Nara Shiba descended from the dais with a slow, deliberate pace, his shadow stretching long in the lantern light. He was joined by two shinobi from the Encryption Division, their faces neutral, their movements precise. Together, they formed a small, solemn circle around the slabs. Shiba placed a hand on each seal in turn, his own chakra—cool, analytical, and deeply familiar with shadow-work—probing the complex formulae.
The two encryption specialists performed a series of hand signs in perfect unison, their fingers a blur culminating in a soft, simultaneous touch to the stone. A cascade of shimmering, silver symbols, like mercury, flowed across the surface of each slab, coiling into dense clusters before resolving into numbers. Shiba's eyes, sharp and missing nothing, tracked the data. He took a scroll from an aide, transcribed the figures with a brisk, unfaltering hand, and then rolled it shut with a definitive snap.
He turned, ascended the steps, and with a bow that was both respectful and deeply formal, presented the sealed scroll to the Third Hokage. Hiruzen accepted it, but did not open it immediately. He held the collective gaze of the council, the weight of his office and his years pressing down on the proceedings. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he broke the seal and unfurled the scroll. His eyes scanned the contents, his expression betraying nothing—no surprise, no satisfaction, no disappointment.
He then stood.
The rustle of his robes was the only sound. He did not need to call for quiet. His presence alone commanded a silence so absolute that the distant drip of water from some underground conduit echoed like a hammer fall.
"This council," Hiruzen's voice began, "has spoken. After a fair nomination and a full accounting of the will of the clans, the civilian body, and the jōnin corps, the outcome is clear."
He paused. "The next Jonin Commander of Konohagakure, succeeding the honorable Nara Shiba, will be… Minato Namikaze of the Namikaze Clan."
The reaction was not explosive, but it was profound. A wave of released tension and genuine elation broke from the centre-left of the hall. Cheers, crisp and respectful but fervent, erupted from the Namikaze bloc and their allies. A susurrus of approval—"As it should be," "A wise choice,"—rippled through the Sarutobi and Senju sections. Smiles broke out, shoulders relaxed. Minato accepted the acknowledgement with a slight, humble bow of his head, his expression one of solemn acceptance rather than triumph.
Renjiro did not react outwardly. His face remained a placid pool, reflecting nothing. His immediate focus shifted not to the victor, but to the man beside him. He turned his head just enough to study Fugaku.
The clan head's face had darkened. It was not a flush of anger, but a profound, storm-cloud grimness that seemed to leach the light from the air around him. His jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle ticked in his cheek. His hands, resting on his knees, were fists, the knuckles bone-white against the dark fabric of his trousers.
He was a statue of restrained fury, every fibre of his being vibrating with the effort of not speaking, not moving, not shattering the formal dignity of the scene. He stared straight ahead, not at Hiruzen or Minato, but at some point on the far wall, as if seeing a future of continued exile written there in invisible ink.
'He actually thought we had a chance,' Renjiro mused internally, 'All that manoeuvring, that revelation about the Raikage, parading me around like a prize stallion… he genuinely believed the calculus of power would override the politics of prejudice.'
Hiruzen raised a hand, and the supportive murmurs died down, replaced by a sharper, more curious silence. "In the interest of transparency," the Hokage continued, "the distribution of support was as follows."
He glanced at the scroll. "Minato Namikaze received the votes of the Sarutobi, Senju, Hyūga, Nara, Akimichi, Yamanaka, Namikaze, and Shimura clans, along with seven allied minor clans."
"The candidate Hayashi Shin placed second, with the unified support of the three civilian council votes and, notably, the majority of the elected jōnin representatives."
This caused a few eyebrows to raise; the jōnin's pragmatic choice for the experienced administrator over the flashier candidates was a telling detail.
Hiruzen's gaze finally swept toward the Uchiha section. His voice did not change, but it seemed to grow colder, "Renjiro Uzumaki received the support of the Inuzuka, the Aburame, and the Hatake clans."
