Hashirama received a message from Shinju.
Infrastructure.
He stood on the land of the Wind Country, with endless yellow sand beneath his feet.
The Kazekage, Gaara, and all the Sunagakure shinobi behind him stood there in silence.
They didn't know what this legendary man could bring to this cursed land.
For hundreds of years, they had lived alongside wind and sand, fighting desperately for survival.
Every drop of water was priceless. Every green leaf was a luxury.
Survival was the only creed carved into their bones.
Hashirama looked around at the boundless sea of sand, feeling the suffocating dead silence hanging in the air.
Then he bared his teeth in that signature bright grin.
"HAHAHAHA! Leave something this small to me!"
Gaara didn't speak—he only watched quietly.
The shinobi behind him also kept silent.
They had seen too many false hopes, and they no longer dared to believe promises so easily.
Hashirama said nothing more.
Action was the best proof.
He pressed his palms together before his chest.
"Senpo: Mokuton: Shinsu Senju!"
The earth began to shake violently.
The sand beneath Gaara's feet surged like waves. He immediately stabilized himself and his subordinates with sand.
The desert roiled like boiling water, churning madly.
Then—
A colossal presence burst up from the deepest depths of the desert.
It was a gigantic wooden Buddha, too immense for words to do justice.
More magnificent than the tallest mountains, its mere appearance blotted out the blazing sun and cast a shadow that covered the entire Hidden Sand Village.
The shinobi of Sunagakure had spent their lives struggling against tiny sand scorpions and lethal drought—how could they have ever witnessed a miracle like this?
But the sky-piercing wooden Buddha did not swing fists of destruction.
Behind it, thousands upon thousands of thick wooden arms extended outward.
Those arms did not attack.
Instead, with a strangely gentle posture, they reached down toward the dead sand sea below.
Massive palms pressed softly onto the desert.
In the next second, green energy erupted from every palm.
Vitality, like a flood breaking through a dam, poured into the world and filled the entire land in an instant.
The yellow sand beneath Gaara's feet made a strange sound.
He looked down.
The golden grains were changing color at a speed visible to the naked eye.
From parched yellow… to damp brown… and finally into fertile black.
No longer sand.
It was soil.
Real soil—soil that could nurture life!
An elderly Sunagakure jonin trembled as he reached out and scooped up a handful of earth.
He brought it to his nose.
Two muddy lines of tears rolled down the corners of his wrinkled eyes.
"Soil… it's soil…"
And this was only the beginning.
A green sprout pushed up through the black earth.
Then a second.
A third.
Hundreds. Thousands. Tens of thousands!
The sprouts grew like madness—within a few breaths they became saplings, and within a few more they became towering trees that would take several people to wrap their arms around.
The sound of giant trees bursting from the ground came without pause.
A primeval forest—so dense it defied imagination—was born out of nothing under everyone's stunned gaze.
Green canopies covered the sky, completely blocking the scorching sunlight.
Fresh air replaced the dry sand and dust, and every Sunagakure shinobi's lungs felt an ease they had never known before.
And it still wasn't over.
Hashirama maintained the palms-together stance, his chakra output not weakening in the slightest.
From deep within the forest came the crisp sound of flowing water.
A clear river appeared from nothing, winding through the trees.
The river gathered in low places, forming one shimmering lake after another.
Gaara reached out and caught a leaf drifting down on the wind.
He looked at the vast oasis before him—at the forest, at the rivers, at the fertile land beneath his feet.
The survival nightmare that had plagued Sunagakure—plagued all of Wind Country for hundreds, even thousands of years—
The lack of water. The shortage of food. The brutal environment…
All the shackles that had forced generation after generation to struggle just to live—
In only a few minutes, this man before them had solved it completely, in a manner bordering on creation itself.
Gaara's knees gave out, and he fell to the ground.
Behind him, the Sunagakure shinobi dropped one after another, all kneeling.
Before that towering wooden Buddha—
Before that man like a god—
They offered their most sincere reverence.
Amegakure.
Rain fell from the sky without end.
Yahiko and Konan stood atop a high tower, gazing down at the village shrouded in rainfall.
At that moment, a figure appeared before them.
Hashirama.
"Two little ones… leave this place to me too."
He pressed a palm against the tower's steel wall.
"Mokuton: Daijurin no Jutsu (Wood Style: Great Forest Technique)!"
Trees burst from the earth in every corner of the village.
But they didn't grow wildly.
It was as if they had their own will—roots intertwining and connecting with one another.
Thick roots drilled deep underground, weaving into a gigantic network that absorbed all the accumulated rainwater and channeled it out beyond the village.
The ground was no longer a muddy mess. It became firm and solid again.
That sensation of truly standing on dry ground felt unbelievably good.
The massive trunks twisted together, forming arching domes that covered the entire village.
The rain falling from the sky was completely blocked by the canopies and domes above.
The rain… stopped.
People came out from beneath their eaves and shelters, staring up at the "sky" above them, faces filled with a long-lost dryness.
Yahiko's lifelong dream had been to make this village stop crying.
Today, the God of Shinobi had done it—cleanly and decisively.
Golden light filtered through the leaves and fell across Yahiko's face.
Warmth spread through him in waves.
Amegakure was gradually bathed in warm sunlight.
Konan raised a hand, watching sunlight pass through the gaps between her fingers as tears slid down in silence.
Yahiko gave Hashirama a deep bow.
This God of Shinobi had solved problems that had lasted for who knew how many years—just like that, in such a short time.
Hashirama's Wood Style was no longer simply a combat ninjutsu.
It had become the highest-grade tool of creation.
Within a single month, his footsteps covered the entire shinobi world.
He filled in the Death Canyon of the Hot Water Country.
He reshaped the barren mountains of the Bird Country.
For every resource-poor small nation, he brought green oases and fertile fields that could sustain them.
He even used Wood Style to build several supercities capable of housing millions.
Those cities had the most rational planning, along with complete ecological systems.
Senju Hashirama had now become the shinobi world's God of Infrastructure.
In the central plaza of a newly built city, he finished constructing the last house with Wood Style, then planted his hands on his hips and let out earth-shaking laughter.
"HAHAHAHA! Madara! Look! Using Wood Style to plant trees, build houses, do infrastructure—this is way more fun than fighting!"
"In this era, all that killing and fighting is pointless. It's better to do more meaningful things!"
His laughter echoed through the new world.
Shinju—the sole director behind it all—only watched calmly.
He had freed everyone from the mire of survival and laid the strongest material foundation for the preparation that would follow.
Construction was Hashirama's responsibility.
So then—
Who should be entrusted with forging the sword?
Shinju already had his answer.
(End of Chapter)
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