Renjiro blinked once.
Then he cursed inwardly.
'Tch... just perfect,' he thought as a muscle along his jaw tightened involuntarily. His eyes narrowed, pupils, rippling with the unmistakable churn of his still-active Sharingan. A faint throb echoed behind them—whether from chakra fatigue or stress, he couldn't say.
He tilted his head slightly in disbelief, as if the angle might change the absurdity of what he'd just heard. But the words lingered, carved into the silence that had followed Daichi's announcement like a blade slicing through still water.
Squad Captain.
'Captain? Why the hell would they make me a captain?'
The title bounced around his skull like a stray kunai in a narrow alley—sharp, loud, unavoidable. It clattered against the edge of everything he'd been trying to build for himself. It wasn't just a promotion. It was a sentence. A sentence to responsibility, exposure, and blood.
The word dragged a heavy chain behind it, bound with the iron weight of leadership he hadn't asked for. He'd just started to find his rhythm as a squad leader when he left—tightening the bonds with his team, and managing the unpredictable tension between duty and autonomy. He had barely begun to trust himself in that role.
But a squad captain? That wasn't about watching over five other shinobi. That was about commanding ten squads. Entire teams, under his eye. Under his decisions. Under his orders. It was no longer just about surviving. It was about keeping others alive—young, genins with more fire than skill, and chuunins who still thought charging headfirst was a good strategy.
It was war-time talk.
And war-time talk more funerals than one could count.
Down the long row of seated Uchiha, heads turned. Murmurs whispered like wind through the walls. Renjiro could feel them—not just the glances, but the questions, the judgment, the quiet surprise mingled with resentment and awe.
Elsewhere, not far from the side pillar carved with the clan's flame crest, two shinobi froze mid-conversation. One of them, let out a low whistle between his teeth.
Shoda, Renjiro's comrade and former squad member, exhaled and arched a brow. "Squad Captain now, huh?" he murmured, a knowing smirk tugging at the edge of his lips.
Next to him stood a kunoichi with a sharp gaze and an even sharper tone. Akira's midnight-blue shinobi coat caught the light as she folded her arms across her chest and leaned slightly back, one hip cocked. Her long black ponytail swayed like a banner of irritation.
"Figures," she said, tone dry enough to cut steel. "Just as I finally claw my way up to squad leader, he leapfrogs two ranks up like it's nothing. Typical."
Shoda chuckled under his breath. "It was bound to happen, Akira. We've fought beside him. You know how he is. Strategy, speed, power… and that damn Sharingan."
Akira narrowed her eyes. "Yeah, I know."
But Renjiro barely registered their voices. His thoughts were spiralling, quicksand sucking at his composure.
'Ten squads under me. Ten." The math started running in his head like an ANBU mission report. "Assuming standard five-man formations... that's fifty shinobi minimum. More like sixty if they are six. And if the council's feeling generous with cannon fodder, they'll stuff in extras. Seventy. Eighty. Hell, maybe even ninety if they throw in support medics, sensory units, or fresh-blood genin."
His eye twitched.
"Sixty people. Sixty lives. Sixty people who'll look to me when the kunai start flying and the sky turns red. Sixty people whose names I'll have to remember... and maybe eulogize."
A bitter taste coated the back of his throat.
It wasn't fear. Not exactly. He'd seen enough death to no longer flinch. But this was different. This was about consequences—ones that would no longer fall just on him. Now, his choices would echo through the lives of others. Now, every bad call could mean someone else's corpse.
He exhaled through his nose, slowly, carefully. The breath was long and hot and sour.
"I should've talked to Jiraiya and the Hokage so that stayed in ANBU," he thought bitterly. "At least there, I was just another shadow. A mask, a blade, a whisper. Clean missions. Clear targets. No speeches. No politics. No rookies puking in the mud because their teammate took a kunai to the chest."
Now he was going to be a torch—bright, visible, and undeniably responsible.
And that meant target.
He shifted his weight subtly, boots scraping lightly against the polished floor. His hands itched, not for combat, but for escape.
"Maybe I can talk my way out. Jiraiya's still around… maybe I can beg the Hokage to reassign me. Special ops, long-range reconnaissance, infiltration. I'll vanish into the Land of Iron if I have to. Anything but squad coordination and tactical briefings with under-trained chuunin who think yelling is a strategy."
Just then, a voice broke through his brooding storm.
"Hey, congrats, Renjiro!"
He turned slightly, catching the round face of Obito peering up at him, cheeks still flushed from their earlier chat but eyes shining with unfiltered admiration. The boy had that kind of optimism that made your chest ache a little. It was stubborn, bright, and loud.
"You're a squad captain now," Obito said, nearly bouncing. "That's... that's the higher than the rank my dad had. Pretty crazy, huh?"
Renjiro stared at him for a long beat. He didn't smile. He couldn't, not right now. But he raised a hand and gently ruffled the kid's hair.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Real crazy. Now hush. I'm trying to listen."
The boy beamed, satisfied, and quieted.
As if on cue, Daichi's voice boomed again—measured, deep, unwavering. It cut through the room like a blade wrapped in silk.
"—and as I was saying, the addition of new squad captain posts is not just warranted—it is necessary."
The murmuring began again, an undercurrent of shifting opinions and cautious nods. But Daichi raised a hand, and the hall fell silent with the obedience of a trained unit.
"The new structure reflects the appointment of a fourth commander within our division," Daichi continued, his gaze scanning the room with practised authority. "This commander, selected by the Hokage and approved by the village council, will oversee the northern front's multi-squad coordination. This is not a symbolic expansion—it is a strategic necessity."
Scattered applause came from the back of the hall. A few older clan heads nodded in silent approval.
Renjiro watched Daichi closely. The man was a politician, a general, and a master manipulator of both silence and noise. Every pause was intentional. Every flare of the Sharingan behind his eyes was calculated. Even his breath felt rehearsed.
"I will be meeting with all twenty of you shortly," Daichi said, scanning the room with a cold, appraising gaze. "For those named squad captains today, you will be expected to report for briefings tomorrow at dawn. Strategy, personnel alignment, and formation doctrines will be finalized then. Your new responsibilities are effective immediately."
He let the words hang in the air, heavy as anvils.
"Everyone else—this meeting is adjourned."
The last word landed like a gavel.
Chairs scraped. Sandals shuffled. Conversations resumed, rising like smoke after a brief stillness. Some voices were cheerful. Some were bitter. Some, silent and contemplative.
The heavy doors groaned as they opened, letting in a sliver of cool dusk from the outside world. Uchiha filtered out in pairs and clusters, stepping back into the waning sunlight.
Renjiro didn't move.
He stood there, arms crossed, red eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk over a battlefield. His expression didn't change, but his mind was ablaze.
'So much for doing the bare minimum...' he thought bitterly.
=====
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