The air in the cavernous council hall beneath the Hokage Tower was a tapestry of whispered ambitions. Light streamed from high, narrow windows, cutting through the dimness to illuminate the vast, red-and-white Uzumaki spiral emblazoned on the central floor—a reminder of the village's founding kinship, now feeling more like historic decor than lived reality.
The hall gradually filled, a murmur of cloth and low conversation echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Shinobi in flak jackets, clan heads in formal robes adorned with their mon, aides clutching scrolls, and observers with sharp eyes took their positions along tiered seating that rose in a wide semicircle, all oriented toward the Hokage's vacant podium.
In a shadowed corner near a towering stone pillar depicting the First Hokage, two men stood apart from the initial trickle of arrivals.
"So, who's your clan throwing its weight behind?" The speaker was Kurama Arata. His robes, bearing the intricate, fan-like Kurama clan emblem, were fine but slightly outdated in cut.
The man beside him, Namikaze Hideo, chuckled, a low, confident sound. He stood with the easy posture of someone whose clan's star was ascendant.
"Oh, come now, Arata. Don't play the wide-eyed novice. It's painfully obvious. We back our own. Always have, always will." He adjusted a sleeve, his expression smug.
"The real question is who the Kurama will back. Still trying to read the wind from the top of the Hokage Monument?"
Arata's mouth tightened. "The 'wind' tells us to survive. Our clan's… political capital isn't what it was. We don't have a prodigy to rally behind. These days, we listen closely to what the Sarutobi contingent proposes and… align accordingly. It's less about weight and more about not being crushed underfoot." The admission was stark, stripped of pretence.
Hideo's feigned sympathy was a masterclass in condescension. "A shame. Your ancestors were legends. Now you're glorified weather vanes." He clapped Arata on the shoulder, a gesture that was half-comradely, half-patronising.
"Tell you what. You've got a daughter, don't you? Fifteen? Sharp girl, I hear. A marriage pact into the Namikaze clan could do wonders for your relevance. Solidify things."
Arata's eyes flashed. He shoved Hideo's hand away, "You insufferable bastard. Stop it. We're not trading children for political favour."
But the protest lacked full heat; it was the anger of a man who knew the suggestion, however crass, was rooted in the new reality.
Hideo just grinned, unrepentant. "Suit yourself. Just offering a lifeline to an old friend from the Academy. Before you sink entirely."
While they were talking, the main doors opened again, and a new figure entered, momentarily silhouetted against the daylight.
His red hair was a vivid splash of colour in the sea of blacks, browns, and blues. He paused on the threshold, his gaze—calm, analytical—sweeping the assembling crowd. He was searching for the Uchiha delegation, a cluster of dark hair and stoic faces he could usually pick out.
His scan halted near the centre-left of the hall. There, dressed in simple Jonin blues, was Minato. He was speaking intently with an older man whose bearing and similar golden hair marked him as the head of the Namikaze clan.
Renjiro moved with quiet purpose towards the Uchiha section. The clan was an island of subdued intensity. Fugaku stood at its forefront, flanked by his trusted aide, Uchiha Katsuro. Around them, other Uchiha of note stood in a loose formation.
Renjiro slipped into the group. He had barely found his footing when Fugaku's voice sliced through the ambient noise.
"You're late."
Renjiro turned to meet the clan head's gaze. "The meeting hasn't convened yet, Fugaku-sama,"
"A prospective Jonin Commander," Fugaku said, "does not arrive merely 'on time.' He arrives hours early. He gauges the room, observes alliances forming, greets potential supporters, and is seen doing so. It is not about punctuality. It is about decorum."
Renjiro internally conceded the point. Fugaku's logic was airtight within the framework of this political theatre.
'He's in a foul mood,' Renjiro thought, 'and someone—likely Minato's obvious favour and his clan's very public backing—has put him there.'
"My apologies," Renjiro said.
Fugaku's eyes narrowed.
"Follow me," he ordered, then glanced at Katsuro. "Manage the rest. Keep eyes on the Hyūga and the Nara responses."
Katsuro bowed sharply. "Understood, sir."
This was a clear signal. Fugaku wasn't just introducing Renjiro; he was parading him. He was treating him as a tangible asset to be displayed, a show of the Uchiha's most potent, if problematic, weapon. Renjiro fell into step slightly behind and to Fugaku's left, the designated position of a valued subordinate.
