By the time Tsunade and Mito arrived, trailed by the four Uzumaki members, the place was buzzing with a carefully orchestrated kind of chaos.
A sea of about fifty people had gathered, a vibrant tapestry of Konoha's finest, with a core of twenty-four flaming Uzumaki heads that looked like a convention of particularly disciplined sunsets.
"Mito-sama!" they chorused, their greeting so perfectly synchronized it probably had its own chakra signature.
Mito offered a nod, her eyes finding Nawaki in the crowd. The smile she gave him was a tiny, potent thing—a "well done" that probably made his entire week.
"Follow me," she said, her voice light yet cutting through the murmur.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea for a goddess, and she glided through, the entire assembly falling into step behind her.
She was leading them to one of the many historical archive rooms—a relic from when the Senju Clan decided to dissolve and become history nerds instead of just making it.
This particular room was the granddaddy of them all, a vault large enough to host a small war council or a very tense birthday party for sixty.
Its specific, dusty specialty?
The epic, millennia-long bromance between the Senju and the Uzumaki.
For most present, this was their first time inside. After all, your average shinobi's idea of historical research is remembering what the Hokage's face looked like last Tuesday.
Steles stood like solemn, stone gossip columns, boasting of "Eternal Alliances!" and detailing the various world-ending monstrosities their ancestors had bagged and tagged during the Sengoku Jidai.
Some of the records were so old, the dust mites had their own clan legends.
Mito took center stage, the ancient stone amplifying her presence. "I presume some of you have no doubt heard from Nawaki about what is happening, but let's make it clear again."
She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at Satsuki and his team. "They're from the Land of Whirlpools. And before you ask, yes—you know them. The reason they're here, looking so exhausted, is that our beloved Uzushiogakure is about to become the main target of Kiri, Iwa, Kumo, and Suna. All four, at once. They've decided to set aside their differences for the sole purpose of destroying Uzushiogakure."
A wave of sound rippled through the crowd. This was the shinobi version of a gasp—less shock, more a calculated assessment of the sheer, audacious scale of the incoming disaster.
"No wonder Mito-sama called us all together!" one Uzumaki muttered, a grin spreading across his face. "I knew it! A quiet day was just too much to ask for."
A Senju woman snorted. "Typical. The Shodaime worked himself to the bone for peace, and these savages don't know anything apart from planning a bigger war. The Nidaime was right—you can't trust a single one of them."
"Isn't it just our luck?" another added, shaking his head. "We're not even the main village, and we still get the united front of hatred. It's almost flattering."
The mood wasn't one of panic. It was more a collective, weary resignation, sprinkled with a healthy dose of professional annoyance.
These were people bred for battle, for whom the phrase "clan extermination" was a thing. The only thing that ever truly scared them was the paperwork their loved ones would have to fill out afterward.
Mito watched the mix of grim acceptance and fiery indignation, and a complicated emotion settled in her chest.
Part pride, part sorrow. She was relieved they hadn't gone soft. The short peace had wiped out more clans through complacency than any war ever had.
You wipe out your rivals, you get comfortable, you plant a garden... and then a bigger, meaner clan shows up and uses your skull as a flowerpot. The cycle was as old as the dust on these very steles.
...
...
...
While the village was having all sorts of meetings, from his Hokage office, Hiruzen Sarutobi felt less like a military leader and more like a daycare supervisor whose toddlers had just discovered Fire Release.
First, the Anbu reports: the entire Uchiha police force had collectively decided to play hooky, abandoning their posts to gather at their compound.
The mental image of a dozen Uchiha dramatically flipping their hair and storming off was almost comical. Almost.
Then there was Nawaki, that sunny, chaos-gremlin of a Senju, who was apparently rallying the scattered Uzumaki clansmen with the fervor of a man selling timeshares.
Konoha hadn't seen this much simultaneous, unsanctioned gathering since the Great Ramen Coupon Scandal of '5.
Hiruzen pinched the bridge of his nose, the Hokage hat feeling heavier than a boulder.
Flanking him were his esteemed advisors: the ever-dour Council of Gloom—Homura and Koharu—and Danzō, who was radiating so much smug disapproval he could have powered the village for a week.
"It seems," Danzō began, his voice like gravel being slowly crushed, "that our village's foundational pillars have developed a sudden case of independence."
Before Hiruzen could formulate a response that wasn't a scream, the door opened. And in walked a ghost from a happier past.
"Kagami!" Hiruzen's smile was genuine, a life raft in a sea of bureaucratic misery. "You have the timing of a master shinobi."
Uchiha Kagami offered a wry smile, his eyes sweeping over his old comrades. "Hiruzen. You look… busy."
"You have no idea," Hiruzen sighed. "Between approving D-rank missions to retrieve lost pets and preventing the four other major villages from turning us into a crater, my schedule is delightfully full."
Kagami had just taken a seat when Danzō, who had the patience of a startled hornet, cut to the chase.
"Enough pleasantries. Kagami, we heard the commotion. Your clan has abandoned its sacred duty. And we distinctly heard the phrase…" he paused, as if the words were acid on his tongue, "'Make Uchiha Great Again.' Care to explain this?"
Kagami's friendly smile didn't so much drop as it was professionally evacuated from his face. This was precisely why he avoided the Hokage Tower; a five-minute chat with Danzō could sour a pint of fresh milk.
"The Uchiha," Kagami said, his voice now smooth and cold as a polished kunai, "will, of course, provide an explanation to the village."
He let the word hang in the air, his meaning crystal clear: And you, my friend, are not the village.
Hiruzen felt a familiar headache brewing. He stepped in with the grace of a man trying to mediate between two fighting cats. "Now, now, Kagami. You must understand the pressure we're under. With four villages sharpening their knives for us and Uzushio, it's only natural Danzō is a bit… tense."
The unspoken subtext hung in the room like bad cologne: Danzō's being a jerk because he's stressed, so just smile and take it.
Kagami, a master of reading between the lines of Hiruzen's diplomatic nonsense, decided to take the high road. Mostly because the low road involved setting Danzō on fire—which, while satisfying, was poor form for an elder.
"How enlightened," Kagami said dryly. "But I'm not here to discuss Danzō's problem with the Uchiha. I am here as an elder of the Uchiha Clan and the official messenger of our Clan Head."
(END OF THE CHAPTER)