Hiruzen was facing a dilemma big enough to make the Five Great Nation Summit look like a playground squabble. He'd faced down Kage-level opponents and survived Tobirama's notoriously 'motivational' leadership. But this was different.
"How… do I handle this?" he asked the empty, smoke-choked air of his office. No divine answer came, just the faint, judgmental wheeze of the ventilation system losing its lifelong battle (yup, these exist in the ninja world).
The haze was so thick a passing Anbu could have mistaken it for a new stealth technique. Hiruzen knew that in over a decade of wearing the ridiculous hat, he was facing his greatest test.
It was tougher than that time the Uchiha clan collectively gave him the same look they reserved for a monkey. It was more nerve-wracking than strategically downplaying the Senju—the clan of his teacher, the clan that had bled, built, and basically babysat Konoha into existence.
That decision still gave him ethical heartburn at three in the morning.
And the source of all this? One image, burned into his brain: Mito Uzumaki, bathed in that eerie, golden chakra of hers, looking less like a venerable matriarch and more like a primordial force that had just remembered it could flick villages into the sea.
She'd put on a little 'demonstration' before departing—a casual display that had everyone in the village nodding like bobbleheads and the clan heads suddenly rediscovering their long-lost enthusiasm for paying taxes.
Her support rating, Hiruzen was sure, was currently higher than the village's annual ramen consumption.
He was so lost in this spiraling pit of political despair that he almost missed the familiar, deliberately sluggish chakra signature at his door. It was the human equivalent of a sigh given physical form.
Hiruzen straightened up, pushing the panic deep down into a special compartment labeled 'For Later Freak-Outs.' He didn't even wait for the knock.
"Enter," he said, his voice the perfect portrait of Hokage-ly calm. The kind of calm that precedes a very expensive explosion.
The door slid open, revealing a man who embodied strategic lethargy. Shikako Nara, clan head and Konoha's Intelligence Director, stood there as if the very act of arriving had exhausted his weekly ambition quota.
"Hiruzen," Shikako drawled, their academy-classmate history allowing for a familiarity that bypassed all 'Lord Hokage' formalities. He held up a single scroll as if it weighed as much as a boulder. "News. From Uzushiogakure."
Hiruzen gestured for him to continue, his pipe pausing mid-lift.
"According to Tsunade's… vivid report," Shikako began, unrolling the scroll with the enthusiasm of someone reading a grocery list, "a combined fleet of over ten thousand shinobi from Kiri and who-knows-where-else showed up at Uzushio's doorstep. The Mizukage himself leading the party."
He paused. Thanks to their spies, they had known about the attack and the numbers very early on. Ten thousand. That wasn't an attack; that was a migration of violence.
"The update," Shikako continued, his dry tone never shifting, "is that there is no fleet. There is, presumably, a lot of new underwater debris. Zero survivors, Mizukage included. Tsunade reports Uzushiogakure didn't take a single loss the entire time, apart from her being hurt when fighting Mizura."
Hiruzen's eyebrow threatened to climb into his hairline. Tsunade was his student, and her idea of a mission report often blurred the line between fact and a particularly aggressive boast. In fact, this was exactly not a report but just her wanting to boast.
"The kicker," Shikako said, finally showing a flicker of something—vague professional annoyance. "Uzushio is locked down tighter than the village's secret technique vault. Total communications blackout. Our spies have gone silent. The only intel we have is what Tsunade deigned to send you."
Hiruzen didn't doubt the intelligence. His own networks had whispered of the Kiri fleet's mobilization. He'd braced for a tragedy, a diplomatic nightmare, a blow to their major ally, with Mito, Azula, and Tajima saving the day. He had not braced for… a complete and utter deletion.
Only one person fit into that equation. Mito.
He'd always suspected she'd ascended to a realm near the Shodaime's. He'd read the forbidden scrolls on Mokuton, on the deity-like constructs, the world-ending palms. He'd intellectually understood the power.
But understanding and having it demonstrated by your predecessor's still-very-vibrant wife are two very different things.
He'd even quietly buried Tobirama-sensei's more… enthusiastic research into Hashirama's cells, a move partly born of respect, partly born of a very healthy fear of Mito's reaction.
Now, staring at the report of ten thousand vanishing shinobi, that fear felt less like paranoia and more like the single greatest survival instinct of his career.
That hesitation hadn't just saved his political skin; it might have very literally saved his ability to continue being a breathing, non-arboreal life form.
He took a long, slow pull from his pipe. The dilemma hadn't gotten any simpler. If anything, it had grown more terrifyingly complex. But one thing was now crystal clear.
The age of subtly managing Konoha was over. It was over with the one who had just reminded the world—and her slightly nervous Hokage—what true power looked like.
"Well," Hiruzen finally said, the word hanging in the smoky air. "I suppose sending a 'strongly worded scroll' to Kiri about their littering problem is out of the question."
Shikako's lips twitched, the Nara version of a belly laugh. "I'll draft a condolence letter instead. 'Sorry for your entire military.' It's more efficient."
Hiruzen's first thought was: No, let's definitely keep this quiet.
