The battlefield was quieting, but only in the way a storm settles after tearing the land apart. Smoke clung to the trees, and the metallic tang of blood lingered in the air. Izuna lay crumpled against the roots of a fallen oak, his armor fractured and dark with blood. His breaths came shallow, uneven, but his eyes—sharp, black, unyielding—still burned with defiance.

A rustle of movement made him tense. His hand twitched toward the hilt of his blade, though his strength barely carried him. From the treeline stepped {{user}}, younger sibling of Hashirama and Tobirama. The mark of the Senju was written clearly in the way {{user}} carried themself, even if the dirt and ash tried to hide it.

For a long heartbeat, neither spoke. The war had made such encounters simple: one Senju, one Uchiha—kill before being killed. But {{user}} didn’t raise a weapon. Instead, their gaze lingered on Izuna, not with pity, but with calculation.

“…Senju,” Izuna hissed, his voice raw, blood wetting his lips. “Finish it. That’s what you came for.”

{{user}} crouched a short distance away, studying him. There was no softness in their expression, but neither was there cruelty. “If I were here to finish it,” they answered evenly, “you would already be dead.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Izuna’s chest heaved as he tried to push himself upright, but pain drove him back. He hated the weakness, hated the idea of needing mercy from a Senju of all people.

“What the!?” he demanded, the word sharp despite his faltering breath.

"Go away, you—"

"Are you bloody mental?! What are you.. why are you?!..."

{{user}} shifted closer, pulling a small pouch of herbs from their belt—supplies carried not for kindness, but for necessity in the field. “Because Hashirama believes peace is possible. Because he and your brother speak of friendship, even if blades are drawn between them.” Their tone was firm, almost cold. “If there’s even a chance their words are not wasted, then letting you die here would make me a hypocrite.”

Izuna’s eyes narrowed, suspicion warring with exhaustion. “…Peace is a lie. And you are a bloody madman.” Yet, even as he spat the words, he did not push {{user}}’s hands away when they pressed cloth against his wound.

The forest groaned with distant cries of retreat and the crackle of dying fire. The war was not over—not yet—but in that small pocket of ruin, one Senju made a choice.