[5767 Words]
[I made a mistake by making Mū the Tsuchikage. I've edited mention of him to the Third Tsuchikage which is Ōnoki]
The air in the training hall was loud with the clash of wooden weapons and the sharp bark of commands. Yasu moved through the drills with precision, his mind and body locked into the motions. Strike. Block. Pivot. Again. The repetitive rhythm should have been grounding. It wasn't.
He heard the clatter of bokken meeting, the scrape of sandals against the wooden floor, the muffled grunts of his classmates. But beneath it all, there was something else—the phantom echoes of chains rattling, the distant murmur of voices discussing his fate as if he weren't even there.
His grip tightened around his practice kunai. No. Focus. He wasn't there. He was here.
"Yasu!"
His head snapped up just in time to see his training partner lunging at him. He reacted instinctively, sidestepping the attack and twisting his body out of reach. His breath came fast—too fast—but he forced himself to steady it.
"Keep up," his opponent muttered, shaking his head before resetting his stance.
Yasu nodded stiffly, raising his weapon again. But his thoughts were already drifting. The room felt too small. Too loud.
Then it happened.
A hand clapped down on his shoulder.
In an instant, his body moved on its own. He twisted sharply, grabbing the offending wrist with bruising force. His foot hooked behind the attacker's ankle, sweeping their legs out from under them. A heartbeat later, he was on top of them, his practice kunai pressed hard against their throat.
Everything was silent.
The boy beneath him—one of his classmates, grinning just moments ago—stared up at him in wide-eyed shock. The laughter that had bubbled through the room before was gone, replaced by something colder. The other students stood frozen, watching him with something Yasu recognized all too well. Wariness. Unease. Fear.
His breath was ragged, his fingers locked in place. His mind screamed at him—let go, let go, let go—but his body refused to listen.
Then a voice cut through the tension.
"Yasu. Stand down."
His sensei's voice wasn't harsh, wasn't accusing. It was steady. Controlled.
Yasu blinked. His vision cleared. The weight of his own body pressed against his classmate, the dull edge of his wooden weapon still digging into the boy's throat. His fingers were white with the force of his grip.
He released them all at once, pushing himself back onto his heels. His classmate scrambled away, coughing, rubbing his neck. The other students still stared.
Yasu's heart pounded as he turned his gaze to his sensei. The man's expression was unreadable, but his eyes told him everything. Come with me.
Without another word, the sensei turned and walked toward the door. Yasu forced himself to his feet and followed, ignoring the whispers that followed him out.
It was cold outside, colder than yesterday, that was the first thing he noticed once they stepped out. Yasu stood stiffly, arms crossed, gaze locked on the ground. His sensei leaned against the wooden railing; arms folded.
"You're not in trouble," the man said finally. "But we need to talk."
Yasu didn't answer. He didn't exactly know what to say- what happened shouldn't have happened. It was strange, his body had just... acted.
The sensei sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You didn't even hesitate," he said. "That wasn't just a reaction. That was something else." He paused, then asked, "Who did you think was behind you?"
Yasu's fingers twitched against his arm. The answer was there, clawing at the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down. "No one," he said flatly.
His sensei studied him for a long moment. "That's a lie."
Silence stretched between them. Yasu could feel the weight of the man's gaze, searching for cracks in his defence. But he wasn't going to find any.
Finally, the sensei exhaled through his nose. "I won't force you to talk," he said. "But this can't keep happening. Whatever's going on with you—you can't handle it alone."
Yasu tensed, his jaw tightening.
The sensei straightened. "I'm reporting this to Commander Hisao."
Yasu's head snapped up. His breath hitched.
He should have expected that. Of course he should have. But hearing it aloud—knowing that Hisao was going to know—sent something cold curling in his stomach.
The sensei caught the look on his face and softened his tone. "You trust him, don't you?"
Yasu hesitated. Then, finally, nodded.
His sensei nodded as well. "Good," he said. "Then let him help."
