Hiruzen Sarutobi dragged on his pipe, the ember flaring and fading, flaring and fading.
You could almost see the years piling on him.
He hunched behind his desk and said nothing, letting one bowl of tobacco burn down after another. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes looked deep enough to drown a fly.
Sending Uchiha Sogetsu to Kirigakure…
Looking back now, he could practically kick himself.
It wasn't that the result was bad. On the contrary: having Sogetsu infiltrate the Mist and assassinate the Third Mizukage was, objectively speaking, a triumph that would make even the stodgiest councillor's blood run hot. With a little spin, with the right nudges in the right clan meetings, Hiruzen could use this to push Sogetsu's standing within the Uchiha sky-high—handing him a voice loud enough to drown the radicals.
From that angle, it was very good news.
But the timing…
The timing was terrible.
Why?
Because the whole shinobi world was already balanced on a knife edge.
Treaties were being tested. Alliances made and unmade in whispers. Every border was a chessboard, every patrol a piece. War wasn't just looming; it was leaning, breath hot on the back of everyone's neck.
As Hokage, Hiruzen wanted that war as far away as possible.
At the very least, he couldn't afford to let it break out now.
Not right after completing his "cleaning" inside the village, not right after finally gathering the reins of power fully into his own hands. If a great war erupted too early, those carefully gathered reins would immediately be yanked in a dozen directions—committees, clans, allies, the Daimyō—until authority scattered and thinned like smoke.
And beyond power… there were the children.
In war, genin weren't "the future."
They were ammunition.
Fresh lives tossed into the open maw of the war machine, thrown at fortified lines and enemy kunai until either the mission succeeded or the field was quiet. Each little headband, each file on his desk, belonged to someone who could have become the next pillar of Konoha.
But gears didn't care what they crushed.
Hiruzen's jaw clenched. Smoke drifted from his pipe in a slow, grey ribbon.
Rinka stood quietly to one side, saying nothing. He'd learned long ago that in moments like this, the Third Hokage didn't need comfort—he needed space to choose.
After a long silence, Hiruzen exhaled hard, the lines at his mouth digging deeper.
"Rinka," he said. "Call the clan heads, the two advisors… and Danzō."
His eyes, usually so mild, were flinty. "Tell them to come to my office. We need to prepare. Sooner than planned."
History never bothered to ask if you were ready.
No matter how badly Hiruzen Sarutobi might want to drag things out, to delay, to bargain with the inevitable… as Hokage, he no longer had the luxury of pretending the wave wasn't about to break.
"Yes, Hokage-sama."
Rinka bowed and left.
When the door shut, Hiruzen slumped back in his chair. His fingers pressed at the pounding between his brows.
His gaze slid down to the scroll lying open on the desk—the report that had sparked all this—and the look in his eyes turned helpless, almost fatherly.
"What a promising boy," he muttered. "Strong, sharp, bold, and with a mind of his own… It's just—"
He paused.
"Why does his thinking have to be so extreme?"
It had to be the Uchiha.
It was always the Uchiha.
If not for that clan's taste for the extreme, Sogetsu would never have been warped like this.
What a waste. If he'd been born a Sarutobi, how much easier things would be.
He chuckled once, humourless, then let the sound die.
Enough woolgathering.
Rinka delegated most of the summons to his subordinates, then kept one message for himself.
Danzō.
Ever since losing his precious "operational authority," the man had turned into a ghost. No more sudden appearances in the Hokage's office, no more unsolicited advice at council meetings. Even when Hiruzen had sent people to call him, the answer had been the same each time:
"Danzō-sama is busy with important matters. He won't be seeing anyone."
He'd holed up in Root's underground base and simply… stopped coming out, the way some old war relics retired to a shrine and stayed there, waiting to be forgotten.
At the entrance to Root's complex, Rinka was promptly blocked.
A plain-masked operative stepped in his way, posture rigid.
Rinka's brows twitched together, but his tone stayed polite.
"Hokage-sama has ordered me to bring Danzō-sama to his office," he said. "It concerns an important matter."
"Danzō-sama has instructed us that, during this period, he will not receive any visitors."
