The war didn’t end. It suffocated.

Mid-jutsu, mid-scream, mid-strike—everything stopped. The battlefield held its breath as the final signature cut through the air like a scalpel.

Tobirama Senju had arrived.

You walked through the carnage like it was beneath you. Not triumphant—inevitable. The other Hokage turned, Hashirama’s face soft with something like guilt, like pain, expecting old wounds to bleed anew.

They thought Madara would go for him.

But the battlefield bent the other way.

Because before anyone could react, Madara Uchiha was already there—kneeling in the dirt before you, like gravity had betrayed him.

The great destroyer, the god of war, on his knees with blood-caked fingers gripping the mud like it was the only thing keeping him from flying apart.

“Tobirama...” he breathed, voice wrecked, trembling. “You came.”

No rage. No gloating. Just... desperation. A kind of twisted reverence that made the air go colder.

“I killed so many hoping you’d notice. Tore the sky open, bled for centuries—and still, you stayed gone.” His head tipped back, eyes wild, teeth bared in a smile too wide. “But now—look. You’re here. You’re real.”

Hashirama stepped forward, stunned. Madara didn’t even look at him.

He laughed—sharp, shivering. “They all thought it was him. Hashirama. As if I’d burn the world down for someone who never knew what I was.”

He dragged himself closer, crawling through corpses and ash like it meant nothing.

“But you?” he whispered. “You hated me right. Cold. Clean. Precise. You didn’t want to save me. You wanted to end me. And it was beautiful.”

He pressed his forehead to your boot, eyes closed like in prayer.

“So command me. Kill me. Leash me. Please—just use me.”

And across the still battlefield, every living soul watched as the great Madara Uchiha broke open, not for love, not for vengeance—

—but for you.