Under the veil of Naori's illusion, the four infiltrated the Rain ninja ranks, mimicking their movements as they slipped deeper into the crowd.
The closer they drew to the river, the larger the force became. From every direction, squads of Ame-nin converged until thousands stood along the water's edge, rain pattering endlessly on armor and masks. The boatmen who usually filled the river with trade scurried away at the sight, scattering like frightened sparrows.
"This looks like a rally," Maki muttered under her breath. "Bring your own cement."
"…What?" White Fang blinked, baffled as always by her strange metaphors.
"Keep dancing, keep the music going." Maki said it with that usual half-smile that made no sense to him. He gave up trying to understand.
Across the river, the massive crowd split into two camps, facing each other like rival armies.
"Which side do we join?" Hitomi whispered.
"The bigger one," Maki answered without hesitation.
So they melted into the packed ranks, watching as tension thickened in the air. Though all were Rain ninja, the hostility between the factions burned hotter than the downpour could wash away.
At first, the argument was words:
"You're dragging the Rain Country into another war!" one side shouted.
"And if we do nothing, we'll be crushed between the great nations!" the other retorted.
The exchange spiraled quickly, words turning venomous, curses flying back and forth. It could have erupted into bloodshed at any second, yet both sides restrained themselves—like men aching to strike, but terrified of the wound they'd take in return.
Then the leaders arrived.
On one side, an aging master whose voice trembled with years. On the other, a young man barely in his twenties, golden-haired and golden-eyed, walking like a tiger among wolves. His presence bent the crowd without a word—ninja stepped aside, gazes reverent, hearts already his.
Hanzo.
Even Maki, unimpressed as she usually was, compared him to Yahiko—charismatic, burning with vision. But unlike Yahiko's innocence, Hanzo carried ambition sharpened like a blade.
"Hanzo, is it too late to turn back?" the elder asked wearily.
"Master Masanari," Hanzo replied, his voice strong and clear, "you saved this country once from being swallowed whole. But now your time has passed. Let me lead the Land of Rain forward!"
Fury flared in Masanari's followers. "How dare you speak to Lord Masanari that way!"
Hanzo only smiled. "Men like you should be fighting for the future, not clinging to a dying past."
Masanari's side outnumbered them, but Maki could see the truth: most of them were low-rankers, wavering, their morale already crumbling. The elites, the visionaries, the strength—were all on Hanzo's side. Masanari had already lost.
"Hanzo," the old man rasped, "you don't understand what monsters we face. The five great nations—"
"Strong? Of course. But strength isn't reason to kneel." Hanzo cut him off with fire in his voice. "Even if the whole world stands against us, we'll fight! With my blade, I'll unify the ninja world and bring peace to the Land of Rain!"
The crowd erupted, voices thundering his name:
"Hanzo! Hanzo! Hanzo!"
Charismatic, yes. Dangerous, absolutely.
"…Boring," Maki said flatly.
"…Boring," echoed another voice beside her.
She glanced up and met the eyes of the old man she'd seen earlier in the street, watching her with arms crossed and a knowing smirk. A ghost of the past, lurking.
Naori's hand slid to her sword hilt. Hitomi drifted closer, sharp eyes on the stranger. White Fang shifted uneasily, fingers brushing the dagger at his hip.
"What's your mission?" the old man asked casually, as if they were trading gossip. "Did Masanari hire you to assassinate Hanzo?"
Maki's expression didn't flicker. "I don't know who the employer is."
"Heh. Sounds like the Hokage's scheme. Always as sly as their predecessors." The old man sneered. Then his eyes narrowed at her. "Aburame-chan, isn't it?"
"Bug Princess," Maki corrected coldly.
The man chuckled. "Ugly title. Like something you could crush with one finger."
"Keep talking," Maki said evenly, "and I'll kill you."
The humor drained from his face. A silence stretched before he barked another laugh. "Brat, you don't even know who I am."
"I don't care," Maki replied. "Names are meaningless for the dead."
"…In this world, no one alive can kill me," the old man growled.
"I'm sixteen," she said, voice like steel. "And you don't look like you'll last much longer."
The man's eyes narrowed into a venomous glare. Maki didn't even flinch.
"Look at me again," she said softly, "and I'll tear out your eyes."
For the first time, he believed her.
Then he laughed again—loud, unhinged. "Interesting girl! You're ignorant, but interesting."
White Fang, trying to defuse the tension, asked politely, "Senior… who exactly are you?"
Maki's eyes snapped toward him, promising violence. Idiot.
The old man spat venom: "Why does it matter, you white-haired failure? Pathetic little brat!"
White Fang scratched the back of his head and fell silent.
By then, the cheers were fading, all eyes turning back to the confrontation at the river's center—Hanzo and Masanari, locked in their final exchange.
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