Yasu clenched his fists. He wasn't sure what scared him more—that Hisao would brush it off like it was nothing… or that he wouldn't.
The moment the final bell rang, Yasu was gone.
He moved quickly, slipping through the academy doors before the other students could filter out. The cool afternoon air greeted him, the sky tinged with fading hues of orange and pink. His steps were purposeful, his hands shoved into his pockets as he made his way down the familiar path home.
He wanted distance. From the whispers, the stares, the way his classmates had looked at him after—
No. He shoved the thought aside. It didn't matter. None of it mattered.
He was halfway down the street when he heard the light pat-pat of footsteps behind him.
Yasu didn't stop. He didn't turn his head.
Sumire jogged up to his side, her breath only slightly uneven. She fell into step beside him without a word.
For a while, there was only silence. Yasu kept his gaze forward, his expression unreadable. Sumire didn't seem to mind. She just walked with him, her presence as easy as always.
Good. She wasn't going to bring it up.
A minute passed before Sumire broke the quiet, stretching her arms above her head with a content sigh.
"Finally," she muttered. "I thought today would never end."
Yasu didn't respond right away, but his shoulders eased slightly.
"Mm," he hummed.
Sumire grinned, rocking forward on her heels as she walked. "You hear what Ren did? During shuriken practice, he tried to show off and nearly took out Daichi's sleeve."
Yasu huffed through his nose—not quite a laugh, but close. "Let me guess. He said it was on purpose?"
"Oh, obviously. Said it was a 'secret wind technique' or something."
"Idiot."
Sumire laughed. "Yeah, but he's our idiot."
The conversation flowed easily, like it always did. No tension. No expectations.
Yasu found himself falling into the rhythm of it, letting the stiffness in his muscles fade. His pace, once sharp and clipped, softened into something more natural. Sumire kept talking, occasionally nudging him when he didn't respond fast enough, and before he knew it, the weight in his chest didn't feel so suffocating anymore.
At some point, he glanced at her—just a flicker of a look, barely noticeable. She was smiling, her gaze forward, the wind tugging at her dark hair.
She hadn't said a word about what happened. No probing questions, no careful are you okay? She just stayed beside him, keeping things normal.
He didn't thank her. Didn't say anything at all, really.
But maybe, just maybe, she knew.
Yasu steps inside, immediately sensing the weight in the air. The house is dimly lit, the smell of ink and aged wood hanging in the space. Hisao stands tall, arms crossed, facing a much shorter man—but despite Ōnoki's size, his presence is immense. The Tsuchikage's thick eyebrows are furrowed, his deep-set eyes sharp as whetted stone.
Ōnoki's voice grates against the silence, deep and irritable.
"You think you can dismiss this matter so easily, Hisao? Do you realize what kind of message your inaction sends to our enemies?"
Hisao, composed as ever, clasps his hands behind his back. His voice is calm, measured.
"I am not dismissing anything, Lord Tsuchikage," he replied, each word deliberate. "I'm not neglecting my duties, I just need time. I won't compromise his safety—no matter what the village's broader interests may demand."
Yasu stops mid-step. The Tsuchikage turns, acknowledging him for the first time. His sharp, assessing gaze sweeps over the boy, and for a moment, there is a pause—one that feels heavier than it should be.
"So this is the boy."
Hisao straightens slightly, his tone shifting just a fraction.
"Yasu," he says, voice firmer than usual. "This is Lord Ōnoki, the Third Tsuchikage."
The introduction is formal, deliberate—Hisao making sure Yasu understands the weight of this meeting. Yasu nods, silent but watchful.
Ōnoki narrows his eyes. "Tch. I've heard plenty about you, boy. The source of quite a headache."
Yasu says nothing, knowing silence is safer than a misplaced word.
