War does not pause for dawn, nor does it end when the moon falls behind the clouds. The fields remain drowned in crimson regardless of the hour. Across the continent, in the highest towers of the most powerful villages, a heavy silence ruled. Three leaders bore the weight of hundreds of fresh corpses, all returned only as ashes on paper reports.
The Towers of the Kage
Inside the Raikage's office, the air vibrated with fury. The stone walls of the tower quivered beneath the force of one man's rage. The Third Raikage, A, stood like a mountain behind his desk, massive arms crossed against his chest, veins pulsing along his neck and forehead. His eyes burned with fire—anger that refused to be contained.
In his hand, he clutched the casualty report. His men had bled and died on foreign soil, cut down by only two enemies. The parchment detailed a massacre at Battlefield 4 in Amegakure:729 shinobi dead.—28 jōnin.—280 chūnin.—More than 400 genin.
Every number on the page was a nail hammered into his skull. For Kumogakure, famed for its fierce warriors and unrelenting power, this was more than a tragedy. It was an insult.
The Raikage's roar shook the chamber.—Who dares slaughter my men in such numbers?!
He hurled the parchment into the wall. The impact cracked the stone. His breath rumbled like a storm, the sheer volume of his voice rattling the lanterns hanging from the ceiling.
His secretary, a strict woman with her dark hair tied in a severe knot, stood nearby. Even she flinched under the weight of his fury, sweat trailing down her temple. To contradict the Raikage was dangerous… but this time, she had no choice.
—Raikage-sama, please, calm yourself!
A slammed a fist against the desk, the wood groaning under the force.—I will deal with these brats myself. If I do not, our losses will devour us! Kumogakure will not bow to nameless butchers!
Her heart skipped a beat at his declaration. The Raikage himself, leaving the village? It would be suicide for their political stability. She drew a breath, forced courage into her words.—No, Raikage-sama! That is impossible! Your place is here, guarding the village. If you fall in battle, not only Kumogakure but our entire reputation will shatter!
The Raikage's glare fell upon her, sharper than any blade. The silence in the room grew suffocating. The crackling flames of the torches seemed to shrink away from his gaze. Finally, his nostrils flared as he exhaled, like a bull barely restrained.
—Then what do you propose?
Her fingers tightened on the tablet of reports she carried.—Send an elite detachment. The best of our ranks. If you wish vengeance, let them carry it out. We cannot risk you, Raikage-sama.
The massive man growled, the sound deep and menacing. But after a long, unbearable pause, he gave a curt nod.—So be it. But I want no excuses. No prisoners. No survivors. I want their heads hung on our walls.
Within hours, orders spread through Kumogakure like lightning. An army assembled:
3 Elite Jōnin,
20 Jōnin,
30 Special Jōnin,
100 Elite Chūnin.
A force powerful enough to crush entire divisions. They departed at dawn, cloaked in discipline and silent rage, heading straight for Amegakure. The Raikage watched them march from his balcony, his arms folded, face carved in stone. The storm of Kumogakure had been unleashed.
In Konoha, the Hokage's office smelled faintly of tobacco. Thick curls of smoke drifted from Hiruzen Sarutobi's pipe, filling the room with gray haze. His lined face remained calm, but beneath his eyes burned the calculation of a master strategist.
The scroll in his hand mirrored the Raikage's: the tally of the massacre. Hundreds dead, cut down by only two unknown shinobi. Hiruzen did not roar. He did not smash walls. Instead, he studied. Each number was a puzzle piece, each word a threat to be measured.
Finally, he lowered the scroll, set his pipe aside, and muttered:—Two shinobi… two alone did this? These are no mere children. They are monsters.
One of his advisors, a pale man with sharp features, stepped forward.—Hokage-sama, should we dispatch reinforcements? A large force to hunt them down?
Hiruzen's eyes narrowed, and a faint smile curled his lips. Not of joy—of strategy.—No. That would be reckless. Instead, I will send a dozen Uchiha and Hyūga.
The advisor's eyes widened.—A dozen? That seems… insufficient.
The Hokage tapped the ash from his pipe, gaze still sharp.—Do not underestimate them. The Uchiha and Hyūga are proud, powerful clans. If they succeed, the threat is ended. If they fail… then their numbers are thinned.
Understanding dawned in the advisor's expression. This was not only about revenge. Hiruzen was using the chaos to weaken the clans, curbing their influence over Konoha. It was cold. Ruthless. Genius.
The Hokage inhaled deeply, exhaled a slow cloud of smoke that veiled his face.—Send them. At sunrise, the blood of either our enemies… or our own clans… will stain the soil.
In Iwagakure, far away, the Third Tsuchikage, Ōnoki, sat hunched at his desk. His frail frame seemed weighed down by age, his crooked back stooped like a man carrying centuries. Yet his eyes still glittered with the hardness of stone.
He read the reports. He sighed. He dropped the parchment onto the desk.—Let the others tear each other apart. Iwa will not move. Not yet.
