The air inside the medical tent was thick with the cloying scent of antiseptic, blood, and the faint, acrid tang of singed flesh. Low groans from other wounded Kumo shinobi formed a constant, pained backdrop. Ayy stood like a stormcloud made flesh beside the central cot, his massive frame dwarfing the flimsy structure. On the cot, swathed in bandages that couldn't fully hide the angry red burns marring his skin, lay Killer Bee. It seemed that those burns were slow to heal.
His breathing was shallow but steady, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest the only sign of life beyond the faint, pulsing aura of orange chakra that clung to him like a second skin – Gyuki's desperate work.
Ayy's knuckles were white where they gripped the cot's railing, the metal groaning under the pressure. His gaze was fixed on Bee's unnervingly still face.
"When?"
The medic-nin, a grey-haired woman with eyes shadowed by exhaustion, flinched almost imperceptibly. "Lord Ayy," she began, "the physical trauma is severe. Multiple fractures, severe chakra pathway scorching, cellular degradation from that… that green fire…"
She shuddered slightly, the memory of trying to treat the wounds that resisted conventional healing clearly fresh.
"But…" She gestured towards the pulsing orange aura. "The Eight-Tails… its chakra is working tirelessly. It's repairing him from the inside far faster than we can from the outside. He should awaken soon. Hours, perhaps a day at most."
Ayy didn't acknowledge her explanation. He stared at Bee for another long minute. Finally, with a grunt that sounded like stone grinding on stone, he turned and pushed through the tent flaps, stepping into the grey light of the Kumo encampment.
A tall, lean Jonin with a hawk-like nose and a bandage wrapped around his upper arm intercepted Ayy immediately.
"Lord Ayy. Hayato reporting."
Ayy stopped, his gaze sweeping the camp before settling on Hayato. "The coast, Hayato. Kiri's teeth are biting our shores. What news from the outposts?"
Hayato's expression tightened. "No further communications received, Lord Ayy. Since the initial communication from six hours ago… silence." He trailed off, the unspoken implication heavy. Silence from multiple fortified outposts meant annihilation.
Ayy's eyes narrowed, a flicker of unease breaking through his stoic mask. "Silence from both? Simultaneously?" He shook his head, a low growl escaping him.
"Do the scouts believe the Raikage will mobilize?"
Hayato shifted his weight, "The men… they're stretched thin, Lord Ayy. The losses against Konoha… the Jinchuriki incapacitated… morale is brittle. If the Mizukage commits his Swordsmen fully…" He didn't finish the thought.
"They wonder if the Raikage's presence is needed to deter a full coastal invasion."
Ayy's jaw clenched. He saw the fear in Hayato's eyes, heard it unspoken in the camp's subdued atmosphere.
"Tell the men to quiet their doubts," he commanded, his voice regaining its usual forceful timbre, though it lacked its former absolute certainty. "Kumo foresaw Kiri's opportunism. Contingencies are in place. Our coastal defences are layered, not reliant on single points. Focus," he pointed towards the medical tents and the teams salvaging gear, "on treating the wounded, salvaging what we can. We withdraw to Kumogakure at first light tomorrow. Now, see it done."
Hayato nodded sharply, relief warring with lingering apprehension on his face.
"Hai, Lord Ayy!" He turned and hurried off, barking orders.
Ayy watched him go for a moment, the forced confidence draining from his posture. He turned and strode towards his own tent.
He sank onto a rough-hewn stool, the wood creaking under his weight, and stared at the tent wall.
The silence within the tent was a stark contrast to the camp's controlled chaos outside. It allowed the cacophony in Ayy's mind to roar.
'The war… it's slipping.' The thought was a cold stone in his gut. 'Konoha… we thought them weakened. Broken after the White Fang's disgrace and death. A wounded animal ready for the kill.' He remembered the initial reports, the confidence in the war council. Crush the Leaf swiftly, before they could recover.
'Instead…' His fist clenched on his knee. 'Instead, they fight like cornered badgers. Worse. They fight like they found a new fang. Sharper. More venomous.'
