"Shotaro, no!" Satsuya cried, chasing after him. "You can't just walk! You're three hours old!"
She followed the trail of flailing limbs and strange determination until she reached the hospital's waiting area.
There, on a cracked leather bench beneath flickering lights, sat a hunched old man. Bald, blind, and quiet. His wrinkled hands rested atop a wooden cane. He didn't look up as Shotaro toddled toward him—until the baby snatched the glasses from his face with stubby hands.
"Oi, what are you—?"
He paused.
Then blinked.
And blinked again.
Because for the first time in forty-seven years—
He could see.
The scene cut sharply—no pomp, no fanfare.
The scene cut sharply.
Just a baby, barely a few hours old, standing upright in the grand foyer of the Mugiwara estate, wrapped in a towel that shimmered faintly with ancient sigils. His silver hair glinted under chandelier light, crimson eyes locked dead ahead, deadpan and unblinking.
Satsuya knelt first, her soft, maternal smile blooming like spring. "Oh, he's so cute. Look at you, little star." Her voice was honeyed warmth, the kind you'd want to nap in.
Shotaro blinked at her. Slowly. As if her entire emotional investment had been ignored at the molecular level.
"Look," Nishoku said, adjusting her glasses and peering over a notepad. "He's upright. Standing. That's not a normal motor development pattern. He shouldn't even have that much neck control yet. We're possibly looking at early onset anomaly—possibly metaphysical."
Satsuya frowned gently. "He's a baby, Nishoku. Let him be a baby."
Miyoko flailed in from the side like a storm, phone in one hand. "Do you think he understands English?! Should I talk to him in, like, Latin or something?! What do cosmic babies speak?!"
Shotaro, meanwhile, had discovered the hem of his own towel.
He tugged on it.
Hard.
The entire household held its breath.
The towel stayed on. Barely.
Then he plopped straight down onto his butt. Eyes still blank. Still judging. Now cross-legged.
Nishoku leaned closer. "Fascinating. His center of gravity just realigned. He's aware of it. His instincts are bypassing developmental stages. This may be the earliest expression of the Ganesha chakra I've ever seen—"
"He's sucking on his own foot now," Miyoko pointed out.
Indeed, Shotaro had latched onto his big toe like it held all the secrets of the universe.
Satsuya giggled, gently cupping his tiny cheek. "He's perfect."
"He's drooling on himself," Nishoku said, scribbling something down.
"He's my baby brother and he's already too cool to notice me," Miyoko pouted, dramatically collapsing onto the floor. "I peaked in kinder garten and he's out here meditating on toes."
Shotaro sneezed suddenly.
A small ripple of wind pulsed outward, scattering a few loose papers off the side table.
The sisters went still.
"…Bless you?" Satsuya said gently.
He blinked once.
Then, without expression or effort, he toppled sideways and fell asleep right there on the floor like someone had unplugged his brain.
Satsuya immediately knelt beside him, adjusting his towel like a loving mother bird. "Let him rest. He's had a big day."
Nishoku was already calculating his respiration rate. "I'm logging his REM pattern. It could be critical data for interplanar child development."
Miyoko took a photo of the moment with sparkles drawn in. "He's so weird; I love him."
The Mugiwara estate fell quiet again, save for the tiny, steady breaths of a sleeping enigma wrapped in cosmic embroidery, who had no idea the world was already terrified of him.
Himawari sat in the wheelchair, her face a mixture of exhaustion and exasperation, as Hashirama carefully pushed her down the long hallway of the Mugiwara estate. Her hand rested on the armrest, her fingers tapping out a rhythm of frustration.
"I swear, Hashirama," she groaned, "I didn't sign up for this. I thought having a baby was supposed to be a joyous occasion."
Hashirama, ever the calm presence, pushed her gently around a corner, his brows furrowing slightly as he tried not to chuckle. "It's your own fault, Himawari. I tried to tell you that Shotaro was... not going to be a normal kid."
She glared at him, though it lacked any real heat. "Not normal? Not normal? Hashirama, this child came out the size of a rugby ball! And I—" She gestured down at her own body with a grimace, "—felt every single inch of it. It was like trying to eject a meteorite from my—ugh—everything."
"Okay, okay, I get it." Hashirama replied, his tone light, but the gentle way he pushed her wheelchair betrayed his tenderness. "No need to give me the full graphic details."