Because what's better than stumbling upon a geopolitical powder keg? Sitting on it. Smiling. And pretending everything's fine.
"Another war is inevitable," Hiruzen mused to the silent, judgmental portraits of his predecessors. "Our advantage is that no one else knows our crazy ninjas just redefined 'field trip' by killing a Kage and an elite battalion. This is our advantage; it should be a secret for as long as possible."
Well, that, and the tiny, screaming matter of reputation.
The Uchiha. The Senju. Azula, Mito, and Tsunade. Forget saving an allied nation—the village would see only that they'd done the impossible while the official village response was still stuck in committee.
Hiruzen could already feel the heat beneath his Hokage seat. Not a metaphor. He was pretty sure the cushion was smoking.
Across from him, Shikako observed with the energetic focus of a man contemplating a very long nap. As Jonin Commander and head of Intelligence, he understood politics better than most understood breathing.
Internal conflict? Human nature's favorite hobby. Of course Hiruzen wanted to manage the narrative.
Letting the Uchiha and Senju reclaim their legendary status would undo years of very careful, very quiet reputation… gardening.
Shikako gave a slow, knowing nod. Translation: I get it. You're panicking. I'd panic too if my best assets were also my biggest political headaches.
"I'll head back," Shikako said, already mentally halfway out the window. "We'll dig up every scrap of intel. Or die trying."
"Good!" Hiruzen said, with the fervor of a man clinging to a single, positive word.
The door shut. Silence descended, broken only by the faint sound of Hiruzen's will to live crackling into ashes.
He sighed, not knowing what to do. Call his advisors? No. That would just mean more people in this office, breathing his air, and offering solutions so brilliantly stupid they'd probably suggest throwing a festival for the now-dead Kage.
...
...
...
While the Third Hokage was full of headaches,
Azula was dealing with a headache of a different breed—one that wore a triumphant grin and had the regenerative prowess of a tank.
Tsunade, thanks to her freakishly durable Senju-Uzumaki biology and Azula's own fiery chakra techniques, had bounced back from death's door like it was a mild suggestion.
Mizura's assumption that she'd be down for the count was, in Tsunade's own loudly broadcasted opinion, "adorably wrong."
And broadcast it she did. The moment she could lift a finger, Tsunade had snatched the experimental communicator—Azula's own invention, currently limited to Konoha's elite—and proceeded to humble-brag to what felt like the entire village. "Just took a little nap after killing a Kage-level threat. What did you do today?"
Now, the woman was in her face, vibrating with the energy of a hyperactive squirrel.
"You promised," Tsunade sing-songed, poking Azula's shoulder. "Kage-level in my normal state. A secret for a secret. Pay up."
"Your 'normal state' is currently encased in a swirling vortex of water chakra that screams 'overcompensation,'" Azula deadpanned. "The Third Raikage doesn't count as 'normal' either, you know."
"Details! It's my chakra, my mode. So, it counts. Now spill." Tsunade loomed closer, eyes gleaming with a mix of curiosity and something else… something weirdly fidgety.
"Okay," Azula sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "But first, why are you looking at me like I'm a rare ramen topping? Is the secret really that existential?"
Tsunade's cheeks flushed a faint pink. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Azula had clearly misinterpreted her nervous energy, but correcting her would mean explaining actual feelings.
Hell no. Bravery was for battle, not conversations. So, she doubled down on the bravado.
"Look," Tsunade deflected, flexing a hand that shimmered with aqueous chakra. "I almost died developing this masterpiece just to beat Mizura. If your big secret turns out to be something like 'I prefer my tea with two sugars,' I'm hitting you with the Tsunade Special. You'll be soggy for a week."
Azula gave her a sidelong glance so dry it could wither a cactus. Oh, sweet summer child, she thought. You think we're equals now because you have a new shiny mode? I copied it with my Sharingan before you even stopped dripping.
But, for the sake of Tsunade's fragile pride—and the structural integrity of the room—she kept that to herself.
"You've gotten insufferably cocky," Azula observed. "Fine. Once you're fully recovered, we're having a spar. I expect you to make it interesting."
"You're avoiding the secret!"
"Right, right. The secret." Azula leaned back, a slow, mischievous smile spreading. "It's really very simple. I know the future. For instance, I know that a certain 'Loser Goddess of Gamblers' will one day have her defense shattered by a loud, orange-wearing kid, and will be found sobbing on the ground in front of him. Truly, a legendary, tear-soaked moment."
Silence.
Tsunade blinked.
"What? Who cries in front of a snot-nosed br—HEY!" The color drained from her face, then flooded back in a scarlet tsunami. "WAIT A MINUTE. Did you just say you KNOW THE FUTURE?!"
Her voice hit a pitch that could shatter glass. Her eyes looked ready to leap from their sockets. From the sidelines, Mito Uzumaki silently sipped her tea, the picture of serene amusement. As for eavesdroppers?
Impossible. Their barriers were airtight, and her senses were tuned to snuff out any lurking Zetsu like a bug. The only thing being overheard was the glorious sound of Tsunade's worldview imploding.
(END OF THE CHAPTER)
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