"Hokage, you flatter me."
Mei Terumi accepted Toshiro's compliment with ease, a teasing smile playing at the corners of her lips. Rather than shy away, she leaned in—graceful and confident, her tone light and flirtatious.
"I came to visit you with a small request," she added, her voice smooth as silk. "Something I'd very much like your help with~"
They say fortune favors the bold, and Mei was certainly basking in her moment. With her recent rise to Mizukage, she radiated a regal confidence. The poise she carried wasn't something one could simply fake—it poured from her like warm sunlight on winter snow.
Even Toshiro, a man well-acquainted with countless stunning figures across the shinobi world, had to admit—Mei's allure struck a chord.
"'Hokage' sounds a bit stiff, don't you think?" he said, his lips curving into a subtle grin. "We're the same age, Mei. Just call me Toshiro—no need to stand on ceremony."
Toshiro hadn't agreed to help just yet. A Hokage had responsibilities, and charm alone wouldn't bend his judgment. If he offered assistance to every beautiful woman who smiled at him, he'd never get anything done.
"In that case, I won't hold back, Toshiro," Mei replied with a playful glint in her eyes.
She cast him a lingering glance—equal parts mischievous and knowing—before turning her gaze behind her.
"Kisame… He's one of Kirigakure's most formidable shinobi. Originally chosen as the wielder of Samehada after the Fuguki, but…"
Her voice trailed off, the unspoken tension hanging in the air.
Although Mei didn't finish her sentence, her intention was crystal clear—she wanted Samehada returned to Kiri.
During the last clash between Konoha and Kirigakure, Might Guy had taken down Fuguki, Samehada's previous wielder. The sentient blade ended up in Guy's hands—though, unsurprisingly, the man had no interest in keeping it.
With his usual indifference to fame or power, Guy handed the weapon over to the village without hesitation.
Toshiro, however, had made sure Guy's efforts didn't go unnoticed. Not only did he reward him with a substantial bonus, but he also insisted Tsunade run a full medical check-up on him.
As expected, Might Guy's body was a battlefield of old injuries—years of punishing, near-superhuman training had taken their toll. But in true Guy fashion, he endured. His physique defied explanation. He wasn't just a taijutsu master—he was a force of nature wrapped in green spandex.
"Hoshigaki Kisame… huh?"
Toshiro echoed the name thoughtfully, his eyes shifting toward the doorway.
There, looming just outside, stood the man in question. Kisame's gaze was locked with Uchiha Itachi's, his small round eyes radiating an odd mix of vigilance and intensity—like a shark deciding whether to strike or swim past.
"Since it's you making the request, Mei, I don't see a problem," Toshiro replied with a calm smile. "But... at tomorrow's summit, I'll be counting on your support for the covenants I intend to propose."
Samehada wasn't a particularly high price to pay—not for Konoha. While Kisame was undeniably strong, his limitations were just as evident. His elemental affinity was narrow, and Samehada's abilities, though powerful, were well-known and predictable.
And in the world of shinobi, predictability could be lethal.
With the right strategy, even someone like Kisame could be countered.
"Of course," Mei said smoothly, her smile radiant. "If the Five Great Nations stand united behind your proposals, it would be a major step forward for the entire ninja world."
She was clearly pleased. Toshiro's agreement to return Samehada made her visit more than worthwhile.
Choosing this moment to approach him wasn't a coincidence either—it was strategy.
And this was what made Mei Terumi truly formidable: her beauty might catch your eye, but her sharp political instincts were what made her dangerous.
By choosing this moment to bring up the return of Samehada, Mei had played her cards well. Unless something unexpected happened, Toshiro was unlikely to refuse her request.
"By the way," Mei said with a curious smile, "I've been wondering—how did you come up with those proposals to reduce conflict between the villages?"
The suggestions Toshiro had made weren't particularly complex or demanding. For the major shinobi villages, they were more than feasible.
But according to Mei's advisors, those seemingly simple policies had the potential to significantly reduce clashes between ninjas.
She genuinely couldn't figure out where Toshiro had drawn his inspiration.
Toshiro gave a light shrug. "Nothing special... I just want to cut down on unnecessary bloodshed."
Of course, he didn't mention that these ideas were inspired by the international treaties and agreements from his previous life—a world vastly different from this one.
