The courtyard of the Senju old residence was steeped in twilight.
The evening breeze stirred the ancient tree, its leaves whispering like faint sighs. Lanterns beneath the eaves glowed softly, scattering warm halos across the worn veranda. Grandma Momoka sat unmoving, as solid as stone. When Roshi slid open the door, her half-lidded eyes rose just enough to acknowledge him.
"You're back?" Her voice was flat, almost indifferent. Yet her weathered gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat longer than habit demanded.
"Yes, Grandma," Roshi replied, settling onto the veranda with practiced ease. "The Third Hokage summoned me. It was about squad assignments… and my promotion to Special Jōnin."
He left out the details about Itachi. There was no reason to burden her with the full truth. The way Hiruzen had paired them, then dangled promotion immediately after—it reeked of negotiation. No, not even negotiation. Exchange.
At that word, the fingers holding Momoka's teacup faltered almost imperceptibly. She said nothing, her gaze drifting toward the shadowed corners of the courtyard.
"I'll need recommendation letters from two active Chūnin or Jōnin," Roshi continued, his tone as formal as an official report. "Plus a special ability assessment. For the letters… I'll have to trouble you."
"Recommendation letters?" Momoka finally turned her head. The words seemed to still the air beneath the eaves. She lifted her cup and sipped, though the scalding tea could not mask the flicker of meaning in her eyes.
Those people.
In Roshi's tangled memories, they were like distant, estranged relatives.
Every year, they came at set times—quiet visits to this half-forgotten residence. Their offerings were never lavish, yet always proper: a box of fine pastries, fresh seasonal fruits, or a rare trinket from beyond the village.
The recollections blurred at the edges. Some faces wore the weight of nostalgia, speaking to Grandma Momoka with unfeigned respect. Their eyes turned to him, young Roshi, with a complexity he hadn't understood then—as if he were a living token of the past carried into the future. They would pat his head or shoulder, ask about his studies at the Academy, remark that he had grown taller. Their words were gentle, warm even… but always held a certain distance.
For the Roshi of today, those ties were paper-thin. Strangers who appeared only on festivals could hardly be called family. Yet now, in need of recommendation letters, he could only rely on Momoka—the matriarch who still bound them together.
From an adult's perspective, it was the most sensible, even necessary path. Better for her, an elder, to reach out than for a fourteen-year-old boy to beg favor from vague "uncles" and "aunts" whose names he barely remembered.
Momoka set down her cup. Porcelain met saucer with a soft, deliberate click.
Her gaze lingered on his youthful face. Fourteen years old—already old enough, in the shinobi world, to shoulder blood and war. And yet, to her, he was still unbearably young.
A recommendation letter was no simple formality. It was a declaration of stance.
When a parent wrote one, it meant they recognized the child as heir to their name. When a Chūnin wrote one, it meant they were willing to accept that shinobi's authority. When a Jōnin wrote one, it meant true acknowledgment—that they deemed this person a comrade worthy of standing beside them.
To ask those people for such letters meant more than simple signatures.
It meant bringing Roshi into their circle.
Should he be pulled into that water now?
After Lord Hashirama and Lord Tobirama's deaths, they had gathered here often, seeking to preserve a connection that could serve them in times of need.
But behind that connection lurked expectations, burdens… and calculations.
And for Roshi, still standing at the threshold of his path, those waters ran far too deep.
"About the recommendation letters…" Momoka finally relented, her voice calm yet firm. "I will handle them."
"Do I need to prepare anything?" Roshi asked.
"You just focus on the assessment." With a casual motion, Momoka slid a ceramic cup of steaming tea across the table toward him. "Everything else is not your concern—at least not yet."
Roshi accepted the cup, warmth seeping into his palm. "Yes, Grandma."
He responded without hesitation. If the elder was willing to take personal charge, there was no reason for him to worry.
"The recommendation letters will be delivered directly to the Hokage's Office," she added offhandedly.
Roshi's gaze lingered on the cup in his hands as his mind began to drift.
The body's original owner had possessed a remarkable foundation—capable of wielding all five elemental Ninjutsu, backed by an extraordinary well of chakra. Abundant chakra meant not only endurance but also physical strength, and his Taijutsu reflected that. As for Genjutsu? Senju Momoka, his guardian, had once stood as a famed Genjutsu master in the turbulent Warring Clans era, even matching wits against the Uchiha.
Under her tutelage, Roshi might not have mastered illusions to perfection, but neither was it a weakness.
Now, however, both the quantity and quality of his chakra had advanced to an entirely new level. His perception sharpened day by day; his senses grew keener with each passing week.
The Special Jōnin assessment? For him, it was less a trial and more an exercise in restraint—showing the precision expected of a Jōnin without revealing just how much he had truly grown. Passing was never the question. The real challenge lay in controlling how much strength to display, enough to succeed without arousing suspicion.
What weighed more heavily on his mind was the training of being able to sense natural energy.
Through patient training these past weeks, he had begun to faintly sense the strange ripples in the air whenever his Wood Release attempted to draw in natural energy. The sensation was fragile, elusive, but real. Though he had not yet learned to actively absorb it, the very feedback proved he was on the right path. All he needed was persistence.
At the same time, the deeper potential of Wood Release demanded exploration.
His earlier attempt to channel Wood Release with natural energy had ended in petrification, a failure—but even failure carried lessons. His trees had been too fragile, their foundations lacking. Should he first focus on strengthening their resilience? Or experiment with diversifying their forms?
The questions piled up, but the answer was clear: he had to understand Wood Release at its core, unravel the bond it shared with natural energy. Senju Hashirama's path lay before him, but Roshi needed to carve out his own.
Only power—true, undeniable power—could secure his place in the shifting era he knew was coming. The assessment was nothing more than a passing ripple; what mattered was the strength he continued to forge.
Outside, night deepened. The glow of lantern light softened the old residence, shadows brushing against the window frames. Momoka's eyes lingered on the boy before her, still clutching the teacup, gaze distant as if lost in another world. Seeing him so intent, so absorbed in his own thoughts, the stern lines on her face eased. She lifted her own cup, the tea long cooled, and took a slow sip in silence.