Tobirama stood before the memorial stones, arms crossed behind his back, lips pressed into a thin line. The sky overhead was gray with clouds, a storm threatening to break, and the wind tugged at his robes like an impatient whisper. The etched names before him shimmered with condensation—those who had died in service to the Senju clan. Among them now, freshly carved, was one name that twisted something deep inside him:
Itama Senju.
He had watched them carve it.
Watched as stone chipped away with every deliberate strike of the chisel.
It had been nearly a week since the news. A week of silence from Hashirama. A week of politics, of war councils, of funerals and flame. But Tobirama hadn't wept. Not once. His grief was not loud or trembling. It was a blade—sharpened, hidden, ready.
He turned away.
---
The war council chamber had changed.
Where once Hashirama sat at its head with warmth and vision, Tobirama now presided in his absence—tall, composed, unreadable. He no longer argued with Father during strategy meetings. He no longer spoke of restraint. The shift had come subtly, like frost creeping over water. But it was there.
When a messenger reported an ambush on a Senju outpost by the Kaguya clan, Tobirama didn't hesitate.
"Intercept their scouts," he said. "Eliminate them. All of them."
A few murmured their surprise—such orders weren't uncommon, but from Tobirama, who had once pushed for precision and caution, they struck differently now. Sharper. Colder.
He didn't justify it.
He simply moved to the next topic.
---
Two days later, he stood at the edge of the battlefield, flanked by elite shinobi. The Uchiha border encampments had grown bolder, testing Senju territory with aggressive patrols. Tobirama had no intention of allowing it.
He raised a hand.
The signal to strike.
His unit moved like ghosts—silent, ruthless, efficient. Where Hashirama might have sought parley, Tobirama gave no warnings. The Uchiha patrol never saw them coming.
Blood spattered against the bark of nearby trees.
When the last Uchiha fell, choking on his own breath, Tobirama stood over him. Their eyes met—Sharingan spinning weakly, fading.
"You killed my brother," Tobirama said, voice low. "This is justice."
He plunged the blade into the man's throat.
Not a flicker of hesitation.
---
Back at the compound, the whispers began.
"Tobirama's changing…"
"He's colder now. Like frost in mid-summer."
"Did you see what he did to the prisoners?"
They said he no longer showed mercy. That he didn't bother with captives unless they were useful for intelligence. That interrogation rooms beneath the Senju compound had been restructured under his guidance—tighter, darker, more efficient.
When confronted by an elder, Tobirama simply replied, "Mercy does not protect this clan. Fear does."
And no one challenged him again.
---
He visited Itama's grave only once after the funeral.
No words.
Just silence.
Then he turned and left without looking back.
---
During one of the strategy meetings, a younger Senju officer—eager, nervous—voiced concern over the ethics of targeting supply caravans that carried civilians alongside enemy shinobi.
Tobirama's gaze fixed on the boy, eyes like flint.
"You think the Uchiha will spare our civilians?" he asked.
The boy hesitated. "N-No, but—"
"Then don't ask me to fight with one hand tied."
There was no more protest after that.
---
At night, Tobirama stood alone atop the watchtower overlooking the eastern forests. He didn't sleep much anymore. He studied terrain, enemy patterns, seal theory—anything that could give him an advantage. Anything to ensure what happened to Itama would not happen again.
And in those quiet hours, beneath the moonlight, his eyes would occasionally drift toward the south.
Where his brother had fallen.
His expression never changed.
But his fists would clench.
And the wind would whisper the same name, over and over again.
Itama.