"Demon! You... you are a demon incarnate!"
Ōnoki's furious roar was undercut by the pathetic, continuous trickle still escaping him. He gestured weakly with a trembling hand at the field of incapacitated shinobi. "These... these are the elites of our villages! Men and women with kekkei genkai, with generations of talent! How many bloodlines will be extinguished because of this?!"
His voice cracked, not just from pain, but from a profound, nation-crippling grief. "This is a loss for our villages... a loss for the entire shinobi world!"
On Konoha's walls, the defenders watched the scene with a mixture of awe, horror, and profound relief that they were on the other side. Many unconsciously shifted their stance, a hand drifting to protect their vitals. The lesson was visceral.
Jiraiya, the legendary Sannin, felt a cold sweat that had nothing to do with battle. He made a silent, solemn vow to his future self: Never, under any circumstances, get on Namikaze Raimon's bad side. The hot springs and my manuscripts are my life. I need all my parts to enjoy them fully.
Beside him, Sarutobi Hiruzen took a long, weary drag from his pipe, the smoke failing to mask the grim set of his jaw. The sight was a chilling warning.
"I must... accelerate the debt collection from the clan," he muttered to himself, the weight of leadership and self-preservation crushing down. He would not let the Sarutobi name end with Konohamaru, nor would he allow his clan to be... pruned.
The funds from the Land of Waves mission should have helped, but that traitor Danzō had vanished with the proceeds. With a final, troubled glance, Hiruzen melted into the shadows on the wall, his mind already racing through account ledgers and mission reports.
"Tsunade," Jiraiya whispered, sidling closer to the blonde Hokage. "Hypothetically... medically speaking... if a certain... appendage were to be... separated... could you reattach it?"
His voice was uncharacteristically timid, his eyes darting nervously toward the battlefield.
Tsunade shot him a glare that could curdle milk. "No."
Her answer was flat, final. Even if her legendary regeneration technique could, the idea was repulsive.
"Oh? Is yours in jeopardy?" she asked, her gaze flickering downward with clinical disdain.
Jiraiya yelped, clapping his hands over his groin as if shielding it from an invisible attack. "It's present! Fully present and accounted for! Just... theoretical inquiry! For a friend! A very concerned friend!"
He backpedaled rapidly. "Ah! Look at the time! Post-battle administrative duties! Mountains of scrollwork! The Hokage's office calls!"
In a puff of smoke more desperate than dramatic, Jiraiya vanished, his voice echoing from the staircase. "Carry on!"
"Not surrendering yet? You've got stamina, I'll give you that," Raimon mused, arms crossed as he observed the two elders writhing in the muck. Then he snapped his fingers. "Ah, right. We're missing the guest of honor."
He vanished. Two and a half seconds later, the air popped, and he reappeared, unceremoniously dumping the Fourth Raikage onto the soggy ground. The Raikage landed squarely on his grievously injured rear, a fresh wave of agony wrenching a guttural cry from his throat. He jerked upright, only to slip and plunge face-first into the foul, urine-laden mud.
"Gah! Damn it! The stench!" he spluttered, vomiting up a mouthful of putrid water. It took several heaving breaths before he could acclimatize to the olfactory horror.
"At this point... what choice do we have?" The Raikage's voice was hollow, all fight drained away. He looked at Chiyo and Ōnoki, his expression one of utter defeat. They had been arrogant. They had believed their 'Anti-Raimon' gear and combined numbers were a trump card. But they had been a coalition, not an army—a disorganized mob lacking unified command, coordination, or a coherent strategy against a singular, teleporting threat.
If they had truly integrated their forces from the start, if even a few thousand Earth Release users had acted in concert, they could have buried Konoha in a crater. But now? They were just broken bodies in a bog, and their opinions mattered less than the flies beginning to buzz around them.
"Anyway... I can't hold out any longer," the Raikage grunted, his gaze shifting from his stubborn allies to the implacable Raimon. Reckless he might be, but he was no fool. An injured buttock could heal. Some losses were permanent. "I surrender. The Hidden Cloud Village yields."
"Hmm. Sensible. A wise leader knows when to fold," Raimon nodded, a mockery of approval in his tone.
Ōnoki, wincing as another kidney stone made its presence known, gritted his teeth. "Iwagakure... surrenders."
Money could be repaid. Lands could be taxed. As long as he lived, there was a path forward.
Only Chiyo remained silent, her face a mask of torment that went beyond the physical. Sunagakure was a village of sand and scarcity. The reparations she knew were coming would beggar them for a generation. But refusal meant annihilation. The choice was between slow starvation and immediate extinction.
