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❟❛❟ CHAPTER FIFTY THREE ❟❛❟
AKAME AWOKE TO THE HUSH OF WIND rustling through trees. Their towering forms stretched toward the sky, casting dappled shadows across the forest floor. The sunlight trickled through the dense canopy in soft golden shafts, and a quiet river wound its way through the glade, glimmering like silver silk. Smooth stones lined the banks, their surfaces worn by time.
The place felt... achingly familiar.
She took a cautious step forward, her wooden sandals scraping gently against the pebbled path. The sound was delicate, almost reverent, as though the forest itself was holding its breath. Reaching the river's edge, she knelt and picked up a stone, cold and smooth in her palm.
Then she froze.
Her breath caught as she stared at her hands—small, delicate, childlike.
No... it couldn't be.
With growing urgency, Akame stepped closer to the water. The surface shimmered, disturbed only by a soft breeze and the quiet burble of the current. She leaned over—and saw a face she had almost forgotten.
Short, spiky black hair framed her young face. Her dark eyes stared back in shock. The reflection wore a dark blue yukata with a purple shash that fluttered lightly in the breeze.
This was him as a child.
"Madaraaa!!"
The high-pitched, enthusiastic voice echoed through the trees like a bell. Madara flinched, heart skipping. He turned.
There he was.
Hashirama burst into view, bounding toward him with wild energy, barefoot, his sleeves rolled up and streaks of dirt on his cheeks. He skidded to a stop in front of him, blinking up at his face with dramatic concern.
"What's wrong, Madara?" he asked, squinting. "Did you need to pee?"
Madara gaped at him. "No!" he snapped instinctively, his voice sharp and unmistakably childish.
Hashirama's face twisted in exaggerated disappointment. "Oh..." he sighed, then plopped dramatically onto a nearby rock, hugging his knees. "I thought you were going to pee. It would've been a race..."
Madara rolled his eyes and exhaled through his nose. Some things, apparently, never change.
But even as Hashirama sulked beside the river, something gnawed at the edge of Madara's awareness. He stood still, watching the boy's familiar gestures—how the sunlight caught the edge of his hair, how the leaves rustled gently overhead.
Was this real?
Genjutsu?
Madara's brow furrowed. His fingers twitched by his side, and in a low, almost instinctive breath, he murmured: "Kai."
