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Chapter Text

Sarutobi Hiruzen had never truly understood how silence could settle into a home—not simply the absence of sound, but a quiet that had weight, texture, presence. A silence that seemed to sit with him, watch him, breathe beside him. The Sarutobi clan main residence had once been full—too full, even—with life spilling into every hall. The wooden floors had carried the echo of his sons’ footsteps racing from one room to the next, Biwako’s soft voice calling after them, laughter bouncing bright and warm off paper screens. He remembered summer evenings in the courtyard, the rhythmic clack of wooden practice swords, the low murmur of Biwako’s scolding turning to laughter when their sons protested too dramatically.

Now, the floors were polished without purpose, the air still, the tatami mats untouched. The rooms had been cleaned, preserved, maintained—yet they felt more like shrines than living spaces. Nothing had been moved, but everything was gone.

He no longer lived in the main residence.

That part of the estate remained closed to him now—quietly, politely, without confrontation. Instead, he had been guided to the side house—once meant for visiting dignitaries—at the far edge of the grounds. Distant enough that no one passing through the central home would hear him moving. Distant enough that his absence created no disruption.

Not exile.

Just… removal.

A relic set aside.

Hiruzen sat upon the engawa, the narrow wooden platform stretching along the edge of the building. The boards beneath his palms held the last touch of night’s chill. The garden beyond was quiet in a way that felt deliberate, as if even the breeze had learned restraint. Dawn advanced in slow degrees, pale gold blooming across stone and moss.

He brought his pipe to his lips. The ember glowed, smoke winding upward in soft, unravelling threads. The action was muscle memory now—more habit than comfort.

He had started rising before the sun each day, sitting here as light returned. As though, by witnessing the moment the world brightened, he might feel something shift within himself.

But no matter how many dawns came and went, the warmth never reached him.

The sun touched the garden, the engawa, the wooden frame of the side house—but not him.

He remained cold.

His hands had begun to tremble sometime after Danzou’s execution. Subtle at first. Then constant. The healers had spoken of age, strain, frayed nerves. Hiruzen had nodded and said nothing. He understood the tremor better than they did.

Loss, after too long ignored, had finally found a place to settle.

He reached for the tea tray beside him. He already knew his hands would falter. He lifted the clay pot. Hot liquid spilled across his knuckles, sharp and bright. He hissed softly and set the pot down too quickly, the motion without grace. He took a folded cloth and dabbed the spill away with slow care, as though rushing might disturb the fragile stillness around him.

Steam rose in delicate curls. Light. Floral. Faintly green.

Orochimaru’s tea.

The leaves had been grown in the gardens behind his house, tended in small ceramic planters arranged by height and light exposure. Hiruzen remembered the young man kneeling in the garden soil at dawn, long fingers moving with precision, the faint concentration tugging at his brow. He had brought the finished blend to Hiruzen without fanfare, voice smooth, posture composed.

There had been something there—something subtle, something almost bright—in those golden eyes.

Hiruzen had not recognized it then.

He recognized it now.

He poured what remained of the tea. There wouldn´t be more. The surface shivered faintly. Steam brushed against his face. He inhaled. He drank.

It did not warm him.

The sun lifted higher, washing the stones and plants in gold. The warmth of the morning deepened—but did not reach his skin, his bones, his breath. The cold remained.

His thoughts moved slowly, rising like sediment disturbed in still water.

He had given everything. His youth. His steadiness. His peace. His family. His students. His name. His honour. He had carried the village through war and rebuilding. He had guided, nurtured, protected.

And still—

They spoke behind his back.

They judged. They whispered. They turned their faces away.

They did not understand the weight he had carried—years of decisions made in closed rooms, sacrifices rendered quietly so others could remain untouched. And now he could not even remember the shape of those decisions.

The memories of his years in office had not merely faded—they had been sealed, stripped from him by jutsu, locked away behind a barrier he could not breach. He knew the seal was there. He could feel it, like a wall inside the mind that his thoughts struck and recoiled from. The years he had ruled were now only impressions—hollow, distant—like trying to recall a dream long after waking.

Danzou had acted for the village—twisted, yes, but not without purpose. Loyalty expressed through necessity. Sacrifice borne alone so others did not have to see the blood.

But no one cared for intent.

They only cared that it dirtied their ideals.

Why could they not understand? Why could they not see the cost? The burden?

Why had they turned away from him, after everything he had done?

Why had he?

The pipe smoke rose and dissipated into the light.

The sun warmed the garden.

Hiruzen felt only the cold.

As the sun continued to rise, it cast slow-moving bands of light across the tiled rooftops and winding streets of Konohagakure, warming the air by degrees. The village was quiet in the early hour, the morning mist still clinging low between the homes, drifting like pale breath. Yet even as the light spread outward across the world, Hiruzen remained seated on the engawa, motionless.

The warmth touched everything but him.

The garden stones glowed softly where moss clung thick to their surfaces. Leaves on the persimmon tree rustled with the faintest stirring breeze, their edges gilded by the sun. Even the old well near the outer wall—its wood worn smooth by decades of seasons—caught the new light and held it like memory.

But Hiruzen’s skin did not warm. His bones did not ease. His breath did not soften.

He lifted his teacup for the final sip. The ceramic, still faintly warm, pressed into the pads of his fingertips. The taste that lingered was the ghost of what it had been—an echo of floral brightness now muted by cooling water and time.

He did not consider this quietness self-pity.

No—he told himself it was reflection. A man sitting with the weight of his years. A man accustomed to the burden of thought, of decision, of history. A man who had given all of himself to the village, only to feel the village turning its back on him. But he did not name any of that directly—not to himself. He simply breathed and continued.

When the cup was empty, he gathered the tray. His hands moved slowly. The tea set clinked lightly, porcelain against wood, the sound stark in the vast morning stillness. He stood, his joints protesting in a muted way—stiff as though cold had settled into them long ago and never left.

Inside, the side house was silent.

The interior was clean. Ordered. Immaculate. A place arranged to appear comfortable, but without the warmth of being lived in. It was too neat. Too spare. No shoes left carelessly near the entry. No half-folded laundry. No toys. No traces of growing children.

In the end it was just a space meant for hosting temporary guests.

Not a home.

He moved to the kitchen.

The dishes were placed into the sink with gentleness, each movement mindful, as though any noise would fracture the silence. Then he reached for his breakfast waiting on the counter, arranged neatly on a small serving tray.

Rice, shaped carefully. Salmon, grilled just long enough to flake. Crisp pickles. Steam rising from miso soup in a small lacquer bowl.

A meal Biwako used to make.

His hand stopped.

The bowl hovered just above the counter, steam curling around his fingers and dissipating into the cool morning air. The faint scent of miso and seaweed rose like memory, cutting into him without warning.

Only—Biwako would not be preparing anything ever again.

She had told him so herself.

Just days after he had been removed from office. Days before Danzou’s execution.

The memory rose sharply—no gentle drift from thought to recollection, but something hauled upward all at once, dragging cold along with it.

The main house had still been his then.

The rooms were full of the echoes of a family, though even then he had walked those rooms like a guest—his presence familiar but not rooted. He had been sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea cooling untouched in his hands. The pipe beside him rested in its stand, unused.

His head had felt hollow.

His thoughts moved in slow circles, searching for pathways that were no longer there. His years in office—strategies, decisions, wartime compromises—were sealed. Not forgotten. Sealed. He could feel where the memories should have been, like pressing against a wall from the inside.

Hatake had said it was necessary.

“Liability,” the young man had told him.

The word had echoed after he spoke it, lingering.

Hiruzen had scoffed quietly into his cup. Sakumo, young and stern, with ideals too clean for reality, speaking of what must be done. Still green behind the ears. And yet—

The clan heads and the Daimyo had agreed.

There had been nothing Hiruzen could do.

He stared out the window. The sun was lowering slowly, stretching thin along the path. Biwako had taken the children—Souma and Asuma—to visit her sister in Yu no Kuni. They had run to her, laughing, carefree.

He had not known how to tell her.

He still didn’t.

The door at the front of the house slammed open.

He heard footsteps—sharp, fast, driven.

Biwako entered, still in her travel kimono. Her face was set, her jaw tense, her eyes burning. Souma and Asuma followed after her, shoulders drawn tight, the quiet of children who sensed something terrible. They remained close but did not speak.

“Go to your rooms,” Biwako said.

Her voice did not raise.

But it shook.

The boys did not hesitate. They disappeared down the hall. The sliding door closed behind them.

Silence expanded.

Biwako turned.

Hiruzen rose.

He did not speak a word.

He did not have the chance.

Her hand struck him across the face—open, sharp, full-bodied—carrying the weight of grief and disbelief and a love that had been strained to breaking.

The sound echoed in the kitchen.

And then there was only silence again.

Hiruzen’s head snapped to the side with the full force of the blow, the crack of it ringing in his ears a moment before the heat bloomed across his cheek. The sting came sharp and immediate, radiating outward in a slow, pulsing throb. His hand rose instinctively, fingertips brushing the reddening skin—touching the place where Biwako’s palm, steady and sure as always, had struck him not out of cruelty, but out of a pain so deep it had no other shape.

He froze.

His breath caught somewhere between his chest and throat, suspended. His vision swam for half a heartbeat before steadiness returned, and when it did, it found Biwako standing before him—rooted, shaking, alive with fury.

Her chest lifted and fell in harsh, uneven bursts, each breath dragged through clenched teeth. Her raised hand trembled faintly, still suspended in the air between them, though whether from the physical aftermath of the slap or the storm of emotion running through her body, Hiruzen could not tell. A muscle in her jaw twitched, stark against the tight set of her expression.

“Biwako—” he whispered, her name slipping from him before he could stop it, soft and stunned, a plea and an apology tangled together.

But she did not allow him even that.

“How could you?”

Her voice cracked—but not in weakness. It cracked like wood under strain, like something long pushed past its limit. Her hand dropped to her side, fingers curling into a fist with deliberate, seething control. The other followed, both fists tight at her hips. Her eyes flashed as she repeated, louder, harsher, every syllable striking like another blow:

“How. Could. You?”

Hiruzen did not answer. He couldn’t. His throat felt thick, his tongue heavy. He simply stared at her—really looked at her—and in her eyes he saw anger sharpened into a blade, but beneath it… deeper things. Hurt. Betrayal. Disappointment. Sorrow. All braided tightly together.

Emotions he had never expected, never wanted, to see directed at him.

Finally, after what felt like a long stretch of hollow silence, he managed to force out a question:

“How did you know?”

Biwako’s jaw clenched again, the lines of her face hardening. Her nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply through her nose, steadying herself only enough to speak.

“We came back early,” she said, each word clipped, trembling with effort. “We went to the tower to surprise you. To talk to you. To see you.”

She lifted a hand to her hair, dragging shaking fingers through the loosened strands. The motion was restless, pained. When she looked back at him, her gaze had sharpened further, accusation cutting through the space between them like a drawn blade.

“And instead, we found Sakumo and Orochimaru sitting in the office.”

Her voice dropped then—low, brittle, dangerous.

“They told me everything.”

The room seemed to shrink. The air grew thick, heavy, difficult to draw in. Hiruzen felt the walls closing in, the weight of what she knew pressing down on both of them.

“Though that doesn’t fucking matter right now,” Biwako burst out suddenly, her voice rising, raw, cleaving through whatever explanation he had been forming. “What matters is—why didn’t you tell me?”

Her eyes shone—not with tears, but with a fury sharpened by hurt so deep it tightened every muscle in her face.

“Why didn’t you send word? Why didn’t you write to me so we could have come back sooner?”

Hiruzen swallowed hard. His throat felt scraped raw.

“I didn’t want to ruin your trip,” he said quietly.

The expression she gave him then was something he had never seen from her before—disbelief, scorched into fury.

“You,” she hissed, voice trembling with outrage, “should have sent word immediately. Immediately. Not fucking wait for us to hear it from someone who replaced you.”

Her hands shook now—openly, violently—her breath hissing out through her nose in sharp bursts.

“A dishonourable discharge as Hokage is not something you hide from your wife!” she spat.

She turned away abruptly, her travel robes snapping lightly with the movement as she crossed to the table. She pulled out a chair with a force that scraped harshly against the floor and sat heavily. Her elbows braced against the tabletop before her hands came up to cover her face, fingers pressing hard into her brow as she breathed—one long inhale, one quivering exhale—trying, and failing, to contain herself.

With her head still bowed and one hand still over her eyes, she gestured sharply with the other toward the chair opposite her.

Sit.

Hiruzen obeyed without argument. He lowered himself into the seat slowly, carefully, as if the wood itself might object to his presence. The chair creaked under his weight, the sound echoing far too loudly in the suffocating stillness.

For a long stretch, neither of them spoke. The silence was brittle, stretched thin, as though one wrong breath might shatter it.

Then Biwako lifted her head.

Her eyes were hard—shining with anger, yes, but also something else. Something wounded. Something exhausted. Something afraid of what had already happened, and what might yet come.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” she demanded, her voice slicing clean through the quiet. “Letting Danzou do whatever he wanted—what was going through your head?”

Her voice grew stronger with each word, fuelled by something long withheld—anger fermented over years of warnings ignored, instincts dismissed, truths denied.

“Seriously? He killed our own shinobi. For his own gain. He stole clan heirs. He instigated war. For what? For a fucking delusion that he would be Hokage one day?”

A harsh, humourless laugh escaped her—a sound stripped of mirth and thick with fury.

“The day Danzou became Hokage, the village would have been done for! Every other country would have seized the opportunity and raided Konoha. Because Danzou’s strength amounts to shit—to nothing.”

She leaned forward over the table, eyes burning into him with searing intensity.

“And you—” she said, her voice low, trembling with accusation, “you were the idiot who let it happen.”

Hiruzen’s brows drew together sharply, a flicker of anger breaking through his shock. His voice rose without thought, instinctively defending—himself, his choices, the man he had trusted.

“He was trying—he made mistakes, but it was for the good of Konoha—”

Biwako cut him off with a sharp, bitter laugh that held no warmth.

“I always warned you about him,” she snapped. “Always. How rotten he was. And everyone else saw it too—everyone except you.”

She pressed both palms flat against the table, leaning forward, her voice cutting and unrelenting.

“Did you even stop for a single minute to think what could have happened if Danzou kept going? He planned to wipe out clans. He stole clan children. Did you think—ever—what that would have meant for Konoha? For the Sarutobi clan?”

Her voice dropped to a cold, devastating whisper, the words carrying the weight of every fear she had kept quiet until now.

“It would have meant civil war.”

Hiruzen stared at her, stunned, almost uncomprehending. The words civil war hit him not like an echo but like a weight—heavy, sinking, dragging slow and deep through his mind until every corner felt unsettled. His mouth opened, closed, opened again, the breath in his chest tightening into something thin and strained. His brows pulled together, confusion twisting into something quieter, something like fear he did not yet have the courage to name.

