"Let goods cross borders, not ninjas."
That was the heart of Toshiro's trade policy—a simple yet powerful idea.
This approach drew a clear line between economic cooperation and military restraint. The core principle was to encourage the free movement of goods across national borders while strictly limiting the movement of ninja forces. It was a strategic separation of commerce from conflict.
The reasoning was clear: by opening the gates for trade and material exchange, the major nations could stimulate economic growth, build mutual dependencies, and foster a more stable, peaceful environment in the ninja world. Trade becomes not just a path to wealth but a buffer against war.
Allowing goods to flow freely meant easier access to rare resources, greater prosperity for all involved, and fewer reasons to resort to violence. It would also create jobs, boost regional cooperation, and strengthen diplomatic ties.
At the same time, restricting the movement of ninjas served a vital purpose: it minimized the chances of misunderstandings, skirmishes, or full-scale conflicts. Keeping trained warriors within their own borders reduced military tension, safeguarded lives, and protected national sovereignty.
In essence, Toshiro's policy aimed to separate the battlefield from the marketplace—encouraging nations to compete with commerce, not conflict.
And once the economic benefits become substantial enough, everything changes.
If conflict were to erupt between two countries, the very people who profit from trade—merchants, nobles, civilians, and even ninjas—would form a quiet but powerful resistance against the war. This grassroots pressure would naturally work to contain or even prevent the escalation of hostilities.
"To ensure this trade proceeds smoothly and that any incidents are swiftly addressed," Toshiro continued, "I propose we station diplomatic envoys in each other's villages to maintain open lines of communication between our Kages."
After all, where there is trade, there are bound to be disputes. Clashes of interest are inevitable, and misunderstandings can arise at any time. Permanent envoys would serve as liaisons, helping to resolve tensions before they spiral out of control.
However, as soon as the proposal left Toshiro's lips, the ever-suspicious Onoki voiced his disapproval.
"Envoys? Nonsense!" he barked. "They're just spies in disguise!"
His tone was sharp, his stance unyielding. "Letting someone from another village live among us—permanently? That's out of the question! Who's to say they won't use the opportunity to pry into our secrets?"
To Onoki, the idea of openly hosting foreign ninja—even under the pretense of diplomacy—was an unacceptable risk to national security.
It wasn't just Onoki who opposed the idea—Toshiro's proposal made even the other Kages visibly uncomfortable. Frowns appeared all around the table, a silent but clear sign of disapproval.
Toshiro, however, remained unfazed. He expected this resistance.
"I understand," he began coolly, "that every village has its own network of spies. That's the reality of our world—it won't change overnight."
He paused, then added with a touch of practicality, "If you're uncomfortable allowing foreign envoys to reside within your village walls, then let them stay outside."
"There are towns near each of our villages. Find a secure place there for the envoys to live. The only requirement is that they remain within reach—close enough to maintain direct contact with the Kage whenever needed."
By addressing their primary concern—security—Toshiro had cleverly sidestepped the main point of contention. If proximity was enough, there was no reason for the envoys to infiltrate village defenses.
"And besides," he continued, now with a faint smirk, "we're all shinobi here. Who's to say we can't turn this into a little game?"
He leaned in slightly, voice calm but laced with challenge.
"If spies are inevitable, why not make it an open hunt? Let's treat this like a game of cat and mouse."
"You're free to assign your elite ninja to monitor these envoys—track them, test them. And if you catch one crossing the line, we'll deal with it together."
Toshiro's tone was light, but his words carried weight. He wasn't just proposing diplomacy—he was daring them to outwit one another, to make peace without letting their guard down.
"We can even grant these envoys certain protections," Toshiro added. "As long as they don't cause harm or loss of life, the worst consequence they should face is expulsion—not death."
In the world of shinobi, violence is often the first response. But Toshiro knew that mindset had to evolve.
"We're all ninjas. If someone oversteps, treat it like a contest of skill. Outsmart them. Outscheme them. And if they're caught, let them walk away—bloodless. They can retreat, regroup, and try again. That's how we grow stronger."
His voice took on a pragmatic edge as he pivoted to the next inevitable challenge.
"Now, with international trade on the rise, conflicts are bound to happen—fraud, theft, even murder. Disputes between merchants, misunderstandings between cultures... it's only a matter of time."
He paused for effect, then continued, "That's why I propose the formation of a special task force—an international team designed to handle cross-border cases. They'll be responsible for resolving incidents involving foreign nationals."
"To maintain fairness, this team should be jointly formed, with each village contributing members. And of course, the ground rules must be mutually agreed upon."
"Not only will this help manage conflict, but it will also deepen communication and trust between our villages."
He looked around the room.
The silence that followed didn't surprise him. He knew this proposal was bold—perhaps even ahead of its time. But if the shinobi world wanted peace, it had to start thinking like a community, not a battlefield.
These leaders had once been bitter enemies—locked in battles where survival meant eliminating the other. Now, they were being asked to form joint ninja squads composed of members from different nations. It was no surprise that the idea didn't sit well with everyone right away.
Forming an international team to handle cross-border disputes wasn't just logistically complex—it was politically sensitive. The same concerns that arose with permanent envoys applied here, too.
Would these operatives act as spies?
Would they gather intelligence under the guise of justice?
No one could deny the risks.
