A sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand thunderclouds built up in the Third Raikage's massive chest. At Sakumo's words, his face did something complicated. It wasn't just a frown; it was a full-blown, silent opera of exasperation.
War? he thought, the word tasting bitter. Does the white-haired one, who thinks he is morally upright, really think I, as the Raikage, wake up in the morning, stretch my arms, and think, "Ah, what a beautiful day to send my family to their graves"?
Because that's what the Village Hidden in the Clouds was to him: a family. A loud, boisterous, sometimes dysfunctional, but fiercely loyal family.
From the tiniest snot-nosed genin trying to throw their first sparky jutsu, to the eldest chūnin who complained about their arthritis and the "good old days," they were all his brothers and sisters.
And the truly maddening part? They trusted him. They'd follow him into the belly of the Eight-Tails itself if he gave the order, their faith in him as unshakable as the mountains their village was built upon. Knowing that was a privilege; it was also a curse that kept him up at night.
So, no, the idea of a full-scale war didn't exactly feature on his vision board next to "improved lightning armor conductivity" and "bigger onsen."
The problem was, the world—and specifically the other villages—seemed hell-bent on giving him no other options. It was like being pushed toward a cliff's edge while everyone shouted at you for getting too close to the drop.
His immediate, most pressing headache was a pair of living natural disasters: his jinchūriki. Every time one of them had a bad day, it wasn't just a matter of a few buildings being destroyed; it was a city-block-leveling, call-out-every-jōnin kind of situation.
Kumo had power in spades, but what it desperately lacked, and had always lacked, was the finesse to contain it. Their sealing techniques were, to put it politely, about as effective as using a paper bag to hold a hurricane.
He'd tried the civilized approach first. He'd reached out to the Uzumaki clan, those red-haired masters, with a very generous offer: name your price.
Money? We have mines. Precious artifacts? Take your pick. Just teach us how to put a lid on these tailed beasts without the host sprouting extra limbs or developing a personality disorder.
The response from Uzushio had been a masterpiece of diplomatic condescension. It essentially boiled down to: So sorry, but we're Konoha's allies.
And since you other four villages were bad and violated the First Hokage's peace treaty—we wouldn't trust you with a sealing scroll; best of luck with your rampaging monsters! It was a polite but firm no.
Swallowing his pride, he'd then sent envoys directly to Konoha, hoping for a sliver of understanding, a shred of "we're-all-shinobi-in-this-together" spirit.
The envoy returned not with a treaty, but with a story of being publicly dressed down and humiliated by the Hokage's advisor, Danzo—a man who, from the reports, seemed to radiate smugness and sinister intent.
And as he stewed in this perfect sense of frustration and fear, what did he see Konoha doing? Flourishing. It was utterly infuriating. They weren't just getting by; they were having a talent boom.
The three guys (not yet Sainin), the White Fang himself, prodigies popping up like weeds after a rainstorm. It was enough to make a Kage's heart waver with a dangerous mix of envy and dread.
He knew the other Kage felt it too; he could see it in their tense shoulders during the secret summit. They were all staring at the same glowing, green lawn next to their own patchy, beast-rampaged dirt.
The delicate balance of power that had kept the world from total annihilation was splintering. Konoha was about to lap them all, and if they did nothing, they might as well roll over and offer their villages as Konoha's new vacation resorts.
So, while the word "war" was the unspoken guest at every meeting, the elephant in the room that nobody wanted to name, they were all mentally sharpening their knives. It wasn't about desire; it was about survival. The thought of waking up one morning to find Konoha's flags flying over their smoldering ruins was a powerful motivator.
All these thoughts flashed through the Raikage's mind in the second it took for Sakumo's righteous words to hang in the air. "Hypocrite. The man was a hypocrite, standing there on his high horse, gifted a fertile field and judging those of us tilling barren rock."
"Konoha White Fang," the Raikage's voice rumbled, low and dangerous like distant thunder. "You talk too much. Take my Hell Stab!"
He lunged. Talking was a trap; listening was a concession. He saw Sakumo's eyes widen slightly, perhaps misinterpreting the sudden violence as a sign of guilt, a clumsy attempt to blur the truth with a storm of chakra and fists.
Little did he know, the Raikage's mind was a fortress of complicated calculations, and Sakumo's words were just knocking on the wrong door.
What followed was less a death match and more a high-stakes, incredibly violent game of tag. The Raikage, a mountain of impenetrable lightning armor, pressed the attack, his famed "Hell Stab" spearing the air where Sakumo's head had been a nanosecond before.
He held the upper hand, a relentless force that Sakumo's famous blade couldn't seem to pierce.
But the White Fang was a ghost. He flowed and weaved, a silver blur dancing on the edge of the Raikage's fury. Not a single blow landed. This wasn't because the Raikage was taking a beating—far from it.
It was a testament to Sakumo's preternatural speed, a frustrating game of whack-a-mole where the mole was a legendary shinobi.
Of course, an observer with a keen eye might have noticed that both men were, to put it in shinobi terms, paddling.
The Raikage's focus was divided, his mind occupied by the chaos of his village and the grim calculus of war. And Sakumo? He knew this wasn't a fight to the death.
To tap into his true, killer instinct—that special state where he became a whirlwind of certain death—would be irresponsible.
What if, by some miracle of battle, he actually did kill the Raikage? He'd be the man who single-handedly lit the fuse on the Second Great Ninja War, a responsibility heavier than any blade, and one he was not willing to shoulder.