“That—what do you mean? Surely you don’t believe it would have come to that,” he said, the disbelief fraying the edges of his voice.

Biwako stared at him as though he were a familiar silhouette hollowed out and replaced with someone she didn’t know.

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she brought a hand to her forehead, dragging her fingers across her skin in a slow, trembling motion meant to hold herself steady. Her breath came long and deep—shuddering on the way in, heavy on the way out. Then she folded her hands tightly together in front of her, the tension in her knuckles stark and white.

“Are you serious right now?” she asked, her voice low, trembling with disbelief rather than tears. “Of course it would’ve come to a confrontation.”

Her eyes locked onto his, unblinking and sharp. The kitchen seemed to draw in around them, shrinking under the pressure of her gaze.

“What do you think would’ve happened if another clan had found out before Orochimaru did?” she demanded. “Do you think they would sit idle and swallow that kind of disrespect?”

She shook her head sharply, almost violently.

“No. They would’ve come for the village. For the Hokage. They would’ve rallied their allies—families whose children were also taken. And what about the clans who lost their members because Danzou thought them a threat to his—” she lifted her chin and put on airs, mocking his former friend’s arrogance, “—position as Hokage?”

Her hands fell to her sides, fingers curling into her robes, her arms trembling with the effort of holding herself together.

“Maybe you are strong enough to stand against them,” she said, bitterness thick in her tone, “but the rest of the Sarutobi clan is not. I am not. And our children certainly wouldn’t have been.”

The words settled between them like frost—cold, heavy, merciless.

Suddenly Biwako shoved her chair back, the legs scraping across the floor in a harsh burst of sound. She stood, shoulders stiff and crossed the kitchen. The kettle clattered onto the stove, metal ringing sharply in the air.

She needed a cup of tea. The movement. Something to keep her hands occupied.

Hiruzen watched silently. He watched her shoulders rise and fall in tight, clipped breaths. Watched her keep her back to him just long enough to gather whatever remained of her patience.

The water began to heat, humming low and steady.

Biwako leaned against the counter, palms braced behind her, and turned her gaze on him again—unflinching, unsoftened.

“Because you let this go on for so long. Because you wouldn’t rein Danzou in. Because you closed your eyes to what was right in front of you,” she said, voice steady but shaking at the edges of hurt, “the clans would’ve held us responsible.”

Her voice sharpened.

“They would’ve wanted revenge. For the clan to take responsibility. And they would’ve done it in the same way Danzou did to them.”

The kettle’s simmering deepened, vibrating through the tense air.

“How,” she whispered, disbelief cracking through every syllable, “how did you never think about something like this happening?”

Hiruzen inhaled, but the breath felt too tight for his chest. He opened his mouth, closed it—because the truth she demanded was one, he didn’t want to face.

He hadn’t thought of it that way.

With the war raging, with trying to uphold his sensei’s teachings, with the heavy weight of “duty” crushing down on him day by day… he had been relieved when Danzou told him he would handle what Hiruzen could not. The darker things. The difficult things. The things that stained one’s hands.

“I… it wasn’t that simple,” he said quietly, voice fraying. “You wouldn’t understand the burden—the sacrifices—we had to take on to keep the village standing.”

Biwako let out a short, sharp laugh—a sound edged with bitterness rather than humour. She shook her head, looking at him as though he’d said the most absurd thing imaginable.

“You mean the sacrifice made by the people that piece of shit abducted and murdered?” she asked, voice flat.

Hiruzen flinched. A small motion, but far too telling.

Silence stretched between them, taut as wire, until the kettle finally broke into a piercing whistle.

Biwako moved without looking at him, turning back to the stove. She poured the water with steady hands and prepared herself a cup of tea. She didn’t ask if he wanted one. She didn’t so much as glance his way.

She returned to the table and sat, lifting the cup to her lips. The steam rose in pale curls, and Hiruzen watched—wondering, as always, how she could drink something so scalding without so much as a flinch.

She set the cup down gently before lifting her gaze back to him.

“Where is he?” she asked.

Hiruzen blinked, confusion tugging faintly at his features.

“Who?” he asked, voice small.

Her voice cracked—quietly, but with the force of something breaking inside her.

“The man I married,” she said. “The man who stood between the children of this village and the cruelty of the world. The man who taught his students to protect the weak. The man who once told me that if we ever lose sight of people’s hearts, we’d lose the right to lead.”

Her fingers tightened around the cup, knuckles whitening.

“Where did he go, Hiruzen?” she whispered. “When did he stop protecting the children he claimed he loved?”

Hiruzen was taken aback by the pain in his wife’s voice.

Not just the pain—the certainty of it. A low, trembling certainty that wove through every syllable she spoke, the kind of quiet devastation that came only when a heart had been splintering for far too long. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t even disappointment. It was the sound of something precious finally breaking along a fault line she had braced with patience, with loyalty, with love—and which now, at last, had fractured beyond repair.

The sound reached him in places he had spent years hardening, sealing away beneath layers of duty and image and justification. It slipped through all of it as though those layers had never existed.

He wanted—desperately, instinctively—to reach out. To touch her wrist. To say her name softly. To lean forward and beg her not to look at him like that. To promise he could still be the man she once believed him to be.

But he didn’t dare.

His courage—once a mantle he had worn effortlessly—felt thin now, frayed, brittle, like paper crumbling at the edges after too many seasons in harsh light.

All he managed was a slow, weary exhale.

“I tried.”

Biwako shook her head at once—sharp, decisive, a denial born not of impulse but of long‑held hurt.

“No, you didn’t try,” she said. “You just let Danzou do the work for you. You watched him do these things.”

Her voice trembled—not with uncertainty, but with the force of truth finally spoken aloud.

“A man who explains his choices,” she continued, eyes narrowing, “does not answer to them.”

The words struck him like cold iron.

Hiruzen flinched. His shoulders tightened. His gaze shifted downward for the briefest second—just long enough for the shame to show.

But Biwako was nowhere near finished.

Her gaze sharpened, the exhaustion in it crystallizing into something harder, something honed by years of warning him, pleading with him, being ignored by him.

“Since when did you become such a coward?” she asked. “Since when did you become so complacent, so blind?”

He opened his mouth—nothing came. Not a word. Not even the beginning of one.

And she knew he had no answer.

“You let one of your students rot in the hospital,” she said, her tone steady, relentless. “Let another drown in grief. And you abandoned the third when he needed guidance the most.”

Each accusation landed like a stone dropped squarely in his chest, sinking heavy and unavoidably into the truth he had never wanted to face.

Hiruzen stared at her, stunned, and for once—truly—he had no answer. No excuse, no justification, no hollow reasoning to fill the silence.

Biwako drank the rest of her tea in a single, decisive swallow. The cup hit the table harder than necessary, the porcelain ringing sharply in the charged air.

When she looked at him again, she didn’t see her husband—not the man she had chosen, not the man she had trusted.

She saw a stranger.

“I will not let our sons learn from you,” she said.

The air left his lungs at once. His hands twitched as though to reach for something—anything—that could anchor him.

“Come tomorrow,” she continued, “I want you to stay in the guest house on the other side of the clan grounds. I am not willing to look at you anymore—to feed your delusions.”

Hiruzen bristled, a spark of defensive anger flaring for the first time.

“So, you want to leave me now?” he demanded, disbelief cracking through his tone. “How could you—”

Biwako’s eyes flashed—sharp, cutting, unwavering.

“I will remain with the clan,” she said. “I took on that responsibility years ago when I married you. I know my duties—unlike you. And the clan should not suffer from your poor decisions.”

Her voice did not waver.

“It is your fault it came to this. Your actions. Your ignorance.”

He felt his breath catch—short and tight.

“I will remain the clan matriarch,” she said, each word careful, “but I will not remain yours.”

The sentence hit harder than any physical strike ever could have.

“You have to go.”

She drew a slow, deep breath—preparing herself for the hardest part.

“I will explain to our sons what you’ve done,” she said. “And I will let them decide for themselves if they want to stay in contact with you. But you will not remain in this house—and not by my side.”

Her eyes, finally, filled with tears—not of sentiment, but of exhaustion. Of betrayal. Of a love stretched beyond its limit.

“I’m done with you.”

Hiruzen felt the ground tilt beneath him.

“I still love you,” she whispered, the words trembling, “but I will not stand for your actions. Not for the trust you betrayed—not just mine, not just our children’s, but the village’s.”

Her breath shook as she forced the final blow.

“This is where I invoke the clause in our marriage contract—the one that states a Sarutobi spouse may sever household unity if the clan is endangered by the partner’s decisions. It gives me the right to choose separation—for the safety of the clan.”

Her fingers trembled faintly as she set the cup aside. Then she stood, spine straight but shoulders heavy.

“I want you out by tomorrow evening.”

She carried the cup to the sink, setting it down with a gentleness she had not shown moments before—habit, not softness.

At the doorway, she paused.

“It’s best if you sleep in one of the guest rooms tonight.”

Then she left.

Hiruzen opened his mouth—anger, fear, denial rising to the surface—to say she couldn’t do this, that she didn’t understand.

But nothing left him.

His cowardice—old, familiar, suffocating—rose like a tightening noose.

And once again, it silenced him.

Hiruzen had left the next day.

He remembered every step of that walk—the way the early morning air clung cold to his skin, the way the gravel on the clan path crunched too loudly beneath his sandals, the way the silence stretched across the compound like a verdict. He didn’t leave with dignity or backbone or even outrage. He left because Biwako told him to, because she had looked at him with eyes that no longer held space for him, and there had been nothing in him strong enough to stand against that.

The door sliding shut behind him had sounded final.

That had been nearly two years ago.

Two years since Danzou’s execution.

Two years since he had stood inside the main house, where every tatami mat still remembered the weight of his footsteps.

Two years since Biwako last spoke to him directly—her voice the last thing he heard in that home.

His sons still visited. Once a month. Souma came willingly, trying to smile for him. Asuma arrived stiff‑backed, arms crossed, eyes avoiding his. But Hiruzen took it—took anything. He folded those brief hours into the empty places of his life, convincing himself it was enough, though the ache afterward always said otherwise.

He set his breakfast on the table.

The small kitchen was suffused with faint morning light, thin lines slipping in through the shoji screens and stretching long across the tatami.

He sat slowly.

Lifted his chopsticks.

Ate.

The food was good. Warm. Proper. Nourishing.

But it wasn’t hers.

He chewed quietly, each bite settling somewhere beneath his ribs, leaving behind a strange hollowness no amount of food could fill. The quiet swallowed every sound he made, amplifying the small clinks of his chopsticks, the faint inhale after each sip of soup.

When he reached for the teapot—habit guiding his hand—he paused mid‑air.

Right.

He’d just run out of Orochimaru’s tea.

The realization felt sharp, unnecessary, like a reminder he hadn’t asked for.

What a shame.

But Orochimaru wouldn’t be offering him more. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

His fingers curled back slowly from the handle. He stared at the teapot, at the small chips along the tray’s edge, the way the glaze was wearing thin near the spout. His breath rattled faintly in his chest before he stilled it.

And then the memory hit—sudden and unwelcome.

The last time he spoke to Orochimaru.

The last time his student addressed him.

It rose like something sharp dragged across the inside of his mind—too clear, too vivid, the kind of memory he wished had been sealed away along with the years of his service.

But this one had remained.

A punishment all its own.

The holding cell was dark and cold.

Not filthy—Konoha maintained its structures well—but cold in the way a place meant for judgment always was. The walls were smooth and bare. The cot thin enough that the metal frame pressed through. The air hung still, carrying the faint metallic tang of old chakra suppressants.

Hiruzen sat on the narrow cot, hands resting on his knees, his fingers curled just slightly inward. Beyond the bars, the corridor was dim, lit only by a few torches whose flames flickered weakly against stone walls. He could hear guards moving in the distance—sandals scuffing, muffled voices, keys clinking.

He was waiting.

Waiting for the council to speak.

Waiting for the new Hokage to deliver the verdict.

He had never imagined he would sit on this side of the bars.

A knot of insult twisted itself into the unease coiled in his chest. The air felt too cold. Too still.

But what stung most was the sight directly in front of him.

Orochimaru.

His former student. His pride. His brilliance. The child he had once looked upon and thought, this is the future of the village.

Now he sat in a lacquered chair just outside the cell, one leg crossed neatly over the other, a scroll open in his hands.

Reading.

His posture was loose, elegant. His hair—longer than when Hiruzen last remembered—was tied into a high, immaculate ponytail. His expression was neutral, even serene.

But Hiruzen knew that composure.

Knew the tension coiled beneath it.

Knew the alert sharpness Orochimaru wore like a second skin.

He had taught him to read the battlefield. To hide intention. To mask readiness beneath stillness.

And now, his student used those lessons here.

Against him.

A spike of bitterness rose in Hiruzen’s throat, hot and sour.

He could no longer restrain it.

“How can you do this?” he demanded at last, voice low but cracked with disbelief. “How can you betray me in such a way?”

Orochimaru didn’t look up at first.

His eyes continued scanning the scroll, one slender finger gliding along the page as he turned it with unhurried grace. When he spoke, his tone was cool, almost bored.

“Sarutobi‑sensei, you betrayed everyone else first by siding with a criminal.”

There was no venom in the words.

Just fact.

“Besides,” he went on, “I am not betraying you. I am watching over a potential threat to the village. You might not have done the acts yourself, but ignorance is just as dangerous.”

Only then did Orochimaru lift his gaze.

Golden eyes met his.

Flat. Cold. Utterly unflinching.

“Also, Sensei. It was you who betrayed the village first,” he said. “What did you think would happen? That the clans would simply look away?”

He let out a soft, humourless laugh.

“What a ridiculous thought.”

Hiruzen’s jaw tightened until it ached.

“Where is your loyalty?” he snapped, bitterness spilling into his words. “Or has it disappeared since you let Sakumo between your legs to fuck you like a common whore?”

The effect was instant.

The scroll snapped shut with a sharp, violent crack.

Orochimaru rose—not hurried, not sloppy. Smooth. Controlled. A single fluid motion like a serpent uncoiling.

He stepped toward the bars.

Each step precise, soundless.

He stopped only a breath away, the shadows from the torchlight slicing across his face—half illuminated, half swallowed in darkness.

Orochimaru’s expression did not break—not with rage, not with hurt, not even with disgust. Instead, it settled into something sharpened by years of disappointment, colder than any steel forged in the village he once served. It became precise—razored, honed down to a whisper of a blade.

He stared at Hiruzen for a long, terrible second, the silence stretching thin, stretched so taut it quivered.

Then he spoke.

“You think that demeans me?” Orochimaru asked softly, venom coiling beneath every syllable, sleek and deliberate. “Finding love? Choosing a partner who treats me as a person rather than a possession?”

His voice did not rise. It did not need to. The quiet was scalpel sharp.