The Tsuchikage scoffs. "You're a quiet one. Good, I suppose, but let's see if there's anything inside that head of yours." He steps forward, fixing Yasu with an unwavering stare. "Answer me this, then—if an army marches on Iwagakure's gates with overwhelming numbers, but no reinforcements will come in time, what is the correct strategy?"
Hisao shifts slightly, just enough for Yasu to catch. Ōnoki isn't asking this question to teach him—he's asking to prove a point. He expects Yasu to stumble, to show his lack of understanding, so that he can turn to Hisao and say, See? This is what you've been protecting.
Yasu's mind moves quickly. His first instinct is to ask for more details—terrain, composition of the enemy forces—but he knows that's not what Ōnoki wants. He wants an answer now.
Yasu meets the Tsuchikage's gaze. When he speaks, his voice is quiet but steady.
"There's no single correct strategy," he says. "It depends on the composition of our forces, the terrain, and the enemy's objective. But if the goal is to hold the village at all costs…" He pauses, then continues, "then you must break their momentum before they reach the gates. Fortify choke points. Collapse certain paths to limit movement. If their numbers are too great for a direct engagement, use the terrain against them. Force them into a position where their numbers mean nothing—turn their strength into a weakness."
Silence.
Ōnoki's thick eyebrows lift just slightly. He had been ready to scoff, to dismiss the boy entirely. Instead, his sharp gaze lingers, reevaluating.
"Well," he mutters at last. "At least you're not completely useless."
It's not praise, not exactly, but it's not the dismissal he'd intended either. Hisao, always composed, remains unreadable—but Yasu can sense the subtle shift in the air.
Ōnoki folds his arms, regarding Yasu with new interest. "A child who thinks like that at your age… Hmph. Hisao, you might actually have something worth protecting."
Hisao says nothing, but there is a flicker of something in his gaze—satisfaction, perhaps, or warning.
Ōnoki turns back to Hisao, his irritation still present but tempered now. "This isn't over," he says firmly. "I'll give you time—for now. But don't mistake my patience for weakness."
With that, the Tsuchikage turns on his heel, his short frame moving with the authority of a man twice his size. The door slides shut behind him.
Only then does Yasu exhale, his pulse steady despite the tension.
Hisao finally speaks, his voice unreadable.
"You made quite the impression."
Yasu glances at him, expression calm. "Did I?"
Hisao lets a pause settle before he walks past him, resting a firm hand on Yasu's shoulder for just a second—just long enough to mean something.
Yasu's gaze lingered on the door even after the Tsuchikage had left, the room still carrying the weight of his presence. The intensity of the moment had passed, but his mind was still turning over every detail—the sharp way Ōnoki had studied him, the irritation in his voice, the way he had left with something other than outright dismissal.
And yet…
Yasu tilted his head slightly, his voice casual as he finally spoke.
"That's our leader?" His tone was even, but there was the faintest edge of curiosity beneath it. His grey eyes flicked to Hisao before returning to the door. "He's… quite short."
Hisao's hand, which had just left Yasu's shoulder, stopped mid-motion. There was a pause, brief but heavy, before he exhaled through his nose.
"Yasu," Hisao's tone was even, but there was a warning laced in it.
Yasu turned his head toward him, expression unreadable, but the flicker of amusement in his eyes was unmistakable.
"It's just an observation."
"Some observations should remain thoughts," Hisao said, his voice carrying the weight of experience. His gaze flickered down to Yasu, his usual sharp control in place. "Especially when they concern men like Ōnoki."
Yasu hummed in quiet acknowledgment, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He let his gaze shift back to the door for a moment before finally turning his attention to Hisao fully.
"You were arguing."
It wasn't a question.
Hisao's expression didn't change. "It happens."
Yasu's eyes narrowed slightly. Hisao's evasiveness wasn't surprising, but after what just happened, it was… interesting.
"What was the issue?" Yasu asked.
A beat of silence.
Then, Hisao moved. He turned away, walking toward his office without answering immediately. His steps were measured, purposeful, as if the conversation had already ended in his mind.