"Well, someone has to," Himawari said dryly, slouching into the wheelchair with a little too much effort. "And now, just look at him. That little monster's out there causing more chaos than a full-blown disaster, and I'm stuck here, in a chair." Her eyes flicked toward Shotaro's room, where his faint giggles and the sound of toys clinking together echoed from down the hall. "Do you realize what we've done, Hashirama? We've created a being—no, an entire force of nature—that's already outgrown me."
Hashirama chuckled, adjusting his pace as he maneuvered her around yet another sharp corner. "It's not that bad. You'll be up and about in no time. Besides, you knew the risks."
"Risk?" Himawari shot him a look of disbelief. "There's no 'risk' for this kind of thing! This is not a normal baby, Hashirama! He's going to have us all in the grave before he even reaches puberty!"
"Now, now," Hashirama teased, his voice warm. "You know it's not like that. He's a special boy. He'll be a handful, sure, but you've handled worse. Plus, it's Shotaro. We'll figure it out."
She groaned dramatically. "Right. Sure. Just figure out how to deal with a child who doesn't sleep, doesn't eat normally, and already has the emotional intelligence of a 30-year-old philosopher. What am I supposed to do with that?"
Hashirama was quiet for a moment, trying to hold back his smile. "You could... let him be himself. After all, he's already in charge. I think he might be running the place soon enough."
Himawari rolled her eyes and flopped her head back against the wheelchair, letting out a long sigh. "At this rate, I'll be lucky if he doesn't start giving me orders."
"I'm sure he'll be a great leader someday," Hashirama said softly, with a playful wink.
She shot him a look of mock suspicion. "And you're not just saying that because you secretly want him to take over your job, right?"
"Who, me?" Hashirama grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I'm just happy to support you. You're the one he looks up to."
ing thing.
The faint sound of a bell echoed through the halls, followed by a soft static crackle over the intercom. Hashirama's eyes darted toward the camera monitor mounted on the wall. His brow furrowed as he watched the figure of a priest, his attire unmistakable even from a distance.
"Is that... the Pope?" Hashirama muttered under his breath, his voice laced with a mix of disbelief and frustration.
Himawari raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued despite her weariness. "What the hell is he doing here? It's barely been 24 hours since Shotaro's birth, and now we have the Pope on our doorstep?"
Hashirama didn't answer right away. His gaze remained fixed on the screen as the Pope, flanked by several high-ranking cardinals, was escorted through the gates of the Mugiwara estate. His entourage moved with the kind of solemnity reserved for grand historical moments, but their presence was, to say the least, an unwelcome surprise.
The Pope's eyes, old and tired, betrayed no sign of fatigue as he looked up at the estate's towering gates. His gaze seemed to linger for a moment, as if measuring the sheer weight of the moment. It wasn't just any child being born—this was Shotaro Mugiwara, the child whose birth had defied every known law of biology, whose very existence had shaken the pillars of science, religion, and philosophy.
As if reading his thoughts, Himawari spoke again, her voice dry. "The world can't even comprehend Shotaro. Of course, they would send the Pope. It's all part of the show now, huh?"
Hashirama sighed, stepping back from the camera. "Looks like we're going to have company. I'll handle this."
"No," Himawari said sharply, grabbing his wrist as he turned to leave. "You're not going alone. You think I'm just going to sit here while that show plays out?" She gestured toward the looming procession. "I gave birth to that little disaster. I'm at least going to see the circus they bring."
Hashirama chuckled softly, taking a step back to look at her. Despite her exhaustion, there was something undeniably fierce about her gaze—something that said she would not be sidelined, not even for a moment.
"Alright, let's go," he said, with a resigned nod. "But you stay in the chair. No need to make things more dramatic than they already are."
She rolled her eyes. "Like I could do anything else, with him running around."
With a shared look of understanding, they both made their way toward the front entrance, where the Pope and his entourage had arrived. The air was thick with anticipation—every footstep toward the door seemed to echo louder, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Outside, the figures of the Pope and the Vatican's clergy stood waiting, poised with an almost reverential air. And at the center of the gathering stood a man who seemed, to Hashirama, utterly out of place.
"This is ridiculous," Himawari muttered under her breath.
Hashirama merely nodded, his eyes narrowing as the doors to the mansion swung open. The world had barely begun to process Shotaro's existence, and already, it seemed, his very presence was changing the course of history.
