Konoha was unlike any village they had seen before.
Taji's eyes widened as he took in the towering trees, their canopies casting shifting patches of sunlight onto the wide streets below. The village breathed with life in a way the others had not. It was not built upon the bare resilience of stone, the harsh survival of sand, the relentless tides of mist, or the commanding peaks of thunder. Here, the land itself seemed to embrace those who walked upon it. The very air hummed with the whispers of leaves, and the ground beneath their feet carried a softness, as if the village did not just exist—but thrived.
"This place… it's different," Taji murmured.
Renzō walked beside him, his steps as weightless as ever. His golden eyes scanned the village, calm and unreadable. He had noticed the ANBU the moment they entered, of course. The silent figures clung to the shadows, watching, waiting, measuring his presence like a force of nature yet to reveal its intent. He did nothing to acknowledge them, nor did he mind their unease. It was natural.
"They have roots," Renzō finally said.
Taji glanced up at him. "Roots?"
Renzō gestured subtly around them. "Unlike the others, this village is still young, yet it grows not with conquest, but with kinship. They have built a home, not just a fortress."
Taji absorbed those words as they continued down the path. The people moved about their daily lives, shinobi and civilians alike, and despite the presence of warriors, there was a sense of ease. A balance between might and peace. It was strange to witness a shinobi village where the line between fighter and villager was not so stark.
After some time, the enticing scent of fresh food drew them toward a small shop nestled between larger establishments. A simple tea and dango shop—modest, but inviting.
Taji grinned. "Let's stop here."
Renzō offered no objection, merely stepping inside. The shop owner welcomed them with a nod, and they took their seats at the counter. Taji ordered enthusiastically, the young man's appreciation for good food still unshaken by their travels.
As they waited, a presence entered the shop—one that carried the weight of history itself.
Renzō turned his head slightly as Hashirama Senju stepped inside.
The First Hokage walked with measured steps, his usual vigor tempered by the weakness that clung to him. Though illness had drained some of his strength, his presence remained undeniable. Beside him, a regal woman with crimson hair—Mito Uzumaki. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, settled briefly on Renzō before glancing toward Hashirama, as if reading his thoughts.
Trailing slightly behind them was a young girl, no older than five. Her golden hair bounced with each determined step, her bright eyes filled with the curiosity of someone too young to understand the weight of the figures around her.
Tsunade Senju.
The shop fell into a quiet murmur as the Hokage took his seat just a few spaces away from Renzō. Taji, caught between awe and uncertainty, swallowed his bite of dango and straightened slightly.
Hashirama studied Renzō openly, his expression one of curiosity rather than hostility. "You must be the traveler my brother is so worried about."
Renzō did not react, nor did he rush to answer. He simply met Hashirama's gaze with the same quiet stillness he had offered to all the Kage before him. Finally, he inclined his head slightly. "Worried?"
Hashirama chuckled, though there was a strain to it. "Tobirama is cautious by nature. He sees the ripples in the water long before the stone is thrown."
Mito spoke then, her voice carrying a quiet authority. "And you? What do you see?"
Renzō studied her for a moment before answering. "I see a village that has yet to understand its own strength."
Hashirama tilted his head, intrigued. "Oh? And what would you call strength?"
Renzō reached for his tea, taking a slow sip before answering. "Not power. Not dominion. Not even peace." His golden eyes met Hashirama's. "Understanding."
Hashirama exhaled through his nose, smiling faintly. "A simple answer, but not an easy one."
Tsunade, having grown tired of the talk, tugged at Hashirama's sleeve. "Grandpa, who is he?"
Hashirama chuckled, ruffling her hair. "A traveler."
Tsunade looked at Renzō, scrunching her nose in thought. "You don't look like a traveler. You look like a monk."
Taji snorted into his tea, and even Mito's lips quirked in amusement.
Renzō merely smiled. "Perhaps."
As their meals arrived, the conversation drifted to other things. Hashirama did not pry further, nor did Renzō offer more than was asked. There was an unspoken understanding between them—two men standing at different ends of the river, watching the current flow between them.
And somewhere in that moment, a seed was planted.
Whether it would grow, only time would tell.