"...The Hidden Sand Village... surrenders," she finally forced out, the words tasting of ash and defeat. A part of her bitterly regretted dodging Ōnoki's Dust Release. A clean, honorable vaporization would have been preferable to this.
"Excellent! A unanimous decision!" Raimon clapped his hands once. With a series of swift hand signs, he released the torturous quartet of jutsu.
Across the field, tens of thousands of Shadow Clones dissipated into wisps of smoke. The oppressive physiological pressure vanished. A chorus of exhausted, relieved sobs and whimpers rose, punctuated by the thuds of those who finally passed out from the ordeal.
"Saved! I'm saved!" Kankuro laughed, a hysterical, broken sound. He had endured, vomiting bile, but he had endured. His future as a man was intact.
His joy was a cruel beacon for others. The self-mutilators—those who had taken the kunai to themselves in desperate, panicked moments—looked from their joyous comrade to their own emptiness. A profound hollowness settled in their chests.
"Maybe... it's for the best," one older shinobi muttered, his voice numb. "No more distractions. Save money. A quiet retirement..."
But for the younger ones, the newly-minted genin who had just begun to taste life's pleasures, the despair was absolute. Their futures, their dreams of family, felt amputated along with their flesh.
"Now that we're all in agreement," Raimon's voice cut through the murmurs, cheerful and businesslike. "Let's discuss compensation!"
The three leaders stiffened. This was the moment they dreaded.
"First, my consultation and conflict resolution fee. Let's call it a nice, round... one billion ryo. Each."
"One billion?!" Chiyo shrieked, her voice cracking. "That's our entire annual funding from the Wind Daimyo! You might as well slit our throats!"
"Robbery? Isn't that what we're engaged in right now?" Raimon spread his hands, the picture of reason.
"Shameless!"
"Heh. And uniting four great villages to bully one man isn't?" Raimon countered. He noted the Raikage and Tsuchikage's sullen silence. They weren't poor; they were calculating. Arguing might double the price. A billion was painful, but manageable for their resource-rich lands.
"Fine. A billion it is," Ōnoki ground out, looking away."Agreed," the Raikage muttered, already mentally drafting the requisition order.
"Good! Now, ancillary fees. Environmental remediation—this land is now a toxic swamp. Konoha's wall-scrubbing and air-freshening costs. Emotional distress for our citizens who had to witness... all this. Let's lump it together." Raimon tapped his chin theatrically. "Say... fifty billion ryo. Each."
This time, even the Raikage blanched. "Fifty billion?! That's outrageous!"
"Outrageous? Look around!" Raimon gestured broadly. "Will grass ever grow here again? The stench will linger for months, a psychological assault on our village! It's a bargain!"
After much fruitless haggling—which mostly consisted of Chiyo theatrically offering her neck and Raimon ignoring her—the final figure was settled. Fifty-five billion ryo. Each. The Hidden Mist Village, once a new Mizukage was instated, would receive a politely worded but unequivocal invoice for the same amount, plus late fees.
Default? The unspoken threat hung in the air, more potent than any signed treaty. Raimon would personally ensure every adult male in the defaulting village shared a certain... uniform lack of equipment. He left the tedious treaty drafting and payment schedules to Tsunade; bureaucracy was her headache now.
****
Far away, in the perpetually raining Amegakure, Uchiha Obito felt it—a sudden, clean severance in his chakra control. The link to Yagura, the Three-Tails Jinchuriki, had been completely cut.
He slammed a fist against the cold steel of his hideout. "Useless! All of them, utterly useless!"
He had expected the combined might of the four villages, plus Danzō's treachery, to grind Konoha down over days, providing perfect cover for Akatsuki's operations. Instead, the entire war had been concluded in a single, humiliating night.
His Sharingan spun with fury. Space distorted around him. A heartbeat later, he stood on a high tree branch overlooking the Konoha battlefield, the scene of carnage and indignity laid out below him.
His single visible eye scanned the figures. The Raikage, broken. Ōnoki, defeated. Chiyo, despairing. Danzō was conspicuously absent. And Yagura...
"Where is he?" Obito hissed, his chakra senses flaring. "Where is my Jinchuriki? Where is my Three-Tails?"
The Mizukage, his powerful pawn, was simply gone. Not captured, not restrained—erased from the battlefield as if he'd never been. The only force capable of such a clean, instantaneous removal...
His gaze locked onto the lone, triumphant figure of Namikaze Raimon, standing clean amidst the filth, already delegating the spoils of war.
A cold, utter hatred crystallized in Obito's heart, sharper than any blade.
"Namikaze... Raimon."The name was a curse on his lips."Omae wa... shindeiru."(You... are truly deserving of death.)