Yasu watched him, waiting.
At the threshold of his office, Hisao finally spoke, his tone light but dismissive.
"Nothing you need to concern yourself with."
Yasu's eyes followed him as the door slid shut behind him, sealing away whatever thoughts Hisao had chosen to keep to himself.
For a moment, Yasu simply stood there.
Hisao was careful with his words. Deliberate. If he didn't want Yasu to know something, it wasn't out of protectiveness—it was out of strategy.
Which meant this was a conversation worth having.
Just not now.
Yasu's gaze flickered back to the door where Ōnoki had left, then to Hisao's office.
Two doors. Two conversations. Both unfinished.
.
.
.
Scrolls were unfurled in uneven piles, ink bottles left open, their dark liquid glistening under the dim light. Yasu leaned forward, elbows pressing against the wooden surface, his grey eyes scanning the lines of intricate symbols he had copied over and over again.
He had been at this for hours.
His fingers absently traced the edges of one of the sealing formulas, a mess of half-finished equations that, even now, refused to align into something meaningful. The frustration pressed against the back of his skull, an ache born not from exhaustion—though he was tired—but from knowing that he simply didn't have the knowledge yet.
Not yet.
His jaw tightened as he sat back, dragging a hand through his hair before tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. If I understood more… if I knew the right formula, I could fix this.
That was the problem, wasn't it? The thought of sealing was no longer just an interest. It was necessary. He had spent every night like this since he was well enough to return to the academy—since the moment he realized that Fūinjutsu might hold the answer to his greatest limitation. His chakra was restricted, sealed away in portions. A forced constraint. But what if it didn't have to be?
What if I could control it—truly control it—without being forced to limit myself?
The idea gnawed at him. Seals were meant to suppress, to contain, to reinforce. But could they be used to regulate? To stabilize? The concept of accessing all of his chakra without losing control felt distant—impossible even—but was it really?
There was no one to ask.
Not even Hisao, for all his experience, was a sealing master. Iwa had no true masters of Fūinjutsu, no one who could guide him in this pursuit. That fact alone made his stomach twist. The more he studied, the more he understood just how much he didn't understand.
His hands clenched into fists on the desk. He needed knowledge. He needed a direction.
The thought came unbidden, creeping in like an unwanted whisper. If I had been born somewhere else...
Uzushiogakure. The village of seals. A place where Fūinjutsu wasn't just a niche field of study but a deeply ingrained art, passed down through bloodlines and tradition. If he had been born there—if he had access to the knowledge hidden within its walls—this wouldn't feel like trying to assemble a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
Even Konoha, with its ties to the Uzumaki, would have been better. Or Kiri, where their hidden arts still held secrets lost to most. But here, in Iwa, sealing techniques were an afterthought—useful, yes, but never truly cultivated to their full potential. There were no sealing masters here, no ancient tomes filled with centuries of refinement. Just scraps of knowledge, scattered and incomplete.
But there was no point in entertaining the thought. He was here. In Iwa. And he would make do with what he had.
Yasu exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders before leaning forward again. His brush dipped into the ink, hovering over the page.
If he couldn't find the answers, then he would build them himself.
Slowly. Patiently. Piece by piece.
. . .
. . .
Yasu sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scattered ink-stained papers, his fingers smudged from the repeated trial and error of the past hour. He stared at the seal before him, grey eyes sharp and calculating.
It was a simple idea, really. Sound is just vibration. Vibration is energy. Seals could store energy, so why couldn't they store sound?
Logically, it should work.
His brush hovered over the paper before he pressed the final stroke into place. Done.
He placed the slip onto the wooden floor and tapped it with two fingers. "Test."
Silence.
Yasu frowned. His fingers drummed against his knee as he studied the seal, eyes scanning the delicate connectors between the symbols. It absorbed his voice—he was sure of it. But why wasn't it releasing it?
Then it clicked. The release trigger. The seal was holding onto the sound like a stubborn fool with a secret, but he never told it when to speak.