Whether such ideals would work in a land where war and violence had shaped history for centuries... was still a question.
This world had been bathed in conflict for generations. Hoping that a few signatures from powerful leaders could bring lasting peace was, at best, a dream.
The next day, the remaining Kage—Tsuchikage and Kazekage—arrived.
And by the morning of the third day, in a grand, solemn hall built specially by the Land of Iron, the second-ever Five Kage Summit commenced.
In the center of a large, dignified conference room, the Kage from all five nations took their seats, with Mifune standing as the neutral witness.
Toshiro glanced across the room and raised an eyebrow.
"Is that... Kitsuchi?"
He hadn't expected the Third Tsuchikage to bring him along. It had been years since they last crossed paths.
Toshiro glanced at Kitsuchi standing quietly behind Ōnoki and, completely unfazed by the heavy atmosphere in the room, offered a friendly wave.
"Long time no see, Kitsuchi."
Then, casually scanning the rest of the room, he chuckled.
"And where's the Raikage's famous brother? Don't tell me he's off hosting another one of his concerts."
His gaze moved again.
"The Fourth Kazekage… it's been a while. Didn't expect our next meeting would be at a summit instead of a battlefield."
Then, spotting another familiar face, he smiled.
"And Yashamaru… You've really changed. That aura you carry now—it's surprising."
Toshiro's ease and friendliness stood in stark contrast to the formal tension of the summit, and it didn't go unnoticed.
Ōnoki narrowed his eyes, a hint of suspicion creeping into his thoughts.
'This Uchiha brat… there's something different about him.'
He wasn't like Madara, not at all. Madara walked into a room like he owned the world, like everyone else was beneath him—unless your name was Hashirama.
But Toshiro? There was a warmth to him. A genuine presence that made even his enemies listen.
Ōnoki's gaze shifted to the newly appointed Mizukage—another unfamiliar figure, and a woman at that. He took in the room: the young Kazekage, the powerful Raikage, and this unusually composed Hokage.
Surrounded by these vibrant new faces, the elderly Tsuchikage let out a quiet, disgruntled sigh and glanced behind him at his son, Kitsuchi.
'If only this fool had more potential', he thought bitterly. 'I wouldn't have had to drag my old bones all the way here for this damn summit.'
"I'm sure everyone has their own thoughts on the covenants I've proposed," Toshiro began, his tone calm but assertive. "That's exactly why we're here—to sit down together and finalize each item, one by one."
He paused for a moment, allowing his words to settle before continuing.
"If we can reach an agreement, it will benefit not just Konoha, but the Land of Earth, Lightning, Water, and Wind as well—and most importantly, the people of our nations."
After exchanging greetings with a few familiar faces, Toshiro wasted no time getting to the heart of the matter.
"I have questions about your proposals," the Raikage interjected bluntly, clearly the least patient among them. "Specifically the parts about trade agreements, prisoner exchanges, diplomatic envoys, and this so-called principle of compensation."
Leaning forward, his eyes narrowed. "Let's skip the formalities—explain this prisoner exchange system of yours. How exactly is that supposed to work?"
Toshiro had anticipated this reaction. One of the more controversial points in his proposal was the idea of exchanging captured ninjas—war prisoners, spies, even those caught during covert operations. Some of these terms even allowed for three-way trades between villages.
The concern was obvious: what if they released someone who returned to cause more damage later? That would be a disaster politically—and tactically.
"It's actually quite straightforward," Toshiro replied confidently. "Each village maintains its own list of captured individuals—names, ranks, and affiliations. These lists would be shared under mutual agreement. After ensuring humane treatment and basic living conditions, we could facilitate exchanges either through hostage trade or even financial ransom."
He looked around the table. No one interrupted, so he continued.
"For particularly sensitive or high-value captives, I understand there may be… additional methods used to gather intelligence," he said, choosing his words carefully. "That's to be expected. But what I propose is a standardized way to handle the rest—so we're not constantly escalating conflicts over individuals who no longer pose an immediate threat."
"These people may have been captured, interrogated, and had their secrets extracted… but they're still our comrades," Toshiro said firmly, his gaze sweeping across the table. "Even if they're no longer fit to return as shinobi, keeping them alive gives them a chance—a chance to return home, to see their families again."
He leaned back slightly, his voice softening, yet still carrying weight.