Compared to previous proposals—such as compensation agreements, designated trade zones, or even exchanging envoys—this idea was far more delicate. These ninjas would not just stay near the border. They would actively operate inside foreign nations. That raised flags on every level.
"I think we're overcomplicating things just to handle international disputes," Raikage A finally broke the silence, his tone firm but practical.
"Let's keep it simple. If something happens in a certain country, that country handles it. Period."
Others around the table murmured in agreement.
"The Hokage's idea has its merits," one of them said cautiously, "but it's simply too risky for each village at this stage."
The hesitation was clear—not out of hostility, but out of caution born from decades of distrust.
The mere thought of foreign ninjas wandering freely within his borders gave Ōnoki a headache.
As the oldest among them, he struggled to picture a day when Konoha, Cloud, or Mist shinobi would casually walk through his territory. And if that day came, could he truly keep his temper in check… and not strike them down on impulse?
He wasn't alone. Even Rasa, seated beside him, felt the proposal was excessive. His gaze shifted subtly to the other Kage—aside from Mei Terumi, who remained silent, the rest had already expressed clear opposition.
It seemed this idea was on the verge of being quietly dismissed.
But Toshiro wasn't ready to back down.
"I understand," he said, scanning the room, his voice calm yet unwavering. "There's been deep-rooted mistrust between us for years."
He paused.
"Decades of bloodshed have left every nation scarred. We've all spilled each other's blood—how could we not hold prejudice?"
There was a brief silence as his words settled like dust after battle.
"But even so…" His eyes glinted with something resolute. "I believe we must take this step."
Toshiro's gaze swept across the room, steady and sincere.
"We're the ones at the top of the shinobi world. If we, the leaders, can't take the first step toward cooperation, then how can we ever expect true peace?"
As he spoke, the atmosphere shifted.
The tension didn't vanish—but it paused, held back by something deeper. The other Kage sat still, listening in silence, drawn in by the conviction in Toshiro's voice.
"Admittedly, what I'm proposing carries risks," Toshiro began, his voice steady but sincere. "And I understand—it may be difficult for everyone to accept right away."
He glanced around at the skeptical faces before continuing.
"But I hope that, with time, we can begin to embrace this change. There's no need to rush. We can take it one step at a time. Trust isn't built overnight—it grows slowly, through experience and consistency."
"If this special organization proves unfit for purpose, we can always dissolve it. Nothing is set in stone."
Toshiro's persistence wasn't without reason. He knew all too well—without a fair and neutral body to handle international disputes, the foundation of this trade initiative would weaken. That would be a great loss not just for the economy, but for the potential of peace itself.
"And beyond that," he said, his voice softening, "I dream of a future—ten, twenty years from now—where our villages are no longer isolated islands."
"A future where we regularly visit one another. Where we discuss agriculture, education, and commerce instead of preparing for battle. Where our students learn side by side in ninja academies. Where families grow through bonds, not bloodshed."
"Where trust replaces suspicion. And peace replaces war."
His words hung in the air, as still and weighty as a drawn blade.
The room fell silent.
Uchiha Itachi tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes fixed on the Hokage. There was something stirring within him—a flicker of something deeper.
'So this is the heart of the Hokage?' he thought.
He never imagined that Toshiro—the leader of his own clan—harbored such lofty aspirations.
Students from different nations attending each other's ninja academies? Villages connected through marriage and shared futures?
'Could such a world truly exist in the shinobi realm?'
He wasn't sure. But something about the vision stirred a question deep within him.
"We should approach international relations with a foundation of peace," Toshiro continued. "Not with the constant suspicion and hostility that defined our past."
"Let us give the next generation—a generation of ninjas and children alike—a future filled with hope."
"A future where they grow up in classrooms, not on battlefields."
These weren't just lofty words. They were the heart of Toshiro's convictions.
He had seen too many young students, barely out of the academy, forced to kill—or be killed—before they even had a chance to grow.
It was twisted. Wrong.
And now, as Hokage, he was determined to forge a different path. A new future.
"Everyone," a voice cut in gently. It was Terumi Mei.
She had been silent, listening, watching—but now she stepped forward.
"I believe we should give serious thought to the Hokage's words."
"We don't know what the final outcome will be… But that's the nature of change, isn't it?"
She glanced around the room, her expression composed but earnest.
"We try. Just like he said. If it doesn't work out, this organization can be dissolved."
She turned to Toshiro again, and for the first time, there was a spark of admiration in her eyes.
It was the kind of gaze reserved not just for a leader… but for a visionary.
As Terumi Mei finished speaking, the expressions of the gathered Kage began to shift. Their eyes flickered—not with immediate agreement or rejection, but with contemplation. Each of them was silently weighing the risks and rewards.
"The Hokage's words today were truly thought-provoking," Mifune finally said, breaking the silence.
He could sense the atmosphere in the room: heavy with uncertainty but also charged with the potential for something new.
But before he could continue, someone gently interjected, "General, perhaps we should call it a day. Let's resume discussions tomorrow evening."
As the esteemed leader of the Land of Iron, Mifune was no stranger to the subtleties of political negotiation.
While the Hokage's proposal held promise, expecting the Kage to agree on the spot was unrealistic. Centuries of mistrust couldn't be undone in a single afternoon.
What they needed now—was time. Time to reflect, to deliberate, and to quietly measure the weight of change.
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