Excitement buzzed in his chest as he hesitantly adjusted one of the symbols, tweaking the activation formula. He pressed the ink down with a careful stroke, watching as the modified symbols took shape.
Another attempt.
This time, he tapped the seal and spoke: "Test."
One… two… three…
"Test."
Yasu's own voice echoed back at him.
For a moment, he just stared. Then—
A grin split across his face.
It worked. It worked!
A quiet laugh escaped him as he snatched the paper off the floor, turning it over in his hands, his mind already racing. His heart pounded—not from adrenaline, not from fear, but from something rare and almost electric.
He had just made a functional seal. Sure, it probably already existed somewhere out there, tucked away in some shinobi archive, but he had figured it out on his own.
And now, he could use it.
His mind immediately shifted into strategy mode. Battle applications. Tactics. Misdirection.
Throw it behind an enemy? They'd hear movement from the wrong direction.
Use it to fake an ally's voice? Make someone think they're being followed?
A kunai with this seal, stuck to a wall—enemy hears footsteps in the dark, turns to strike, but there's nothing there.
Yasu pressed his fingers against his forehead, a sharp, giddy laugh escaping him. He could have so much fun with this.
What if he set multiple seals with staggered activation times? Could he make it sound like an entire squad was moving when it was just him?
Could he modify it to store longer sounds?
His hand twitched toward his brush, already itching to start modifying the design, but he forced himself to pause.
No. Test first. See how reliable it is. Then push further.
. . .
. . .
The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows against the uneven walls of the abandoned shed. Ren sat cross-legged with his arms folded, squinting at Sumire with a half-bored, half-wary expression. Sumire, in contrast, was sitting on her knees, leaning forward with wide, eager eyes as she spoke in a hushed, dramatic voice.
"And then… when the girl stepped inside the shrine, she heard it—" Sumire's voice dropped to a whisper. "'You shouldn't have come here.'"
Ren exhaled through his nose. "Right. And she didn't immediately turn around and leave? Sounds fake."
Sumire huffed, jabbing a finger at him. "It's a ghost story, Ren! You're supposed to be scared, not logical!"
Ren rolled his eyes but didn't argue.
Yasu, sitting off to the side, idly tapped his fingers against his knee, barely listening. He had already placed the seal earlier, tucked just behind an old crate where the wood groaned with the wind. It was ready. Waiting.
Sumire grinned, undeterred by Ren's skepticism. She leaned in closer, voice dropping even lower. "She tried to leave. She really did. But the doors wouldn't open. No matter how hard she pulled, it was like something—someone—was holding them shut."
Ren tilted his head, unimpressed. "So what, she just stood there?"
"No! She backed away, and then—" Sumire sucked in a breath, eyes gleaming in the firelight. "She heard a whisper right in her ear."
Right on cue, Yasu activated the seal.
"You shouldn't have come here…"
The whisper slithered through the dimly lit space, barely louder than the rustling leaves outside. It was faint but unmistakable—an eerie, distorted echo of Sumire's own voice.
Sumire screamed.
Ren jumped so hard he knocked over a small tin cup beside him, scrambling to his feet with wide eyes. "What the—"
Sumire had already lunged behind him, gripping his sleeve like a lifeline. "Did you hear that?! Tell me you heard that!"
Ren, for once, was too stunned to respond immediately. His eyes darted around the room, scanning the shadows. His shoulders tensed, his whole body rigid with suspicion. "Where—where did that come from?"
Yasu pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle his laugh, schooling his face into a look of mild confusion. "What's wrong?"
Ren whipped toward him, eyes narrowed. "Don't what's wrong me! You heard that, right?"
Sumire was practically vibrating. "That was my voice! I didn't say that! I didn't say that!"
Yasu glanced toward the crate where the seal had been placed, calculating. The delayed activation had worked perfectly, and the sound had bounced just right—distorted enough to be unnatural, but clear enough to be recognized.