"After all, even a difficult life is better than an honorable death if it means seeing your loved ones again."
Just as the room settled into silence, Onoki's gravelly voice broke through.
"This so-called compensation principle you've suggested… Does that apply to smaller nations too, or just among us major villages?"
Toshiro nodded, having expected the Tsuchikage to question this particular clause.
"Yes. The idea behind the compensation principle is simple: in any conflict, one side gains, and the other loses. Rather than letting resentment fester, why not offer a form of restitution—even if it's something the winner considers insignificant?"
He paused, letting the idea hang in the air for a moment before continuing.
"These 'compensations' could be minor slices of land, monetary support, trade benefits—anything that helps ease the loss. A symbolic gesture, if nothing else."
"In essence, you're saying it's fine to slap someone, as long as you hand them a sweet afterward," Ohnoki said with a huff, arms crossed.
Toshiro smiled faintly. "A crude metaphor, but not inaccurate."
From his perspective, it wasn't just about diplomacy—it was about survival. If the great nations could learn to regulate their conflicts with restraint and mutual benefit, perhaps the cycle of endless war could finally begin to slow.
Even if only a little.
"Small nations may be weak, and their resistance easily overlooked—but that doesn't mean we should ignore them completely," Toshiro began, his tone calm but purposeful.
"This compensation principle isn't just about fairness. It's about preventing small sparks from turning into wildfires."
He stood, walking slowly toward the center of the conference room as the other Kage listened with a mix of interest and skepticism.
"Conflicts—whether between great nations or between a great power and a lesser one—rarely explode overnight. They begin with small frictions: a territory dispute here, an ignored grievance there. These tensions build, slowly and silently, until they reach a boiling point. And by then... it's too late."
Toshiro turned toward Ohnoki, then swept his gaze across the others.
"Yes, we're powerful. We can easily dismiss the complaints of smaller nations. We can take what we want, suppress their protests, and pretend their voices don't matter. But that anger, that humiliation—it festers."
His voice lowered slightly.
"And when it finally bursts, it doesn't come in the form of open defiance. It comes as sabotage. As betrayal. As proxy wars and assassinations. As instigation that pulls even the strongest nations into conflict."
He paused, letting the weight of those words settle.
"This is how every Ninja World War has begun—when the small, wounded parties ignite the larger powers into battle. We cannot afford to ignore that cycle any longer."
Toshiro folded his hands behind his back.
"A simple token—land, currency, trade rights—may not satisfy them completely. But it shows respect. It buys time. And most importantly, it dulls the edge of revenge."
"Never underestimate the power of a consolation prize," he added, his voice firm. "Because revenge is hardwired into our nature. Without a release valve, that pressure builds until it explodes—often when we least expect it."
The room fell silent for a long moment.
Toshiro had laid it out plainly: if the great nations continued to dismiss the smaller ones, they were only planting the seeds of the next war.
"These smaller nations often endure your bullying in silence, forced to swallow the bitter fruit of injustice without protest," Toshiro said, his voice calm but laced with gravity.
"But there's an old saying—revenge doesn't vanish; it simply waits for the right moment."
He let that thought hang in the air before continuing.
"Every time a Ninja World War erupts, those so-called minor countries suddenly come alive—switching allegiances, leaking intelligence, guiding ambushes, and stabbing us in the back without hesitation."
He glanced around the room, making sure every Kage was listening.
"And the worst offenders? The ones who play both sides, caught between two great powers, bullied from both directions—they're the ones who fuel the fire the most. Selling secrets to both warring sides not to gain power, but simply to watch us bleed."
"Sometimes, even in times of peace, a lone ninja will be ambushed in the shadows. And when it happens, the blame is pushed onto someone else. These dirty tricks—they're not rare. They're human nature."
Toshiro's expression turned thoughtful.
"A small token—a consolation prize—may seem trivial to us. But to those who have lost, who feel humiliated or sidelined, it can be a balm for their wounded pride. When someone chases a goal and fails, their sense of self-worth crumbles. That bitterness grows."
"But if you offer something—land, money, access, recognition—it doesn't erase the pain, but it softens it. It diffuses the desire for revenge, even if just a little. And sometimes, that little is enough to delay disaster."
He paused, then added with a knowing smile, "It might not make them happy. But it might keep them quiet—and in a world like ours, that's a victory."
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