Renjiro Uzumaki's face, blood-streaked and furious, eyes burning crimson, filled his mind's eye. The chains. The fire. The impossible, annihilating rectangles of wind. The sheer audacity to face Bee and Gyuki and wound them.
'He's not just Hatake Sakumo's replacement,' Ayy thought, a chill creeping down his spine despite his formidable chakra. 'He's something else. A monster Konoha didn't know it had. Sakumo broke under pressure. This one… he thrives on it. He enjoys it.'
He stood abruptly, pacing the confined space.
'Father…' The image of the Third Raikage surfaced.
'Should he move?' The temptation was fierce, visceral. To see his father carve through Konoha's defences, to shatter their spirit personally… But reason, cold and hard, intervened.
'No. Not yet.'
He pictured the other Kage, watching, waiting.
'The Tsuchikage… that badger Onoki… he's hovering, waiting to see who bleeds most. We need Iwagakure committed. On our side.'
His pacing stopped. He stared at the map of the Land of Fire, picturing Konoha nestled within its forests.
'But when Father does move…' Ayy's expression hardened into something brutal, vengeful.
'When the Lightning Cutter descends… Renjiro Uzumaki dies. First. Before anyone else. We erase Konoha's new monster before it grows fangs we cannot break.' The decision solidified in his mind, cold and absolute.
=====
Hundreds of miles away, the air tasted of dust, ash, and silence. Not the quiet of peace, but the suffocating silence of utter annihilation. A village, nestled in a rugged valley within the Land of Earth, was a vital distribution hub for Iwagakure. Granaries, armories, and barracks had clustered around the central water source that gave the village its name.
Or rather, had clustered.
Now, it was a ruin.
The stone buildings, typically sturdy and low-slung, were not just collapsed; they were pulverized. Walls were reduced to fields of gravel. Towers were snapped like dry twigs. The central well was a gaping crater filled with rubble and stagnant, muddy water. Fires had raged recently, leaving skeletal blackened timbers and patches of smouldering embers that hissed faintly in the dry wind, releasing thin tendrils of greasy smoke that stained the pale sky.
No birds sang. No insects buzzed. The only sound was the mournful whistle of the wind through the shattered stones.
Jiro, an Iwa chunin scout returning from a perimeter patrol, stood frozen at the valley's entrance. His dusty grey flak jacket and headband felt suddenly heavy, suffocating.
'What… what happened?' The thought screamed in his mind, loud against the crushing silence. He'd left only three days ago. The village had been bustling – farmers bringing in the late harvest, supply wagons loading for the front lines near the Land of Grass, shinobi drills echoing off the cliffs. Now… nothing. Just broken rock and choking dust.
He forced his legs to move, stepping over a threshold that no longer existed. His boots crunched on the ubiquitous gravel – the remains of homes, shops, the guard post.
'No bodies.'
That realization hit him like a physical blow, colder than the mountain wind. In devastation this complete, there should be… signs. Trapped limbs, bloodstains, something. But there was nothing. Just endless, anonymous grey rubble. It was as if the entire population – hundreds of people – had simply… vanished. Or been vaporized.
'A jutsu?'
Jiro's mind raced, panic bubbling beneath the surface of his shock. 'What kind of jutsu could do this?'
This was different. This was… total, indiscriminate grinding.
He stumbled towards the central crater, once the village square. The ozone smell was stronger here, mixed with that strange metallic tang. He saw deep, radiating cracks in the bedrock beneath the rubble, patterns that spoke of immense, concentrated force striking from above.
'Not an earthquake. Not a bombardment. Something… focused. Something immense.'
'Konoha?' The thought was immediate, fueled by ingrained suspicion and the ongoing war.
'Did they find some new weapon? Some secret technique?' But it felt wrong. Konoha favoured precision strikes, fire, and wind. This was brute, overwhelming force.
'Kiri? Impossible. Too far.' Kumo? They were busy fighting Konoha.
'Who else?'