The chamber, once full of arguing voices, now rang with silence. The kind of silence that precedes a storm. It pulsed in the walls, settled in the bones of everyone present. The fire in the hearth crackled quietly in the background, spitting embers like nervous stutters.
Raikage A clenched his fists, the veins in his forearms bulging like coiled ropes. His massive frame was like a statue carved from dark stone, barely containing the fury that radiated from him in waves. Lightning flickered across his shoulders, crawling up his arms, giving his silhouette the shimmer of a brewing tempest.
"Are you certain of this?" he asked, voice low and dangerous.
The messenger shinobi, still panting, nodded immediately. "Yes, Raikage-sama. The intelligence unit confirmed it less than an hour ago. Recon sensors marked the Leaf platoon's movement two days ago, but they only finished establishing a base this morning. Shimogakure's leadership hasn't responded… yet."
"They won't," one advisor muttered grimly. "They're too small. Too dependent on Konoha's trade routes. If anything, they'll pretend not to notice until they're fully occupied."
A turned toward the central table and planted both palms on it, leaning forward. "So, to summarize… Konoha concedes a gold mine to Iwa—openly, publicly. Their Sannin sends what was clearly a message. And now they've moved a combat-ready unit into a frost-covered corridor that opens right onto our Western border."
His eyes scanned the circle of his advisors, daring them to deny the obvious. "Tell me again this is a coincidence."
A few looked down. One cleared his throat. "We must be cautious. Perhaps it's not alliance but deception. Konoha may be trying to pit us against Iwa, make us paranoid."
Another chimed in quickly, "Jiraiya's eccentricity may be the perfect cover for subterfuge. But still, Iwa wouldn't allow even symbolic cooperation unless they gained something tangible. And for now… that mine was tangible."
A's eyes flared. "They gave it up, you fool. Do you understand how rare that is? Konoha never folds unless it's part of a larger manoeuvre."
Lightning crackled again across his arms as he straightened, pacing now, his heavy footsteps sending faint tremors through the polished floor.
One of the older advisors—a man named Inaho with a deeply lined face and one blind eye—finally stepped forward. He had served during the First and Second Shinobi Wars. His voice was hoarse but calm. "Raikage-sama… if we assume they're coordinating, then we must respond."
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The moon hung low over the frost-laden valleys of the Land of Frost, casting a silvery sheen across the rugged terrain. Wisps of mist clung stubbornly to the ground, curling like ghostly tendrils around gnarled pine roots and shattered boulders. The scent of cold resin and burned wood lingered faintly in the air, remnants of old skirmishes and harsh winters. Each breath from the five shinobi slicing through the forest misted into vapour before vanishing in the frigid night.
Five figures, clad in the iconic green flak jackets of Konoha, moved like shadows. Their forehead protectors caught glints of moonlight as they manoeuvred with precision through the terrain. With the cold weather, it was strange how they did not don their usual grey cloaks.
At the helm of the formation was Orochimaru, his golden eyes unblinking, pupils slitted like a serpent's. Every movement he made was calculated—graceful yet ominous. To his left strode Renjiro, his crimson hair tied loosely behind him, face a mask of focus.
On Orochimaru's other flank moved Minato Namikaze, a calm storm in human form. He wore his usual half-smile, but the occasional flicker of his eyes revealed the intensity behind that cool façade.
Behind them came the younger ones—Sumida, a kunoichi with sharp eyes and a trembling but determined heart, and Nao, a wiry older boy with more enthusiasm than experience. This was a live field operation, not a simulation. They knew failure here would cost lives—and more than likely, their own. At least, that is what it looked like.
The team came to a halt atop a low ridge overlooking the Kumogakure border outpost. It was modest in design: a squared compound surrounded by wooden palisades reinforced with chakra-hardened metal plating and seals. Towers rose from each corner, manned by sentries armed with chakra-infused bows. Lanterns glowed warmly within the camp, the only sign of comfort in this desolate edge of the world.
Orochimaru raised a hand, his voice barely audible as he addressed the team. "I know you can all feel it, fifteen shinobi. Four on the perimeter. Likely four stationed within the main structure. Others are patrolling or sleeping."
Renjiro's eyes narrowed. "They're spread thin. We strike fast and hard."