He stepped closer, the movement slow, controlled, almost serpentine. His fingers curled around one of the iron bars, pale skin stark against dark metal. The bar creaked faintly under the pressure—just enough to remind Hiruzen of strength held in perfect restraint.

“No, Sarutobi-sensei. What demeans me…” Orochimaru’s eyes narrowed, the gold deepening into amber, “is that I ever wasted years trying to earn your approval.”

Hiruzen’s eyes widened, shock cracking through his features, but the Sannin did not pause. His voice flowed on—low, cutting, relentless.

“You ask where my loyalty is?” he said. “It is with someone who has never lied to me. Someone who has never pretended my worth existed only when it served him. Someone who fought beside me, bled beside me, trusted me even when I could not trust myself.”

The torchlight caught his gaze, making his irises gleam like molten gold.

“Sakumo is worth following in a way you never were.”

A thin, humourless smile ghosted across his lips, brittle as frost.

“And not because he shares my bed—but because he never asked me to crawl for scraps of affection.”

The blow landed hard. Hiruzen flinched, breath shuddering, but Orochimaru continued—his breath steadying, his hand tightening around the bar as though anchoring himself.

“You want to know why you are wrong?” he asked, his tone softening into something even more dangerous. “Because you think loyalty is something owed to you by default. Something your title bought you. But titles mean nothing when the man behind them is a coward.”

The word struck like a thrown kunai.

Hiruzen recoiled.

Orochimaru’s voice dropped further, threading into a quiet, merciless truth—each word sliding with surgical precision.

“You betrayed me long before I ever stopped trying to please you. You betrayed me when you sided with Danzou. When you turned away from everything you once taught me. When you expected me to remain loyal to a man who had already abandoned me.”

He finally released the bar, shoulders rising and falling with a controlled, steady breath.

Then his tone shifted—still honed, but calmer, like steel cooling in water.

“Do you know what I finally understood?” Orochimaru asked. “That I was never anything more than a puppet to show off. A symbol for you to parade before the other clans. ‘Look at my perfect student. Look at the genius I moulded.’”

He exhaled—a faint, brittle sound, scraped raw from somewhere deep.

“As a child I believed you. I believed every word. I believed you loved me. Cared for me.”

His gaze softened—not with warmth, but with the ache of an old wound that had never healed properly.

“I was an orphan,” he said quietly. “A child who lost everything. Becoming the student of the Hokage himself… what else was I supposed to believe?”

Hiruzen looked stricken—truly stricken—but Orochimaru pressed on.

“Maybe some things you said were true,” he allowed, voice low, steady. “But I grew older. I learned. I understood that your affection was conditional. I had to earn it. Constantly.”

He lifted his chin, the motion slow and deliberate, eyes glinting with the sharpness of clarity.

“And I tried. I tried so hard I nearly killed myself for it.”

His voice hardened.

“I went days without sleep delivering different anti-venom formulas, medicines, jutsu analyses you wanted—because you needed it, so I had to. I took mission after mission without rest because the village needed it—so you would not be burdened. I nearly joined Danzou’s machinations because I thought it was what you wanted.”

His fingers curled briefly into fists at his sides.

“And in the end? You abandoned me.”

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating.

Hiruzen’s throat worked. He stood abruptly—reacting, not thinking—and stepped toward the bars. His hand reached out instinctively, reaching through, trying to grasp the hand he had lost so many years ago.

The seal flared.

A burst of chakra snapped violently across his skin.

Hiruzen jerked back with a cry, clutching his hand in pain.

He had forgotten the barrier was active.

Forgotten—or refused to remember—just how far the distance between them had grown.

As he rubbed his scorched hand, he lifted his gaze again.

And for the first time, he really looked.

Orochimaru stood tall, willow-slender, framed by the cold stone and torchlight. His shoulders were pulled back, his stance straight and unbroken. Pain flickered over his features—not fresh pain, but remembered pain, the kind that had shaped him.

For a moment, Hiruzen no longer saw the formidable Sannin.

He saw a small, thin child—shorter than Tsunade and Jiraiya, face half-hidden behind a curtain of black hair, eyes too haunted for someone so young.

The memory stabbed.

“I did love you,” Hiruzen said, voice cracking. “You were like a son to me.”

Orochimaru let out a soft, bitter chuckle—a sound with no humour, only exhaustion.

“Were I truly your son,” he said, “you would not have told everyone I was exaggerating to escape duty. You would have seen the pain I was in. You would not have ignored me because it was inconvenient.”

His eyes gleamed with tired disappointment.

“Your love—if it existed—was never unconditional.”

He looked away briefly, jaw tightening.

“I don’t know why I ever saw you as a father figure,” he continued. “My real father would never have abandoned me. Never played favourites. Never betrayed the village by shielding a man like Danzou.”

He lifted his gaze once more—steady, devastating.

“And that,” he said softly, “is why I stopped following you.”

Orochimaru continued speaking, each word slow and deliberate, as though he were laying out truths Hiruzen had spent years refusing to see—truths that now, in this dim stone chamber, felt too close, too sharp, too impossible to hide from.

“And my father,” he said, “would’ve never protected a man who planned his murder with the intent to frame his student… like you did.”

The words struck Hiruzen like the cold edge of a blade driven clean through bone.

He froze.

The air in the cell felt suddenly thinner. The steady torchlight flickered, stretching Orochimaru’s shadow long across the floor, until it nearly touched Hiruzen’s sandals.

There were many accusations Hiruzen could deflect—could excuse with age, rationalize with circumstance, bury under the rhetoric of leadership.

But not this.

Because it was true.

Pain flickered through him—sharp, humiliating, undeniable. It crawled across his ribs like something alive. He parted his lips, searching for breath or words or anything he could wield as a shield.

Nothing came.

He didn’t even have the chance to gather air for a protest.

The door to the holding chamber slid open with a hard clack, the sound echoing painfully against the stone walls.

A Jounin entered—uniform immaculate, posture crisp, footsteps measured. His presence filled the room with a cold, ordered authority.

His gaze flicked to Orochimaru only for an instant before returning to Hiruzen.

“It’s time,” the Jounin said.

Orochimaru stepped back from the bars in a single smooth motion, retreating into the half-light. His posture remained composed, his hands loose at his sides, giving nothing away—but making it undeniable he had no intention of intervening. He simply moved aside, granting the newcomer full access.

The Jounin approached Hiruzen with unhurried precision. Cold metal cuffs—chakra suppression restraints—were clasped around Hiruzen’s wrists. The mechanism locked with a sharp click, final and suffocating.

Something inside Hiruzen sank at the sound.

The Jounin gestured for him to rise.

Hiruzen stood carefully, stiffly. He hesitated for half a heartbeat, turning toward Orochimaru.

His former student stood with his arms loosely folded, golden eyes watching—not with triumph or hatred, but with a steady, unreadable calm. The torchlight carved his features into stark lines, throwing shifting shadows across his cheekbones and the long column of his throat.

As Hiruzen was led past him, Orochimaru finally spoke.

“I hope, Sarutobi-sensei,” he said softly, “that one day you’ll realize the error of your ways.”

He paused—a cautious beat that settled heavily in the air.

“And one day, perhaps, you will understand just how wrong you were.”

There was no spite in his voice.

No heat.

Only truth.

Hiruzen felt it burn into him like a brand.

Then he was escorted out of the cell.

The memory hit him now with the same force, stealing the taste from his tongue.

Hiruzen sat at the small table, breakfast cooling untouched before him. A thin curl of steam still rose from the miso soup, though it no longer warmed the air. His fingers curled against the table’s edge, knuckles whitening as he forced slow, controlled breaths.

That day—the day of the sealing—had been humiliating.

He could still hear the council’s words, blunt and merciless.

Liability.

Risk.

Failure.

That decades of service meant nothing in the face of the damage done under his watch.

He had given so much.

And yet—

It hadn’t been enough.

He swallowed hard, the movement tight in his throat, and stood abruptly, pushing the half-eaten meal away. The house felt too small, too quiet. There was nothing left for him to do here except tidy the dishes, tend the garden, and listen to the silence he had built around himself.

He did not show his face in the village anymore.

At the sink, he washed the dishes slowly. The warm water lapped over his hands, but his skin remained cold, untouched by the heat. When the dishes were clean, he dried his palms against his robe, drawing in a steadying breath.

He turned toward the sliding door.

A sudden rush of air pressed through the room.

Three shadows descended into the kitchen in perfect synchronicity—movement so fluid it barely disturbed the air.

ANBU.

Masks stark white.

Hare. Raccoon. Tiger.

Their presence filled the small kitchen instantly, an oppressive, silent authority.

Hiruzen’s pulse kicked—quick, sharp—but his face remained smooth, years of training settling over him like an old mask. Not a flicker of unease betrayed him.

He straightened.

“What,” he asked evenly, “are the gentlemen here for?”

Raccoon stepped forward.

“The Yondaime has ordered you be brought to the hospital.”

Hiruzen’s eyes narrowed by the smallest fraction.

“What has happened?” His voice stayed steady, level.

Hare shook his head once. “We are not authorized to disclose details. The Fourth will tell you himself.”

The three masked shinobi remained motionless, waiting.

A decision already made.

Hiruzen did not ask further.

He simply nodded, slid his sandals on, and followed them out of the house.

The four figures quickly moved in silence across the quiet compound, the air cool against Hiruzen’s skin as they made their way toward the hospital.

They ran quickly to the hospital—too quickly for Hiruzen to register anything except blurring rooftops and the sharp bite of cold morning air against his skin. The ANBU moved like shadows cutting across the spine of the village, each shunshin a jolt of displacement that left the world snapping back into focus only long enough for Hiruzen to sense the next launch. Below them, the village sprawled out in muted colours: roof tiles slick with dew, alleyways still with morning-chill, chimney smoke curling lazily into the blue sky.

The ANBU guided him at a punishing pace—efficient, impersonal. Not an escort.

An extraction.

When they landed in front of the hospital, the stillness hit him like a slap. The building loomed tall and sterile white against the rising sun, its windows catching the light in sharp, unforgiving shards. The air smelled of disinfectant and cold stone. Something twisted tight in Hiruzen’s chest—not from the run, but from a creeping certainty that whatever waited inside had already taken root in the marrow of the day.

The ANBU did not pause.

They moved with clipped precision through the entrance, their footsteps barely whispering against the polished floors. They cut down corridors reserved for the most sensitive patients—hallways Hiruzen had walked countless times during his years in office. Quiet. Secluded. Too clean. Too purposeful.

He knew this path.

A single room.

Highest floor.

West wing.

Only the most critical, politically sensitive patients were placed here. A room for people the village could not afford to lose.

The closer they drew, the thicker the air became. Chakra signatures pressed faintly at the edges of his senses—heavy, potent, and unmistakably familiar. His skin prickled under their weight.

Tiger knocked once.

Then pushed the door open without waiting.

Hiruzen stepped inside.

The brightness struck him first—sunlight pouring through wide windows, flooding the room with a clarity that felt cruelly at odds with the tension in the air. It illuminated every corner… every person.

Jiraiya stood by the far window, broad shoulders hunched tight. His arms were crossed rigidly over his chest, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked visibly along his cheek. His face—usually open, careless, boyishly dramatic—was dark. Not just angry. Shadowed. Twisted with something between fury and grief.

Hiruzen had never seen him look like that.

On the sofa pressed against the wall sat Minato—far too young to look as old as he did now. His arm was wrapped around Kushina, holding her against him as though trying to shield her from a world that had already breached her walls. Her body trembled violently in his hold. Bandages wrapped her arms and side, stark white against paling skin. Her red hair—normally bright as flame—lay mussed and limp over her shoulder.

She looked small.

Frightened.

Angry.

The air thrummed—heavy, electric.

Hare stepped toward the centre of the room.

Toward Sakumo.

Sakumo stood rigid at the foot of the bed like a wolf straining against an invisible chain. His fingers curled around the bed railing, so tight the metal groaned in protest. His head was bowed, silver hair forming a curtain that could not hide the tension radiating off him in waves. His chakra coiled around him like a storm—cold, violent, barely restrained.

“We brought the Third, as requested,” Hare said.

Sakumo didn’t look up.

But he dipped his chin once in acknowledgement.

Hiruzen followed the line of his gaze.

And froze.

Orochimaru lay motionless on the hospital bed.

His skin—usually luminous with its faint, uncanny sheen—looked drained, almost translucent beneath the harsh overhead lights. A breathing tube ran between his parted lips, the ventilator beside him hissing steady, mechanical breaths into lungs that could no longer manage their own rhythm.

Bags of blood and stabilizing fluids hung from metal hooks above him, their lines threading down into pale arms. Bandages wrapped his chest, his abdomen, his shoulder—thick white layers that already bore the faint murky stain of seeping blood.

His chakra signature—normally sharp, serpentine, unmistakable—felt thin.

Barely there.

Tsunade stood over him, hands glowing. Not trembling.

Not recoiling.

Her healing chakra pressed steady and unwavering against his chest—her fear of blood pushed aside, smothered by something fiercer.

Hiruzen’s throat tightened.

He turned to Sakumo.

“What happened?” he asked.

Sakumo’s fingers tightened further around the railing, knuckles whitening until the skin stretched taut. His chest rose sharply as he inhaled—a deep, controlled breath, the kind meant to keep a man from fracturing in public.

Then he finally raised his head.

His eyes met Hiruzen’s.

And Hiruzen felt something cold and instinctive seize the base of his spine.

There was anger—and then there was this.

A cold, lucid fury.

Surgical.

Precise.

A kind of killing intent honed into something inhuman. No shouting. No wild rage. Just a terrifying stillness—quiet, sharpened, coiled like a blade waiting to be drawn.

It was an assassin’s calm.

Layered over a predator’s grief.

Something Hiruzen had never imagined Hatake Sakumo—mild-tempered, dependable, soft-spoken Sakumo—was capable of.

That Sakumo could look like this.

“Kumogakure,” Sakumo said, voice low, ice-cold.

Before he could say more, a small voice cracked through the silence.

“It— it was my fault.”

Hiruzen turned.

Kushina clung to Minato’s sleeve, fist twisting the fabric so tightly her knuckles blanched. Her eyes brimmed with guilt and fury.

“I… I had a free day today,” she began, voice trembling so hard the words barely formed. “I was at home. Oro-sensei visited because he brought a new scroll with some Fuuinjutsu he wanted to show me, because that´s our thing. We’d just started looking at it when—when seven shinobi from Kumo broke into the house.”

She bit her lip, shoulders shaking as Minato pulled her closer.

“They came to kidnap me,” she whispered. “But Oro-sensei was there. He protected me. He… he killed four of them.”

Her breath hitched.

“But some of them managed to hurt me, and when I felt the pain, I got so angry—I lost my grip on the Kyuubi. It started coming out. I couldn’t stop it.”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Oro-sensei had to seal it again—he didn’t hesitate for a second. He put himself between me and the Kyuubi. He saved the village.”

