After getting a little farther from the Hokage's office, Satsuki couldn't help but speak. "Aunt Mito, the way the Hokage's advisor was talking gave me a bad feeling, as if—"
Mito raised her hand to interrupt him. "Satsuki, you should understand that some walls have ears."
She knew her own situation was secure, being aware of the White Zetsu. Her senses were always active. But the moment Satsuki hit the streets? He had the situational awareness of a concussed squirrel.
He'd probably confide in the dango stand vendor for a free stick of mochi. This was how most Uzumaki were.
Satsuki deflated, his shoulders slumping. "Right. Sorry, Aunt Mito. I was just worried."
Mito spoke, her smile warm and genuine. "So stop worrying your pretty little head off. Nawaki is already running around, gathering every Uzumaki in the village who hasn't forgotten what 'family' means. The Senju also have our backs because we're not just friends, but also family."
Thinking about her trustworthy disciple, she smiled and continued. "Not only that, there's a mysterious helper who's also worth looking forward to."
The four Uzumaki who had just arrived felt the tension bleed out of them. When someone with a legendary reputation like Mito Uzumaki made a promise, it wasn't just words; it was a fundamental statement.
And honestly, how could they stay panicked? They were secretly watching how Mito would act.
Her granddaughter, Tsunade, was one of the Legendary Raika Chi no Sanjin. She was a woman who could personally fight the Mizukage while dealing with a bunch of Elite Jōnin at the same time.
And Mito herself was someone equally legendary, being called the strongest Uzumaki after the death of Ashina. Just with these two, Satsuki and the others felt the situation was more stable.
But not only that, another member of the Sanjin was also Mito's personal student. In short, they trusted Mito very much.
...
...
...
The air in Konoha was still buzzing with the polite, political nonsense of the meeting that had just ended at the Konoha office. Meanwhile, down at the Naka Shrine, things were about to get real.
Azula stood before the assembled Uchiha, a smirk playing on her lips.
The crowd was a sight to behold—a sea of obsidian hair and resting-annoyed-faces, ranging from what can still be called toddlers to elders who looked like they'd personally scowled at the Sage of Six Paths.
It was a beautiful testament to her financial… encouragements.
A few years of her "creative investments" and the Uchiha weren't just the richest clan in the world; they were a small, heavily armed, and exceptionally dramatic nation that just happened to live inside a village.
Their numbers had exploded. If you counted every squalling baby, cranky elder, and moody teenager, they were pushing 2,500 souls. The Uchiha compound wasn't just growing; it was experiencing a population boom of mythological proportions.
And the power? Oh, the power was definitely increasing.
Fifty-nine pairs of Three-Tomoe Sharingan gleamed in the twilight, her own and her father's among them. The weakest of this bunch would be carving their names into the Bingo Books as Elite Jonin within three years.
Then there were the 189 with Two Tomoe and 197 with a single, spinning red eye.
It was a force that could stroll into any Hidden Village not named the "Big Five" and redecorate it in shades of red and black. This was the kind of might that made a clan… well, Uchiha.
They were all crammed outside the shrine because, frankly, the inside was better suited for brooding and secret meetings, not for hosting a small army.
Just as the collective Uchiha ego reached its peak, the final group arrived.
Hayate, looking as seriously funny as ever, led 74 ninja into the clearing.
"Azula-sama," he announced. "The last of the Uchiha shinobi not currently on mission."
Azula's mental tally clicked perfectly to 800. Not 799. Not 801. Eight hundred. This wasn't an accident; it was clan policy, a rule she herself had enforced.
Keeping 800 Uchiha in the village during peacetime was like herding particularly lethal, emotionally volatile cats, but they'd somehow managed it.
"Excellent. It seems everyone is here," Azula said, her voice cutting through the murmurs.
It had only been a few days since she'd taken the mantle of Clan Head, and here she was, calling an emergency full-clan meeting without so much as a courtesy whisper to the elders.
She could feel their displeasure radiating from the front row—a wave of pure, unadulterated grumpiness. She offered them a mental shrug.
If they had a problem, they were welcome to try and impeach her. The job description for 'Uchiha Clan Head' had a very simple, one-line requirement: must possess the biggest fist.
A quick, glacial sweep of her eyes over them, accompanied by a whisper of her killing intent, and the elders suddenly found the shrine's architecture fascinating. Ah, the universal language of "I could end you without breaking a sweat."
She let her gaze travel over her clan. "I've gathered you all here to deliver a simple message. War is coming."
She paused, allowing the silence to stretch. For a full two seconds, the gathering of 800 of Konoha's most notoriously loud and opinionated people was utterly, profoundly quiet. It was probably a record.
Just as the first indignant sputters began to form, she continued. "As you are all no doubt aware, my team and I recently had a… run-in with the Kage of Iwa, Suna, Kiri, and Kumo. The rumors that started that day are no longer rumors. They are a fact."
She leaned forward, her smirk widening into something sharp and dangerous. "Their little summit had a singular purpose: to covet the sealing arts of the Uzumaki, to wipe a thousand-year-old clan from the map, and to weaken Konoha by butchering its strongest ally."
She laid out the Uzumakis' predicament. Now, the Uchiha and the Uzumaki had a history.
To call it 'not good' was like calling the Eight-Tails a slightly irritable octopus; for generations, they'd been on a first-name basis with trying to murder each other on behalf of the Senju.
But time, and the fact that their current badass leader was trained by one of the red-headed terrors, had… mellowed things into a sort of grudging, blood-soaked respect.
So the news hit differently. Azula saw the gears turning, especially in the elders' heads.
She could practically see the thought bubbles forming over their graying hair: 'If we'd followed Madara… if we'd left Konoha… would we be the ones getting dogpiled by four villages right now?'
Tajima, in particular, got a far-off look, vividly recalling Madara's dramatic exit. A thought, crisp and clear, cut through the nostalgia: 'Well, shit. Maybe the melodramatic little bastard had a point.'
But then his eyes snapped back to his daughter. The past was a cemetery. The future was a throne, and Azula was already polishing the armrests.
"This morning," Azula announced, "my master requested my assistance in supporting her clan."
She paused, letting the weight of the simple statement sink in. "I agreed."
Then, the world bloomed crimson. Three tomoe spun in her eyes as she activated her Sharingan.
"Consider this a prelude," she purred, her voice now laced with a thrilling, dangerous energy. "The opening act of a great war. So, for any of you who are tired of polishing your shuriken and are itching for a… warm-up, the invitation is open." Her grin was all sharp edges and promise.
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial, bloodthirsty whisper that echoed in the dead-silent room.
"It's time for a reminder. We're going to drag that old, primal fear out of the world's subconscious of being dominated by the Uchiha. We will make them see our Sharingan in their nightmares. They will learn to cower at our shadows, to hesitate for one fatal second before they dare to raise a hand against an Uchiha and their ally ever again."
With every word, her voice gained a manic, infectious energy. And the clan? They were eating it up. A restless energy filled the hall. Grins spread, cracked knuckles, and hands drifted to sword hilts.
Because realistically, seeking excitement wasn't just in their blood—it was their primary hobby, their favorite pastime, and their family therapy, all rolled into one.