tails like a Haji Cat?
Especially given Makoto's identity—a mixed blood of the Senju Clan and the Uchiha Clan. In the heart of Hashirama, who was obsessed with the peace between the two clans and held a deep obsession with Uchiha Madara, this was simply the "Chosen One" served on a silver platter by the heavens.
More importantly, Hashirama was generous, informal, and easy to talk to. He was the ideal choice.
With his mind made up, a light of determination flashed in Makoto's eyes. He had always been a man of action, never one to hesitate.
He quickly turned around and returned to his sparsely furnished, somewhat lonely courtyard. Closing the door, he began to meticulously refine every step and every possibility of his plan.
Then, he rummaged through his belongings to find suitable clothes and began to groom himself in front of a bronze mirror, subtly adjusting his appearance to look like a blend of Uchiha Madara and Senju Hashirama.
He repeatedly practiced his expressions, letting a trace of the "God of Shinobi's" gentle generosity linger between his brows, while beneath it, he allowed the haughtiness and rebellion of the "Ninja World Shura" to faintly show through.
Time slipped away during his careful preparations.
A few days later, at dusk, the setting sun poured down like molten gold, bathing the sprawling rooftops of the Senju Clan compound in a brilliant yet lonely golden-red hue.
This tranquility was suddenly shattered.
"BANG—!"
The sturdy wooden door of Senju Hashirama's living room was nearly kicked off its hinges.
Senju Tobirama rushed in, clutching a brand-new scroll. His usually expressionless, calm face was flushed red, and his crimson eyes sparkled with irrepressible excitement.
"Brother! I've developed a new technique!"
Hashirama, leaning against the window, had no reaction to the thunderous kick. He held a worn, yellowed portrait in his hand, his fingertips unconsciously and repeatedly tracing the profile of the person in the drawing—Uchiha Madara.
His eyes were empty. The burning sunset outside and his excited brother in the room seemed unable to reach the depths of his stagnant gaze.
That great battle at the Valley of the End, mixed with rain, blood, and the hollow feeling of personally burying his only best friend, had completely torn a part of his soul away, leaving only a daily accumulation of silent exhaustion.
It wasn't until Tobirama's voice practically exploded in his ear that Hashirama very slowly lifted his eyelids. He didn't even raise his head, his voice as flat as a pool of dead water.
"Is it Water Release?"
The excitement on Tobirama's face froze instantly. He was all too familiar with this opening. He quickly waved his hands.
"No! This new technique has nothing to do with Water Release, but it can..."
"Oh."
Hashirama interrupted him airily, his tone still lacking any fluctuation. "Then just record it in the Scroll of Seals yourself."
Tobirama: "..."
He opened his mouth, but his heart full of passion and expectation was suddenly blocked in his throat by those dismissive words.
The scroll in his hand, which he had poured his heart and soul into, now felt as heavy as a mountain, causing his shoulders to slump. Even his signature silver hair seemed to dim a bit.
Tobirama lowered his head and slowly trudged out of the courtyard, looking back every few steps. His back was a silent scream of "grievance," "frustration," and "my peerless talent is understood by no one."
The living room returned to a dead silence. Uzumaki Mito, not wanting to watch Hashirama look like he had lost a spouse all day, had been spending her time studying the Nine-Tails seal and was reluctant to come home.
Hashirama slowly withdrew his scattered gaze, letting it fall back onto Madara's face in the portrait. His voice was so low it was almost audible only to himself, wrapped in inseparable fatigue and confusion.
"Tobirama developed another new technique... If it were you, what would you say, Madara?"
Uchiha Madara: "?"
Uchiha Izuna: "??"
Outside the window, far away in the back mountains where it was tethered, the Nine-Tails' massive ears suddenly twitched. It seemed to catch a certain name carried by the wind, and its massive body shivered for no reason, burying its head even deeper under its paws.
In the shadows nearby, Senju Makoto leaned against the cold stone wall, a small blue blade of grass dangling from his mouth, lazily swinging his legs.