Her hands trembled uncontrollably.

“And while he was sealing it… the other three pushed their swords into him. But Oro-sensei—he—he sealed them too. All three. So, they couldn’t move.”

Tsunade’s chakra sharpened, flaring brighter with barely contained anger.

Kushina swallowed.

“Sakumo-sama, Jiraiya-sensei, Tsunade-nee, and Minato arrived right after. But Oro-sensei… he was already…”

Her voice broke into a silent sob.

The room went still.

The machine’s beeping cut through the room in thin, fragile intervals—each soft electronic chirp slicing through the heavy air like a needle pulling through taut fabric. Every sound marked proof that Orochimaru’s heartbeat, faint and unsteady though it was, still clung to life.

A single thread. Barely there. But still there.

Hiruzen stood frozen just inside the room, the scene sinking into him in slow, suffocating waves. His gaze locked onto the monitors—the uneven pulse line, the shallow mechanical rise and fall of the ventilator, the fluctuating oxygen saturation. Every number flickered like an accusation.

He should have felt something. The violent flare of the Kyuubi’s chakra. The rupture in the village barrier. The killing intent that would have bled off Orochimaru when steel pierced flesh.

But he had sensed nothing.

Nothing.

Had he grown so dull? So placid? Had leaving the Hokage’s seat hollowed out something essential in him? Or had he simply allowed himself to wither until even danger slipped past him unnoticed?

He had no time to untangle that dark realization.

A growl rolled through the room.

Low. Guttural. A sound pulled from deep within the chest of a man standing on the precipice between grief and murder.

Every head snapped toward it.

Sakumo straightened slowly, as though pushing against a crushing, invisible weight. His movements were precise, controlled, almost ceremonial. He circled the bed with steps heavy enough to leave dents in the air, each one carrying cold, sharpened fury.

He stopped opposite Tsunade.

He lifted his hand.

A gentleness so profound it jarred against the violent chakra trembling beneath his skin. Even the ANBU seemed to tense, as though afraid any disturbance might shatter him.

Sakumo brushed a loose strand of black hair behind Orochimaru’s ear, his fingers lingering briefly. His thumb traced the familiar purple markings framing Orochimaru’s eyes—the clan lines he had touched and kissed countless times.

Such a small gesture. Yet it held the weight of a man checking, pleading, praying that his mate still existed beneath all the blood and silence.

When he spoke, his voice was low, scraped raw, and cold enough to silence the machines themselves.

“They drove a sword through his shoulder,” he said, each word carved with precision. “Another through his lung. One into his gut.”

His thumb went still.

“The bleeding was massive.”

A breath trembled through him.

“If not for the Kyuubi’s chakra spike… if we had arrived even minutes later…”

His jaw locked tight.

“…he would’ve been gone.”

He leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Orochimaru’s forehead—slow, tender, almost reverent.

A man grounding himself in the last warmth he could find.

Hiruzen tore his eyes from the scene, throat tightening. His voice came out rough.

“What happened to the intruders?”

A long stretch of silence followed.

Sakumo straightened—slowly, mechanically—never taking his eyes off Orochimaru.

“The three surviving intruders are in Torture and Interrogation.”

He did not spare Hiruzen a glance.

“And as soon as Orochimaru is stable enough…”

A pause—sharp as a blade’s gleam.

“…I will question them myself.”

Jiraiya’s fingers twitched at his side.

Sakumo continued, his voice dropping into an icy register.

“The other four bodies have already been prepared for their return to Kaminari no Kuni.”

Hiruzen opened his mouth to ask what that meant—whether the bodies would be sent as a message or a warning—but Sakumo spoke again, voice dropping into something far colder.

“How dare they.”

The room froze.

“How dare they attack this village.” His hand curled into a fist. “How dare they attempt to kidnap the Uzumaki princess entrusted to us by our sister nation.”

His next inhale shook with a rage too cold to burn.

“And more importantly,” he whispered, “how dare they lay a hand on my mate.”

A violent ripple of chakra tore through the room before settling.

Finally, Jiraiya moved from the window, stepping toward Tsunade. His voice was rough.

“Tsu… how is it looking?”

Tsunade didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. Her chakra continued to pour in steady, precise waves into Orochimaru’s chest.

“I’ve closed the most critical arteries,” she said, jaw tight with focus. Sweat clung to the edges of her hairline.

Minutes passed in thick, suffocating silence.

Finally, she let her hands fall, wiping her forehead with the back of her arm.

“I’ve stabilized him,” she said. “Everything vital is closed. Now we let the transfusions work and let his body rest. He needs time.”

She looked up at Sakumo.

“He’ll live.”

Relief washed through the room like a sudden wind.

Sakumo nodded once—sharp—and turned to the ANBU.

“Go to T&I. Tell them I will be there shortly to question the suspects myself.”

Hare, Raccoon, and Tiger bowed sharply.

“Yes, sir.”

They vanished in blurs of chakra.

Sakumo then turned to Minato, pulling a key from his flak jacket and tossing it with perfect aim. Minato caught it with one hand.

“Bring Kushina to the Hatake estate. Activate the barrier. Don’t tell Kakashi anything—I will speak to him myself.”

Minato bowed.

“Hai, Hokage-sama.”

He took Kushina’s hand, whispered a soft reassurance—and hiraishined them away in a flash of gold.

Sakumo turned to Tsunade.

“Please stay with him.”

Tsunade snorted, fierce and offended.

“Try making me leave.”

It earned the smallest twitch of a smile—Sakumo’s first since Hiruzen had entered the hospital.

Then he took Orochimaru’s hand, lifted it gently, brought it to his lips.

He kissed each knuckle.

Pressed the hand to his cheek.

When he spoke, it was a whisper meant only for Orochimaru—but the whole room heard it.

“They will pay for this.”

He kissed the hand again, tender and soft, before laying it carefully back against the sheet.

Sakumo straightened and turned toward the door.

“Jiraiya. Sarutobi. Come. It’s time to get to the bottom of this.”

Nobody spoke on the way to the Torture Division.

The silence was not empty—it pressed against their skin, settled in their lungs, stretched long and taut like the string of a drawn bow. It was a silence rooted in purpose, in fury held tightly in the bones, in dread that spread through the corridors like cold mist.

Their footsteps echoed across the rooftops as they crossed back toward the Hokage Tower. When they descended the final flight of stone steps, the courtyard was washed in sunlight—bright, indifferent, almost mocking.

And there—standing with arms loosely folded, directly in front of the main entrance leading to the underground holding levels—waited Mitarashi Sae.

The sun cut along the strands of her violet hair, turning them sharp as blades. Her signature beige coat hung open, its hem swaying in the breeze—distinct from the stark black T&I uniforms, a subtle reminder of her seniority. Though her posture looked relaxed, nothing about her was at ease. Her eyes were razor-focused, assessing the moment she caught sight of Sakumo.

She didn’t need to be summoned. As he passed her, she slipped seamlessly into step beside him, her movements precise and practiced.

Jiraiya and Hiruzen followed behind, one heavy-footed, the other quietly unsettled.

“The prisoners are prepared for further investigation, Hokage-sama,” Sae reported as they started down the sloping corridor into the earth. Her voice was clipped—professional but thrumming with restrained promise. “They’re stubborn. Haven’t stopped running their mouths about Konoha.”

A dangerous spark flickered in her eyes—a glint that revealed she had heard every word and would not forget any of them.

“The ANBU mentioned you intended to question them personally, so…” She smiled faintly, sharp at the corners. “…I haven’t touched our guests yet.”

The corridor swallowed the faint echo of her amusement.

The implication—what she could have done, what she would do if given the nod—hung thick in the air.

They arrived at a heavy metal door reinforced with chakra seals.

“One more thing,” Sae added, lowering her voice slightly. “A Yamanaka is on standby in case they still refuse to speak.”

Sakumo didn’t break stride. “Thank you. I won’t need them.”

Sae bowed and stepped aside, but her eyes followed him with feral attentiveness.

Sakumo opened the reinforced door himself.

The hinges groaned in protest, the metal shuddering. Jiraiya and Hiruzen stepped inside with him.

The stench hit them first. Sweat. Blood. Iron. Defiance thick enough to taste.

Three Kumogakure shinobi knelt in the centre of the room, shackled in chakra-suppressing restraints. Their uniforms hung in tatters, skin mottled with swollen bruises—but their eyes gleamed with a vicious, unbroken pride.

Jiraiya moved to the wall beside the door and leaned back, arms crossed, posture deceptively loose. His expression, however, was taut—readying himself for the violence he knew would follow.

Sakumo advanced to the shinobi in the middle.

A man in his forties. Dark-skinned and stocky, built like someone who had spent decades in brutal training. His dark red hair hung in bloody tangles over his face, but the orange eyes beneath glared defiantly.

Sakumo didn’t answer that glare with words. Not immediately.

Then, with sudden, brutal efficiency, he grabbed a fistful of the man's hair and yanked his head back. The prisoner hissed, jaw tightening.

Sakumo’s voice came out low. Soft. Controlled. Sharp enough to cut.

“How did you get into the village? Why did you attempt to kidnap our Jinchuuriki? What is the Raikage planning?”

The man stared back.

And laughed.

“Kill me,” he spat. “I’m not saying a damn thing.”

The other two joined him with mocking snickers.

“Konoha’s gotten pathetic,” one sneered, lips peeling back in a bloodied grin.

“Walked right in,” the third added. “Would’ve walked out with the brat too—if not for that pale little fucktoy of yours.”

The first one snorted, emboldened.

“Yeah. That pretty accessory. Been hanging off your hips since the end of the Second War. I guess every Hokage needs a willing hussy to fuck.”

A vulgar slur. Sharp enough to prick even the air.

Jiraiya’s jaw tightened. Hiruzen felt his stomach knot.

But the shinobi weren’t finished.

The third leaned forward on trembling knees, smirking through split lips.

“How does he warm your bed, White Fang? Do you fuck him open every night?”

More filth. Louder. Crueller.

Hiruzen opened his mouth—perhaps to stop them, perhaps to warn—

But Sakumo moved first.

The punch cracked across the man’s face like a thunderclap. Blood spattered against the wall. The shinobi’s head snapped to the side, his breath choking off in a wet gasp.

Sakumo did not raise his voice. He did not snarl. He did not tremble.

He simply continued.

Fist.
Fist.
Fist.

Then he moved to the next man. Then the next.

Silent.
Precise.
Ruthless.

His expression never shifted—cold, neutral, carved from stone. Only his eyes betrayed the depth beneath: glacial, depthless, carrying a fury and grief braided so tightly they were indistinguishable.

By the time Sakumo stepped back, the three Kumogakure shinobi lay sprawled across the floor, groaning, their bodies a mess of bruises spreading in dark, blooming shades.

One of them—fair-skinned, nose bent at an unnatural angle—spat out a tooth.

“You still won’t get anything,” he rasped, voice thick with pain. “If all you’ve got is beating us, that’s pathetic.”

Sakumo took out a pristine handkerchief and wiped the blood from his knuckles. Slow.

Methodical.

A ritual.

“That was for me,” he said evenly. “I needed to get my anger out.”

He turned to Jiraiya. And something in his eyes shifted—darkened.

Hiruzen felt the temperature in the room drop. Something calculating.

Something terrifying.

Something utterly unrestrained simmered beneath the surface of Sakumo’s steady gaze.

“Please step forward Jiraiya,” Sakumo said.

Jiraiya pushed off the wall, his lips curling into a smirk—one nothing like his usual grin. This one was cruel. Predatory.

Sakumo asked, “Do you have all the information I wanted?”

Jiraiya produced a folded paper.

“Oh, plenty,” he said, smile widening without warmth. “Thought they’d last longer. But for pulling a stunt like this? Kumo’s terrible at keeping personal information hidden.”

He unfolded the paper and began to read.

Names.

Ranks.

Family ties.

Spouses.

Children.

Parents.

Addresses.

Everything.

The Kumogakure shinobi went silent. Utterly. Shock rippled over their bruised faces.

Sakumo smiled as he took the paper from the Sannin. A thin, cold, merciless curve of his lips.

“Useful information,” he murmured. “It would only be polite…”

He stepped closer, his shadow falling over them.

“…to return the favour.”

The three Kumogakure shinobi froze.

For a heartbeat—two, perhaps three—the room itself seemed to hold still with them. The stale underground air, heavy with the metallic scent of blood and damp stone, thickened as if reacting to the collective shock settling over their battered forms.

Terror rippled across their faces—raw, unfiltered, instinctive. Their eyes, already swollen from the beating Sakumo had delivered, widened with a scare so sudden it almost looked childlike. This information should not have been possible. Not in this timeframe. Not with this depth. Not about them.

Their breaths stuttered and quickened, coming thin and uneven, like men caught beneath an avalanche just beginning to understand they might never crawl out.

The youngest of the three—the one with brown eyes and a split lip, blood drying in a crooked line down his chin—lifted his head. Anger trembled at the edges of his stare, but beneath it lay something far more honest: fear.

“...How do you know that?” he rasped, his voice hoarse from screaming and struggling earlier.

Silence fell again, thick and oppressive.

It stretched. Ticked. Hung.

Until Sakumo laughed.

Not loudly. Not wildly. A low, quiet chuckle—precisely measured, almost gentle. He lifted one hand as if to politely hide the sound behind his knuckles, the gesture disturbingly soft in contrast to the brutality still staining the air.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said.

His hand lowered. The smile stayed—pleasant, polite.

But his eyes…

His eyes were void.

“What I can tell you,” Sakumo continued, tone smooth as polished steel, “is that Konoha has changed. The foolish old ways are gone. And if someone thinks they can strike at my village…”

His chakra rolled out of him—quiet at first, then sharp, cold, predatory. Like the breath of a wolf in winter.

“…they will learn how foolish that truly is.”

He shifted his weight, crossing his arms loosely over his chest—casual, almost bored. But the emptiness of his smile, the dead calm in his eyes, made even that small movement feel like a threat.

His gaze slid to the young man to his right.

“Sawa Kurobei,” Sakumo said calmly.

The shinobi stiffened—shoulders snapping rigid. That was his name. A name he had not offered, a name he’d ensured should be untraceable beyond Kumo’s walls.

“You were recently married, weren’t you?” Sakumo went on, voice almost conversational. “And now you and your wife are expecting your first child.”

Kurobei’s pupils shrank.

“In August, if I remember correctly.”

The man lunged—instinct, panic, rage all tangled together—but the moment he strained forward, the chakra-sealed chains erupted in violent blue-white sparks. Electricity tore through his arms, chest, spine—dropping him in a shaking heap as a strangled cry ripped from his throat.

Sakumo didn’t even blink.

His smile didn’t shift.

He simply turned to the next man.

“Okaryu Akahiko,” he said, as though reading from a polite guest list. “Three children at home. Your eldest… what was it? Starting academy next spring?”

