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The ash-etched parchment crumbled like charred skin beneath Hoshino's gloved hand.
Its scorched edges whispered of a conspiracy consumed by its own fire. The faint heat still clung to it, like breath on a corpse. Inside the Cloud delegation's quarters—silent as a crypt in Konoha's heart—Hoshino turned, his face carved from cold resolve, though the beast behind his eyes twitched, hungry.
"So," he murmured, each syllable like a blade scraped across stone, "the trap broke its teeth."
Behind him, a boy in a man's armor nodded. A Chūnin, young enough to still dream of peace, old enough to know better. He did not speak. He knew the ritual.
"You will scream," Hoshino continued. "Rage. Cry. Be the cracked vessel that spills our grief. You are the mask. I am the fist behind it."
Then came the second Chūnin—his eyes wide, his breath ragged. He stormed in, voice strangled with feigned panic.
"Hoshino-sama! The Captain—he's gone!"
The timing was perfect. So perfect it stank of premeditation. Hoshino liked the smell.
"Did you scour every dark place?" he asked, voice low, dangerous.
"All of them," the boy choked. "No sign. I… I suspect Konoha's hands…"
The words fell like meat into a wolf pit.
The shadows stirred. The ANBU lurking in the walls breathed louder. Chakra flickered like bared fangs. Someone—a watcher, a predator—twitched. The game had begun.
Hoshino didn't wait. He turned, the tails of his robe slashing the air like a butcher's smock. He walked with purpose, not away from the lie—but deeper into it.
The Hokage Tower bled amber lamplight like a wound.
Hoshino stood beneath its oaken maw and roared, voice echoing like a war drum.
"Hokage! A guest is dead in your village. A captain. A diplomat. We demand your eyes, your truth—and perhaps your throat."
The ANBU at the gates hesitated, and that moment of pause fed Hoshino's hunger. He saw the doubt bloom. Delicious.
Inside, the War Room was no longer just a council chamber. It was a den of age-wearied beasts. Hiruzen, the ape-king, sat among his carrion court. Shikaku Nara leaned forward, the faintest gleam of fear behind his wisdom.
"Call Kakashi," Hiruzen said, the words crumbling like old bones.
The silver ghost appeared moments later, ozone on his breath. He whispered to the Hokage. What he said drained the old man's eyes.
Hoshino leaned in like a wolf pressing his nose to a wound.
"Speak, Jōnin. Let's hear your village scream."
Kakashi lifted his mask only enough to let the words rot the air.
"Raikou is dead. Killed by Hiashi Hyūga. He tried to steal their child—the Hyūga heiress."
And then the mask shattered.
The Chūnin wailed—a raw, animal scream. Another cursed, his voice gurgling with false bile. Spittle flew. Fists clenched. Righteous fury—so precise, it almost gleamed.
"Konoha did this!"
"They planned it!"
"This is bloodshed wrapped in lies!"
The room buckled under the noise.
But Hoshino—still, silent—raised a hand. The storm stopped. He turned to the Hokage with the calm of a priest delivering last rites.
"Our captain died here. Your clan head's hands are slick with his blood. We demand retribution. Give us Hiashi Hyūga."
Hiruzen said, voice barely above decay. "We need time."
"You have until tomorrow, the next day Lightning will be in front of the fire village" Hoshino replied, stepping forward until he could see the cracks in the Hokage's soul.
Later, beneath the tower's gut, darkness whispered.
Hiruzen gathered his old ghosts: Shikaku, Koharu, Homura. Their faces were ash and paper.
"This was always a ritual," Shikaku muttered. "A blood rite. They never wanted the child. They wanted war."
"The abduction happened," Hiruzen rasped. "But everything after—it's theater built on a corpse."
"What do we give them?" Koharu whispered.
"His body?" Homura asked. "There is none."
"Hiashi crushed him. His organs burst like rotting fruit."
"Then they'll say we burned the evidence," Shikaku replied. "Because we did."
The silence grew roots.
"I need time," Hiruzen said. "One day to birth a lie worthy of peace."
Back in the Kumo quarters, incense curled like smoke from a funeral pyre.
Hoshino sat cross-legged, the storm now coiled in his lap.
"They'll stall," he said. "They think delay is safety. But delay is rot."
"They'll never hand him over," one spat.
"They don't need to," Hoshino whispered. "By dawn, this village will be festering with guilt and doubt. That's the infection we need. The war won't start with kunai—it will begin in their dreams."
"And if they find the truth?"
"By then…" Hoshino opened his eyes.
"…lightning will already be splitting the Leaf open."
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