And now, it seemed, the Pope himself was here to make his own assessment.
Satsuya walked into the grand room, barefoot and exhausted, carrying the child of prophecy like he was just some neighborhood toddler. Shotaro, regal in absolutely no way whatsoever, was covered in dirt and had a fistful of garden mud shoved in his mouth, chewing on it thoughtfully like it held the secrets of the universe.
The Pope, resplendent in white and gold, turned his gaze toward the infant. A reverent hush fell over the room.
Shotaro blinked at him with wide, crusty eyes, cheeks smeared with dried sludge.
One of the clergymen, younger and over-eager, stepped forward with trembling hands and pulled out a small bottle of water. "If he is truly divine… let him turn this to wine," he said, voice thick with anticipation.
Satsuya didn't even flinch. She looked from the bottle to the priest, then back to Shotaro, who was now attempting to shove a pebble up his nose.
"Right," she muttered. "Let me just press his Jesus button real quick."
Shotaro looked at the bottle, then at the group of solemn old men watching him, then back to the bottle. He raised a single filthy finger, pointed at the Pope, and chirped:
"Pouyo?"
His muddy little teeth showed in a triumphant grin.
There was silence. Deafening, awkward silence. One bird outside cawed.
The Pope inhaled deeply, processing the moment with all the grace of a man who had flown across the globe expecting the Messiah and got a dirt-eating baby instead.
Himawari, watching from her wheelchair, tilted her head. "Well, he is full of miracles. I'm just not sure they're the kind your book covers."
Hashirama held back a laugh. Barely.
The Pope, to his credit, chuckled under his breath and whispered something to his nearest cardinal.
Whatever was said made the cardinal grimace. He looked again at Shotaro, who was now licking the bottle like it might turn into candy if he stared hard enough.
Everyone had begun to pack up, their robes swishing with a mixture of disappointment and quiet frustration. The myth, it seemed, had fallen short of the miracle. One cardinal muttered something about "maybe he just needed more time." Another was already texting Vatican HQ.
But just before exiting, the Pope paused.
Something had tugged at him. Some ancient, inexplicable instinct that priests and mystics and fools alike had followed for centuries. Slowly, he turned back.
He approached the child with gentle reverence, eyes softening as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a single, safe, baby-approved candy. It was the kind that dissolved harmlessly on a toothless tongue—something you gave to babies when you wanted them to experience joy without the risk of choking or chewing.
Shotaro blinked at the old man, drool and dirt mixed on his chin.
The Pope smiled faintly and leaned in. "Here," he whispered. "A gift."
He gently parted Shotaro's mouth with two fingers to place the candy inside.
And then he froze.
His face went pale.
Eyes wide.
He stared into the infant's open mouth—and for a moment, the divine veil between worlds was torn from his perception.
"The cosmos…" the Pope whispered, his voice a thin, trembling thread. "This child has the world inside his mouth… oh God…"
He collapsed to the floor like a man who had seen the end of time—and maybe, somehow, had also seen its beginning. One hand clutched his chest. His rosary snapped as it hit the marble.
Gasps echoed across the room. Cardinals rushed to his side, unsure if it was a heart attack or a divine encounter.
Shotaro, meanwhile, sucked on the candy, completely unfazed.
"Pouyo," he said again.
hush fell over the grand hall like a divine wind had swept through it.
The Pope, trembling as he rose with the aid of two stunned cardinals, pointed a shaking, wrinkled finger at the baby now babbling happily in the corner, drool glistening with sugar and soil.
"He... is the Chosen One," the Pope declared, voice echoing with trembling awe. "An incarnation... a reincarnation…"
Everyone leaned in. Even the ones who had been skeptics moments ago now stood still, locked in rapture.
"Of the Messiah!!!" the Pope cried, tears spilling down his cheeks.
He dropped to his knees, robes flowing out around him like waves of white surrender.
"He is truly… the Son of God… in his second flesh!!"
One of the cardinals dropped their book. Another fainted.
Shotaro, meanwhile, clapped his muddy hands together, then smacked himself lightly in the face, laughing like an idiot.
"Puuuuooooooyooo!!" he said again, louder this time, as if stamping his seal on the prophecy.
Hashirama just stared.
"...He ate his own sock earlier."
Satsuya nodded solemnly. "Yeah. Then tried to put it on the cat."