Akahiko went perfectly, terribly still. Even his breathing seemed to stop.

Then Sakumo’s attention slid to the last prisoner.

“Kitadaichi Renga,” he murmured. “Two younger siblings. Parents are farmers. Proud, hardworking people.”

Renga’s mouth trembled—just slightly. Uneasiness washed over all three captives like cold river water.

Sakumo lowered his gaze to the paper in his hand, tilting it in the dim light as though considering the names written there with detached curiosity.

“Such a shame,” he murmured, voice soft. “That the Raikage chose to break our treaty.”

The edge of the paper whispered as his thumb brushed it.

“It would be tragic,” he said, letting each word fall slow and deliberate, “if something happened to your families because of his decision.”

He raised his hand.

Chakra flared, crisp and precise.

The three ANBU dropped into the room instantly—Hare, Raccoon, Tiger—landing in synchronized kneels before their Hokage.

Sakumo handed the list to Tiger without looking away from the prisoners.

“Find these people,” Sakumo said, voice calm, almost serene. “And return the same courtesy they showed my mate.”

Every Kumo shinobi in the room drew a sharp breath—the kind pulled from somewhere deep, somewhere close to terror.

That was when Hiruzen finally stepped forward.

“That is too much,” he said quickly, urgently. “Sakumo, you shouldn’t be doing this—peace should be more important—”

Sakumo cut him off like a blade severing rope.

“Are you a complete fool?” the Yondaime snapped, his tone suddenly hard enough to crack stone. “You suggest I should ignore this insult?”

Hiruzen froze.

Sakumo’s chakra tightened into something lethal.

“The village had been attacked,” Sakumo said—each word sharp as a drawn blade. “Kushina—descendant of Mito-sama’s line, the Jinchuuriki entrusted to us by Uzushiogakure—would have been dragged from her home like spoils of war. And Orochimaru…”

His jaw clenched. His voice dropped lower, shaking—not with fear, but with the strain of holding back something violent.

“A direct member of the Hokage family. My spouse. He was cut open in his own student’s house. He nearly died.”

Sakumo’s stare cut into Hiruzen, cold and incredulous.

He stepped closer—slow, calculated—until he was eye to eye with the former Hokage.

“And you stand here suggesting we simply let that insult slide?”

His voice dropped to a chilling whisper.

“What would you have done,” Sakumo asked quietly, “if Biwako-san had been the one hurt? If your sons were attacked? Would you also stand idly by and let Kumogakure walk away unpunished?”

The words sank into Hiruzen like physical blows—deep, blunt, unavoidable.

And because he had no time to defend himself, no time to assemble excuses—the truth rose up inside him.

Yes.

Yes, he might have.

Because peace was too important.

But he didn’t get the chance to say anything. Didn’t get the chance to take a breath. Didn’t get the chance to try to answer.

Because finally—finally—

one of the prisoners broke.

It was Kurobei.

Not with a dramatic cry or some grand display—no, his collapse began in the tiny betrayals of his own body. A tremor in his fingers. A hitch in his breath. The way his shoulders folded inward as though trying to shield a wound that had nothing to do with the bruises covering him.

Then, with grim effort, he forced himself upright.

Every muscle in his torso shuddered. Pain carved itself into the tight lines around his mouth. But still—still—he lifted his head, brown eyes glassy and terrified as they locked onto Sakumo.

“Please,” he rasped, voice splintering at the edges. “Please don’t send anyone to my family.”

The plea fell into the air like something sacred and fragile, utterly out of place in the cold stone confines of T&I.

Sakumo’s gaze shifted only slightly, but it was enough—a minute sharpening of focus, a small tilt of the head that said he registered the words, weighed them, dissected them.

Behind Kurobei, Akahiko and Renga erupted, snapping at him in hoarse, furious whispers. Their voices cracked on the bruised edges of their throats as they cursed him, ordered him to shut up, accused him of throwing away everything.

But Kurobei didn’t even look at them.

His gaze clung to Sakumo like a man grasping the last branch above a bottomless drop.

“If I tell you everything,” he said, barely breathing, “please… don’t touch my wife or my child.”

Sakumo’s head angled in a slow, predatory tilt. The look on his face was unreadable—somewhere between clinical curiosity and something far colder.

“That,” Sakumo said softly, “depends on your answer.”

Kurobei’s eyes fluttered shut. His chest rose and fell in a rapid, desperate rhythm before he turned to his comrades. The guilt carved into his features was so stark Hiruzen felt it like a blow.

“I’m sorry,” Kurobei whispered to them. “I can’t risk them.”

The grief on his face was stark—raw—and for a heartbeat the room felt colder.

Akahiko’s mouth tightened in agony. Renga’s eyes widened, flicking to the floor—and then to Sakumo.

A few seconds passed.

Then, slowly—resignedly—they spoke as well.

“…We’ll talk,” Akahiko said first, voice low. “Just… spare our families.”

Renga clenched his fists, then forced the words out. “Please.”

Sakumo didn’t verbally acknowledge their plea. He merely made a small motion with one hand—an elegant, almost dismissive flick of his wrist—signalling for them to begin.

Renga inhaled shakily, gathering himself before he started.

“The Raikage… he wanted leverage,” he began. “Kumogakure’s harvest failed this year. A blight hit three of our main grain sectors. Heavy rains washed out the backup fields. The village won’t have enough to last a full winter.”

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

“So, A-sama planned to use the Jinchuuriki as negotiating weight. If Konoha wanted her back unharmed, you’d have to supply us with produce—grain, rice, medicinal plants, anything we could store. Enough to support civilian districts and parts of the military.”

Jiraiya muttered a curse under his breath. Hiruzen exhaled sharply through his nose, troubled.

Sakumo remained silent, arms loosely crossed, face unreadable.

Jiraiya pushed off the wall, jaw tightening. “Then tell me how you got into our village. With the new barrier formations, you shouldn’t have made it halfway through Hi no Kuni without setting off three alarms.”

Akahiko winced.

“We had help,” he admitted.

Jiraiya’s eyes narrowed. “Help from whom?”

Akahiko’s lips trembled. Then—

“Danzou.”

Silence slammed into the room.

Even the ANBU’s chakra signatures flickered.

Akahiko rushed on, afraid to stop.

“He contacted the Raikage during the second war. Offered information—routes, blind spots, old ANBU codes. Ways to slip beneath Konoha’s detection net, just in case he ever needed to create a… shift in power. He said the deals he made would benefit both sides. We only used the pathways he provided.”

Jiraiya breathed a long, venomous curse. Hiruzen shut his eyes briefly, agony written across his features.

Sakumo only listened.

His stillness was worse than fury.

When the three finished speaking, the silence that followed was thick, suffocating.

Finally, Sakumo let out a slow breath, one hand sliding to his hip while the other ran briefly over his face.

When he lowered it, something in him had shifted.

He looked at the three captives with eyes devoid of warmth—emotionally distant, yet burning with buried fury.

“I thought A was a smart man,” Sakumo said quietly. “Clearly, I was wrong.”

He turned slightly, his gaze cutting toward Hiruzen.

“He exceeds even your idiocy,” Sakumo added.

Hiruzen bristled—face twisting with wounded pride—but Sakumo didn’t spare him another glance. The insult stung the three Kumo shinobi as well, but none dared speak.

“If the Raikage had simply asked for aid,” Sakumo continued, “Konoha would have helped. It would have strengthened ties between our villages. But instead, the idiot chose to attack.”

His voice thinned into something lethal.

“And now his foolishness will cost him everything.”

He turned to the ANBU, posture crisp.

“Get everything ready. We leave for Kumogakure tomorrow. I need to speak with the Raikage about his choices.”

Tiger, Hare, and Raccoon moved to obey—until Sakumo raised a hand.

“Wait.”

His gaze slid back to the three prisoners.

“We’re taking them as well. Once I’m done with them.”

The Kumo shinobi paled.

“We told you everything!” Renga shouted hoarsely. “Why are you still—?!”

Sakumo turned slowly to face them.

“I said I would not touch your families,” he replied evenly. “I never said a word about you.”

The three froze.

Hiruzen, panicked, tried once more to interject.

“Sakumo, let them go—this isn’t—”

He never finished.

Sakumo’s eyes flicked to Jiraiya.

“Take Sarutobi outside,” he ordered. “Prepare for departure. We leave soon.”

Jiraiya didn’t hesitate. He placed a firm hand on his former sensei’s shoulder and pulled him toward the door.

Realizing he no longer had a voice in the matter—not here, not now—Hiruzen allowed himself to be dragged away, stomach twisting.

Just before the heavy cell door closed behind them, he heard the clean, unmistakable sound of a blade being drawn.

A sound that echoed down the hallway long after the latch clicked shut.

Hiruzen followed Jiraiya through the dim, narrowing corridors of the Hokage Tower as if moving through the throat of some great stone beast. The walls—cold, familiar, oppressive—seemed to press inward with every step. And that sound… that faint metallic whisper of Sakumo’s blade being drawn, the one that had sliced through the charged air of T&I, lingered like a phantom tucked beneath Hiruzen’s ribs. Each breath scraped around it.

Neither man spoke.

Jiraiya walked several steps ahead, stride long and sharp-edged. His shoulders were coiled tight—not with fear, but with a simmering readiness that reminded Hiruzen uncomfortably of the battlefield. His chakra was a storm held barely in check.

Hiruzen followed more slowly, each step measured, his breath thin, mind tangled in a looping snarl of disbelief, dread, and a hollow ache he tried desperately to smother.

When they pushed through the tower doors, the cool afternoon air washed over them—crisp, bright, indifferent. Jiraiya stopped at the top of the steps and turned just enough to speak.

“Go get ready. We’re leaving at dawn.”

He began to walk away.

And Hiruzen—almost against his own instincts—reached out and caught the edge of Jiraiya’s sleeve.

“Jiraiya—wait.”

The Sannin froze.

He turned slowly.

His eyes—normally mischievous, warm, restless—were sharp, flat, edged with exhaustion and something that made Hiruzen’s stomach twist. Disappointment. Distance. Judgment.

“What is it?” Jiraiya asked, voice polite but clipped. Controlled. A razor tucked inside a velvet-lined sheath.

Hiruzen’s throat felt tight. “Could we talk? Just for a moment. At my house, if you have the time.”

For a heartbeat, Jiraiya’s expression softened. A flicker—barely there—of the lanky, bright-eyed boy who once trailed after him with endless questions and unshakable loyalty.

Then it vanished.

Jiraiya dragged a hand through his hair and let out a harsh breath. “Fine. Let’s talk.”

The faintest thread of relief loosened the tension in Hiruzen’s chest.

They walked through the clan district in silence. The shadows stretched long across the path as they reached the modest guest house at the far edge of the Sarutobi compound—the small, quiet space where Hiruzen now lived… alone.

He slid the door open.

Jiraiya hesitated. His silhouette remained still for a beat, as if crossing that threshold carried its own weight.

Then he stepped in.

They removed their sandals in the genkan and moved to the kitchen, where late sunlight spilled across the tatami in pale gold streaks.

Hiruzen busied himself immediately with the kettle—filling it, setting it on the stove, choosing tea leaves. His hands trembled faintly, and he steadied them with the rhythm of habit.

“Would you care for tea?” he asked.

“No.” The refusal was immediate. Firm.

Jiraiya took seat at the table, arms crossed, watching. His gaze didn’t waver as Hiruzen arranged his cup, measured leaves, lit the flame. Every movement felt painfully loud in the silence.

Finally, Jiraiya let out a sigh.

“So? What’s this about, sensei?” His tone held none of the warmth it once did. “You never came to talk to me. Not even when I came back a year and a half ago.”

The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.

Hiruzen’s hands went still.

He turned to face him.

Jiraiya wasn’t the eager boy he remembered. He was taller now, broader, scarred in ways that went deeper than skin. His eyes held grief, battle-worn wisdom, and disappointment.

Hiruzen sat opposite him.

“I wanted to ask,” he began carefully, “why you simply stood by. You didn’t interfere with Sakumo’s… treatment of the prisoners. You didn’t stop him. It was cruel, Jiraiya. Excessive. He was endangering peace. There were other ways—methods less brutal, less—”

He never finished.

Jiraiya’s expression hardened instantly into something cold and disbelieving.

“Were you even listening to yourself just now?” he asked quietly.

Hiruzen blinked. “I—”

“Are you out of your mind?” Jiraiya’s voice rose—not in volume, but in sharpness. “The village was attacked. Kushina was attacked. The Kyuubi almost broke loose. Do you have any idea what would’ve happened if it had escaped? Konoha would’ve been gone.”

Hiruzen’s breath caught.

“And Orochimaru—your student—was cut down and almost died.”

Those words struck like a direct blow.

“You didn’t even ask how he was,” Jiraiya said, voice trembling with contained fury. “Not one question. Not one moment of concern. You walked into that hospital room and didn’t ask a single damn thing about him. Or Kushina. Or anyone.”

Hiruzen’s shoulders stiffened. His jaw twitched.

He opened his mouth—but Jiraiya cut across him.

“Don’t.” His voice was sharp, heavy. “Just—don’t. Yes, I would’ve preferred a better outcome. No one wants to see prisoners butchered. But Kumogakure made its bed when it planned this attack. They crossed every line there is.”

He shoved himself to his feet, the chair scraping sharply across the floor.

“And Sakumo—Sakumo did what a Hokage has to do.”

His chakra flared, barely restrained.

“Something you could never do. Not even now.”

Hiruzen flinched visibly.

Jiraiya pushed the chair back under the table with care, though his jaw was clenched tight enough to ache.

“Be ready by tomorrow morning,” he said.

He stepped toward the door—paused once, hand on the frame.

He didn’t look back.

“I’m following Sakumo,” he said quietly. “Because now I know what a leader is supposed to be.”

Then he walked out.

The door slid shut with a soft, final sound.

Leaving Hiruzen alone in the kitchen—surrounded by the faint steam of untouched tea, the hum of the quiet stove, and the slow, heavy thud of his own heartbeat echoing inside the too-empty house.

The next morning crawled into existence like a reluctant thing—grey at first, then pale gold—while Hiruzen sat awake, unchanged, unmoving. He had not slept. Not even for a heartbeat. His thoughts had twisted and knotted themselves through the long hours like tightening vines, constricting until his chest felt hollow and bruised. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard echoes—Jiraiya’s voice cutting like a blade, Sakumo’s orders cold as steel, the faint phantom whisper of a sword leaving its sheath.

By dawn, his eyes burned raw. His hands shook faintly as he tied his sash with motions that felt strangely disconnected from his body. His travel bag—light, practical—felt impossibly heavy. As if it dragged behind it an entire lifetime’s worth of mistakes.

He stepped outside. The early morning chill clung to him, catching in the folds of his uniform, cooling the sweat that had dried on his skin hours ago. A faint mist curled at ground level, weaving around his ankles in ghostly tendrils as the sun began its slow climb over the rooftops. The village was quieter than usual—muted, watchful.