Sumire clutched at Ren's sleeve. "What if it's a real ghost?!"
Ren gritted his teeth. "Ghosts aren't real, Sumire."
"Then explain that!" she shrieked.
Ren had no explanation. He looked back at Yasu, eyes narrowing further. "Wait a minute."
Yasu blinked at him, all innocent confusion.
Ren took a slow step forward, studying his face. His expression shifted from wary to outright accusing.
"…It was you, wasn't it?"
Yasu tilted his head. "What makes you say that?"
"You're way too calm," Ren said immediately. "Sumire's losing her mind, and you're just sitting there."
Sumire gasped, turning to Yasu with wide, betrayed eyes. "Wait—was it you?"
Yasu finally let himself smirk, leaning back against the wall. He tapped two fingers against his knee. "You shouldn't have come here," he repeated, his voice perfectly mimicking the whisper.
Sumire shrieked again, this time in frustration. She lunged at him, swinging wildly. "You horrible, horrible person! I thought I was going to die!"
Ren groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I knew it."
Yasu effortlessly dodged Sumire's flailing attempts to hit him, rolling onto his side with a quiet, satisfied laugh. The test had been a success. The sound quality, the delay, the positioning—it all worked exactly as he had hoped.
And, as a bonus, watching Ren struggle between lingering paranoia and reluctant admiration was deeply entertaining.
Sumire, however, was still fuming. "You planned this, didn't you? From the start?!"
Yasu hummed. "You were the one who set up the atmosphere. I simply… took advantage."
Ren stared at him for a long moment before sighing, rubbing his temples. "…I hate how smart you are."
Sumire scowled, arms crossed. "I hate you."
Yasu, still grinning, leaned back against the wall. "Oh, come now. You have to admit—it was good."
Ren muttered something under his breath, shaking his head, but Sumire huffed and turned her back to him, absolutely refusing to acknowledge that, yes, it was a little impressive.
"Whatever," she grumbled. "I'm never telling you a ghost story again."
That finally broke Yasu. A sharp laugh escaped him, low and amused. "As if I was the one begging to hear them."
Sumire whirled around, eyes blazing. "Excuse me?!"
Yasu raised an eyebrow, smirking. "This was your idea, remember? You were the one going on about how 'a good scare makes the experience more fun.'" He waved a hand vaguely. "I just… improved the experience."
Ren snorted. "He's got a point, Sumire."
She let out a strangled sound, somewhere between outrage and mortification, then threw her hands up with a dramatic sigh. "I hate both of you!"
But there was no real bite to it—only exasperated amusement.
Yasu only chuckled, stretching his legs out as he leaned back against the wall, twirling the paper seal between his fingers. Sound manipulation had so many possibilities.
And this was just the beginning.
The fire crackled between them, its warmth fighting off the cool night air. The earlier tension had settled, replaced with the comfortable quiet of three kids who had known each other long enough to drop their guard. Sumire had reclaimed her spot by the fire, arms still crossed as if to prove a point, while Ren absently poked at the embers with a stick.
"So," Ren said, tossing a small twig into the fire, watching it curl and blacken. "What other stupid things can we do while we're out here?"
Sumire scoffed. "We? You mean you and Yasu. I'm not falling for another one of your dumb ideas."
Ren shot her an offended look. "Excuse me? My ideas are great."
"You nearly burned off your eyebrows last time."
Ren waved a hand dismissively. "It grew back."
Yasu snorted.
Ren turned to him. "What about you? Any other weird little tricks up your sleeve?"
Yasu hummed, tapping his fingers idly against his knee. "Depends. Are you looking for 'smart weird' or 'fun weird'?"
Ren grinned. "Surprise me."
Yasu was about to reply when Ren's expression shifted slightly—curious, but hesitant, like he was debating whether or not to say something. He scratched the back of his head before blurting, "Hey, uh… what actually happened? Y'know. Back then."
