On the fifth day after Mist's second uprising.
That morning, Uchiha Yorin absorbed the sea-mist rolling in from offshore, compressed it into a sphere of water, and tossed it back to the ocean. Sunshine bathed Kirigakure again, rare and bright.
At first, both ordinary townsfolk and shinobi were uncomfortable; but after several consecutive days of sun, everyone settled into that warm, drowsy feeling, the gloom in their chests blown away. Without realizing it, hearts felt more open.
Just with that one party trick, Uchiha Yorin harvested a lot of approval.
Of course, it wasn't enough.
What truly let Yorin breathe easier were the massive aid shipments sailing in.
Even if the Third—who insisted on escorting them personally—hadn't shown Yorin a pleasant face once since he arrived.
As long as he didn't actually flip the table and attack, Yorin couldn't be bothered to hold a grudge.
You can't fight to the death—how will you make money then?
Watching distribution, the Third looked heartsick. As families queued, registered, and walked away with half a pig, a drum of oil, and a sack of rice, he wore the look of a man getting chunks cut from his own flesh.
The happier the Mist shinobi became, the more the old man's chest hurt. He shook like a leaf; it seemed he might roar at any second—"Hard-earned silver, handed to paupers—sinful!'"
Lin Yang thought the old man might keel over on the spot.
He didn't, to Yorin's disappointment.
"With this, Mist should be stable now, right?" The Third's tone was unpleasant. Yorin wondered if the old man wasn't being passive-aggressive.
"More or less. But for lasting peace, you still have to govern properly," Yorin answered offhand. "Mist's economic potential is large. Beyond folding them into Konoha's logistics system, we can develop salt-fish, shipbuilding and maritime transport."
"These specifics—we leave to others," said the Third, squarely meeting Yorin's eyes. "So, when does Konoha's shinobi return?"
"Wow—under normal circumstances, soon. But phrased like that, I'm a little worried I'll be purged when I get back, Third," Yorin said, half-joke, half-serious. "You're not going to 'Danzoed' me, are you?"
"How could we?"
He only grasped half of Yorin's references, but that didn't stop him from catching the gist. Forcing a stiff smile, he said, "This Norman Conquest was a total victory, thanks chiefly to you. You're the hero of the war—when you return, you'll be hailed by everyone. Coming home as a hero—doesn't that sound good? Don't you want that?"
Hearing that, Yorin's face didn't change, but Pakura couldn't help laughing.
The Third realized instantly: talking "heroics" in front of Pakura was a bit too on-the-nose. Poisonous politics.
He grew flustered, even angry. "Konoha is not the same as Suna!"
"Oh? Then how did my teacher die?" Yorin said, out of nowhere. The Third nearly choked. "We didn't expect he'd die! We—"
A heartbeat later, killing intent crashed over the Third like a collapsing sky. "So you admit it—Commander Sakumo was driven to death by you?!"
In an instant, the old man felt a single half-step from hell. If he didn't find the right words, there'd be no "back" from Susanoo and twin thunderflames—he could cram Enma down his own throat and still end up a smear.
Super-Kage.
Absolutely super-Kage level.
How do you beat that? You don't.
He blurted at once: "Wait—Yorin, calm down! As we said before—it was Danzō. Danzō's idea; Danzō executed it. We did not… truly… participate!"
"It was a mission touching the Daimyo's interests!" he shouted, desperate. "All of Konoha bore enormous pressure! We had no choice—we had no choice!'
Yorin drew a long breath, then pressed the fire down.
He'd have Pakura draw cups later—let the "cupping" drain this bile.
"Thank Danzō some more, old man," he said lightly, sheathing his blade. The Third began to relax—then Yorin punched him in the gut, hard enough to nearly bring up last night's dinner.
That was merciful. Yorin's next words were: "If he weren't taking the blame for you, you'd have died eight hundred times by now."
…
"Kh—koff." The Third was angry, but not so angry. In the end, Yorin's fist had done what words could not.
This isn't fifty years ago; there is no twin suns of Konoha, no Madara and Hashirama balancing each other while the Sarutobi tribe swings through the canopy like monkeys. He didn't know about Nagato. Even if he did—why would Nagato save him from Yorin?
If Yorin acted like a stargazing fool like Shisui or Itachi, they might game him. But he was too sharp by half. Untrickable.
So—he would do what he liked. Who would stop him?
In such times, the Third's policy was appeasement. Appease outside the village, appease inside the village—he loved the Uchiha now, loved Yorin: born a "push" for Uchiha Yorin, and he'd "support" him 'til he died.
"If you can set aside old hatred, good," the Third managed, and Yorin responded with a single "heh."
That made the Third even jumpier. He hemmed and hawed, looking like he'd bullied an old man, until Yorin took pity.
"All right—new topic," said Yorin. "Relax. Watergate's my brother. Uchiha won't betray Konoha. But the clan's treatment needs an upgrade, wouldn't you say? When we return, we talk reform."
"If you truly think so… good…"
Yorin: "So—aside from escorting aid here to supervise me—what else did you come for?"
"A—actually, there is one more thing." The Third hesitated. "Kumogakure sent envoys. They want to discuss an alliance."