And the closer he got to the gates, the more chakra signatures pressed against his senses.

Sharp. Coiled. Disciplined.

A bristling wall of readiness.

When Hiruzen stepped beneath the final arch of the main road, his breath stalled.

Sakumo stood at the very front like a carved sentinel of war. He wore his full Hokage regalia—white cloak trimmed in red, the Hatake crest etched into hardened armour plating that caught the dawn light in sharp glints. His posture was rigid, back straight, jaw locked, expression a frozen mask of cold wrath. The same expression he had worn in the hospital. In T&I.

A quiet fury housed inside a man who knew exactly how to use it.

Jiraiya stood to his right, Minato and Maito Dai to his left. All three were alert, focused, their eyes sharp with the heavy understanding of what this mission meant. Diplomacy was a fragile thread. What they were walking into could snap it effortlessly.

Behind them gathered two full squads of Jounin —Uchiha with stern eyes and quiet pride, Inuzuka with their sharpened senses on edge, ninken at their feet, Aburame with their calculating stillness, Yuuhi genjutsu users already centring their chakra, stoic Hyuuga whose pale eyes swept the perimeter like silent guardians. Every clan Hiruzen saw and more represented here had sent their finest.

And lining the outer ring were barrier specialists—white-tied sleeves marking them unmistakably. The air hummed faintly around them, as if reacting to the collective strain of their preparations.

ANBU, too.

Hiruzen felt them long before he could see any movement. Hidden. Watchful. A silent web of steel around their Hokage.

This wasn’t a diplomatic escort.

This was Konoha showing its teeth.

Hiruzen approached slowly, aware of eyes tracking his movements. Sakumo eventually turned, dark gaze sliding over him like a blade over whetstone. It lingered on his bag only for a second.

“Do you have everything?” the Yondaime asked.

His voice held no warmth. No familiarity.

Only efficiency.

“Yes,” Hiruzen answered, the word feeling small.

Sakumo nodded once and addressed his shinobi, voice steady as steel.

“Uchiha Kazuto. Uchiha Ren.”

Two Uchiha stepped forward. Their Mangekyou Sharingan bloomed to life—dark petals of power swirling into dangerous patterns. The air thickened with their chakra.

“You will provide aerial transport. Full Susanoo manifestation.”

They bowed silently.

Sakumo continued.

“Yuuhi Asuka. Yuuhi Kayo.”

The Yuuhi stepped out—eyes red, focus razor-sharp.

“You will layer the concealment. Mask our presence until we cross into Kaminari no Kuni. After that, we proceed on foot and reassess based on terrain and response.”

A ripple of acknowledgment passed through the ranks.

The squads split cleanly—each forming around one Uchiha and one Yuuhi. Chakra flared in controlled, disciplined waves.

Sakumo’s chosen group—Jiraiya, Minato, Dai—stepped into the first formation. Hiruzen found himself drifting to the second merely by necessity.

The earth trembled.

Then it roared.

Two colossal Susanoo forms surged upward, rising like spectral titans—armoured ribs arching into protective chambers, limbs etched in glowing chakra plates, eyes burning with ancient, ghostly fire. The ground beneath them cracked from the force of their emergence.

A powerful gust lashed outward as the Yuuhi began weaving signs. Their genjutsu descended in a delicate, invisible layer—no tug at the mind, no disorientation. Just the faint sense of a veil settling over them, seamless and expertly crafted.

Massive wings—translucent and luminous—unfurled from the Susanoo’s backs.

With one thunderous beat, the giants lifted into the sky.

The world contracted beneath them—forests becoming strokes of emerald ink, rivers winding silver across the land, mountain ranges rising like jagged black teeth against the horizon.

The howling wind tore through the Susanoo’s ribs, its chill slicing across Hiruzen’s skin. He gripped the chakra-bone railing, knuckles white.

Unease pooled in his stomach.

Two thoughts gnawed at him relentlessly:

What would await them once they reached Kumogakure.

And why—why—Sakumo insisted he witness it.

He prayed for a moment alone with the Yondaime. A moment to speak. To reason. To dissuade.

To stop the storm, he could feel rumbling on the horizon.

Even though no storm had ever felt more inevitable.

As soon as the jagged silhouettes of the Kaminari no Kuni mountain range pierced the thinning cloud cover, the two colossal Susanoo avatars began their descent—slow, cautious, and heavy with purpose. Their chakra-wrought wings folded inward like great spectral feathers, each controlled movement softening their fall until their feet touched the rocky earth with a low, resonant tremor. Light fractured across their massive forms for a heartbeat—then, with a brittle sound like shattering ice, both constructs dissolved into drifting flecks of blue-white chakra.

The instant they vanished, the assembled squads moved as one.

Silent. Fluid. Immediate.

Sakumo didn’t need to speak twice—or at all. A single gesture from him was enough to send the shinobi into formation as though he were conducting a well-rehearsed orchestra.

They advanced into the mountain passages, and almost instantly the clans fell into their appointed roles.

The Aburame dispersed first, their figures blending into the stone as kikaichuu swarmed ahead in fine-tuned waves—sliding through cracks, burrowing through loose shale, vanishing beneath shadowed overhangs. The faint, familiar hum of their wings brushed against Hiruzen’s senses, returning subtle vibrations of terrain, movement, and chakra signatures to their handlers.

Almost simultaneously, the Inuzuka surged forward with their ninken, low growls echoing between the rock walls. Wet noses lifted to the whipping wind, catching traces of foreign chakra, disturbed soil, or unstable ledges long before the human eye could see danger.

Threaded through their advance, nearly invisible unless one knew to look, came the shimmer of Yuuhi chakra—gossamer genjutsu veils bending light, softening outlines, swallowing their shapes into the shifting mountain mist.

Above them, Hyuuga eyes rotated in steady intervals, pale irises scanning ridges, cavern mouths, deep crevices, and distant pockets of chakra the rest of the world would have missed.

And moving in calculated sync with Sakumo’s crisp hand signs, the Uchiha repositioned themselves effortlessly, each movement precise and efficient—a silent acknowledgement of a commander whose battlefield intuition rivalled their own.

Sakumo used all of it.

Used them.

Not as separate tools, not as clans to be appeased—but as a single, unified force, each strength interlocking with the next like gears in a perfectly calibrated mechanism.

Hiruzen had never led like this.

He had balanced politics, maintained traditions, upheld systems. But Sakumo—Sakumo led like a shinobi forged for war, trained to wield every available resource without hesitation.

Hiruzen felt a prickle run down his spine as Jiraiya’s words echoed unbidden:

“He did what a Hokage had to do—something I know you wouldn’t be able to do.”

He pushed the memory aside, but it lingered like smoke.

They climbed for hours, the air thinning, wind biting sharply across exposed ridges. Lightning flared intermittently above the clouds—a reminder they were deep within Kaminari no Kuni’s volatile embrace.

By the time the faint outline of Kumogakure’s outer barrier shimmered in the distance like a heat mirage, Sakumo raised one hand.

The entire company halted as one.

“We camp here,” he murmured.

And the formation broke into efficient, practiced motion.

Tents rose in near silence. Barrier specialists wrote seals across the perimeter, cloaking the camp beneath layered distortions. Aburame scouts spread outward. Inuzuka patrolled the edges. Uchiha erected silent watchpoints with rotating shift signals.

Everything was done with sharp efficiency—no wasted motion, no unnecessary sound.

Sakumo turned, his gaze cutting through the camp.

“Dai. Take Isamu, Tomoya, and Sarutobi. Perimeter sweep.”

Hiruzen’s jaw tightened.

A perimeter sweep?

For him, the former Hokage?

But he said nothing. Complaining in this environment would only expose his insecurity—and would change nothing.

Sakumo didn’t even look at him again. He merely gestured for Jiraiya, Minato, and the barrier team to follow him into his tent.

The flap fell shut behind them.

And Hiruzen was left outside, standing in the cold breeze with a group of shinobi who were already preparing to move.

Pairs formed around him almost instantly, and Dai stepped forward with a bright, earnest smile that felt strangely disarming in the cold mountain air.

“Let’s give it our best, ne, Sarutobi-sama?”

Hiruzen managed a stiff nod and followed the Tokubetsu Jounin into the rocky terrain.

At first, Hiruzen couldn’t understand it.

Why had Sakumo promoted this man?

Dai couldn’t use ninjutsu.

Dai couldn’t use genjutsu.

Dai had been a Genin for years because Hiruzen had never believed he had what it took to be anything more.

But now—

Now he watched.

Dai moved with a fluid, almost uncanny grace. His steps were feather-light, every shift of weight calculated. He breathed evenly. He observed everything. His garish green jumpsuit somehow did nothing to hinder the near invisibility of his approach.

He lifted a hand.

Hiruzen stilled immediately.

Dai crouched, touched two fingers to the ground, and closed his eyes.

A soft vibration.

So faint that even Hiruzen—once famed for his sensory ability—hadn’t felt it.

“Three shinobi,” Dai whispered. “Half a klick. Light armour. Moving in staggered pattern. Not patrol training—search pattern.”

Hiruzen blinked.

“How do you—”

Dai’s smile tilted gently.

“Footsteps speak, Sarutobi-sama. If one listens.”

And before Hiruzen could form another question, Dai vanished.

Not with chakra. Not with a jutsu.

Just pure muscle strength and taijutsu mastery—silent, swift, deadly.

Hiruzen followed as best he could, but Dai was already weaving through the shadows, his movements that of a seasoned hunter accustomed to solitude.

When they reached the Kumogakure patrol, everything ended within seconds.

Dai struck the first man at the base of the neck—swift, precise, absolute. Unconscious before he hit the ground.

The second barely pivoted before Dai swept his legs, flipped him, and silenced him with a palm strike.

The third inhaled sharply—then Dai was behind him, arm locking around his throat, lowering him gently as consciousness faded.

All three down.

No chakra used.

No noise.

No mess.

Dai looked up at Hiruzen with that same gentle, earnest smile.

“I will secure them with wire. Please keep watch, Sarutobi-sama.”

Hiruzen swallowed.

Because the realization hit him—hard.

He had underestimated this man.

Completely.

And not just him.

How many others had he been wrong about?

Hiruzen stood silently, the cold wind cutting against his skin while Dai tied the three unconscious Kumoshinobi with swift, practiced movements.

The former Hokage felt something unpleasant and unfamiliar twist in his chest.

Not anger.

Not fear.

Something closer to shame.

Something that whispered: You didn’t know your people half as well as you believed.

He suddenly remembered Jiraiya’s harsh words from the night before.

“Now I know what a leader is supposed to be.”

And for the first time in many years, Hiruzen wondered if he truly had ever been one.

The shinobi Dai had knocked out had been sealed away inside a stasis scroll by Hiruzen—hands moving automatically through the familiar sequence, even as his mind struggled to reconcile what he had just witnessed. His fingers, once steady and sure in the service of duty, now felt strangely clumsy around the ink‑lined formulae of the seal. The final array pulsed faintly, locking into place with a muted thrum of chakra, and for a moment Hiruzen simply stared at the glowing script—at the quiet, absolute efficiency of Dai’s takedown preserved in a slip of paper.

They turned back toward the base camp, sandals grinding softly over loose stone and fractured shale. The mountains swallowed sound, leaving only the crunch of gravel underfoot and the distant whistle of highland wind. Dai walked ahead, posture relaxed yet alert, every movement a practiced balance between readiness and restraint. Hiruzen followed several paces behind, his thoughts looping in disquieted circles.

No wasted movement. No hesitation. No chakra. Only mastery.

He had seen countless shinobi rise and fall under his command but never had he misjudged someone so completely. The realization clung to him like the cold.

When they slipped back through the layered barrier concealing the camp, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. Chakra pressure pressed faintly at his senses—controlled, tense, coiled like a drawn bowstring.

Near the central tent stood Sakumo and Jiraiya, half‑silhouetted by fading daylight. Their conversation was quiet but intense, bodies angled inward, expressions carved from stone. The moment Dai and Hiruzen approached, both men paused mid‑sentence, attention snapping toward them with sharp, assessing focus.

Dai didn’t wait for acknowledgment. He strode forward with the eagerness of someone who understood duty without needing praise and bowed.

“Hokage‑sama. We completed our sweep. Three Kumogakure shinobi patrolling the outer perimeter. Neutralized and incapacitated.”

Sakumo’s eyes flicked to Hiruzen—cold, sharp, assessing.

Hiruzen stiffened under the gaze. Only then did he realize Sakumo was waiting for the scroll.

Reluctantly, he extended it.

Sakumo took it with a gloved hand, slipping it into an inner pocket of his flak jacket without breaking eye contact. “Good work,” he said.

But the tone carried a weighted distinction, directed more at Dai than at him.

A small, quiet sting lodged in Hiruzen’s chest.

He stepped closer. “Sakumo… what is your plan?”

Sakumo turned away, already stepping toward his tent. “I will tell you later. Be prepared. You and Minato will accompany me into the village tomorrow morning.”

A dismissive answer. Dismissive of his rank, his experience, his place.

“That isn’t good enough,” Hiruzen snapped before he could stop himself. “You dragged me across the border, assigned me perimeter duty as though I were a—”

Sakumo stopped mid‑stride.

He looked back.

The look he levelled at Hiruzen rooted him where he stood. A wolf’s warning glare—silent, cold, predatory. It reached deeper than anger; it was a promise of consequences should Hiruzen take one more step out of line.

“You will be told,” Sakumo said, voice low and flat, “when I decide you need to know. Until then, do not interfere.”

Hiruzen’s breath caught. His body reacted before his pride could—shoulders drawing in, spine stiffening, instinct screaming danger even though the man before him had not lifted a hand.

He said nothing more.

Around them, the other shinobi pretended not to watch—but their averted gazes, their silence, their stillness all testified to what they had witnessed. Judgment hung in the air like frost.

Hiruzen felt it.

He forced himself to step back, to release the tension in his jaw, to pretend he hadn’t just been put in his place by a man half his age.

Hours passed.

The sun dipped behind a distant ridge, casting jagged shadows over the camp. Shinobi moved between tents like ghosts—quiet, efficient, a living network of vigilance. Hiruzen watched them work: Uchiha and Hyuuga coordinating watch rotations, Inuzuka reinforcing scent barriers with their ninken, Aburame spreading insects into overlapping scouting webs.

Even the small fires were concealed beneath earthen pits—just enough warmth to stave off the creeping mountain chill, no higher. No brighter.

He sat by one of them, hands wrapped around a cup of lukewarm ration tea, the bitter taste grounding him. And though he disliked admitting it, the cold he felt was no longer only from the wind.

A shadow fell across him.

Another cup of tea appeared within his field of vision.

He looked up.

Jiraiya stood beside him, offering the second cup with a small, exhausted smile. His hair stirred in the wind, and faint dark circles clung beneath his eyes.

