The next morning, Uchiha Shana arrived early at Soren's residence. After a light breakfast together, the two headed to the audience hall to receive the leaders of the affiliated shinobi clans who had come to formally pledge themselves.
Six clan heads sat respectfully in a semicircle — none were giants of the shinobi world, but all possessed something crucial: votes in the coming jōnin council election.
Soren greeted them with a calm, elegant smile — not the cold, superior bearing Shana often displayed. His posture was easy, refined, disarming; a political mask crafted with deliberate skill.
"Thank you for making the time, young lord."
The meeting proceeded efficiently. The six clans pledged support and, as proof of sincerity, each promised to send their heirs to serve as attendants to Uchiha Soren. In Konoha, nothing signaled allegiance more than entrusting your future generation to another house.
When they departed, Soren's eyes lingered a moment longer on the Nohara Clan's head.
Shana chuckled, the rare amusement lifting his stern features.
"Is the young lord interested in the Nohara clan?" he teased, sipping tea with a knowing glint.
Soren shook his head lightly.
"A little. But not now."
A memory from his past life flickered — Kamui, a girl named Rin, tragedy born from entanglements that chewed the Uchiha to the bone. Experience had taught Soren caution: some hearts, once touched, brought storms.
Shana hummed approvingly.
"For now, prompting allied clans to send their heirs is enough. Looks good, keeps them close, and costs us nothing."
He guided Soren toward the clan's training fields. As head of the martial faction, Shana cared little for politics; the battlefield was his heart. And Soren welcomed the opportunity — a lesson from an elder meant a chance to observe, record, imitate, and accelerate strength through the Sharingan's natural gifts.
Observe → Copy → Perfect.
It was why the Uchiha produced elites so fast the world thought it unfair. If a young Uchiha trained well and awakened early, the path to jonin — even shadow-level — could be frighteningly short.
Meanwhile, in the Hokage Building, Uchiha Sifang and Uchiha Huohe arrived only to learn that Uzumaki Mito was not in her office at all.
She was on the streets.
Visiting the wounded.
The two Uchiha elders exchanged a look and set off to find her immediately.
Konoha's structure was a layered circle: at the core stood the Hokage building, surrounded by the great clans; further out, the common districts. In the inner-middle ring — where mid-ranking shinobi and worn veterans resided — they found her.
Uzumaki Mito stood amid a sea of injured soldiers, civilians, and clan representatives. Her white kimono glowed under sunlight; her red hair was coiled in ceremonial buns; the Yin Seal on her brow pulsed with soft amethyst light.
She looked like a pillar of ancient royalty standing among the wounded.
"Thank you, Mito-dono! I will support you as Third Hokage!"
Voices rose around her — gratitude, reverence, trust. Sifang and Huohe watched the scene with sinking hearts.
They could see it clearly:
Public sentiment favored the Senju.
The Ino–Shika–Chō, the Hyūga, the civilian shinobi — their support flowed naturally toward Mito.
Huohe's jaw tightened.
"If this becomes a full public election… we may lose."
Sifang's eyes narrowed with cold practicality.
"Popularity won't win us a Hokage seat. Leverage will."
He leaned close.
"If we cannot take the election, then we take what matters more — the Flying Thunder God Technique. Tobirama's spatial secret. That becomes our bargaining chip."
Huohe hissed sharply.
"Too risky. If we provoke a collapse, the village fractures. Konoha's enemies would swarm us."
Sifang countered instantly.
"And if the Senju keep the Hokage seat, the Uchiha are finished slowly instead of quickly."
Their quiet argument wedged tension into the air.
Mito, meanwhile, continued offering warmth to the injured — a hand on a shoulder, a word of comfort, a nod of understanding. She carried herself with the ease of someone used to command, care, and respect.
But beneath her composed smile, her thoughts were sharp and troubled.
The Senju were dwindling.
The Uchiha were resurgent.
And the Uchiha were united behind one terrifying prodigy — a Mangekyō wielder blessed by fortune and nightmare alike.
(If the Uchiha seize the Hokage seat by force, Konoha's unity will shatter…)
(But if the Senju hold it by force, they may face extinction.)
The balance was crumbling.
Mito paused as she watched an old veteran — both legs missing below the knee — raise a trembling hand to wave thanks. She gave him a gentle, steady smile.
Her retainer stepped up and whispered, "Lady Mito, your next appointment."
She nodded, smoothing her kimono sleeve, but her gaze drifted back to Sifang and Huohe — to the impatience barely restrained in their chakra.
A direct fight with the Uchiha would cost too many lives.
But conceding political dominance would betray her clan's legacy.
Between two knives, Uzumaki Mito — jinchūriki, matriarch, widow of Hashirama — stood perfectly still under the sun.
And for the first time since the war began…
she hesitated.
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