But it didn't matter anymore. The declaration had been made. The room was in reverence. Cameras clicked. The world outside the mansion gates would soon know.
And the boy at the center of it all was too busy chewing on a decorative plant to care.
The pope tried to get it in his arm but Alucard grabbed his hand.
"Leave. the young master. be" He said to the pope.
"OH...." Pope said as he signalled the excorist to stop, "Mr. Vlad I think you know how many things we have to do to mantain the faith people have".
"I did many things in the name of faith myself" Alucard said, "trust me I know what are we talking about".
"So I ask you again...leave the young master be" he said
The Pope looked into Alucard's eyes and saw something ancient—older than his scriptures, older than the halls of the Vatican themselves. Something that had witnessed faith take root in blood, in fire, in silence.
"…Very well," the Pope said at last, lowering his head slightly.
He turned to the others, voice steady once more. "We have seen enough. The divine speaks not always in lightning or in scripture… but sometimes in the absurd."
He glanced once more at Shotaro, who had now placed the entire decorative plant on his head like a crown, mud streaking down his face like warpaint.
"Come," the Pope said. "Let us return to Rome."
The entourage shuffled behind him, murmuring prayers, thoughts, doubts.
Alucard stood there in the quiet that followed, long coat brushing the marble floor. His gaze didn't move from Shotaro.
Satsuya leaned in beside him. "You think they'll actually leave him alone?"
"They won't," Alucard replied. "But they'll remember that they were warned."
Shotaro farted loudly, then fell backwards with a delighted squeal, still wearing the plant like divine regalia.
"…Chosen One," Satsuya muttered under her breath. "Right."
Alucard cracked the faintest of smiles. "In this world, absurdity may be the closest thing we have to godhood."
The warm water steamed gently in the ornate porcelain tub, its surface shimmering beneath the soft glow of chandelier light. The three Mugyiwara sisters hovered nearby like nervous handmaidens preparing to bathe a tiny emperor.
Satsuya, ever the gentle one, held Shotaro in her arms—stripped down to nothing but his chubby defiance. His small, bare form wriggled like a freshly caught fish as he turned his head to inspect the tub.
His crimson eyes flicked from the steaming water… to Satsuya… back to the water… and then up at the chandelier as if calculating some grand escape route.
Then, with the clarity and decisiveness of a man who had made up his mind—
"POUYO!!"
He squealed and launched himself out of her arms like a greased piglet at a county fair.
"Wha—?!"
"Catch him!!"
Miyoko screamed, slipping on a towel in her panic, while Nishoku calmly observed with a raised brow, already taking notes on the trajectory of infant rebellion.
Shotaro darted through the halls of the Mugyiwara estate like a streak of lightning, bare as the day he was born and filled with the unshakable confidence of a boy who had outwitted three women. His tiny feet slapped against polished marble, echoing with chaotic victory as he vanished around the corner.
"A infant..." Nishoku adjusted her glasses with clinical detachment, watching him disappear. "A stupid infant."
But just as he turned the next corridor, a shadow lunged from the side—Himawari, wheelchair forgotten, braced against the wall with one hand and snatched him mid-sprint with the reflexes of a veteran warrior-mother.
"Gotcha!"
The capture was clumsy, though. She gripped him too tightly around the torso in the heat of the moment. Shotaro let out a surprised hiccup—and then his crimson eyes flashed.
A sharp glow bloomed from his pupils, sudden and fierce.
Two beam of searing heat erupted from his gaze, slicing across the hallway like a divine spotlight. It struck a metal sculpture of a rearing horse—an expensive piece imported from the old world—and within seconds, the entire statue sagged and melted, collapsing into a puddle of steaming slag.
Everyone froze.
Even Shotaro looked stunned for a moment, blinking innocently as if wondering whether he'd burped fire by mistake.
"...Oops," Himawari muttered, not loosening her grip.
From around the corner, Satsuya's voice echoed in a half-horrified, half-resigned tone. "...Was that the antique horse?"
Miyoko screamed.
Nishoku, as composed as ever, calmly jotted something down in her leather-bound notebook.
Subject's ocular capabilities triggered under moderate thoracic compression. Further testing is required.
Satsuya stepped cautiously into the hallway, her eyes darting from the puddle of molten art to the baby now quietly blinking in Himawari's arms.
"He can shoot lasers out of his eyes?" she asked, incredulous.
