A Senju in the Stars, Chapter 9

A low, guttural roar filled the chamber as Batu emerged in a flash of smoke and dust. The giant's armored bulk staggered forward, legs scraping against twisted metal and shattered stone. His shoulder crashed into the nearest wall, sending rusted steel plating clattering onto the broken floor. The giant turned swiftly, eyes wide beneath his battered helm, glancing about the ruined place like a man suddenly cast awake from a terrible dream.

For a single heartbeat, confusion flashed across the armored giant's form. He gazed down at his own hands, flexing armored fingers slowly, one after another, as if verifying that they were still his own. Then his gaze settled on Hashirama, lingering in silence.

Hashirama met Batu’s eyes, recognizing the raw bewilderment behind the warrior’s steady glare. For Batu, it would have been like blinking once and finding the world around him changed utterly in that single span of darkness. The Fuinjutsu would have preserved him, suspended his awareness, leaving no time for thought or sensation between sealing and release. In that quiet moment of contemplation, Hashirama realized something remarkable: Batu, without a chakra network, had been sealed away as easily as any inert tool or scroll. To treat a living being—breathing and thinking—as if he were nothing but an object to be stored was something entirely new. 

Something unheard of. If Tobirama were here, he would’ve been absolutely fascinated by the possibilities. Already, Hashirama saw that, with the proper fuinjutsu–and no small amount of ingenuity–a shinobi could have their chakra network suppressed to almost nothing and then sealed away and carried by an infiltration specialist into enemy territory; in theory, a single specialist–or even civilian–could possibly summon hundreds of shinobi at once. 

Or something like that. Hashirama did not have the same knack for experimentation and creativity as his brother did. 

Batu straightened, shaking plaster and grit from the cracks and creases of his gray and crimson armor. Dust cascaded down like pale smoke, gathering at his feet in a powdery cloud. Then the giant drew a rasping breath and rolled his shoulders once, armor plates scraping metal on metal. He spoke in a low, rumbling voice that resonated against the shattered walls around them. 

"Happened what?" he said.

Hashirama tilted his head, smiling faintly, fingers brushing dirt from the hem of his tattered sleeve. 

"I dealt with the daemon," he said quietly. "Destroyed it, I think. I’m not entirely sure about spiritual entities and whether or not they’re capable of dying as you and I do. As for what I did to you—I’m sorry. That creature was too powerful. I couldn't risk your interference. So, I sealed you away. All of this happened… five or so minutes ago, I guess."

Batu studied the damage around them, tracing cracks along walls blackened and seared by unnatural fire, and the gargantuan roots that’d burst through solid stone and metal. He moved deliberately to where the daemon had stood, the place now reduced to ash and smears of oily residue. His boots crunched upon charred wood splinters and melted wiring, his head tilting slightly as though assessing the scene. After a moment, he nodded slowly, armored gauntlet clenching and unclenching at his side.

"Understood," Batu said finally. He turned toward Hashirama, visor catching faint reflected flames from distant fires deeper in the mega city. He moved ahead with heavy strides, armored boots echoing like distant thunder. At the edge of the broken path, Batu paused and gestured forward, signaling with a sweep of his massive hand. 

"We go. Imperial Palace need help. Emperor Children rampage. Khagan need warn." Batu said, and stepped forward without looking back. Hashirama followed silently behind, slipping once more into the shadows that swallowed their footsteps whole. They moved quicker this time. 

Hashirama’s eyes narrowed as they ran. He recalled the four-armed abomination pinned under twisting roots, screaming as he poured raw physical energy through its spirit-flesh. That tactic had worked, but it took too long. If it had been flanked by smaller fiends, or if more of those warped creatures had swarmed in, he would have faced a much deadlier fight. In that case, sealing Batu away was the best thing he could’ve done. The giant would have stumbled through the chaos, outmatched and unprepared, and Hashirama would have been forced to compromise his own safety just to save him from getting ripped apart.

It wouldn’t have been difficult, honestly, but minimizing unpredictable variables was the shinobi way.

He pressed forward, boots clicking against the damaged floor. The ruins overhead groaned under a renewed shelling, distant concussions rolling through twisted corridors and collapsed buildings. He kept his eyes on Batu, who ran a pace ahead with unspoken resolve. Hashirama’s mind wandered back to his battle with the daemon, remembering the way it thrashed, the roiling energies leeching into his Wood Release and breaking it from the inside-out, even as it was–essentially–devoured alive. Clearly, that approach could be refined. Maybe the scale needed to be bigger, or the method quicker, something to snuff out the fiend’s essence in seconds rather than slow minutes. He could not rely on the same strategy every time.

There was also an issue with the corrupted and malevolent chakra that resulted from such a method.

A true shinobi never bet everything on a single tool. He considered simpler means: explosive tags, barrier seals, or more specialized applications of his Wood Release, similar to the manner with which he tamed the Tailed Beasts–anything that was quicker. If these demons recoiled from physical essence, perhaps a different approach might break them faster. There was room for improvement–a lot of it. 

The Warring States had taught him that much: a shinobi who trusted only one weapon invited their own downfall, the same was true for the shinobi who did not hone the weapons they already possessed.

I guess I’ll just have to design an entirely new jutsu. 