Sumire immediately whipped around to glare at him. "Ren," she hissed, scandalized.
"What?!" Ren threw up his hands. "It's been ages and he never talks about it. Aren't you curious?"
"That doesn't mean you just ask him like that!"
Yasu, for his part, didn't react much at all. He watched the exchange with mild amusement before tilting his head slightly. "It's fine."
Sumire turned to him, eyes still wide. "It's not fine! You don't have to answer, Yasu, he's being—"
Yasu waved a hand lazily, cutting her off. "Relax, Sumire. It's not that interesting."
Ren raised an eyebrow. "Not that interesting? Dude, you got kidnapped. That's the most interesting thing that's ever happened to anyone we know."
Sumire smacked him on the arm.
Yasu rolled his eyes but decided to humour them. He shifted slightly, hesitating for a brief moment before pushing his hair back, turning his head just enough to reveal his ear—what was left of it.
He wasn't sure why, but doing it felt… weird. Not because he was embarrassed, but because it wasn't something he thought about. The scars had been there long enough that he'd stopped noticing them, but showing them—acknowledging them—felt strangely personal.
Sumire inhaled sharply, her eyes flicking to it immediately.
Ren, on the other hand, leaned in, fascinated. "Whoa."
Yasu resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably under their stares. He kept his expression neutral, but his fingers twitched slightly as he dropped his hand, letting his hair fall back into place. "Not bad, right?"
Ren grinned. "That's so cool. Like, it's proof you survived something crazy. A battle scar!"
Sumire, however, didn't look as impressed. She stared at it, lips pressed together in something unreadable—not quite pity, not quite horror, but something softer. "Does it still hurt?" she asked quietly.
Yasu shook his head. "Not anymore." He traced the edge of the scarred skin absentmindedly. "It was worse before. They had to clean it up after."
Ren let out a low whistle. "Man. And here I was thinking getting hit with a kunai handle was bad."
Sumire smacked him again.
"Ow!" Ren yelped, rubbing his arm. "What now?!"
Sumire huffed, crossing her arms. "Maybe don't act like losing part of your ear is cool?"
Ren shrugged. "It kinda is."
Yasu chuckled, but it was quieter this time. "I don't mind." He let his hand fall back to his knee, the moment of slight awkwardness passing. "You two can argue about it all you want."
Sumire huffed again, but the tension in her shoulders eased a little. The initial shock had faded, replaced with something else—acceptance, maybe, or just the understanding that Yasu really was okay with it.
The fire crackled on, and the conversation drifted to something else, something lighter. Yasu let them carry it, content to sit back, listen, and—just for tonight.
.
.
.
The council chamber was heavy with tension, the air thick with the weight of unspoken decisions. A single lantern flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the war table, where maps and intelligence reports lay spread out between the two factions.
At the head of the table sat Onoki, the Third Tsuchikage, his small frame belying the weight of decades of leadership. To his right, Hisao, Iwagakure's foremost strategist, sat with his hands folded before him, his gaze sharp and unreadable. Flanking them were the village's generals and advisors, their expressions varying from neutral calculation to open skepticism.
Across from them sat the Third Raikage, his massive form a presence unto itself, arms crossed over his chest. He had brought three of his closest advisors—Kumogakure's best tacticians and intelligence officers.
Onoki broke the silence first, his voice low and measured.
"So, Raikage-dono. You've returned to discuss Uzushiogakure."
The Raikage nodded. "It's time to act."
A murmur ran through the Iwa-nin.
"We should have eliminated Uzushiogakure long ago," the Raikage continued. "Their survival is Konoha's survival. When the treaty between us and Konoha ends, war is inevitable. The only question is whether we will strike before they gain the advantage."
Seated beside the Raikage, Shigen, Kumogakure's chief military strategist, leaned forward. She was a woman with sharp, hawkish features and short-cropped silver hair. Her amber eyes flickered with calculation as she addressed the room.