Before anyone could respond, little Miyoko—barely four years old and fearless in ways only children could be—marched forward. She reached up, arms straining, and took Shotaro into her grasp with all the confidence of a seasoned babysitter.
He responded by attempting to gnaw on her cheek with his muddy mouth.
"Stop ittt!" she squealed, squeezing him instinctively.
His red eyes flashed once again—fwoosh!—and another stream of searing heat lanced out, narrowly missing a chandelier and slicing a curtain clean in half.
Miyoko blinked, cheeks puffed out in concentration. "It seems like... he needs to harden his chest to activate it."
Nishoku didn't look up. "Fascinating," she murmured, already turning the page.
Satsuya, meanwhile, sighed and reached for the emergency fire extinguisher. "We're going to need a new hallway."
Eventually, after what felt like a small military operation, they managed to wrangle Shotaro into the bathtub.
He sat there triumphantly, splashing water everywhere like a victorious warlord celebrating a conquest. His tiny fists pounded the surface, sending waves over the edges and onto the marble floor.
Miyoko was already soaked. "He's not even washing! He's just... making tsunami!"
Satsuya wiped her sleeve across her face, half laughing, half exhausted. "At least he's in the water. That's progress."
Nishoku stood at a safe distance, arms crossed, jotting notes from behind her glasses. "Subject displays strong aquatic enthusiasm, no aversion to water. Intelligence level remains inconclusive."
Shotaro responded by drinking from the sponge. Then sneezed. Then splashed again.
He was clean for exactly three seconds before trying to eat the soap.
The mistress of the house, Himawari, wheeled herself into the sunlit atrium where Shotaro sat on the floor, intensely focused on jamming a fork into the leg of a wooden chair. His brows were furrowed in determination, red eyes locked on his "task," as though solving the mysteries of the universe required impaling furniture.
Himawari sighed fondly. "What are you even trying to accomplish, son?"
"Pouyo," Shotaro replied without looking up, the fork clattering uselessly against the chair leg.
She chuckled, resting her cheek against her palm. "You know, most babies play with toys. You're out here trying to dismantle furniture like it insulted your ancestors."
He blinked up at her, completely unreadable… then, with absolute seriousness, attempted to bite down on the fork like it was some ancient relic meant to be consumed.
Himawari burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the grand hall. "Oh my god. You really are your father's child."
But Shotaro froze.
His eyes narrowed—well, as much as a baby's could—and something in his tiny expression shifted. The room tensed. His brows furrowed, cheeks puffed, and then—
"PooouuuuYAAAAAA!!"
He launched forward in a sudden blur of chaotic infant fury, crashing straight into Himawari's wheelchair with enough force to knock it off balance. The wheels jerked, spun, and with a startled yelp, Himawari toppled sideways onto the plush carpet.
"Wha—?!"
She stared at the ceiling, dazed.
Shotaro stood at her side, fists balled, chest rising and falling with tiny, determined breaths, glaring down at her with all the fury a week-old infant could possibly muster.
"…Okay," Himawari exhaled, blinking up at him. "That's… not exactly like your father."
But then something strange happened.
She shifted to sit up—and didn't feel pain. Her hand went instinctively to her hip, expecting the usual ache, the dull throb left behind by the impossible feat of birthing a child with no earthly father. But there was nothing. She moved her leg, slowly at first, then with full range—and stood.
Stood.
She looked down at herself in stunned silence, then back at the toddler who was now chewing on the fallen fork as if none of it mattered.
"…I guess you can make miracles, son."Her voice was soft now—not steeped in awe, but something quieter. Acceptance.Because really, how else was she supposed to explain any of this?
Later that afternoon, the estate's grand doors opened as Himawari, flanked by Miyoko, Alucard, Satsuya, and Hashirama, stepped out into the sunlight. A rare family outing—if one could call a supernatural bloodline and a half-undead war general a family. Still, the mood was unusually light. Shopping bags, errands, and a brief taste of normalcy beckoned.
Before climbing into the car, Himawari turned back toward the mansion and called out over her shoulder."Nishoku! You're in charge. Watch your brother and don't burn down the house!"
From the doorway, Nishoku adjusted her glasses with a sigh."Understood," she said dryly, already calculating how long the baby would take to destroy at least one room.
Behind her, Shotaro was busy trying to climb the couch.With a spoon.Upside down.
