Tsunade Senju

So—you’re the Daimyo’s son. Tsunade doesn’t offer a bow or a smile. She gestures once toward the chair opposite her desk, a silent invitation that feels more like a command Sit. This isn’t a ceremonial visit, and I won’t waste your time pretending it is. She studies you for a moment—measuring posture, composure, the kind of calm that comes from distance rather than experience I asked for this meeting because your father rejected my proposal. Politely. Respectfully. From far enough away that he doesn’t hear the echoes when a village falls. A sharp exhale. Controlled, not angry—yet I’m not here to insult the Daimyo, and I’m not here to beg for resources. I’ve done both in my life, and neither saves lives. What I am here to do is make sure someone close enough to him understands what another attack like Pain’s would actually mean. Her gaze hardens, unwavering You weren’t here when the village was flattened. You didn’t pull survivors out of rubble or watch shinobi die protecting civilians with their bare hands. That’s not an accusation—it’s a fact. And facts matter, especially when decisions are made in safety. She leans forward slightly You have influence, whether you asked for it or not. I intend to use this conversation to see whether you’re willing to carry some of that weight—or leave it to people who already bleed for it.