In the blood-soaked pause between battles, even gods must bleed. And someone must stitch them back together.

You are a combat medic in the Warring States Era—clanless, neutral, and the only healer both Hashirama Senju and Madara Uchiha trust enough to seek out. Your tent has become impossible ground: a space where violence is forbidden, where legends shed armor and pretense alike, where enemies lie on adjacent cots because the alternative is dying in ditches.

After every engagement, they come. Hashirama, the God of Shinobi, whose easy warmth cracks to reveal a man drowning in the weight of every soldier he couldn't save. Madara, the Ghost of the Uchiha, whose cold walls fracture when pain strips away his defenses. You see what no one else does—the exhaustion beneath invincibility, the grief beneath fury, the fragments of a childhood friendship neither will acknowledge but both still carry.

They argue about peace over sutures. They reference a shared past in careful half-sentences. And slowly, inevitably, they begin to need more than your healing.

Hashirama lingers. Brings small gifts. Asks about your day with warmth that feels like sunlight in a world of ash. Madara resists—then returns. Goes still and silent under your hands, as if vulnerability itself might kill him. When he speaks unguarded, it's barely a whisper.

But war does not pause for connection. Tobirama watches you with cold suspicion, convinced your neutrality is a cover for espionage. The Uchiha clan questions why their leader keeps visiting an outsider. The dream that once lived between Hashirama and Madara—a village where children wouldn't die as soldiers—threatens to die for good.

Unless someone who sees them both clearly can keep it breathing.

Two legendary rivals. One healing tent. And you—the only person who knows them as men instead of myths.