When they returned, arms full of bags and the smell of fresh pastries trailing behind them, the last thing any of them expected was the scene awaiting them.
In the middle of the grand entrance hall, Shotaro—the week-old miracle infant—was dramatically trying to mop the marble floor. He dragged the oversized handle across the tiles with clumsy determination, pausing every few strokes to wipe imaginary sweat from his tiny forehead, then soldiering on with renewed resolve. A small towel was tied around his neck like a cape. It did nothing but flap every time he fell on his butt and got back up.
Miyoko gasped. "Why is he… why is he mopping?"
"I left him with Nishoku for two hours," Himawari muttered. "Where is she?"
A loud thud echoed from the second floor.
Hashirama didn't even blink. He passed the infant, who saluted him with the mop, and headed upstairs.
Moments later, his calm voice called out, "Nishoku."
A muffled yelp came from behind one of the closed bedroom doors.
He opened it. Inside, Nishoku stood frozen, mid-argument with her clearly guilty-looking boyfriend, both of them caught like deer in headlights. Hashirama looked around, noted the takeout boxes and rumpled bed, and sighed.
"Your brother," he said, voice calm but stern, "is downstairs trying to mop the estate by himself. You were supposed to be watching him."
"I—I was watching him," Nishoku said quickly, adjusting her glasses with an awkward push. "Through the security feed. That counts."
Hashirama stared at her, deadpan.
From downstairs came a sudden crash—ceramic shattering, followed by the unmistakable squeal of baby indignation.
"POUYO!"
Hashirama raised a brow.
"…It didn't count," Nishoku muttered, defeated.
By the time they descended, the damage was clear: a shattered antique vase, a dripping mop wedged in the chandelier, and Shotaro lying on his back, fists in the air, grumbling tiny war cries at the ceiling.
Alucard stepped forward and gently scooped the infant into his arms. "Poor master had to become a servant in the estate he will inherit himself," he murmured with a soft shake of his head.
Shotaro immediately smacked him across the face with a wet hand.
"BABA!!" he declared, eyes shining with mischievous authority as if naming Dracula himself.
Alucard, unfazed, gave a ghost of a smile. "Yes, yes, young master. Baba is here."
Meanwhile, in another room of the estate, the mood was considerably less adorable.
Hashirama stood with his arms crossed, silent but disappointed, while Kumamura leaned awkwardly by the door, unsure if he should still be here. The air was thick—not with anger, but with a quiet, familial pressure that said you messed up, and we're going to talk about it.
Funny enough, it wasn't Hashirama doing the scolding.
It was Satsuya.
Pacing in front of Nishoku like a stern headmistress, she spoke with a sharpness that caught even Hashirama slightly off guard. "You think watching him through security feeds is enough? You think just because you're smart, you get a pass on actual responsibility?"
"I said I was sorry—"
"You left an infant alone with a mop. He tried to vacuum the stairs, Nishoku. The stairs."
Nishoku looked down, muttering something about observational learning.
Satsuya didn't let up. "Do you think Mom would've let you get away with this? Or our mom?"
At that, Nishoku's head lifted just a little. The sting of the words landed—not harsh, but deeply personal. Satsuya wasn't just being the older sister now. For a fleeting moment, she was stepping into the shoes of the mother they all once shared.
Hashirama didn't interrupt. He saw it too.
Kumamura gave Satsuya a look of stunned admiration, whispering, "Damn, you're terrifying."
"Leave," she snapped without even glancing his way, and Kumamura scurried out like a kicked puppy, mumbling something about "bad timing" and "emotional pressure chambers."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Satsuya exhaled and turned back to Nishoku, her voice no longer sharp, but steady. Firm. "He's not just our brother, Nishoku. He's… Shotaro. We don't get normal anymore. None of us do."
Nishoku's shoulders sank slightly. Her lips parted, then pressed into a thin line before she finally nodded. "…I know."
"Then start acting like it."
A silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable—just full. Full of understanding, weight, and shared loss.
Hashirama, who had quietly observed the exchange, crossed his arms with a half-smile of surprise. "You get that from Amelia," he said, still a little flabbergasted by his daughter's commanding presence.
Satsuya gave a small shrug, her eyes still on Nishoku. "I guess Dad."
And with that, nothing else needed to be said.
The moment passed. But something had shifted—quietly, undeniably.