Hiruzen accepted the tea almost reflexively.

The Sannin lowered himself beside him with a soft groan of fatigue, legs stretching toward the firepit, shoulders brushing Hiruzen’s.

“Noticed something?” Jiraiya asked quietly, lifting his own cup toward the mingling silhouettes of different clans.

Hiruzen followed his gaze.

The sight was almost unreal.

Aburame sitting with Kohaku and Inuzuka, sharing food. Uchiha nudging Hyuuga in rare, teasing banter. A Yuuhi genjutsu specialist quietly discussing sealing theory with an Akimichi whose belly shook when he laughed. A cluster of clans—once fractious, territorial—now blended in soft camaraderie.

“It seems,” Hiruzen said slowly, fingers tightening around the warm cup, “that the… invisible borders between clans are not as strict as they once were.”

Jiraiya huffed a soft laugh. “They’re fading. Sakumo’s doing. He pushes them to work together—no excuses, no coddling, no hiding behind clan pride. And honestly? I like it.”

His voice softened.

“For the first time, it feels like we’re actually becoming one village—not a handful of clans forced to pretend they are.”

Hiruzen opened his mouth—perhaps to claim credit, or to offer a philosophical reflection he no longer had the right to give—but Jiraiya lifted a hand.

“And before you start preaching about unity or balance or ‘fragile peace’—Kumo still attacked us. They still came for Kushina. They still nearly killed Oro.”

Hiruzen’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“So yes,” Jiraiya went on, gaze fixed on the dim flicker of the fire, “there will be consequences. Hard ones. Because that’s the world. That´s leadership. That’s reality. But…” He exhaled slowly. “If Kumo survives the mess they created, maybe this—” he nodded toward the mingling clans “—could be the start of a new kind of peace. One built on spine instead of pretending everything’s fine.”

Jiraiya didn’t wait for an answer.

He simply stood, brushed dirt from his pants, and murmured, “Get some sleep, Sensei. Tomorrow will be… something.”

He walked away, leaving Hiruzen alone with the mountain wind, the dying warmth of the fire, the taste of cooling tea—and the unsettling realization that the world had moved forward without him, reshaping itself under a leader forged from steel rather than sentiment.

The night had been short, and Hiruzen woke to the low thrum of an already‑stirring camp. Dawn had barely broken—only a pale grey line cutting across the jagged horizon—yet shinobi were already moving with quiet precision, folding tents, reshaping terrain, checking weapons, reinforcing seals. The mountain wind was thin and cold, threading through every layer of fabric.

He pushed himself upright and dusted off his clothes, joints aching faintly from the unforgiving ground. Breakfast rations were already distributed near one of the concealed fire pits, steam rising from neatly packaged bundles.

Akimichi‑crafted rations.

Even now, long after leaving the seat, he could admit that the clan produced the best field food—nutritious, dense, always seasoned well despite limited resources. He unfolded the waxed cloth and bit into the onigiri. Simple, hearty, comforting in a way he hadn’t expected.

As he ate, his eyes drifted across the camp.

Sakumo moved from shinobi to shinobi, speaking to each quietly, leaning close, giving short orders. No raised voice, no barked commands—just calm, efficient direction. Minato shadowed him, taking notes, nodding sharply, occasionally vanishing in a brief flicker of hiraishin‑marked light to pass messages.

When Sakumo finally approached, Minato half a step behind him, Hiruzen stood automatically. The White Fang stopped before him, the mountain sun catching in his silver hair.

“Get ready,” Sakumo said simply. “We’re leaving for Kumogakure now.”

No further explanation. No invitation to ask. Only an order.

Hiruzen nodded stiffly and fell into step beside them.

What unsettled him more than the cold air was the dawning realization that only the three of them were going—Sakumo in front, Minato at his side, and he, the former Hokage, trailing slightly behind.

Everyone else remained behind.

Even the ANBU.

Even Jiraiya.

His anxiety twisted, but he kept his breathing calm. This was not the moment to show unease—not to Sakumo, not to Minato, and certainly not to the guards of another village.

The trek toward Kumogakure was not long. The path—worn, winding, and steep—cut through jagged stone ridges, carrying them higher and higher until the valley below was swallowed by white cloud. When they crested the final rise, the gates of the hidden village finally came into view.

And at that moment, Sakumo changed.

The anger, the cold tautness in his shoulders evaporated. The fury that had radiated off him since the attack smoothed into something deceptively gentle. He carried himself with diplomatic ease—back straight, expression relaxed, steps unhurried.

The only thing that betrayed him in Hiruzen´s mind was the smile that did not reach his eyes.

Minato mirrored the shift, posture easy and open. Only Hiruzen remained tense, jaw tight as his gaze swept the battlements.

Two Kumogakure shinobi dropped down in front of them, landing lightly on the gravel. Their expressions flickered between suspicion and unease.

“We were… not informed the Hokage of Konohagakure would be arriving,” one guard said carefully.

Sakumo answered with a pleasant smile.

“I have important matters to discuss with your Raikage,” he said. “Specifically, the unannounced guests he sent to my village.”

A pause. Just long enough for the implications to land.

“Of course,” Sakumo added lightly, “we sent a messenger hawk ahead. One must avoid rudeness, after all.”

The guards exchanged a look—uneasy, hushed, sharp around the edges. One hurried off, boots scraping against stone as he ran deeper into the village. Hiruzen’s shoulders tightened further.

He scanned the surroundings. Shadows on ridges. The hum of tense chakra. A village bracing for something.

Sakumo stood relaxed, hands loose at his sides, as though he were a visiting merchant rather than the man who had slain some of these shinobi’s comrades.

The guard returned quickly, breath uneven, and whispered something to his superior. The man’s eyes widened for the briefest moment.

Then they stepped aside.

“This way. The Raikage will receive you immediately.”

The trio entered the village.

As they walked through the winding streets, Hiruzen finally looked—truly looked—at Kumogakure.

It was… diminished.

Still standing, yes. Still proud in its architecture—tall structures cut from stone, banners fluttering in the wind. But beneath the surface, something important had shifted.

There were fewer market stalls than he remembered. Wooden awnings sagged from disrepair. The scent of fresh grain and roasted vegetables—which once wafted through the marketplace—was fainter, replaced by the smell of thin broths, dried fish, and burning old wood.

Children walked past in threadbare clothing. Merchants argued in subdued tones over prices that were clearly too high. He spotted two shinobi standing outside a closed shop, murmuring about delayed supply caravans.

The harvests.

They had indeed not been good.

Not this year.

And perhaps not last year either.

It wasn’t poverty—not yet—but it was strain, unmistakable and creeping. The subtle kind that led to desperate decisions.

Decisions like violating a treaty.

Decisions like attempting to kidnap an Uzumaki Jinchuuriki.

Hiruzen swallowed as they neared the Raikage building, an uneasy thought crawling up his spine.

If things were this strained… what else was Kumogakure willing to do?

Eventually they finally arrived at the place of the Raikage.

The ascent toward the Raikage’s tower felt like climbing into the sky itself. The structure loomed over Kumogakure like a titanic beacon—bands of deep blue metal wrapped around its spiralling form, glass panels catching every shard of sunlight that pierced the drifting banks of mist. From a distance it resembled a colossal lantern perched atop a jagged peak, its crown bristling with antenna‑like structures humming faintly with stored lightning. The air around it carried a sharp tang of ozone, as though the building itself breathed electricity.

The climb to the highest floor was long and winding. The guards led them up slanted ramps carved into the outer shell of the tower, their surfaces smooth but reinforced with metal ribs that thrummed gently with chakra‑conducting veins. Narrow bridges arched between platforms, suspended over dizzying drops where white clouds churned like stormy seas. The wind grew thinner with every level they ascended, threading cold fingers through Hiruzen’s robes, carrying with it the persistent buzz of Raiton.

By the time they reached the topmost level, four elite guards were already waiting before the enormous double doors—broad‑shouldered shinobi clad in armour trimmed with white and gold, their posture rigid and eyes hard. The pair who had escorted them from the gates vanished without a sound, as if swallowed by the very air, leaving these higher‑ranking guards to take over.

A curt greeting. A shallow bow.

Then the doors swung open.

Sakumo, Minato, and Hiruzen stepped inside.

Hiruzen’s gaze swept across the chamber the moment they entered.

It was exactly as he remembered.

A wide, circular room stretched before them, its walls made entirely of floor‑to‑ceiling windows that curved with the shape of the tower. Beyond the glass lay a vista of jagged mountains piercing sheets of drifting cloud—an endless horizon of stone spires and rolling mist. The air smelled faintly of metal and lightning, a constant reminder of the element that defined this village.

The carpet underfoot was a muted shade of blue—dense, expensive, muffling every footstep. Near the great window sat a single red sofa, its colour striking against the subdued tones of the room. A low metal table sat in front of it, its surface polished to a cold gleam.

To the right, a massive training bag hung from thick chains, swaying slightly despite the absence of wind inside. Weight plates were stacked neatly beside a reinforced mat, suggesting the Raikage trained here between meetings, as though diplomacy and battle were interchangeable duties.

And on the sofa— legs planted wide, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling loosely—

sat the Third Raikage.

He looked every bit the immovable wall Hiruzen remembered. Broad‑shouldered, built like a fortress, his presence alone filled the room. His eyes were half‑lidded, expression unreadably calm, as though this were nothing more than a casual drop‑in from an old acquaintance—not the aftermath of an attempted kidnapping and a near act of war.

Sakumo walked directly up to him. Only the low table remained between the two Kage. Minato and Hiruzen flanked the White Fang—one on each side—mirroring the balance of an execution stand.

For a long moment, neither man spoke.

A’s gaze was heavy, assessing. Sakumo’s was serene, almost gentle. Too gentle.

Finally, the Raikage spoke.

"To what," he rumbled, voice deep enough to vibrate through the floor, "do I owe the pleasure of a personal visit from the Hokage of Konohagakure?"

Sakumo didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His smile only sharpened—a polite expression polished to a razor edge.

"I was under the impression," Sakumo replied lightly, "that our villages enjoyed a rather amicable relationship with Kumogakure. But it appears that goodwill was… one‑sided."

A faint muscle ticked in the Raikage’s jaw.

Sakumo continued, unbothered.

"I also don’t appreciate random shinobi being sent into my village to attempt kidnapping our Jinchuuriki. So—" he slipped a hand into his vest "—I thought it best to return your men, since they clearly weren’t appreciated in Konoha."

He drew out a scroll.

With one clean flourish, he snapped it open. The scroll unfurled across the table with a sharp crack, rolling out perfectly flat.

Two fingers lifted to his face.

A seal release.

Puff.

A small cloud of smoke rose, then cleared—

to reveal

seven severed heads

lined neatly on the table.

The heads of the intruders.

Hiruzen gasped sharply despite himself. Three faces he instantly recognized—the prisoners he had seen interrogated. Eyes frozen in terror. Mouths slack.

He turned toward Sakumo—who only smiled wider.

The White Fang extended a hand toward the display, voice still polite, still relaxed.

"I do not appreciate my village being disrespected. My people being endangered. My mate nearly dying—all because you, Raikage‑dono, lacked the courage to formally request aid, which Konoha would have granted."

His words were smooth, but each syllable struck like a hammer.

"Had you sent a diplomatic envoy, your men would have returned alive and whole. But due to your foolishness, I was forced to set an example. One that sits squarely on your shoulders."

A stared at the heads. At the blood. At the unmistakable consequences laid before him.

Shock rippled across his face. Then grief. Then something colder—uneasiness.

How did he know? How much had his men said?

A sharp, choked sound broke the tension.

One of the Raikage’s guards lurched forward with a howl of anguish, lunging straight for Sakumo.

They did not make it three steps.

Minato flashed—literally—and appeared behind them in a streak of gold.

A precise strike.

The guard collapsed unconscious before their body even hit the floor.

And the room went silent again.

A stood before the unfolding scene, his expression darkening by the second, each new detail carving deeper lines of tension across his brow. One of his personal guards lay sprawled atop the deep blue carpet—its threads crushed beneath the man’s limp weight. The young blond boy sat astride him, small hands pressed firmly between the man’s shoulder blades. Despite the disparity in size, the brat held him with startling efficiency, spine straight, grip unyielding. The guard’s face was slack, lips parted, eyelids fluttering faintly from unconsciousness, his body offering no resistance at all. Only the shallow rise and fall of his chest proved he was still alive.

A’s jaw tightened. His eyes cut sharply to the left—toward Hiruzen. The old man stood beside Sakumo, posture rigid and ready, shoulders squared beneath formal robes that shifted with the quiet pulse of gathered chakra. Hiruzen’s weathered face betrayed nothing, yet tension coiled subtly beneath the surface. His stance was angled forward just enough to make clear that he was prepared. His dark gaze followed every movement, measured and assessing, the kind of gaze born from decades of surviving situations far uglier than this.

Then A forced his attention back to the centre.

Hatake Sakumo stood with the deceptive ease of someone who appeared too calm. His posture was relaxed—almost lazily so—one hand resting near his hip, while the other hung loosely at his side. But nothing about him was soft. His stillness held a razor’s edge, the controlled quiet of a blade drawn halfway from its sheath. His dark eyes maintained a gentle curve, but beneath the surface, an icy sharpness gleamed—an unspoken threat that crawled across A’s skin like cold wind.

A swallowed the burn of rising fury and tore his gaze back toward the table between them.

Where, arranged in a flawless row, lay the severed heads of his men.

The polished metal of the table reflected the harsh lines of their faces—eyes forever frozen in shock, jaws slack, hair stiffened by blood and dirt. They were his finest shinobi, warriors honed through the harsh winds of the mountains and tempered under his direct command. Now they sat as trophies in their Kage’s office. The sight hit him with the full weight of grief—a thick, suffocating pressure rising from deep within his chest. It mingled with humiliation, with rage, with the jagged sting of failure. His men had died far from home, without burial rites, without honour. They had died carrying his orders.

Hatake Sakumo. The White Fang of Konoha. Standing there as though he had merely returned from a morning stroll, untouched by the carnage he’d wrought.

A’s throat tightened. A hot, feral surge of anger snapped through him, demanding release, demanding action. His fingers twitched, chakra tightening instinctively across his arms. But he forced it down—forced it deep—until only the faint tremble in his jaw betrayed the effort. Attacking here, attacking now, would be madness. Hiruzen’s presence alone tilted the balance too sharply. Even retired, the old man’s chakra was controlled steel, coiled and ready. And Sakumo—Sakumo radiated deadly precision without moving an inch.

Kumogakure could not afford a battle here. Not with its resources already cracking under strain.

It was one thing to battle a Bijuu—raw, animal devastation.

It was another to stand against two veterans who had built their legends on control, calculation, and the absolute refusal to lose.

After a long, taut moment that stretched like drawn wire, A exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his breathing back under control. He faced Sakumo directly.

