The Hokage's office was quiet save for the dull crackle of burning tobacco. Hiruzen Sarutobi sat hunched over a mountain of scrolls, each sealed with crimson wax and marked with the urgent insignia of the village's strategic divisions.
The man's pipe hung loosely between his fingers, a faint ribbon of smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling before dissolving into the lantern-lit air. Outside, the wind howled through the darkened corridors of the Hokage tower, rattling window panes and whispering of the war to come.
The Third Hokage leaned back in his chair, closing his tired eyes for a moment. The smoke tasted bitter on his tongue. His robes—creased and soot-smudged from days without rest—shifted as he reached for another scroll, only to pause and rub his aching temples instead.
"This work might just kill me," he muttered under his breath, the pipe bobbing in his mouth as he spoke.
He glanced over the papers again: updated deployment strategies, supply line confirmations from the Land of Fire's outer regions, revised platoon structures, letters from the Daimyō's office, and mission requests stacked like towers of burden. Each scroll represented a hundred lives, a dozen decisions, and a thousand consequences.
And yet, none of it helped. Spies planted in Kumogakure and Sunagakure had fallen silent. Either their covers were blown or they had nothing to report—which was just as terrifying. Silence, after all, was the most telling signal before a strike. And the current one was Loud.
Hiruzen exhaled deeply, the smoke forming serpentine coils as he thought grimly, 'I can't even push this onto Shiba anymore.'
The Nara clan head had been his most trusted advisor since the end of the Second Shinobi War. Sharp, calm, calculating—Shiba Nara could defuse most debates with a single sentence. But now, he too was busy preparing his clan for the looming conflict, drawing up battle simulations and coordinating with the Akimichi and Yamanaka in private.
"Next time," Hiruzen murmured with a dry chuckle, "I must choose an advisor who's not a clan head..."
He reached for a clean sheet of parchment, beginning to scribble down potential replacements. His calligraphy was slow and jagged with fatigue.
"Maybe I should just pick Shikaku, Shiba's son," he said aloud, absently twirling his brush. "The boy's only a Chūnin, but he's got a better head than half the Elders already with his father being the only exception. Sharp like a dagger and lazy like a cat... perfect strategist material."
A knock disrupted his thoughts.
"Thud!" "Thud!"
The sound was firm but measured. Before Hiruzen could answer, the door creaked open, and a familiar silhouette stepped through. White hair, a confident swagger, and eyes that gleamed with mischief even in the dead of night.
"Jiraiya," Hiruzen said with a tired sigh, setting his pipe aside. "You're late."
The Anbu stationed in the corners of the room moved without even blinking. They were well accustomed to the Sannin's entrances and knew when their presence wasn't needed.
"You summoned me in the middle of a bath," Jiraiya replied, flashing a grin. "Somehow I got the feeling this wasn't a casual request."
The Hokage's glare was dry as the parchment on his desk. "I have a task for you. One that will take you out of the village."
Jiraiya raised a brow, tone shifting. "Out of the village? Now?"
Hiruzen nodded. He then went ahead to give the sannin his mission. It was strange as the latter was the Anbu Head but this was the exact mission that made use of his expertise
Jiraiya nodded, crossing his arms. "Understood. I'll leave at first light."
Hiruzen gave him a faint smile. "And try not to write another novel while you're at it."
"No promises."
===
The clang of metal echoed across a small training field near the Uchiha district.
"Clack!" "Clack!" "Clack!"
The rhythmic clash of kunai filled the air, sharp against the night breeze. Four shinobi—dressed in matching dark flak jackets with fresh Police Corps insignia—moved in coordinated patterns across a wide, stone-paved field. Their movements were quick and precise, though not without flaws. The leader of the group barked out instructions between their drills.
With the war approaching more squads were pushed harder than ever. And currently, all squads spend most of their days training.
"Again! Faster rotation on the feint! Yuki, your guard's too high! Aisuke, quit admiring yourself in the kunai!"
"Heh," Aisuke grinned, flipping a short blade behind his back and catching it smoothly. "Can't help it, Leader. You said we need confidence."
Their leader, Arata Kamizuki, groaned. "I said combat confidence, not mirror confidence."
With a sharp whistle, he called for a break. The group slumped down onto the low training benches at the side of the field, wiping sweat from their brows and unfastening gear for a moment's rest.
"I heard our new squad captain is that Uzumaki boy," Yuki muttered, pulling off her gloves and cracking her knuckles.
"You mean the one who fought the Two-Tails and survived?" Aisuke chimed in, eyes wide. "I heard he knocked it unconscious with a single hit and then vanished into the forest like a ghost."
Yuki snorted. "You're exaggerating."
"I'm not! I heard it from my cousin's girlfriend's father's brother's son. He saw him at the Mist front—crimson hair and a staff that shot lightning."
Arata didn't say anything at first. He simply leaned back against a training post, eyes drifting toward the moon as his team bickered like academy students. His thoughts were heavy, though his expression remained calm.
Renjiro Uzumaki.
The name stung, and not just because of the exaggerated tales that accompanied it. Arata had hoped—expected, even—to be promoted. He had years of experience, a solid record, and commendations from multiple missions. He had even drawn up draft tactics for his own hypothetical unit.
But instead, the position went to someone years his junior. Renjiro, the prodigy. The young shinobi with an unnatural affinity for sealing techniques and genjutsu. At least from what Arata had heard.
Arata's jaw clenched.
It wasn't envy. Not really. It was just… frustrating.
"Of course, they'd choose an Uchiha-adjacent," he thought bitterly. "They're consolidating power in the First Division."
Still, he knew better than to grumble publicly. War was coming, and he had a duty—to his team, to the village. Rank or not, he would prove himself where it mattered: on the battlefield.
He sighed, looking back toward the field. "Break's over," he called. "Positions!"
The squad groaned, but obeyed, dragging themselves upright and adjusting their gear. As they returned to formation, Arata's thoughts strayed again—this time with unease.
Renjiro was strong, yes. But he was also young. Too young to have so many eyes on him. Too bright a flame, and the darkness would come crawling.
"Which means…" Arata muttered to himself, tightening his wrist guards, "I'll probably be spending more time protecting my captain than fighting enemies."
Just then, the wind shifted.
"Fsshhhhh!"
Arata's senses flared. He spun around just in time to catch a blur moving through the treetops. Leaves scattered in a sudden gust—unnatural and sharp-edged.
"What the—? Formation!"
Before the squad could respond, a dark figure dropped from the shadows—masked, cloaked in midnight colours, and utterly silent.
"Crash!"
A blast of chakra erupted from their landing point, sending Aisuke flying back and cracking one of the stone tiles beneath their feet.
"Enemy attack!" Arata roared, already drawing two kunai from his belt.
=====
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