The first faint streaks of dawn were a pale, reluctant grey against the eastern sky, doing little to dispel the deep shadows that clung to the command tent like a shroud.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale sweat, cold tea, and the acrid scent of anxiety that seemed to seep from the very parchment of the maps spread across the central table.
Daichi stood over this table, a monument to exhaustion. He had not slept for nearly two days, his body running on a potent cocktail of soldier pills and sheer, iron-willed defiance. The war was a multi-fronted hydra, and for every head he lopped off with a strategic order, two more seemed to sprout, demanding his attention, his focus, his very life force.
His fingers, calloused and stained with ink, traced a line along the border of the Land of Fire, moving toward the Valley of the End. Every unit, every squad leader was a piece on this bloody board, and he was rapidly running out of moves.
'If I pull the Hyuga contingent from the northern ridge, it weakens our defence against Iwa's probing attacks. But if I leave them there, the southern flank remains vulnerable to Kumo's lightning raids. There are no good choices. Only less catastrophic ones.'
The weight of each decision was a physical pressure on his temples, a dull, throbbing ache that no amount of focus could dispel.
The tent flap was suddenly thrown aside, slicing through the gloom with a blade of weak, dawn light. A figure entered, his movements sharp and precise despite the early hour. Fugaku, his son, stood there for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness within before stepping fully inside.
Daichi didn't need to look up to know who it was. The rhythm of the footsteps, the particular way the air shifted—it was all familiar.
"Oh, you're already up," he said, his voice a gravelly rasp that betrayed his fatigue.
Fugaku approached the table, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck with a series of soft, audible pops.
"I didn't know that three hours was that short," he replied, his own voice heavy with a sleep that had been too brief and too shallow.
He took his accustomed place at his father's right hand, his dark eyes immediately scanning the maps, absorbing the new deployments and the glaring red X's that marked lost positions.
"Have we received any information from Hoshi's and Hirano's teams?" Daichi asked, not taking his eyes off a particularly troubling cluster of markers near the River Country border.
"Not yet," Fugaku responded, his tone neutral, professional.
Daichi's brow furrowed, the lines on his face deepening. "Were they the last units to leave?"
Fugaku was silent for a moment, mentally reviewing the departure logs. "No," he said finally. "Renjiro's team was the last to deploy. They left just before dusk yesterday."
Daichi finally looked up, his obsidian eyes sharp. "And have they communicated? Anything at all?"
"Nothing," Fugaku confirmed.
A heavy silence descended upon the tent, broken only by the distant, muffled sounds of the waking camp. Daichi's gaze returned to the map, specifically to the marked location of the Valley of the End.
"They should have arrived hours ago. The valley is a straight shot. Even with caution, they should have reported in by now." The unspoken question hung in the air: What has gone wrong?
After a long moment, Fugaku turned to fully face his father. His expression was unreadable, but a new tension had entered his posture.
"Father," he began, his voice carefully measured. "Was it necessary? To station him there? At a known pressure point?"
The question was more significant than it sounded. For years, Fugaku had viewed Renjiro as an anomaly, a disruptive, half-blooded upstart whose power was a potential embarrassment to the main family line. He was a nuisance, a variable that refused to be neatly categorised.
But the recent intelligence—the confirmed, staggering report that Renjiro had not only survived a confrontation with the Third Raikage but had forced the legendary Kage to a standstill—had fundamentally altered that calculus. The nuisance had transformed into a formidable, albeit still infuriating, asset. Fugaku's respect was a cold, hard thing, born not of affection but of a stark recognition of power. He had begun to see Renjiro's strength not as a threat to the clan's purity, but as a weapon that could be harnessed for its ascendancy.
After all, Renjiro's fraught relationship was with Daichi, not with the Uchiha name itself. Sending such a weapon into a known meat grinder seemed not just wasteful but strategically unsound.
"Yes," Daichi's answer was immediate, flat, and left no room for debate. He didn't look at his son.
"Why?" Fugaku pressed, a rare show of defiance.
Daichi sighed, a sound of profound weariness. He finally turned from the map, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Because he is the only one who could withstand whatever they throw at that place. That valley is a funnel. It will attract the strongest attacks from Kumo and their allies. Anyone else I sent would already be dead, and we would have lost the position. Renjiro… Renjiro is tough. Unpredictable. A pain to control." He paused, his gaze drifting to a small, personal notation on the edge of the map. "But I do not directly wish him dead. He is, after all, betrothed to Nakada. His strength, however inconvenient, will remain within the clan."
Fugaku absorbed this. His sister's name was a trump card he hadn't considered. He said nothing, the political implication settling between them.
It was Daichi who broke the silence this time, his voice dropping, becoming more introspective.
"Tell me, Fugaku. Are you confident? If it came to it. Facing him."
A thoughtful, calculating look settled on Fugaku's face. He was a man who valued precision. "The question is imprecise, Father. Confident in what? Defeating him? Or killing him?"
Daichi considered this. "Both."
Fugaku cleared his throat, his answer measured and brutally honest. "Before the news of his encounter with the Raikage, I would have said yes to both. Without hesitation. Now…" He trailed off, his eyes losing focus as he imagined the scenario. "Now, I am not confident I could defeat him in a straight fight. His power has escalated beyond conventional metrics. But killing him?" Fugaku's jaw tightened.
"Yes. I am confident in that. There are always ways to ensure a kill, even against a superior opponent. It simply requires the correct application of force and sacrifice."
A thin, cold smirk stretched across Daichi's lips. It was not a pleasant expression. "And without Izanagi or Izanami?"
The question was a direct hit. Fugaku's composure faltered for a fraction of a second. The smirk vanished, replaced by a grimace. He looked away, his pride warring with his honesty.
"Without them," he admitted, the words seeming to cost him, "I am not confident in even defeating him."
Daichi nodded slowly, as if this was the answer he had expected. "Then you must do more. Push harder. Your competition for the future of this clan is not just Orochimaru's favour with the Hokage, or the ambitions of the other shinobi clans." He leaned forward, his voice intensifying. "It is him. That boy. His very existence raises the bar for what it means to lead the Uchiha. You cannot afford to be second best."
Fugaku's eyes widened slightly. A cold dread, mixed with a spark of furious ambition, ignited within him. The pieces finally clicked into place. This wasn't just about the war. This was about the future succession of the clan.
"Don't tell me—" he began, his voice low with dawning realisation.
He was cut off as the tent flap was thrown open with violent urgency. A tall, broad-shouldered chunin, his face pale and streaked with dust from a hard run, stood panting in the entrance. He didn't bother with formalities, his chest heaving.
"Commander Daichi!" the man gasped, saluting roughly. "A message from the Hokage! He demands your presence immediately! It's urgent!"