Over the past few days, relying on his status as a member of the Senju Clan, he had been wandering near Hashirama's courtyard like he was clocking in for a job, observing and waiting.
Although he hadn't been directly driven away, he had received plenty of cold stares, snubs, and silent rejection. The prejudice within the Senju Clan against his "mixed blood" was far deeper than imagined. The "protective umbrella" plan was urgent.
Opportunity always favors the prepared.
And he, Senju Makoto, had been prepared for days—he didn't even dare to go pee, fearing he might miss his chance.
The moon rose to the center of the sky, casting a cold silver glow over the silent compound.
On his soft mat, Senju Hashirama was suffering from insomnia again. As soon as he closed his eyes, the scenes from the Valley of the End played on a loop in his mind.
Tossing and turning, unable to sleep, he simply got up. Dragging his legs that felt like they were filled with lead, he walked out of the wooden house like a ghost, wandering aimlessly through the silent compound.
Senju Makoto, who had been lurking like a leopard, suddenly had his eyes light up. The chance had come. He didn't hide; instead, he followed openly, his footsteps sounding exceptionally clear in the silent night.
Hashirama noticed the faint, persistent footsteps behind him.
But at this moment, his heart was filled with heavy things, making him too lazy to look back or ask which junior of which family this unknown youth belonged to.
That tiny sound was instantly forgotten by the cool night wind.
Makoto followed him for over an hour, walking from the center of the compound to the edge, passing the training grounds and circling the ancestral hall. He couldn't find a single natural opportunity to start a conversation; Hashirama was completely immersed in his own world, unresponsive to the outside.
Then, Makoto felt something go wrong—his bladder was about to explode.
He had been staking out since early morning. To avoid missing the chance, he hadn't even drunk much water. Now, in the dead of night, the urge to urinate was overwhelming and could not be ignored.
He was quick-witted. Spotting a quiet corner of a wall, he hunched over and slipped over quickly. With his back to the path, he hurriedly fumbled with his waistband—
A cold sensation of being watched crawled up his tailbone without warning, instantly making his hair stand on end.
His body froze. Very slowly, frame by frame, he turned his head.
The moonlight fell coldly. Not far away, Hashirama stood there quietly, his black eyes filled with a hint of confusion as he watched him—and his actions—silently and intently.
This scene was both absurd and blindingly familiar.
It was exactly like years ago, by the Naka River, when a youth named Uchiha Madara was urinating into the water, and a silly mushroom-haired Senju Hashirama suddenly appeared behind him...
The same suddenness, the same awkwardness so intense one could carve out a Hokage Rock with their toes...
The moment their eyes met, time seemed to freeze.
Hashirama looked as if he had been hit by the ultimate paralysis technique; he was completely frozen in place, even holding his breath.
The moonlight was so clear, outlining the youth's silhouette with perfect detail.
That slightly messy black hair, the slight frown from being disturbed, and the innate impatience, aloofness, and arrogance showing through his pressed lips...
In a daze, Hashirama almost saw the teenage Uchiha Madara he had run into by the Naka River—equally annoyed and trying to act calm.
But in the next second, the bright moonlight shifted, softly illuminating the boy's face.
The straight bridge of the nose, the clear and rugged lines of the face... it clearly also blended the broad and solid skeletal structure of the Senju Clan that he was so familiar with.
'He's... so similar.'
Like his own younger self and the traits of Madara, merged together in an impossible yet real and wonderful way.
In this moonlit haze and trance-like eye contact, he stared at this face that combined the youthful features of his only "best friend" and "himself"—a face as ethereal as a fragile dream.
With a zzzt, something from the deepest part of his soul was activated.
The feeling was incredibly strange yet incredibly real—it was like a son seeing an old father he hadn't seen in a thousand years. A complex mix of "bloodline resonance" and "chakra attraction" slammed into him.
Hashirama could even feel his lips parting uncontrollably, his throat moving with difficulty.
An absurd yet spontaneous form of address instantly broke free from all restraints—
"Fa... Father!?"