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Fire Capital.
Inside the Daimyo's manor, the air was warm and filled with laughter.
A small banquet was underway.
There were no high-ranking court officials present, only Arashi's most trusted confidants, those who had followed him long before he gained power.
Arashi held a wine cup, smiling as he watched them.
Their faces were flushed from drinking, their words slurred as they boasted about old glories.
Everything felt like the old days, gathered around a fire in that small courtyard, plotting in secret.
Joking, scolding, carefree.
Yet Arashi clearly sensed that something was different.
When his gaze swept over them, the boasting would quiet.
Their smiles, though familiar, carried awe.
Once, they had been comrades in the same boat.
Now, he was the ruler, and they were his subordinates.
An invisible chasm separated them.
Perhaps this was what it meant to be a lonely sovereign.
To gain supreme power was also to bear the solitude that came with it.
This fleeting reflection was soon brushed aside.
For Arashi, it was only an idle thought after a good meal.
His mind drifted elsewhere.
He thought of the Guardian Ninja he had sent to the construction site.
On a whim, he had assigned a group of proud elite ninja to oversee the work.
He wondered if this casual decision might change them.
Perhaps it would. Perhaps it wouldn't.
It didn't matter.
If it succeeded, it would be a pleasant surprise.
If not, it would cost nothing.
He knew well that trimming a few branches could not change the tree itself.
What he truly cared about was the Genius Cultivation Program.
He would use this funding to firmly bind Konoha's next generation.
From the moment they were blank slates, he would carve his mark into their hearts.
He would redefine the Will of Fire.
He wanted to tell them.
Konoha's future ninja would no longer fight to protect only the Village, or vague ideals of glory and bonds.
They would protect Daimyo-sama, the Land of Fire, and the millions of people living on this soil.
That was his true intention.
As he thought of this, Arashi's gaze deepened.
By his calculations, next year Minato and Kushina would die in the Nine-Tails' attack.
After that, the Uchiha clan would face annihilation.
Should he change that fate?
If he did, he could save lives, but the consequences would ripple unpredictably.
If he didn't...
Arashi stared into the swirling wine in his cup, his eyes thoughtful.
If he let events unfold, the Uchiha would be destroyed, and Sasuke would be forged into a blade of vengeance.
The Nine-Tails' attack would also give him an unexpected advantage.
Uzumaki Naruto, Uchiha Sasuke—he needed only to guide them slightly. They could become his spear and his shield.
A living, beloved Fourth Hokage was far less useful than a dead hero.
A unified, powerful Uchiha clan was far less convenient than a single heir consumed by revenge.
That was the simplest, most efficient path.
To conform to fate, and then reap the rewards.
Arashi's fingers tapped against the table.
The laughter in the hall quieted.
He ignored it, a mocking smile touching his lips.
He was mocking fate—and mocking himself for thinking so coldly.
Efficiency? Tools?
That was the mindset of a craftsman.
He was the Daimyo.
The ruler of a nation.
He should not be content with merely using existing tools.
A true nation should not be built on tragedies carefully orchestrated by design.
It should stand upon the devotion of its people.
Besides, following fate was far too boring.
Arashi looked at his reflection in the cup, his interest rekindled.
If he twisted this fate and made it play out differently... that would be much more interesting.
Once that thought took root, all hesitation vanished.
His smile softened again.
He raised his cup, his clear voice cutting through the noise.
"Come, gentlemen."
Everyone lifted their glasses, eyes fixed on him.
Arashi looked at those who had followed him to this day, speaking clearly.
"To our future—filled with endless possibilities. Cheers."
He drank in one smooth motion.
Meanwhile.
At Konoha's outpost on the Kumo border.
After half a month of drought, a sudden downpour drenched the land.
Raindrops as large as beans struck the tents with a sharp pattering sound.
Cracked earth turned to mud, the air heavy with the scent of soil and blood.
Unlike the laughter in the Fire Capital, this place was steeped in the stench of death.
Jiraiya stood atop the watchtower, rain streaming down his face.
The legendary Sannin had none of his usual carefree demeanor now.
Suddenly, a shout rose from below.
"Jiraiya-sama! The relief troops from the Village have arrived!"
The voice pierced through the rain and echoed through the camp.
Jiraiya's eyes lit up instantly.
He leapt down, landing heavily in the mud, splashing dirt everywhere.
The arrival of the relief team meant that the exhausted ninja who had fought for nearly a year could finally return home.
The camp erupted in cheers.
"That's great! We can finally go back!"
"Hahaha, my wife wrote that my son can already run. I need to hug him tight when I get home!"
"First thing I'll do is eat three bowls of Ichiraku Ramen!"
Countless ninja rushed from their tents into the rain, faces alight with joy.
Those whose rotation had not yet come could only look on enviously.
Jiraiya smiled at the sight, warmth flickering in his eyes.
He strode toward the camp gate to greet his comrades.
When he saw who was leading the relief unit, he froze.
"Shikaku? Choza? Inoichi? Fugaku?"
The current clan heads of the Ino–Shika–Chō and the Uchiha clans—old comrades from his generation.
Nara Shikaku smiled wryly. "This weather feels like we're in Ame."
They had departed right after the cultivation funds were distributed.
The journey had been clear and sunny, yet as they arrived, the rain had drenched them completely.
Akimichi Choza waved cheerfully, his usual warm smile in place.
Inoichi and Fugaku both nodded at Jiraiya.
"Why did you come in person?" Jiraiya clapped Shikaku and the others on the shoulder. "You could have sent any Jonin for this kind of mission."
Fugaku chuckled. "I brought my son to see the world."
Jiraiya's gaze shifted downward.
Behind Fugaku stood a small figure in Uchiha attire, standing silently in the rain.
"Are you insane? He's only four years old!" Jiraiya's voice hardened. "This is the Kumo border!"
"Uchiha children don't need to grow up in a greenhouse," Fugaku replied, then looked down at his son. "Itachi, greet Jiraiya-sama."
Little Itachi lifted his face to the legendary Sannin and said politely, "Hello, Jiraiya-sama."
His tone was calm, his voice still carrying the softness of a child.
"...Hello," Jiraiya answered, his voice quiet. He didn't press further. It wasn't his place to question another father.
He turned to the others. "And what about you?"
Shikaku sighed. "Too many things are happening in the Village. The three of us came out to avoid the noise."
Jiraiya frowned slightly, feeling something off. But now wasn't the time to discuss it.
He laughed, throwing an arm around Shikaku's shoulder. "Whatever the reason, I'm glad you're here!"
"Tonight, I'll host a banquet—both a welcome for you and a farewell for those heading home!"
The banquet was lively, laughter echoing long into the night.
Later that night, when the camp had gone quiet, Jiraiya sat awake in his tent.
The reports from Konoha haunted his mind.
The Daimyo's moves had gone far beyond his expectations.
He wanted to discuss it, but even Shikaku had left the Village to avoid the chaos, proof that things had grown dire.
He wanted to return to Konoha to see for himself, but he couldn't abandon his post. As the commander at the front lines, leaving without authorization was impossible.
Frustration gnawed at him. He paced inside his tent, but the more he thought, the heavier his thoughts became.
A sense of powerlessness pressed down on him.
"No... I must go to Mount Myōboku."
He would ask the Great Toad Sage. Perhaps the old prophet could reveal the path ahead.
Resolute, Jiraiya stopped pacing, quickly forming hand signs.
"Summoning Jutsu!"
(To be continued.)
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