"Still," Hanzō muttered, tapping his finger against the desk, "there's one last thing to handle first—time to squeeze Iwagakure for what they owe."
Ōnoki's recklessness had to be paid for.
Even if the man himself was dead, his village was still very much alive.
But Hanzō knew one thing clearly—this war had likely taken Iwagakure completely off the board.
When other villages lost their Kage, a new one usually rose within days, stabilizing the chain of command.
Iwagakure, however… was different.
He remembered: when the Second Tsuchikage, Mū, had died, the Hidden Stone had fallen into chaos. Without Mū's iron-fisted rule, powerful clans vied for dominance. When his apprentice, Ōnoki, succeeded him, he had been forced to crush them all to secure his seat.
Back then, Ōnoki had only just mastered Particle Style—unstable and unrefined—and his rivals were numerous, veterans with far greater experience. Apart from being Mū's pupil, he held no real advantage.
So Ōnoki showed his true colors—ruthless and cunning beyond measure.
He orchestrated assassinations, arranged poisonings, and even hired foreign mercenaries to eliminate potential threats.
The lava-user Rōshi, who once surpassed him, was struck down from the shadows and turned into the Four-Tails' Jinchūriki—ending his candidacy for Tsuchikage altogether.
When others realized how far Ōnoki would go, they retaliated in kind. But he proved even crueler than Danzō Shimura—utterly merciless, stripping away every trace of opposition.
By the time he became the Third Tsuchikage, half a year later, nearly every genius and strategist in the village had been purged. The great clans were decimated. Iwagakure was left a one-man regime—obedient, hollow, and loyal only to him.
The effects of that purge would haunt Iwagakure for decades. Even by the time of the Fourth Great Shinobi War, the village still hadn't recovered.
And in the Boruto era—Hanzō smirked at the irony—even Kurotsuchi, whose strength barely reached elite jōnin level, had become Tsuchikage.
Ōnoki's response to the talent shortage was simple and shortsighted—breed more soldiers.
Instead of raising elites, he shifted every resource into expanding the army.
To him, nurturing high-level power was too risky—one death could erase years of investment. As long as he stood strong, Iwagakure needed no second pillar.
Thus began the policy the shinobi world later called "Rock Village's Population Explosion."
Their numbers grew frighteningly fast. By the time of the Second War, Iwagakure had nearly forty thousand shinobi—twice as many as the other Great Nations, which averaged twenty thousand each.
But that expansion came at a steep price—massive material consumption.
Fortunately, the Land of Earth was second only to the Land of Fire in grain output, so it could sustain the load… barely.
And when food ran low, Ōnoki found another solution: war.
In the original history, Iwagakure surrounded the Third Raikage with nearly twenty thousand troops. The battle lasted three days and nights—the Raikage fought until exhaustion claimed his life, but half of Iwagakure's army was annihilated in the process.
A convenient method of "culling the herd," Hanzō mused.
A war to trim excess soldiers while letting the survivors rise through bloodshed.
Years had passed since then, and with no major wars, Iwagakure's numbers had once again swelled.
By comparison, Konoha's current force in the Land of Rain was fewer than five thousand, Sand's even smaller.
But Iwagakure? He'd seen it himself—at least eight thousand strong.
Of course, "strong" was generous.
Seven thousand were genin fodder; the remaining thousand, wartime chūnin at best.
Even Hattori Murakami had survived being surrounded by them until Hanzō arrived. That alone said enough.
Ōnoki had personally gone to the Rain front because there was no one else in Iwagakure capable of leading.
He dared to leave his home village only because every major faction had already been crushed—no coups, no uprisings.
And with tens of thousands of troops stationed along the borders, even a breach would take time, enough for him to return and retaliate.
But that logic died with him.
Without Ōnoki's overwhelming presence, Iwagakure's soldiers could barely breathe under Hanzō's murderous intent. None dared to fight. Had they attacked en masse, they might have overwhelmed him by sheer attrition—but their spirit was already broken.
Now, chaos loomed.
Maybe the remaining strongmen, like Rōshi, would seize their chance—but at this stage, even he could hardly control the Four-Tails.
An elite jōnin at best—not a threat worth worrying about.
Hanzō leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other.
"Iwagakure's got two Tailed Beasts, right? The Four-Tails already has its Jinchūriki… maybe I could take the Five-Tails for myself? … No. The Moon's Eye Plan will come eventually. The Dragon Vein in Lōran will do just fine."
