"I need chakra metal."
The silence snapped taut like a drawn bowstring.
Hiruzen blinked once. Slowly. The pipe hovered, unmoving, just inches from his lips. "Chakra metal?" he repeated aloud, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"…Expensive," he muttered, finally lowering the pipe and stroking his beard, his fingers gliding through wiry white strands. "Rare. And highly sought after."
The words weren't directed at Renjiro so much as the air itself, a verbal weighing of value and consequence. Hiruzen leaned forward, the old wood of his chair creaking beneath his weight, and stared hard at the young shinobi before him.
"Why?"
Renjiro didn't flinch under the gaze. "For my weapon," he said plainly. "My bō staff. It's not enough anymore. The last battle exposed its flaws."
Hiruzen's eyes narrowed slightly. "You survived. That's more than most would say after facing three of the Seven Swordsmen."
"That's not the point." Renjiro's voice was calm but edged with frustration. "I got lucky. One of the blade extension seals failed in the middle of a parry. If I hadn't diverted with chakra at the last moment, I'd be standing here with one less arm. Or not at all."
Renjiro lied through his teeth. He had to since he too had an agenda. Renjiro was sure Hiruzen had some way to confirm this, but his gut told him that Kirigakure would not be so forthcoming with details about his fight with the swordsmen. They would implicate themselves by doing so which was not a good way of building trust between allies
The Hokage leaned back again, his expression unreadable. The pipe hissed softly as he drew from it, smoke trailing up toward the ceiling.
"I had a chance to study the Mist swords," Renjiro continued. "Samehada. Kiba. Nuibari. Each of them is a masterpiece in their own right—functionally tailored, forged to enhance the wielder's fighting style. They're more than weapons. They're extensions of the user's intent."
"And you think," Hiruzen interjected, tone sceptical, "that you can replicate them?"
"I think I can do better."
Silence.
Bold words. Arrogant, some might say. But Renjiro didn't backpedal. He stood still, shoulders squared, hands clasped behind his back in practised discipline.
"I've been working on integrating Fuinjutsu into weaponry for some time," he went on. "With chakra metal, I can embed seals directly into the weapon's frame. My bō can become something entirely new—something unpredictable."
Hiruzen said nothing for a while. The flame of the oil lamp crackled softly. Somewhere outside, the wind stirred the trees around the Hokage Tower, their leaves whispering against the walls like cautious sentinels.
Finally, the old man exhaled. "I won't deny your insight, Renjiro," he said slowly. "But there's a war coming. Our resources are being redirected—metal, rations, scrolls, manpower. I need my best shinobi focused on the battlefield… not distracted by the forge."
"I'm not distracted," Renjiro replied firmly. "I'm preparing. A better weapon gives me a better chance to survive, to win, and to protect those around me."
Hiruzen's expression remained grim. He rested his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers.
"There's also the matter of cost," he said at last. "Requests like this—resources this rare—they're traditionally handled through one's clan. In your case… the Uchiha clan."
Renjiro's shoulders tensed.
Hiruzen noticed.
He didn't press, not immediately. He merely raised an eyebrow, watching as the young man's gaze dropped slightly to the floor as if trying to focus on anything except the name that had just been spoken.
"Are you ready for that responsibility?" Hiruzen asked gently. "To ask Daichi Uchiha for such a favor?"
Renjiro's lips parted, but no words came. Despite his best try, his jaw clenched. The flickering fire cast shadows across his face, dancing along the curve of his cheekbone, catching in the crimson shimmer of the Sharingan that still glimmered faintly behind dark lashes.
"...No," he said at last. The word was low. Quiet. Bitter.
It was not a lack of courage—it was a lack of faith.
Daichi had never seen him as family, only as a tool. To ask the man for chakra metal… it would be a declaration of obligation. One Daichi would never let him forget.
Hiruzen sighed.
He set the pipe down on its rest and leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the desk.
"I'll see what I can do," he said finally. "But don't expect it overnight. I'll need to pull strings with the Resource Commission, maybe even the Land of Iron. It could take weeks."
Renjiro's shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, though disappointment flickered in his eyes.
"I understand," he said, voice level. "Thank you."
The Hokage gave a small nod. "Don't waste it. If this weapon of yours will be as revolutionary as you say, then prove it. Show me something worthy of Konoha's investment."
Renjiro bowed. "I will."
As he straightened, Hiruzen shifted the topic.
"One more thing," he said, tone turning weightier, as though a cloak had suddenly been placed on Renjiro's shoulders. "With the war moving forward, we'll be consolidating clan-based units. You'll be stationed under the Uchiha's jurisdiction."
That got a visible reaction.
Renjiro's eyebrows twitched upward. "Under Daichi?"
Hiruzen nodded. "For now. Until further communication. He'll act as your immediate superior. However…"
He leaned in slightly.
"Be prepared to take orders outside of clan leadership as well. Some missions may come directly from the council—or myself."
That piqued Renjiro's curiosity. His head tilted slightly, and his tone sharpened. "So the chain of command hasn't been fully established yet?"
Hiruzen's mouth curved into a small, cryptic smile. "Let's just say… it's flexible. For now, report to Daichi. Until you're told otherwise."
Renjiro frowned but said nothing. The silence was enough.
"Dismissed," the Hokage said at last.
Renjiro bowed once more, then turned on his heel and exited the office, his footsteps echoing down the long corridor of the tower. The wooden floor creaked beneath his sandals. The air outside had cooled, dusk settling over the village like a thick, purple-blue blanket.
Inside the office, Hiruzen remained seated. He stared at the door for a long while after Renjiro had gone, his mind circling like a hawk on an updraft.
'He's serious about this weapon,' he thought, tapping his fingers slowly against the wood. 'Too serious to ignore.'
He thought back to the last few shinobi who had dabbled in chakra-metal crafting—few had succeeded. None had created anything more than unstable prototypes. But if Renjiro could truly pull it off…
'Then maybe,' Hiruzen mused, 'he deserves a little more investment. But only if the result is exceptional. Anything less… and it's just a distraction in wartime.'
He picked up his pipe again and stared into the embers.
Outside, Renjiro descended the stairs of the Hokage Tower, his hands deep in his pockets, the cool night breeze tugging at the hem of his flak jacket.
His thoughts churned.
Daichi Uchiha.
The idea of serving under that man during a war made his blood itch. The endless arrogance, the suffocating authority, the disdain barely hidden behind that mask of clan honour.
'How can I turn this around,' Renjiro wondered.
He turned a corner, the road to his apartment stretching before him, quiet and lit by moonlight. Lanterns flickered along the path, casting long silhouettes against the cracked stone.
Then, a thought struck him.
A sudden, sharp spark, like the flash of steel against flint.
He stopped walking.
The breeze caught his hair. Somewhere nearby, a raven cawed.
His lips curled slowly into a cold, deliberate smirk.
'If I play this right,' he thought, 'then maybe this war won't be a curse.'
His eyes, gleaming red for a heartbeat, narrowed into thin slits.
'Maybe it's an opportunity.'
He turned his gaze upward toward the inky sky. The clouds had parted just enough for the moon to shine through, bathing his face in pale silver light.
"I don't mind," he murmured aloud, the words barely louder than a whisper carried on the wind, "making both Fugaku and Nakada orphans."
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