They cut through the crowd, Fugaku's stern demeanour parting conversations like a ship's prow through water. He made directly for a figure who stood out even in the diverse assembly. It was a woman, and she was magnificent in a feral, untamed way.
She stood with the grounded stance of a seasoned fighter, her build sculpted with lean, powerful muscle that spoke of a life spent in relentless motion.
But the most striking feature was the massive ninken that sat at her side, a beast with intelligent brown eyes and fur the colour of storm clouds. It was panting softly, its gaze following Fugaku and Renjiro with acute interest.
"Clan Head Inuzuka," Fugaku said, his voice adopting a marginally warmer, formal tone.
The woman, Inuzuka Tani, turned. "Fugaku. Still looking as serious as a tomb."
"One must, in these halls," Fugaku replied smoothly. "Allow me to present Renjiro, one of the brightest stars of the new Uchiha generation."
Tani's amber eyes locked onto Renjiro, and her appraisal was not the polite, distant glance of a politician. It was the full-body assessment of a hunter, a kunoichi who valued substance over ceremony. The massive ninken snuffled the air in Renjiro's direction.
"I've heard the reports. More than that, I've heard from my own. You pulled two of my pups out of a Suna ambush near the Wind border. Gekkō and Yasei. They'd be worm food if your unit hadn't broken that flank." Her gratitude was blunt and powerful.
Renjiro gave a slight, respectful bow of his head. "We were in the area. Just doing our jobs, Inuzuka-sama."
"Don't 'just doing our jobs' me, kid," Tani retorted, "A job is following orders. What you did was a choice. You have my thanks. Personal, and clan." She stepped forward, closing the distance.
Then, the interaction took a jarring turn.
Instead of a formal bow or a handshake, Tani reached out and clasped Renjiro's upper arm. Her grip was firm, testing the muscle there.
"Hmm. Sturdy. Good frame." She moved her other hand, patting his chest and shoulder, as if evaluating livestock or a promising hound pup. "Carries his strength well. Not all bulk, but good, dense conditioning. You're put together better than half my fully-grown trackers."
Renjiro froze. His mind, usually a fortress of rapid analysis, short-circuited. Every instinct was on alert, but none of them had a protocol for this. The sensory input was overwhelming: the strength of her grip, the sheer physicality of her presence, the scent of sun-warmed fur and wild herbs that clung to her.
'Is this flirting?' The thought was absurd; he was a minor, she was a clan head. It felt too personal.
'Is it… harassment?'
The term felt both too modern and too weak for the visceral, discomfiting reality. He was being physically appraised in the middle of the political council hall, and he had no cultural or social script for how to react without causing a major incident.
"You should visit the Inuzuka compound," Tani continued, her eyes gleaming with a challenge. "We have training grounds that'll test more than just your ninjutsu. See how you fare against a proper pack. Could be… enlightening."
Renjiro's instincts screamed a unified, silent alarm. This was a different kind of danger, one he couldn't deflect with a kunai or a genjutsu.
Before he could formulate any response—a polite refusal, a stiff acknowledgement—Fugaku intervened.
"Your invitation is generous, Tani," Fugaku said, "And your acknowledgement of Renjiro's service is appreciated. Given this… positive regard, may the Uchiha clan count on the Inuzuka's support in the matters at hand today?"
Tani leaned back, "You can. The Inuzuka value strength and loyalty. We remember our debts." She paused, her eyes flicking back to Renjiro, who was carefully keeping his expression neutral. "As long as the exchange goes through."
The words landed on Renjiro with the weight of a sealing tag. The subtext crystallised, cold and clear. He wasn't just a candidate; he was bargaining capital.
Just as Fugaku, having secured a tentative agreement, was about to steer Renjiro toward the next clan on his list, a change swept the room.
A side door near the Hokage's podium opened. Conversation died mid-sentence, the cacophony of whispers dissolving into a respectful, anticipatory silence.
The Hokage's delegation entered.
First was Hiruzen in his full ceremonial robes and hat. Beside him, Nara Shiba, with the three village elders walking behind them:
Homura Mitokado and Koharu Utatane, their faces etched with traditionalist severity, and Danzō Shimura, his eyes taking in the room like a general surveying a battlefield, his presence a chill shadow.
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