Minato smiled slightly. "Try to keep up."
"Minato, take the armoury. Renjiro, the towers. Others—hold position until my mark," Orochimaru instructed.
The moment was silent, tense like the moment before a lightning strike.
Renjiro stepped forward first, his fingers weaving through hand signs with fluid speed.
"Fire Style: Blazing Barrage!"
From his mouth, a volley of fireballs burst forth like molten comets, arcing through the sky in elegant, sweeping motions before crashing into two of the watchtowers. The explosion of flame lit the night in roaring orange hues, splinters and embers scattering as the towers crumbled into ruin.
Simultaneously, a flash of gold darted across the field—Minato had vanished. In the blink of an eye, he reappeared inside the compound, already performing a new set of hand signs. "Fire Style: Phoenix Flash!"
A concentrated stream of searing flame burst from his mouth, sweeping through the wooden armoury and igniting crates of stored rations, weapons, and scrolls. An explosion followed, sending debris into the air with a thunderous BOOM.
"Enemy attack! Konoha shinobi!" a voice shouted within the camp.
The compound erupted into chaos.
Orochimaru slid forward, not running but slithering, his form low and unnatural. His body twisted in ways no normal shinobi could emulate, a grotesque elegance to his approach. He reached a group of Kumo shinobi regrouping near a command tent.
"Such futile resistance," he hissed.
With a whip-like motion, his neck extended unnaturally, and his fangs sank into the neck of the nearest shinobi. The man froze instantly, paralyzed mid-scream before crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut.
A second opponent charged, sword raised.
Orochimaru's arm split open like a flower in bloom, a snake bursting from within to intercept the blade and sink its own fangs into the attacker's wrist. The enemy dropped the weapon and screamed as his arm went numb.
Meanwhile, the chunins moved in. Nao hurled a barrage of kunai at a fleeing squad, each kunai marked with minor explosive seals that erupted with staccato BOOMs, forcing the enemy into disarray.
Sumida darted past burning debris and came face to face with a Kumo shinobi—barely older than she was. Blood ran down his brow, and his arm hung limp. He dropped his sword, raising his hands.
"I... I surrender. Please, I have a family in Kumo," he stammered.
Aiko's hand trembled, kunai poised. Her heart pounded like a war drum. She looked toward Orochimaru. He stood beneath a scorched flag, watching her with unblinking eyes.
He nodded—just barely.
She dropped her weapon slightly and stepped aside.
"Run," she whispered.
The shinobi didn't wait for a second invitation. He limped off into the woods, disappearing into the shadows. She stole a glance at the escaping shinobi, a sadistic smile creeping up on her face.
'At least someone will witness the performance.'
The flames roared louder now. Within fifteen minutes, the compound was a ruin—smouldering beams, corpses, and a haze of ash. The only things standing were broken stumps of what once was a border fortification.
The Konoha team regrouped at the edge of the clearing, steam rising from their shoulders in the cold night air.
Orochimaru's expression was unreadable. Minato casually wiped soot from his sleeve, while Renjiro crouched and examined a scorched map salvaged from the wreckage. They were all committed to their parts.
Then came the unnatural rustle.
The ground bulged.
From the scorched soil emerged a twisting shadow, black and sticky like tar. A figure began to rise—thin, wiry, like a silhouette made of pitch darkness. Black Zetsu coalesced from the earth, his golden eye peering through the darkness like a predator's.
"Well done," he intoned, voice low and cold.
Black Zetsu continued, "You destroyed a tool. If you want to break them—you must strike the soul."
Orochimaru tilted his head. "Speak plainly, black."
Black Zetsu's smile was a crack in obsidian. "Their soldiers will be replaced. Their pride will burn and regrow. But civilians—kill them, and you plant a seed of fear. You nurture chaos."
A second figure emerged—White Zetsu, loping out from Orochimaru's form like a fungus come alive. "Oh great," he muttered. "He's doing his scary speech again."
"You hear that?" he said as the other four slowly revealed their true forms which was similar to his, eyes gleaming like candlelight reflected off a blade. "Perhaps it's time we test the depth of their despair."
"Go. There's more work to be done." Behind them, Black Zetsu said with cold satisfaction.
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