'Three.' The number hung in the air, naked and brutal. Renjiro's internal processing was swift and acidly clear.
'Not second. Last. A distant, forgotten third.'
The reality of the Uchiha's isolation wasn't just political theory anymore; it was quantified. Three clans out of the entire spectrum of Konoha's power had been willing to side with them.
'Well,' he thought, *looks like Tobirama's ghost is still running the budget meetings.'
A low, almost inaudible sound came from Fugaku's direction. A muttered sentence, ground out between clenched teeth, meant only for the Uchiha immediately around him.
"The Hyūga bastard… "
The bitter venom in the whisper was enough to pull Renjiro from his own spiral. It was a reminder that this defeat was personal, tribal, and centuries old.
"I thank all representatives for their sober consideration," Hiruzen said. "The strength of Konoha lies not in unanimous agreement, but in our unity of purpose after the decision is made. I call upon every clan, every council member, and every jōnin to lend their full support to Jonin Commander Namikaze. Our village faces the future strongest when it stands together."
As he spoke the final word, his gaze—deliberate, unwavering, and heavy with unspoken command—landed directly on Fugaku. It was not a glance; it was a delivery. A demand for public acquiescence.
Renjiro saw it. He saw the way Fugaku's spine went rigid, the way the barely-contained rage seemed to crystallise into something harder, more dangerous. In that moment, any lingering doubt vanished.
'This isn't just political disagreement. This is open, mutual hostility. The Hokage's making sure they know their place. And Fugaku… won't just be disappointed. He'll probably take this as a direct, deliberate insult from the entire village apparatus'
"This council is adjourned," Hiruzen declared, and with a final nod, he turned, leading his delegation out through the side door.
The hall erupted into motion and noise. A wave of well-wishers and opportunists immediately surged toward Minato and the Namikaze delegation, a buzzing hive of congratulations and renewed pledges. The centre of gravity in the room had decisively shifted, leaving the Uchiha section an island of stagnant, dark energy.
The Uchiha did not move. They remained seated, their faces set in varying degrees of anger, shame, and stoic resolve. They waited, a silent protocol of pride. No one would rise until the clan head did. No one would speak until he led. The joyful chaos swirling around Minato made their stillness all the more conspicuous, a void of celebration that became its own loud statement.
Finally, when the hall was more than half empty and the crowds around Minato had begun to funnel out into the corridors, Fugaku stood. As one, the rest of the Uchiha rose with him—a single, fluid organism.
Not a word was exchanged. Fugaku turned, his robe swirling, and strode towards the main exit. His clan fell into step behind him in perfect, grim formation. They did not look at the celebrating Namikaze. They did not acknowledge the curious or pitying glances from stragglers. They walked out as they had arrived: a united front, but now one that carried the palpable chill of a deep and public wound.
As they passed from the lantern-lit hall into the cooler dimness of the tower's lower corridor, Renjiro's mind was deep in thought.
'That wasn't just a vote,' he thought, 'That was a ritual. A humiliation ritual. It wasn't enough to simply choose Minato. They had to demonstrate, with numerical precision, exactly how far outside the circle we stand. To make Fugaku's ambition look not just defeated, but foolish.'
He acknowledged the grim symmetry. The Uchiha had done questionable things—their pride, their insularity, the cold arrogance of some like Kiyomori. But the village's response, this calculated, public marginalisation, was a different kind of violence. The imbalance of power was not just obvious; it was weaponised.
'Maybe Itachi never felt this. The full, collective weight of this condescension, this engineered exclusion. Maybe he was so brilliant, so separate, that he only ever engaged with the village's ideal—the Will of Fire as preached by Hiruzen. He saw the sickness in the clan, but did he ever have to sit, stone-faced, while the entire power structure of the village stood up one by one to declare his family irrelevant? Did he ever have to walk out in the silent, shame-filled wake of his father's shattered pride?'
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