The command tent was a world unto itself, a cramped, canvas-walled universe where the fate of thousands was decided over maps stained with tea and anxiety. The air inside was thick and still, heavy with the scent of damp earth, sweat, and the ozone-tinged aura of concentrated chakra.
It was a stark contrast to the damp, misty chill of the Land of Fire's borderlands just outside the flapping entrance. Lanterns hung from the central pole, casting a jaundiced, flickering light that made shadows dance across the grim faces of Konoha's military elite. At the head of a makeshift table stood Uchiha Daichi, Clan Head and Commander of the First Division. His presence was a gravitational force, pulling all attention toward him.
His posture was ramrod straight, his obsidian eyes missing nothing. Those eyes, sharp and assessing, now scanned the room, lingering on each of the assembled commanders, a collection of the most powerful jonin senseis in the village.
"I assume that all of you know what to do," Daichi began, his voice a low, steady rumble that required no raised volume to command absolute silence.
As his gaze swept the room, it passed over Hyugas, Akimichis, Aburames, and others, a tapestry of Konoha's strength. Then, those eyes landed on Renjiro. They didn't just pause; they held for a moment too long, a fraction of a second that screamed of deliberate attention. To anyone else, it might have been unnoticeable.
To Renjiro, hyper-aware and expecting scrutiny, it was a klaxon alarm.
'Shit,' he inwardly cursed, his own face a carefully neutral mask. A familiar, grinding frustration settled in his chest. When Jiraiya and Orochimaru had extracted him from the aftermath of the Raikage, he'd expected to be thrown directly back into the fire—a desperate battle, a suicidal mission, anything to channel the raging storm of power and anger inside him. Instead, he'd been plunged into this: a war of positioning, of briefings, of tense standoffs and political manoeuvring. He would have preferred the honest clarity of a fight to this suffocating game. At least in combat, he knew who the enemy was. Here, in this tent, the lines were blurred. He had to deal with people. People like Daichi and his son, Fugaku, who stood beside his father with a similarly unreadable expression. And for what?
'After everything I've done,' he thought bitterly, 'after facing down a Kage and living, my reward isn't respite or answers. It's more work. More responsibility. More targets on my back.'
Fugaku, ever the dutiful second-in-command, stepped forward to elaborate on the tactical map. "With Iwa solidifying its occupation of Takigakure and Kumo entrenching in Shimogakure," he stated, his voice calm and analytical, "their logistical lines are shortened. An attack is imminent. Suna, in particular, can now funnel its forces through the valleys bordering Taki with impunity, under the protective umbrella of Iwa's presence. Our eastern flank is no longer a border; it is a front line."
Renjiro listened, the irony of the situation tasting acrid in his mouth. 'At the start of all this, Hiruzen's grand strategy was to keep the war out of the Land of Fire at all costs. Now, having it happen on our border is the best-case scenario. Because the alternative is surrounding us completely.' The lofty ideals of the Hokage's office always seemed to crumble into brutal pragmatism in the mud of a real war.
Daichi's voice cut back in, hard and final. "We will be the spearhead. The First Division will act as the primary response force. Do not expect support from the Second Division. They have their own assignments, containing Kumo's push from the north."
The message was clear: they were on their own.
'I guess this is where Minato finally shows people his power,' Renjiro mused silently, imagining the Yellow Flash unleashed upon some distant battlefield, a one-man army balancing the scales elsewhere.
Fugaku began detailing the deployment, assigning squads to specific sectors of the long, vulnerable border. He was methodical, precise. Then, the commander of the Inuzuka contingent, a man with a facial tattoo and a permanent scowl, raised a calloused hand. "The sector bordering the Valley of End," he grunted, jabbing a finger at a specific point on the map. "It's a natural invasion route. Wide, hard to defend. The squads assigned there will need a qualified commander. A strong one."
A low murmur rippled through the tent. The unspoken truth was laid bare. No one wanted that assignment. It was a suicide posting, a place where a commander would be expected to hold against overwhelming odds with minimal support. The political reality of Konoha's army was that while they fought under the same banner, each clan commander was also tasked with preserving their own strength.
They would fight for Konoha, but they would also manoeuvre to ensure their clan's shinobi were assigned to survivable missions. This was not one of them.
Daichi let the murmur continue for a beat, his expression unchanging, before raising a hand. The tent fell silent instantly. "The matter of the Valley of End sector has already been considered," he said, his voice cutting through the tension. His eyes found Renjiro's again, and this time, they did not move away. "We have someone more than qualified to handle it. Uzumaki Renjiro. You will take command of the defensive perimeter there."
'So he already knows…' The thought was cold, calm. There was no surprise. The moment Jiraiya and Orochimaru had seen his Mangekyo, he'd known the clock was ticking. Hiruzen knew. And of course, the Uchiha Clan Head would be among the first to be informed. His mind raced through the possibilities. A public denouncement? An attempted confiscation? An "accident" on the battlefield to remove a rogue element? But this… this was different. This was a tacit acknowledgement. By assigning him to the most dangerous front, Daichi was not punishing him; he was using him. He was deploying a newly acquired asset to its most effective location. It was, in its own ruthless way, a form of acceptance. For now.
"Understood," Renjiro said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
A collective, almost inaudible sigh of relief swept through the other commanders. Nods of approval were exchanged. The problem had been solved. The dangerous, politically toxic assignment had been handed to the Uchiha clan's problem. Let them deal with the fallout. Let him bleed for it. Their own clans were safe from that particular meat grinder.
"Very well," Daichi said, his gaze finally releasing Renjiro. "You all have your orders. Prepare your units."
The meeting dissolved into the rustle of flak jackets and the soft thud of footsteps as the commanders filed out, already speaking in low tones about logistics and squad rotations. Renjiro remained seated for a moment longer, watching them go.
'Is that all?' he wondered, a strange anticlimax settling over him. He had been braced for a confrontation, for Daichi to ask him to stay behind, to demand an explanation, to try and claim the Mangekyo for the clan's glory. But there was nothing. Just a cold, strategic deployment. In a way, it was more unnerving than outright hostility.
He stood and exited the tent, ducking through the flap into the damp afternoon air. The camp was a hive of controlled chaos, a stark contrast to the tense quiet of the command tent. The brief moment of stillness allowed another thought, more personal and more painful, to surface through the strategic calculations and political weariness.
"I need to check on Arata and the rest," he muttered to himself, the words soft against the din of the camp. His mind conjured the faces of the men and women he'd personally led and trained before the war had splintered them into a hundred different directions. "I hope all of them are still alive."
It was a small, human worry in the midst of the colossal machine of war, a reminder of the individual lives that were the currency of the Kages' ambitions. And for a moment, it was the heaviest burden he carried.