His voice was gravel, dry and tired, but laced with cunning. He had lived through too much to leap into another's chaos. For now, Iwa would stay still, waiting to see who bled the most.
The Battlefield
Miles away, where rain still misted over the sodden grounds of Amegakure, two figures walked among the corpses.
Kaito and Soka.
The architects of the massacre. The reapers of hundreds. Yet they did not carry guilt in their eyes. They did not tremble at the screams that seemed to linger in the fog.
They laughed.
Their voices, light and casual, clashed with the grotesque scenery around them. Kaito, his hair disheveled and his clothes soaked in dried crimson, kicked aside the body of a fallen chūnin with a smirk.—You know… I think I'm getting addicted to this.
Soka glanced at him, lips curving into a sly smile, her pale skin smeared with streaks of blood.—Addicted to power? Or addicted to me saving your ass every time you nearly get killed?
Both chuckled, the sound echoing like madness through the graveyard of bodies. They were monsters who could still share jokes as if nothing weighed upon their souls.
But the laughter ended.
Shadows flickered in the mist. Dozens. Then hundreds. Steps pounded against the muddy ground. Symbols gleamed on headbands, catching the dim light of dawn: Konoha. Kumo.
The air tightened. The atmosphere grew heavy. Kaito and Soka's smiles faded, their laughter vanishing into silence. Their eyes sharpened, their stances shifted, their bond manifesting in the way they aligned shoulder to shoulder.
Kaito muttered, voice low, a hint of excitement dancing in his tone.—Looks like the party just arrived.
He pressed his hand against a seal on his arm. With a flash of chakra, his tanto materialized—Kibō to Shinkō, Hope and Faith, gleaming with lethal promise.
At his side, Soka extended her palm. Chakra sparked and condensed, forming into a sharp, glowing scalpel. The hum of power filled the silence.
The enemy ranks surrounded them—more than a hundred and fifty shinobi, moving with the precision of trained killers.
A jōnin of Kumogakure barked the order.—Now! Kill them!
Kaito lunged first. Kibō to Shinkō flashed like silver lightning as he dove into the front lines. But this was no simple slaughter.
The chūnin of elite rank moved in formation. Their defenses were walls of steel and discipline. Every strike of Kaito's blade was met with steel. Every step forward was blocked by coordinated maneuvers.
His tanto drew blood, yes, but only scraps: the severing of fingers, shallow cuts on forearms, small victories in a sea of steel. A kunai narrowly missed his eye; he twisted, using the hilt of his blade to knock another weapon aside. Sweat already trickled down his temple.
—Tch… tougher than last time.
Behind him, Soka danced through attackers. Her chakra scalpel slashed open flesh, but against seasoned jōnin, her strikes found resistance. Her breath grew ragged, and even she felt the pressure of fighting trained elites.
For the first time since the massacre, both found themselves forced onto the defensive.
The ring closed tighter.
And then Kaito grinned.
A wild spark lit in his eyes. In one motion, he flooded his body with chakra and released it outward. The ground cracked beneath his feet, the very air trembled. A shockwave exploded in every direction, blasting the nearest shinobi off their feet. Bodies crashed into one another, weapons clattered, cries filled the air.
Kaito exhaled slowly, satisfaction etched across his lips.—Much better.
But before he could even enjoy the reprieve, a figure descended upon him. A jōnin of elite rank, his movements swift as lightning. His blade slashed—Kaito barely raised Kibō to Shinkō in time. The steel scraped his arm, drawing a thin but burning cut. Blood seeped down his bicep.
He clicked his tongue, eyes narrowing.—Alright. Serious it is.
With rapid hand seals, he activated Ryūtai-Fū.
The air shimmered. Kunai and swords all around began to quiver, trembling as if alive. Then, in a single motion, dozens of weapons were wrenched into the air, ripped from their owners' hands. Horror struck the faces of the chūnin as their arms suddenly hung empty.
Kaito spun on his heel, releasing the weapons like a storm of arrows. Steel rained down, piercing flesh, severing veins, bursting organs. Screams rang out as bodies crumpled under the metallic hail.
But before he could advance, two elite jōnin landed before him, blocking his path.
—You'll go no further, brat!
Soka was faring no better. Her strikes were fast, elegant, lethal… but her opponents were faster. A gash opened across her thigh, forcing her to stumble slightly. Blood ran down her leg, staining the mud.
Her teeth clenched. Her vision blurred for an instant. But then fury lit her veins.
—Enough…
Behind her, something awoke. Golden light burst from her spine. From the core of her body erupted the Adamantine Chains of the Uzumaki. They whipped forward with the sound of snapping thunder, impaling three enemies at once—two chūnin and a jōnin. Their bodies convulsed, blood spurting from their mouths, before falling limp to the ground.
Gasps filled the enemy ranks.
Soka stood amidst her golden chains, her eyes gleaming with resolve.
The battlefield roared back into chaos.