He smirked.
"With Ōnoki dead, every nation will see blood in the water. They'll tear chunks out of Iwagakure before it can recover."
The Land of Rain couldn't compete for the spoils, not with both Konoha and Sunagakure's armies marching nearby.
"But if someone tries to take everything—well, I'll just let them taste what twenty thousand explosive tags feel like."
He chuckled.
"Tough times ahead for Iwagakure."
Then his eyes turned cold.
"They'll pay reparations, one way or another. Territory, resources—something."
"After all," he muttered, "killing Ōnoki means their hatred will all fall on me. If they're foolish enough to send twenty thousand troops to prove they're still strong… I'll have no choice but to abandon Amegakure and retreat.
"But even without that, to get real concessions, I'll have to fight them again. Negotiation, after all, is just war with polite words."
He grinned.
"That message I left them—if Iwagakure's got even half a brain, they'll understand."
Amegakure had barely three thousand shinobi. If Iwa dispatched too many, the other nations—especially Kumogakure, which already despised them—would take advantage.
If Suna, Kumo, and Konoha attacked simultaneously, Iwagakure would be surrounded.
Hanzō could sit back and watch, taking what scraps remained.
Perhaps the Second Great Shinobi War's original goal—to weaken Konoha—might now become the carving up of the Land of Earth.
He shook his head with a dry laugh.
"If Ōnoki hadn't been so ruthless to his own people, maybe this village would still have a future."
Then he frowned.
"But this… this completely derails the timeline. The rest of the story—I can't even predict how it'll unfold anymore."
---
Mount Myōboku
In a distant realm, high above the mortal world, the Great Toad Sage slowly opened his clouded eyes.
He summoned Fukasaku and Shima to his side.
"Have you seen a new prophecy, Great Sage?" Shima asked.
The ancient toad's deep voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"Yes… I dreamt of the future. The flow of destiny remains the same, but something—or someone—has changed its current."
He paused.
"There is a man… his actions have altered the world's path. Yet his body was shrouded in an immense earthborn energy—I could not see his face, nor any of his deeds. But I am certain: he will affect something crucial."
Both Fukasaku and Shima's eyes widened.
The Great Toad Sage continued,
"And it concerns us, as well. In that future, humans seem to have developed a Sage Technique of their own. One not passed down by the three sacred lands—but learned and spread among mankind. Because of this, my prophecies have grown… clouded."
The two elder toads exchanged alarmed glances.
They knew well the difference between human chakra and natural energy. Chakra, born from the Chakra Fruit, was an internal power—refined and personal.
Sage Mode, on the other hand, drew upon the world itself—borrowed, external, and dangerous if overused.
Even the Ōtsutsuki brothers, Hagoromo and Hamura, hadn't created Sage Arts themselves—it was the Great Toad Sage who had taught them. The three great sanctuaries were revered precisely because of this ancient inheritance.
If humans truly learned to harness nature energy independently… then Mount Myōboku, Ryūchi Cave, and Shikkotsu Forest would lose their divine status, reduced to nothing more than mere summoning realms.
"Enough," the Great Toad Sage rumbled. "The Child of Prophecy remains unchanged. But the tides ahead will reach even this mountain. Prepare a defensive barrier around Myōboku—we may not remain untouched this time."
With that, the ancient toad closed his eyes once more.
Fukasaku and Shima bowed deeply and departed.
Only when the chamber fell silent again did the Great Toad Sage open his eyes a final time.
"So… he's already noticed me."
He exhaled, the air heavy with memory.
"Perhaps it's punishment for our interference… for dividing Asura and Indra all those eons ago."
He remembered clearly.
Though he had known Indra was not at fault, he could not allow him to inherit Ninshū.
If both Asura and Indra had spread their chakra freely—like the Sage of Six Paths once did—then mankind would have become truly godlike, and the sanctuaries of the world would have lost all meaning.
Instead, the brothers had ensured their chakra—and their souls—reincarnated endlessly, limiting humanity's potential forever.
The Great Toad Sage's gaze darkened.
"To obscure my visions so completely… could it be another being like Kaguya—a chakra entity born of aggregation? And he already senses my presence."
He closed his eyes again, murmuring softly,
"No matter. If such a calamity truly arises… my old friend will stand against him."
And with that, Myōboku fell silent once more, as rain began to fall somewhere far below—in the Land of Rain, where a man called Hanzō of the Salamander was quietly reshaping the fate of the shinobi world.