The rain had been falling for three days.
It wasn't the gentle kind that washed away sins—it was the kind that buried them.
Bodies lay half-submerged in the mud: Senju and Uchiha, indistinguishable in death. The battlefield stretched endlessly, a canvas of futility painted in gray.
And then, the rain stopped.
The clouds parted, not because the storm had run its course, but because something willed it so. The air trembled; every drop of water that lingered midair shimmered and hung suspended, caught between reality and divinity.
A figure stood at the center of the battlefield.
His robe was white, trimmed in black flame patterns that flowed like living ink. His eyes—rings of faint gold—reflected the world as though it were a fragile dream. His long black hair brushed the wind like silk.
He looked down at the corpses.
"Still the same," he murmured softly. "Even after all this time."
His voice carried across the field—not loud, but absolute.
The man was Arata, once a god of creation, now walking the mortal world again.
He had slept for a thousand years since the age when chakra itself was new. He had watched from beyond the veil as humanity's gift of chakra became their curse. He had hoped they would learn. They hadn't.
So he returned.
But gods do not rule by decree. He would not command. He would guide.
He crouched beside a fallen child—couldn't have been older than twelve. The boy's headband was torn; the emblem, Senju. His hand still clutched a kunai so tightly that his knuckles had cracked.
Arata placed two fingers on the boy's forehead.
A soft light pulsed. The boy's features relaxed, pain melting away.
"Return to the flow," Arata whispered. "The world will need you again, someday."
A faint breeze carried the body away—dissolving into chakra, becoming part of the land once more. The battlefield sighed, as if relieved.
Arata straightened, gazing to the horizon. He could already feel it—two flames burning brighter than the rest. Opposites in nature, but bound by something unseen.
"Senju Hashirama. Uchiha Madara," he said softly, tasting the names. "Perhaps you two will be different."
He began to walk.
Each step he took caused grass to sprout through the bloodstained soil, small green blades defying death. The scent of iron gave way to earth.
He wasn't here to stop war. That was beyond even the gods.
He was here to remind humanity that creation was possible—even amidst ruin.
Days later, he arrived at a riverbank. Children played there, their laughter echoing in the forest. It was rare—too rare—to hear joy in this era. He smiled faintly.
He took a seat under a tree, leaning back, closing his eyes. Birds gathered near him, unafraid.
He waited.
For something—or someone.
And then, he felt it. Two signatures of chakra like twin storms approaching from opposite sides of the river.
He didn't move. Not yet.
On one side, a boy with wild black hair and eyes burning like embers—Madara Uchiha.
On the other, a boy with kind eyes and an awkward smile—Hashirama Senju.
They spotted each other at the same time.
"You again!" Madara barked, picking up a rock.
"You started it last time!" Hashirama protested, clutching his slingshot.
Arata cracked an eye open, watching with quiet amusement as the two hurled stones and words alike.
It was innocent. Foolish. Human.
He almost laughed.
Almost.
Instead, he reached out with a thought. The rocks froze midair, inches from their faces.
Both boys blinked in shock.
"What the—?"
"Eh?"
Arata stood, his presence instantly silencing the forest.
"Throwing stones won't build bridges," he said gently.
The boys turned to him, eyes wide. They could feel it—his chakra, vast and still, like the ocean.
"Who are you?" Madara asked, stepping back.
"Just a traveler," Arata replied, smiling faintly. "One who prefers peace over broken teeth."
Hashirama laughed nervously. "You talk funny."
Madara frowned. "You feel… weird. Like a thousand shinobi in one body."
"Do I?" Arata tilted his head. "Maybe I'm just old."
There was humor in his tone, but neither boy laughed. They sensed something ancient behind his calm.
He picked up one of the floating stones, turning it in his hand. "This river… it separates your clans, doesn't it?"
They both nodded reluctantly.
"But you still come here," Arata continued. "Because somewhere deep down, you don't want to be enemies."
The silence that followed was heavy. Even the river seemed to quiet itself.
Hashirama looked down. "I wish things were different. But adults don't listen."
Madara scoffed. "Adults are idiots. They only care about pride and graves."
Arata's gaze softened. "Then maybe it's time children remind them what it means to dream."
Both boys blinked. His words struck something in them.
"Dream…?" Hashirama echoed.
"Dreams don't stop wars," Madara muttered.
"No," Arata agreed, eyes shining faintly. "But they start worlds."
He tossed the stone back into the river. The ripples spread wide, glimmering faintly—like chakra made visible.
Neither boy understood exactly what he meant. But neither forgot it, either.
As Arata turned to leave, Hashirama called out:
"Hey, mister! Will we see you again?"
Arata smiled over his shoulder. "I'm sure you will."
And as he walked away, both boys felt something new in the air—
Not peace. Not yet.
But possibility.
That night, under the starlit canopy, Arata sat by a small campfire.
He looked at the flames, his golden eyes reflecting them like twin suns.
"They'll meet again," he murmured. "And when they do… the world will tremble."
A small smile curved his lips.
"Let's see if creation can survive destruction this time."
The fire cracked softly. The night whispered back.
And for the first time in centuries, the god felt something stir inside him—
Hope.
End of Chapter 1: A God Among Men