...
The old saying "everyone has their problems" is usually a polite way of saying "we're all drowning in our own personal dumpster fires."
In this case, while Sakumo might be hesitating, Azula was operating at a cool, crisp 100% willingness. Holding back wasn't just off the table; it had been thrown out the window, set on fire, and then struck by lightning for good measure.
Why on earth would she pull her punches? She was blessed—or cursed—with the certainty that the Second Great Ninja War was barreling towards them like a runaway train with faulty brakes.
The only question was one of timing. And from her perspective, poking the bear early wasn't just an option; it was a strategic masterstroke.
Think about it: if you know a massive, multi-village brawl is inevitable, wouldn't you want to start it before the other guys have finished their warm-up laps and tied their shoes?
By taking out a Kage now, she'd be forcing the conflict while the other villages were still shuffling through their supply closets, looking for their war rations and their courage.
Her internal monologue probably sounded something like:
"Isn't it just more efficient to, say, vaporize Onoki right this second?" Iwa was basically a one-trick pony, with the Third Tsuchikage being their sole, genuine Kage-level powerhouse.
Their jinchūriki were about as stable as a house of cards in a hurricane—completely unusable in a real fight. The rest of their forces? A collection of, at best, very talented Elite jōnin. Hardly an insurmountable challenge.
And Suna? Don't even get her started on Suna. She wasn't even sure if future legends like Rasa, Pakura, or that grumpy puppet-master Sasori had even been born yet.
All they had were the old-timers, Chiyo and her brother, who were undoubtedly skilled but probably spent more time complaining about their bones than plotting world domination.
In fact, a darkly hilarious thought crossed her mind: the annihilation of the Uzumaki clan was probably the best thing that ever happened to every other village, Konoha included.
It was like a twisted corporate merger where everyone got a piece of the assets except the original company, which was, you know, brutally wiped out.
In the Second War, jinchūriki were conspicuously absent from the battlefield, like everyone had forgotten the launch codes.
But by the Third War? They were popping up everywhere like weeds, each one a walking, talking WMD.
And Konoha? They'd conveniently "inherited" the Uzumaki's most prized possessions—Kushina and Mito—essentially becoming the undisputed kings of sealing techniques.
Meanwhile, high up in the sky, the Tsuchikage was probably cursing Azula's name with every fiber of his being, using words that would make a sailor blush.
He had to be wondering if he'd accidentally kicked her puppy in a past life, because this woman was fixated on him with the intensity of a must-kill intensity.
His problem was a tactical nightmare. Down on the ground, he was a force of nature. But up here? He was like a heavyweight boxer who'd been forced into a ballet.
Compared to Satō, who was cheerfully throwing entire buildings' worth of iron sand at her, his own arsenal felt pathetically limited.
Sure, he was good with Fire and Wind Release, but his true bread and butter was Earth Release—and you can't exactly throw a rock when you're floating a thousand feet in the air. As for his ultimate technique, the infamous Dust Release?
He hadn't had a single, solitary nanosecond to even think about using it. This red-blue-streaked demon moved so fast that hitting her was less a matter of skill and more a matter of blind, dumb luck.
And honestly, a solid chunk of this mess was Onoki's own fault. Thanks to the lingering, trust-shattering shadow of a certain Uchiha, the old man had the paranoia of a conspiracy theorist who's just misplaced his tinfoil hat.
He wasn't about to trust the Third Kazekage to watch his back for two seconds. The concept of "cooperation" was as foreign to him as a sensible decision was to the average anime protagonist.
In his mind, teamwork was just the prelude to a betrayal.
"Isn't this exactly how my sensei bought the catastrophe?" he'd grumble to himself, recalling the whole Hidden Mist fiasco where their supposed allies had decided stabbing them in the back was more fun than fighting Konoha.
So, if Azula had been smart and started wailing on the Kazekage instead, Onoki would have been absolutely thrilled.
He'd have happily given them plenty of space, maybe even pulled out some dango and offered the occasional, half-hearted "You can do it!" from the sidelines, waiting for them to exhaust each other so he could swoop in and mop up the remains.
It was the Tsuchikage way!
And it was precisely this slimy, self-serving attitude that made Azula's skin crawl. As a certified Naruto expert, there were only three Kage outside of Konoha that she genuinely couldn't stand.
First, there was Rasa, the fool who could sell his own son for cash. Then, the Fourth Raikage, a grumpy meathead who thought "diplomacy" was just yelling louder. And finally, this guy: Onoki, the cunning, deceptive, opportunity-grabbing gremlin who'd try to buy your soul while selling you a used car.
But for all her speed and fury, the current situation was proving one inconvenient truth: taking on two absolute Kage-level combatants at once was like trying to juggle two chainsaws and a live badger.
Every time she saw an opening to turn Onoki into a fine paste, Satō and his obnoxious iron sand would come crashing in like an overprotective chaperone.
So, as she danced through the air, a part of her truly, sincerely wished that the stubborn old fossil would just dare to land. Just for a second.
She dreamed of the moment her speed would become an unstoppable force, and she could introduce his face to her lovely, electrified iron fist. It would be a meeting he'd remember for the rest of his very short life if he didn't die.
(END OF THE CHAPTER)
About time to end this fight without any real stake, but the Second Ninja War is looming. And this is the bonus chapter for the 1k Power Stones, next bonus at the 1.5K.
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