The Root ninja's voice was as flat as his mask. Orders were orders; the world ended at the edge of Danzō's shadow.
"This is a direct command from the Hokage," Rinka said, and let a sliver of killing intent seep into his voice. "Whatever business Danzō-sama has can wait. He will see the Hokage. Do you understand?"
Root belonged to Danzō.
But Root still lived under Konoha's sky.
And when the Hokage gave a formal order—even to them—they obeyed. Hiruzen had tolerated their habits for years, but that tolerance was not a blank cheque. Not now.
"This—"
The operative hesitated.
"Go," Rinka said, voice brooking no argument. "Tell him. I'll wait here."
His stance left no room to retreat.
After a beat, the Root shinobi bowed his head and slipped back into the darkness of the corridor, footsteps swallowed by the base's gloom.
He found Aburame Ryōma.
Ryōma listened without a change of expression, nodded once. "Understood. I'll inform Danzō-sama."
Then his form softened into shadow and vanished, moving deeper into Root's bowels.
He stopped outside a dimly lit door, took a moment to steady his breathing, then raised his hand and knocked.
"Danzō-sama…"
"Leave me alone!"
The voice that snapped back was sharp and oddly high, edged with irritation. "Did I not say it? I will not be seeing anyone!"
Ryōma's expression didn't move. It was a talent of his: hearing something deeply strange, and pretending he hadn't.
"Danzō-sama," he said evenly, "this is an order from the Hokage. The matter may concern Konoha's safety. You must go."
There was a long silence.
Four heartbeats. Five. Six.
Then: "Hmph…"
That same voice, still with that faint, unnatural pitch, grudgingly softened. "If the Hokage is being so insistent, then the situation must be… significant."
Ryōma knew the man too well.
He pressed his advantage.
"And if it is significant—" his tone stayed respectful, but there was a thread of suggestion in it "—this may be your chance to reclaim some of the authority Root has lost."
Power.
That single word might as well have been a bell rung directly beside Danzō's ear.
On the other side of the door, the air sharpened. When he spoke again, even through the wood Ryōma could hear the sudden energy.
"Mm. You have a point."
Hearing that, he wisely shut his mouth.
Aburame Ryōma knew the line.
He'd already pushed as far as he dared. One step more, and the old fox's paranoia would turn around and sink its teeth into him.
After another short pause, the latch turned. The door swung outward.
A figure stepped into the hallway.
Danzō.
…probably.
He wore a loose black cloak that swallowed his shape, hood shadowing his face. His hands were gloved; no exposed skin, not even the usual bandaged arm, not even a hint of familiar silhouette.
"Lead the way," he rasped, after a brief, suspicious cough. The voice started too thin, too sharp, then forced itself down into something closer to his normal gravel—only it came out with a strange, faintly delicate undertone.
Ryōma's pupils tightened behind his glasses.
He dropped his gaze at once, masking his reaction.
Ever since he'd quietly delivered that ring into Danzō's hands, his superior's behaviour had been growing stranger by the day. Meetings cancelled. Doors barred. Every request met with "not seeing anyone."
Now this.
And it wasn't just the voice.
As Danzō strode past, Ryōma's instincts nagged at him.
The stride was different.
The length of each step, the weight that landed with it, the subtle shift of balance across the hips and shoulders—small things no ordinary observer would notice, but to a shinobi raised in Root, trained to read the world in details, they were glaring.
Danzō's height… seemed a little off.
His weight, the angle of his center of gravity… off.
It was like watching a stranger wearing an old, familiar coat.
"Lord Sogetsu…" Ryōma's mind supplied, unbidden. "What have you done?"
The thought that came next was so outrageous he almost choked on it.
No. Impossible.
He shook his head sharply, as if he could physically knock the idea out of his skull.
He was overthinking. He had to be.
A man couldn't just… change like that.
A man couldn't just turn into a woman.
Right?
Ahead of him, bundled head to toe in dark cloth, Danzō Shimura marched toward the Hokage's office, staff clicking on the floor with each step.
Ryōma followed in silence, doubts trailing him like a second shadow.
"Short?" the author mutters. "Who said I write short chapters? Four updates today. Still short, huh? Huh?!"
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