Twelve days later. A third of Year 51 of Konoha slipped by. Spring faded quietly; summer began to unfold without anyone quite noticing.
Konoha's reply, Nagato's reply, the bankers' replies, and Orochimaru's reply all reached Yorin's hands in turn.
Nagato and Orochimaru used a nifty technique—Magic Lantern Body Technique—to talk rather than write.
What a convenient jutsu.
Because natural energy in the ninja world is so chaotic and all kinds of monsters roam the wilds, it's hard to set up utility poles. No long-distance calls or telegraphs. With Magic Lantern Body Technique, life's easier.
Both Orochimaru and Nagato said they'd wrap up their current work and come "visit" Kirigakure shortly—Nagato to open a branch base; Orochimaru to pick up Kimimaro and see if any other quality research material was on offer.
…
Besides them, Minato's letter included one from the Third—full of fatherly fretting that Yorin should take it easy, that the young shouldn't be too young, take too big a stride and you'll split your crotch.
As Yorin expected, Konoha selectively agreed to parts of his proposals.
He figured it helped that this was all by letter; if face to face, the Third would've scolded him raw.
Or maybe not.
Minato was fine—no change. The Third's wording, though, was extremely cautious, treating Uchiha Yorin as an equal—slightly distant, even. He might be the first in Konoha to sense Yorin's shift in stature, and so became more careful—and more eager to curry favor.
At any rate, when Yorin and Tsunade return to Konoha, the marriage-pressure will probably crank up a notch.
Yorin felt oddly wounded. Between the lines the Third wrote as if he were terrified Yorin might defect. Where's the most basic trust between people? He's a man who's going to be Hokage!
Unlike the old man, the bankers' letters were effusive—the sort of fawning that would have them set Yorin up as a godfather, kneel and kowtow if they could.
They knew exactly what an opportunity he was offering. Low profits? They'd still line up—even to lose money—for this seat at the table.
Of course, friendly tone ≠ ally; unfriendly tone ≠ enemy. These grandees would never be "his people." Even if they bent and scraped and offered their wives and daughters—and, if needed, their own livers—Yorin would never truly trust them.
Uchiha Yorin:
"That's basically it. Once Konoha and the Fire Country banking syndicate move the first loan and aid shipment…
I hand out one sack of rice, one jug of oil, plus half a pig to every household—and Kiri's order will stabilize. Then I can execute the next phase."
Thinking how smoothly everything was progressing—that after so much legwork he finally reached harvest time—put him in a fine mood.
And he wasn't spending Konoha's money for nothing. Beyond future profits and political/economic leverage, Konoha also gets Kiri's ninjutsu research and clan secret arts—priceless bedrock no one can usually touch, now handed over at once.
Konoha's already strong shinobi will grow stronger—another few notches. How could the old guard not be pleased?
Plus, in wartime, Kiri can field eight thousand shinobi as Konoha's allied force. That's a deal no money can buy.
Yorin: "Better write Konoha again. Whatever with the Third—just don't let my buddy Minato feel slighted."
He spread paper and started writing—stopped after two seconds, scowled, tossed the brush aside, went to find a fountain pen, and swore to one day build steel mills and flood the market with ball-point bearings to kill traditional stationery dead.
…
Meanwhile, at Genji's home.
The contrast couldn't be starker. While Yorin swore and grinned, the gathering at Genji's house looked like they'd all lost their mothers.
In some sense, they had. In certain registers, the nation is "mother." With Kiri about to die, Uchiha Yorin had stolen their mother.
"Nothing from the Water Daimyō? Can't he intervene and block Mei from taking the hat?"
"And the other great nations. Even Sunagakure, 'ally' of Konoha, won't want Kiri falling into Konoha's hands, right?"
"Nothing. Not a peep. No news at all!"
"The envoys and summons channels—we must assume they were intercepted."
"Damn it. Damn that Uchiha."
These were the holdouts opposing New Kiri—some out of loss, some out of obstinacy, some out of ambition and greed. And yes—perhaps a few out of love for Kirigakure.
Maybe.
Their composition defied simple labels; so did their strength. The indifferent weren't swayed; the centrists Yorin thought worth courting had already been courted, talked down, and nudged toward New Kiri under the banner of the Shinobi Sect.
The truly hardline elites had already shown themselves in the first uprising—either killed or captured.
So the ones clustered around Genji were precisely those Yorin didn't think worth courting. In fact, some were people he'd deliberately pushed into open revolt.
The die-hards. Too costly to buy; leave them and they'd eat meat at the table and curse you once the bowls were down, sandbagging reform at every step.
Better to force the break, crush them in one blow, and start with a cleaner slate. A blank page is easier to paint.
…
Genji studied them: decayed, old, twisted, fearful, and base. These were the men he could rely on to face Uchiha Yorin? Laughable. If this lot could topple Yorin, the Sage of Six Paths would laugh himself off his cloud.
Did they really think he didn't know they were using him as cover—trying to turn their "united front" into leverage to shake concessions from Yorin?
He'd had honest persuasion from true kin and juniors:
You're too old for this. That Uchiha kid—he looks manic, but spend time with him and you'll see he's decent, quick-witted, and effective. Kiri under him is not a loss.
He knew. And still he moved.
If, on the day Kiri dies, no one stands up to fight, isn't that the real tragedy?
If none would, the old man would.
He would lead these withered men and compromised hearts in one last throw. If they won, Kiri lived. If they lost—well, he could face the past Mizukage in the Pure Land.
"Talk is done."
His voice trembled, but it held: "Or do you think that if we stop now, Uchiha Yorin will spare us?"
Their fear contorted their faces; Genji almost cheerfully smiled:
"Aid or none—we move. As planned: strike the detention quarter, free the Hōzuki, the Yuki, and our other allies. Mass strength, seize the broadcast tower, and tell the village they've been deceived by Konoha."
The first half of the plan was classic; the second, new ground. Many of the die-hards opened their mouths to object. In their eyes, radio was like rail, electric light, and telephones—accursed trickery.
Just throw shuriken and swing swords—what's all this frippery for?
But in the end none of them voiced it.
"Then it's decided," Genji said. "Steel yourselves.
"When I was a boy, Kiri had just been founded. As I stand old and bent, it still stands. I believe it will stand after me—one thousand years, ten thousand years, still on its feet.
"That is why I've come out one last time.
"I think that's why you're here too. Yes?"
The light in his eyes wasn't that of a senile wreck—it was the ambition and iron of a warlord. The men who met his gaze shivered.
The worn-out elder was gone. Standing before them now was Kirigakure's war hero; right hand of the First Mizukage; iron-blooded, ruthless—the Shura of the Mist.
Tonight would be his last sortie.
"It's time."
His stooped back straightened. "Come.
"We go see Uchiha."
~~~
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