One Day Later
With the Third Mizukage's death, the fighting ended as the Mist Shinobi lowered their weapons.
Some sank to their knees, whispering prayers beneath their breath. Others stood rigid, eyes hollow, waiting for the inevitable reprisal. They had been raised on blood and obedience—defeat meant death.
But death did not come.
Instead, the invaders made an offer.
Those who swore loyalty to the "Lord" would live.
Confusion spread faster than fear. One by one, shinobi bowed their heads and spoke the oath, unaware that as their shadows stretched across the ruined stone, something else stretched with them.
Hidden Mist did not sleep that night.
By morning, the village stirred again—not with patrols or alarms, but with hammers and aching hands. Survivors cleared rubble, rebuilt bridges, and dragged bodies from the streets. Smoke rose not from burning homes, but from forges rekindled out of necessity.
Then the commotion began.
It started at what remained of the eastern gate. Shinobi turned, hands tightening around tools and weapons alike, as a distant procession emerged from the mist.
Banners bearing the crest of the Land of Water fluttered in the damp air.
A long entourage advanced slowly: armored guards, court officials wrapped in silks, and palanquins carried by exhausted bearers. At its center rode a lacquered carriage pulled by white horses.
The Water Daimyō had arrived.
Murmurs rippled through the gathered shinobi.
"Why would he come now…?"
"After the village fell…?"
"Is this judgment?"
From a rooftop overlooking the ruins, Blackbeard watched the procession with an amused glint in his eye.
"Well now," he muttered. "Looks like the real negotiations are about to begin."
Beside him, Mito's gaze was steady and unreadable.
"The Daimyō won't recognize a ruler who took the village by force," she said quietly. "Not without proof. Or pressure."
The carriage came to a halt. Guards fanned out, hands on their weapons, as the door slowly opened.
The Water Daimyō had taken no more than three steps from his carriage when the mist shifted.
At first, it was subtle—too subtle for his guards to react. Shadows stretched unnaturally across broken stone and half-rebuilt walls, lengthening despite the rising sun. Then they detached.
One by one, figures peeled themselves out of the darkness.
Their forms were matte black, edges blurred like smoke. Eyes—if they could be called that—glimmered faintly on their shadowy faces.
Before a single command could be given, the Daimyō's guards realized the truth.
They were already surrounded.
Every step, every wall, every piece of rubble now cast the wrong shadow. Behind each guard stood a silent figure, blades hovering a breath away from exposed throats. The air grew cold, heavy, as though the mist itself held its breath.
"Protect the Daimyō!" someone shouted.
Too late.
A shadow's blade pressed gently against the Water Daimyō's neck. Another rested against his spine. A third curled beneath his feet, locking him in place like a living seal.
The Daimyō froze.
Around him, his elite guard stood rigid, eyes wide, hands trembling inches from their weapons.
From above, a voice carried down through the mist, calm and unmistakably amused.
"Easy now," Blackbeard said. "If I wanted him dead, you'd already be kneeling beside your Mizukage."
Mito stepped forward from the fog, her presence alone enough to make the Daimyō's knees weaken.
"Water Daimyō," she said evenly, "you entered a village under new rule without permission."
The Daimyō swallowed hard, eyes darting from shadow to shadow, realizing with dawning horror that there was no escape.
"…Is this a coup?" he asked, forcing the words past his fear.
Blackbeard laughed softly.
"No, Daimyō. This is conquest. Bow to our Lord—
or I'll have your head decorating the gates by nightfall."
One of the Daimyō's guards couldn't stand the pressure. He shouted and reached for his blade, desperation outweighing sense. The moment steel left its sheath, the shadows moved.
A dozen black shapes surged forward in silence. When they withdrew, the guard collapsed; his blade had never left its sheath more than an inch.
The Water Daimyō stiffened, breath shuddering as the weight of that single, effortless execution crushed the last of his resolve. Slowly, trembling hands rose before him. Then, with a stiffness born of pride breaking apart, he lowered himself to one knee.
"I… submit," he said hoarsely.
Blackbeard smiled.
"Wise choice."
Mito stepped forward.
"From this moment on," she said, "the Land of Water recognizes a new Lord. Your rule continues only by his grace."
The Daimyō bowed his head fully, forehead touching the cold stone.
Around him, his retainers followed suit, kneeling in silence as the mist closed in once more.
…
The news spread quickly. By the third night after the fall of the Hidden Mist Village, every nation was shaken to its core.
Messengers rode without rest. Carrier hawks crossed borders they had never dared approach. Sealed scrolls burned in war rooms, their contents read and reread in disbelief.
"Kirigakure had fallen.
The Mizukage was dead.
The Water Daimyō had submitted."
In the Land of Lightning, the Raikage crushed a stone table beneath his fist.
The Land of Earth sealed its borders by dawn. The Land of Wind doubled its patrols. Even minor nations began fortifying roads and ports.
But behind all the fear, something else moved. Two black and white figures moved from village to village. Every village they passed, the village Elders' eyes glazed, as if they had been mind-controlled.
Across every nation, village councils convened in emergency sessions that ended far too quickly. Every elder of the villages and nations passed down one order: war against the Hidden Leaf.
By dawn, war drums echoed.
The Land of Wind mobilized first, its shinobi columns marching east under sealed directives. The Land of Earth followed, border fortresses activating ancient defense arrays. From the Land of Lightning, fleets moved south, lightning banners snapping in storm winds.
All aimed at one place. The Land of Fire.