Earth Country, Iwagakure.
Between the jagged cliffs and endless walls of stone, inside the Tsuchikage's office, a heavy silence pressed down like the weight of the mountains themselves.
Ōnoki, the Third Tsuchikage, sat hunched at his desk, his sharp eyes fixed on several scrolls spread before him. The candlelight flickered against the parchment, illuminating ominous words and coded marks.
The reports came from both the Hidden Cloud and Hidden Sand—two villages whose intentions were becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Each scroll carried the same message in different disguises: probing maneuvers, concealed alliances, and whispers of coordinated action.
Their target was obvious.
Konoha.
Though the precise aims were still wrapped in secrecy, the direction of the blade was clear enough.
Ōnoki's expression darkened. Only a few short years had passed since the Third Great Ninja War, and the scars of that conflict had not yet healed. Entire generations had been thinned, the strength of all the great villages still rebuilding. To rush into another conflagration now would be madness. It would not only consume lives but threaten to destabilize the balance that kept the nations from tearing each other apart.
And yet—he could feel the pressure mounting. The Land of Fire and the Land of Water had taken extreme and unpredictable turns, leaving the daimyō of every other country restless. Civil leaders, greedy and fearful in equal measure, were clamoring for action, pushing their shinobi villages toward reckless decisions.
Ōnoki sighed heavily, his hand rising to rub his temple. His heart was a battlefield in itself—experience counseled caution, but the pull of politics was relentless.
It was in this silence that reality itself rippled.
A strange spatial distortion spread through the office, sharp as the cut of a blade. Chakra surged in the air, dense and overwhelming.
Before Ōnoki could even rise, a figure appeared directly before him.
Silver hair, stern eyes, arms folded across his chest.
Ōnoki froze. His weathered face betrayed, for a moment, raw disbelief.
"...Second Hokage-sama?!"
The man standing there radiated power—enough that even a hardened veteran like Ōnoki felt the sting of awe. Yet it was not the man of flesh and blood; the gray tint of his skin and the faint cracks around his features betrayed the unmistakable marks of Edo Tensei.
Ōnoki quickly composed himself, narrowing his eyes. "So… a refined application of the Flying Thunder God Technique?"
The silver-haired Hokage gave the barest nod, his voice steady."This is a spatial teleportation technique I've improved upon recently. Back in my era, Konoha left a number of hidden anchors across the great villages. Without them, I would not have arrived here."
Ōnoki suppressed his irritation. Of course Konoha had left seeds even in Iwagakure. Tobirama Senju was not known as a man who trusted easily.
Still, Tobirama did not linger on the matter. He strode forward, his eyes unblinking, his words sharp as steel.
"I came personally to extend an invitation. You are to proceed to Konoha without delay. There, we will discuss emergency countermeasures for the coming apocalypse."
Ōnoki's brow furrowed."...Apocalypse? Are you serious?"
"I would not waste time with falsehoods." Tobirama's tone carried the weight of an immutable truth. "The destruction of this world draws near. Every hesitation, every delay, will only accelerate the fall of all we know."
Though his voice remained calm, the authority behind it struck like a hammer.
Ōnoki fell into silence, his mind whirling. The oppressive weight in the office grew, as if Tobirama's presence bent even the air around them.
Finally, after a long breath, the Tsuchikage exhaled deeply."I understand, Second Hokage-sama. But I must settle Iwagakure's affairs before I can move. That much, I cannot abandon."
Tobirama inclined his head slightly, as if already expecting the answer."Very well. But come swiftly. Every moment wasted narrows our options."
From his robes, Tobirama drew a sealed scroll and handed it over.
"This contains the diagram for Konoha's spatial teleportation array. With the proper technique, you can open the path directly to Konoha. It will ensure you can reach us without obstruction."
His words spoken, Tobirama turned sharply. His form blurred, fading as quickly as he had come. Only the lingering tremor of chakra remained, dispersing like mist in the wind.
Ōnoki remained seated, the scroll clutched tightly in his old hands. His eyes glinted beneath heavy brows as he studied the symbol etched into the seal.
"A direct passage into the heart of Konoha itself…" he muttered.
For a man like Ōnoki, the implications were endless. Opportunity, strategy, betrayal—every possibility churned through his mind.
His voice dropped to a whisper, carrying a trace of suspicion.
"Tell me, Lord Tobirama… have you offered this same gift to the Hidden Sand? To the Hidden Cloud?"
The Land of Water. Hidden Mist Village.
Tobirama's second target was neither the Hidden Cloud nor the Hidden Sand. Instead, he set his sights on the village cloaked within perpetual fog—the Hidden Mist.
After the Uchiha Shisui incident, he had long since abandoned the thought of facing the storm alone. The scale of what was coming required unity—but unity forged on his own terms, at his own pace, and under his methods.
Iwagakure had been his first stop. Now came the Hidden Mist. After this, he would turn to the Sand, and finally to the Cloud—a troublesome variable that weighed heavily on his mind.
With a pulse of chakra, Tobirama's body vanished in rippling light and reformed in the Mizukage's office.
The instant his feet touched the wooden floor, a biting dampness pressed against him, the air thick with chill and decay. His finely honed senses recoiled. The sensation overlapped with his memories of the Mist—but this was worse. Much worse.
He scanned the chamber with a soldier's instinct. Something was deeply amiss.
The office was empty. Silent. Stifling.
On the desk lay scattered scrolls and neglected documents, their edges curled and covered with dust, as though no hand had touched them in months. In one corner, faint brown-red stains clung stubbornly to the wood. Blood, old yet unmistakable.
Tobirama's sharp eyes narrowed. The air reeked faintly of iron even now.
He had read the intelligence reports: the "Blood Mist Era." Years of purges, assassinations, and civil strife had hollowed the village out, turning it into a place where trust was impossible and cruelty routine. Still, to stand here himself and see the truth… the decay was beyond what he had imagined.
He moved toward the window, his footsteps quiet. Outside, the streets of Kirigakure stretched like veins through a corpse—fog-choked, empty, devoid of life. Not a single villager, shinobi, or patrol walked those alleys.
The Hidden Mist seemed less like a village and more like a ghost town carved into the fog.
Even stranger, the Mizukage's office bore none of the usual measures he expected. No guards. No secret watchers. No ambushes layered beneath the floorboards. The absence was almost more dangerous than the presence of traps.
Not even a flicker of life stirred.
A weight settled in Tobirama's chest. He was a man who trusted his judgment, but here his certainty faltered. He stood still for a long moment before exhaling, the sound low, almost like a sigh carried on the fog.
The Hidden Mist was worse than unstable—it was hollowed out, swallowed whole by something unseen.
"Something's wrong…" he muttered under his breath, his unease sharpening into suspicion.
The Mizukage's motives, the true state of the village, even their very will… none of it matched what his mind could grasp. Their thought process seemed warped, unpredictable, perhaps even more dangerous than the militaristic aggression of the Cloud.
He rifled briefly through the abandoned scrolls, but the writings only deepened the mystery. Ramblings, half-burned reports, fragmented plans that ended in bloodstains rather than signatures. No coherent strategy, no clear direction—only shadows of intent.
At last, Tobirama turned his gaze once more to the silent room. He pushed open the office door, and a fetid stench rolled in from the dark corridor beyond. Metallic, damp, and rotten.
His eyes narrowed, every instinct sharpening like drawn steel.
Here, in this suffocating fog—
What exactly had happened in Hidden Mist?