"I understand Iwagakure's caution," she said smoothly. "But let's speak plainly—hesitation is a liability. Every day that Uzushio remains standing is another day Konoha can secure alliances, reinforce their defenses, and prepare for war. We must remove this piece from the board before they can mobilize."
Hisao's expression remained unreadable. "Uzushio is not defenseless, Shigen-dono. Their fuinjutsu alone makes them a formidable opponent. If we move without proper reconnaissance, the cost could be greater than anticipated."
A scoff came from Kuroda, a broad-shouldered, battle-hardened warrior seated beside Shigen. His face was lined with old scars, his tone brash and dismissive.
"Iwa doesn't lack for brute force," Kuroda said, smirking slightly. "Are you saying you don't have the strength to crush a single village?"
A flicker of irritation passed through some of the Iwa-nin, but Hisao's demeanor did not change.
"It's not a matter of strength," Hisao replied evenly. "It's a matter of efficiency."
Kuroda leaned back in his seat with an amused huff. "Hmph. You sound like you'd rather sit and count pebbles than fight a war."
Hisao met his gaze with quiet calm. "It's because I count them that I know which ones will break first."
A ghost of a smirk played on the Raikage's lips, but he said nothing.
Onoki, however, exhaled through his nose, unimpressed with Kuroda's provocations. "Iwagakure does not rush blindly into conflict," he said. "We are not Kumogakure's sword to wield at will."
There was a brief silence, before Bansho, the Raikage's intelligence officer, finally spoke. He was a wiry man with sharp eyes hidden behind thin-framed glasses, his posture relaxed yet alert.
"I understand Iwagakure's concerns," Bansho said, adjusting his glasses. "But I assure you, Konoha is not prepared for an immediate counterattack. Our latest intelligence suggests their forces remain scattered due to internal restructuring after the war."
Hisao turned his gaze slightly toward Bansho, studying him. "And Uzushio? What do your operatives say about their defenses?"
Bansho hesitated for a fraction of a second. A moment too long.
Hisao caught it instantly. He exhaled slowly, barely tilting his head. "So. You don't know."
A muscle ticked in Kuroda's jaw, and Shigen's fingers curled slightly against the table.
Bansho pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Uzushio's defenses are difficult to assess," he admitted, voice carefully neutral. "Their fuinjutsu allows them to mask certain fortifications, making it hard to gauge their exact strength."
Hisao let that information settle before he responded. "So, we have incomplete intelligence, an uncertain outcome, and no guarantee of success without severe losses."
The Raikage, silent up until now, finally leaned forward, his dark irises glinting in the lantern light. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"Losses are the price of war, Hisao."
Hisao met his gaze unflinchingly. "Only fools pay more than they need to."
The room fell into a heavy silence.
Shigen shifted slightly, breaking it. Her voice, while smooth, carried an edge of warning. "What do you propose, then?"
Hisao did not hesitate. "We gather more intelligence—real intelligence. A coordinated effort. Iwa and Kumo both send scouts. We determine exactly what we're walking into before committing our forces." His voice was calm, unshaken. "If Uzushio's defenses are weaker than anticipated, we strike decisively. If they are stronger, we let Konoha waste their energy worrying about an attack that isn't coming yet."
Kuroda frowned. "Waiting makes us look weak."
Hisao's lips curved slightly, though it was not quite a smile. "Only if you don't know how to use patience as a weapon."
The Raikage held Hisao's gaze for a long moment, then finally exhaled.
"Fine," he said. "We scout first. But not for long."
Hisao nodded once. "Agreed."
Onoki leaned back in his seat, his face unreadable. "Then the matter is settled. When the treaty ends, war will come. But it will come on our terms."
The meeting concluded soon after, but the weight of war still hung in the air.
Hisao knew one thing for certain—Kumo's advisors wanted to move forward with or without Iwa. The Raikage had agreed to wait, but for how long?
And when war came, who would truly benefit?