For a brief instant, the battlefield faded, forgotten in the quiet whirlwind of his mind. Hand seals formed themselves one after another, flowing as easily as breath through parted lips. By the second heartbeat, the architecture of the new jutsu stood complete in his imagination, mapped out in perfect clarity. This technique would not slowly shape chakra by balancing energies—no, it would take hold of the target and flood its core with a surging torrent of raw physical essence, overwhelming any trace of spiritual balance. The outcome of such a method was unknown to him; the imbalance it wrought severe and unpredictable. 

He knew well enough the rare cases where excess physical energy stamped out chakra entirely. Such shinobi found their path narrowed, muscles honed like steel but never channeling ninjutsu, forced instead into the demanding purity of taijutsu alone. That was a rare anomaly, a consequence Hashirama had glimpsed only a handful of times in his life. The usual workaround was through the Eight Gates. But this—this was something else. 

How would a being composed purely of spirit respond to the raw and violent intrusion of physical essence, untempered and relentless? He had no way of knowing. 

No scroll spoke of it, no past technique had hinted at this possibility.

Now he needed only one thing—a suitable target. 

They reached a collapsed junction where a faint red glow flickered through fractured plating. Batu halted, scanning the rubble with wary eyes, the low rumble of distant bombardments ever-present in the air. Hashirama drew a measured breath, feeling the tightness in his knuckles as he flexed his hands. His mind lingered on the next daemon that might burst from some dark corner. He promised himself he would be ready. He only hoped that would be enough.

His Wood Clones, scattered far and wide through this labyrinth of ruin, had been tireless in their task. They had saved thousands already, maybe more, spiriting men, women, and children into sealing scrolls before danger could claim them. But the city’s vastness weighed on him, a labyrinth of collapsed towers and sunken corridors that seemed to stretch in all directions. He wondered where, if anywhere, his clones could unseal the innocents to safety. Perhaps no place existed on this battlefield untainted by the war’s corrupting hand.

He followed Batu across a leaning slab of shattered steel. They clambered over a fallen column of twisted rebar, its base half-buried in the cracked pavement. Beneath it, barely visible, lay the crushed bodies of men and women—some small, child-sized. The sight made Hashirama’s brow crease and his hands tightened into furious fists. The rest of the column rose overhead, harsh edges seared by blasts, evidence of the relentless siege ripping this city apart.

He frowned, gaze passing over the mangled remains. 

“The ones who attack this city,” he said at last, voice low but firm. “What exactly is their goal?”

He glanced at Batu, waiting for some explanation that might give sense to the destruction looming on every side. What purpose did it serve to rain down so much fire and death on a place that, by the look of it, was hardly left standing? Dust fell in a soft drizzle from the broken rafters above. Another distant shell rocked the walls, and somewhere far off came a muffled chorus of screams. Batu stopped and turned to him. “Enjoy it they. Kill and torture fun them for. They animals. No mercy for civilians. They twisted and sick. Like pain. Otherwise, city offer no strategy gain. Many civilians only.” 

Hashirama stared hard at the destruction before him. His gaze flicked from the scorched rubble to the scattered remains of families caught in the crossfire, and then to the looming skyline that belched fire and smoke into a sickly sky. A faint tremor passed through his hands, though he held them tight by his sides. He had seen wars that left entire provinces in ruin, had stood across battlefields tinged red with blood. Yet what he witnessed here hinted at something beyond simple conquest or ideology.

He stepped over a fallen girder, letting its warped edges rasp against his sandals. The giant Batu followed in silence, scanning for threats in the dusty gloom. Hashirama’s mind replayed Batu’s words, the simple explanation that the enemy did this to amuse themselves—to revel in slaughter, to bask in agony. It reminded him too well of certain shinobi he had once faced, men who embraced chaos for the sheer joy of it, men who thrived on the tears of the defenseless.

A short breath hissed between his teeth. He seldom felt his spirit tighten in this way, but the thought of such cruelty stoked a raw spark deep within him. He recalled the times he had met madness in the form of a bloodthirsty foe—eyes gleaming with sadistic glee, children or the innocent treated like fodder for their twisted pleasure. “Can we save this city from them?” 

Batu paused for a moment, before he spoke. “Brothers and I tried. Too many. Scattered. Hive City too big. Other legions not coming. Need army to hold key positions. Have to find communication relay. Send message. Maybe others come. Probably not. Can try.” 

“If numbers are what we need,” Hashirama brought his hands together and formed a hand seal. He closed his eyes for a moment and pulled on the malicious natural energy that surrounded them, permeating the very air about them. Purifying it took longer than he’d like, requiring intense focus, but he did so anyway. He guided the energy into himself and balanced it with his chakra. Black marks appeared beneath his eyes and on his forehead, Sage Mode coming to life and filling his body with such intense power that the space around him seemed to shimmer and bend. He felt the lives of millions and millions, suffering down below, fighting for their lives and the lives of their families. Hashirama’s eyes narrowed. “Sage Art: Bodhisattva Wooden Legion of Enlightenment.” 

An explosion of Senjutsu Chakra surged outward in a flash of blinding light. 

Somewhere in the deepest and darkest recesses of Mars, an ancient being stirred–nudged from its slumber by the presence of something it had not felt for a very long count of time.