“What do you want?”

Sakumo’s smile widened—not kindly, but with the precise politeness of a man sliding a knife between ribs.

“I’m glad,” he said softly, tone smooth and unhurried, “that Raikage-dono understands what has to be done.”

The smile vanished, wiped clean in an instant.

His eyes sharpened. His presence deepened. It pressed into the room like frost seeping beneath doorways, quiet but merciless.

“Restitution,” Sakumo said. His voice was steady, a calm current running beneath a steel edge. “For the damages done. For the lives endangered. For the resources lost due to your attempted abduction.”

Each word landed with impeccable precision, impossible to misinterpret.

“You will publicly acknowledge what you attempted,” he continued, “and why. You will formally apologize to Konohagakure and take responsibility—fully and without conditions.”

He lifted his chin by the smallest degree, yet the motion sliced through the space between them.

“Furthermore, you will hand over the sea routes from Yu no Kuni to Hi no Kuni. Effective immediately.”

A felt his jaw click. The muscles there twitched violently.

Sakumo did not pause.

“Konoha will also receive exclusive extraction rights to two of Kumogakure’s mineral mines. Preferably those rich in iron sand and high-grade chakra-conductive ore.”

A sucked in a sharp breath—barely keeping it silent.

“And finally,” Sakumo said, tilting his head the slightest bit, “a blood contract. Legally binding and sealed in chakra. Kumogakure will, under no circumstances, cause harm, incite conflict, or engage in warfare against Hi no Kuni, its hidden village, or its citizens.”

Silence dropped over the room like a weighted cloak.

A felt the hairs at the back of his neck bristle—a primal warning.

Sakumo’s eyes locked onto his. Steady. Unblinking. Remorseless.

“That should be fair enough,” Sakumo murmured. “Don’t you think so as well?”

A’s jaw flexed, a tremor running through the muscle as fury coiled hot and violent beneath his ribs. The audacity of it. The cold, surgical boldness. Every demand delivered with such calm certainty he could almost taste blood.

His teeth ground harder, a low, caged growl vibrating at the base of his throat.

He rose so abruptly that the legs of the sofa scraped harshly across the floor, the sharp sound cutting through the heavy air like the crack of a whip. The movement sent a faint tremor rippling through the room, his chakra flaring in a short, instinctive pulse—sharp, hot, and unmistakably hostile. His fists balled at his sides, knuckles whitening, tendons standing out like carved stone beneath taut skin. His shoulders locked into place, squared and rigid, every line of his frame trembling with the sheer force of how violently he was keeping himself from exploding.

When he spoke, his voice vibrated low, a rumble scraped from the depths of barely restrained fury.

“This is ridiculous.”

The words dropped from his lips, each syllable bitten off as though he were tearing them free with his teeth. “We may have breached the contracts, but taking two of the village’s resources away? That goes too far. What do you think you’re doing?” His breath hitched with indignation, chest rising sharply once, then again, as if the act of forming the accusation physically strained him.

The anger in him churned like molten metal—slow, thick, blistering—barely held in its container. His glare swept over the room, slicing through light and shadow alike, daring either man before him to challenge his outrage. The air felt denser around him, charged with the tension of something moments from rupturing.

Hiruzen’s reaction was small but telling. His brows lifted a fraction, eyes widening just enough to betray how sharply Sakumo’s demands had struck him. His fingers curled under the long sleeves of his uniform, gripping fabric unseen. He had witnessed countless negotiations stretch into the edge of bloodshed, had watched pride and power topple entire clans—but even he had not expected terms delivered with such precise, frigid ruthlessness. Still, despite his shock, he made no move to interject. His instincts screamed at him with cold clarity: do not step between them.

Not now. Not when the air itself hummed with a pressure so near its breaking point.

Sakumo did not flinch. Not a breath of movement. His eyes remained half-lidded, unreadable, his face a mask of lethal calm. Slowly, he crossed his arms over his chest—an unhurried, unbothered motion that contrasted violently with the thunderous anger rolling off the Raikage.

“Oh?” he asked quietly, the single syllable soft, almost thoughtful. “You truly think it’s unfair?”

His gaze sharpened, narrowing just enough that the temperature in the room seemed to dip, a cold draft sliding down the spine like an unseen blade.

“I find it quite reasonable,” Sakumo continued, tone smooth, maddeningly level. “Because the little stunt you pulled nearly unleashed the Kyuubi on our village. If my mate hadn’t been there to seal the beast back—on the spot—Konohagakure would have been reduced to ash.”

His voice sank lower, each word carrying the weight of disaster narrowly avoided.

“And not just Konoha. The shockwave of a rampaging Bijuu does not stop at village borders. Hi no Kuni would have been devastated. Entire provinces wiped out. Tens of thousands dead before the first response could even be organized.”

He let the words fall piece by piece, slow and heavy, like boulders dropped into a frozen lake—each one sending cracks spidering outward.

“Tell me, Raikage-dono,” Sakumo murmured, leaning forward by the barest fraction, “did you consider those damages? Even for a moment?”

A went still. His posture stiffened, jaw locking.

“And given that,” Sakumo finished, voice quiet but merciless in its certainty, “I am being very lenient.”

The sentence hit harder than any shouted accusation. For a heartbeat A’s breath stuttered, chest tightening, spine jerking straighter as shock flashed through his eyes. He crushed it quickly beneath a brittle smirk, forcing a sneer into place like armour.

“Is that so?” he drawled, venom thick beneath the surface. “Then what will you do if I don’t comply? Go to war? That would harm Konoha too.” He tilted his chin upward, mockery sharpening the edges of the question. “Are you willing to bleed yourselves dry just to make a point?”

Sakumo’s lips curved—not warmly, but with a cold, cutting softness.

He lifted two fingers and made the smallest gesture, almost lazy in its precision.

Minato appeared in an instant after he released the unconscious guard with a muted thud. Quietly, efficiently, he moved to stand behind Sakumo and Hiruzen. His blond hair caught the sunlight like polished metal, blue eyes unreadable and calm as still water.

Sakumo spoke without turning.

“We don’t need to go to war,” he said. “We have better ways to change your mind.”

Then he tilted his head.

Not much. Just enough. But somehow the angle shifted the entire room—altered the balance of height and power until, despite A being the larger man, Sakumo seemed to be looking down on him from a height the Raikage could not reach.

“And the Uzumaki,” he continued softly, “didn’t appreciate their princess being attacked either.”

A inhaled sharply. His eyes narrowed—then widened.

Sakumo’s voice lowered further, growing quieter, steadier, infinitely more dangerous.

“You know their reputation. Their seals are unmatched. Imagine Kumogakure caught beneath one—unable to receive aid, unable to send for help. A barrier so complete that even a Raikage’s strength wouldn’t make a dent.”

The blood drained from A’s face as the meaning hit him.

His eyes flared wide, fury exploding across his expression with raw, unfiltered force. “A siege,” he snarled. “You’re planning a siege.”

Sakumo only laughed. Lightly. Almost amused.

“You can call it that if you want,” he said, his voice edged with gleaming clarity. “But Kumogakure brought it on themselves. So, you shouldn’t act so surprised.”

Something inside A snapped. His composure tore like cloth under too much strain.

“Enough!” he roared, voice cracking with rage. “Guards—attack!”

The guards surged—

—but they struck only empty space.

Because the three Konoha shinobi vanished before the first foot touched the ground, swallowed in a blinding flash of golden light that scorched the air and left the Raikage swinging at shadows and the echo of their disappearance.

Hiruzen did just have enough time to regain his footing—the world snapping back into focus around him in a rush of displaced air, distorted sound, and the faint metallic tang of hiraishin chakra—when Minato’s technique deposited them back inside the forward camp. The earth beneath his sandals steadied him, solid and familiar, packed down by the constant passage of shinobi. Footprints overlapped in the dirt; discarded rope, sealed crates, and bundles of supplies lined the paths between tents. A breeze swept through the clearing, carrying with it the mingled scents of damp canvas, ink-stained paper, sharpened steel, distant cookfires, and the faint sweetness of pine sap. It was grounding—mundane, almost comforting—after the suffocating hostility of the Raikage’s office.

They materialized directly in front of Jiraiya.

The Sannin´s white hair lifting with the sudden displacement of air. One large hand was already wrapped around one of Minato’s marked kunai, instinct poised on a blade’s edge as he awaited them.

Sakumo stepped forward.

The movement was deceptively simple: a single step, smooth, controlled, but weighted with authority so palpable it cut cleanly through every stray sound in the camp. Conversations halted. A few shinobi glanced over instinctively, sensing the shift.

“Jiraiya,” Sakumo said, voice calm but edged with a command that brooked no hesitation, “activate the barrier.”

Jiraiya didn’t even blink.

He didn’t ask why. Didn’t stall. Didn’t question. His body snapped into motion like a bowstring loosed. His fingers flew to the communication transmitter strapped at his neck, flicking the switch with a fierce, decisive click.

“All barrier units,” he barked, voice carrying across the clearing with practiced projection, “get ready. On my mark—activate the seal.”

The chakra in the air responded, sharp and anticipatory.

He began counting down.

“Three—” His hands blurred into motion, seals forming with a speed and precision only decades of mastery could produce. Fingers interlocked, shifted, broke apart, reformed—fluid, exact.

“Two—” Chakra surged beneath his skin, flaring outward in a humming resonance that prickled against the earth and rattled faintly through the tents. It felt like standing at the heart of a storm moments before lightning struck.

“One.”

He slammed both palms to the ground.

The response was instantaneous.

Brilliant white light exploded from beneath his hands, rushing outward in thin, branching tendrils—veins of living fire racing across the terrain. The lines split, diverged, and shot toward the distant forests and cliffs, toward every point where barrier squads waited with mirrored hand seals.

Then—far away, yet achingly visible—pillars of chakra erupted skyward.

From the ridgelines. From the hilltops. From the hidden channels carved into the mountains surrounding Kumogakure.

The barrier rose.

A tremendous white dome surged upward, its walls curving into existence in sweeping arcs of luminous chakra. The layers folded one over another—dense, reinforced, unbroken—as the dome expanded, stretched, and finally sealed shut overhead with a low, resonant hum. The ground vibrated subtly beneath their feet, the air thick with the aftershocks of the jutsu’s formation.

Jiraiya exhaled a slow breath and pushed himself to his feet, dust clinging to the lines of his palms. He turned toward them, shoulders squaring, expression settling into one of crisp, unshakable confidence.

“Barrier successful,” he said. “Even the Raikage won’t be able to breach it.”

Sakumo nodded once, the simple gesture carrying the weight of expectation met.

“Good. Gather the barrier squad back,” he instructed. “And assemble the rest of the shinobi in camp. I’ll begin preparing the contracts.”

His gaze drifted toward the distant dome—gleaming like a second moon against the mountain shadows. The pale white reflected faintly in his eyes as they sharpened, calculating pressure points, contingencies, the limits of desperation and pride.

“They’ll cave within a week,” he said quietly. “A week and a half at most. A may be a prideful fool, but he won’t let his people suffer for long.”

He turned, cloak whispering across the ground as it shifted around his shoes. “He’ll sign.”

Jiraiya and Minato exchanged a short, silent look—agreement forged without words—before they vanished into motion, splitting cleanly in opposite directions to execute Sakumo’s command.

Hiruzen, however, stood rooted in place.

His jaw clenched hard enough to ache. His eyes, darkened by something heavier than simple disagreement, followed Sakumo’s retreating figure.

And then he moved.

He followed Sakumo through the winding paths of the camp—past shinobi whispering urgently at the sight of the distant barrier, past the camp and supply stacks. He followed him into the largest tent, the Hokage’s temporary quarters.

And without pausing, without knocking, without waiting for a signal, he stepped inside.

Sakumo didn’t react. He simply continued toward the low table in the centre, where scrolls lay neatly arranged beside containers of special ink and precise sealing brushes. He sat with a practiced efficiency into his chair, fingers already reaching for a fresh scroll.

Hiruzen remained standing.

His fists curled tighter at his sides, knuckles pale, the tendons along his forearms taut with restraint.

“Why are you doing this?” he demanded.

Sakumo didn’t lift his head—not fully. Only his eyes rose, meeting Hiruzen’s with a brief, razor-edged flicker of acknowledgment. Something passed between them in that instant—sharp, cold, unspoken.

Then Sakumo looked back down at the scroll.

“You heard it,” he said. “In the Raikage’s office.”

And he continued writing.

Hiruzen didn’t like the answer. His jaw tightened, the muscles jumping beneath his skin, and his breath drew in sharp through his nose—controlled, clipped, the kind of inhale used to brace oneself before stepping into fire. He forced the words out anyway, each one feeling heavier than the last.

“I don’t think this is the way to handle the situation.”

The tent seemed to still around them.

Tent walls softened the wind, muting the distant shouts of shinobi and the soft clatter of weapons being cleaned. For a suspended heartbeat, the air held absolutely motionless, as if the world itself had leaned closer to listen.

Then Sakumo slammed the brush onto the table.

The impact cracked through the tent like a detonated seal.

Wood struck wood with a force that echoed—sharp, ringing, a kunai ricocheting off stone. A streak of ink spattered violently across the parchment, scattering droplets onto Sakumo’s wrist and the edge of the ink tray. Hiruzen flinched. The reaction was involuntary, a small jerk of his shoulders that betrayed more than he intended.

Sakumo lifted his head.

Slowly.

And when his eyes met Hiruzen’s, they were cold—flat, stripped of patience, carrying an exhausted edge that suggested he no longer had any room left inside himself for civility.

“It’s a good thing,” Sakumo said, voice low but sharp enough to slice cleanly through the air, “that it’s not your job to think anymore. Because if it were, we’d end up with Konoha bowing down and letting herself be disrespected—yet again—because you were too much of a coward to protect the village.”

The words hit like strikes—quick, open-handed, merciless.

Hiruzen’s expression twitched. It wasn’t shame that crossed his face, but something far older: pride splintered with age, layered grievances, and the brittle defensiveness of a man who had held power too long and lost it too painfully. He swallowed, throat bobbing, as if steadying the inside of himself before straightening his spine.

“And why,” he asked, tone tight, strained, defensive, “would you take me with you, then? If you think so little of me?”

Sakumo stared at him.

Not with anger—not even with disdain.

But with the flat bewilderment of someone confronted by a question that should never have needed asking. Annoyance flickered beneath the surface, the kind born from sheer tiredness.

He dragged a slow hand across his temple, fingers rubbing firm circles into the skin as though the very conversation was a pounding headache.

“I took the former Hokage,” Sakumo said, each word clipped, deliberate, “as an intimidation tactic. A wouldn’t be stupid enough to start something with two Kage-level shinobi standing in front of him. Even if one of them is retired.”

His hand dropped back to the table, fingers tapping once—slow, dismissive.

“I certainly didn’t bring you because I wanted you here. That’s something you should’ve known on your own.”

The statement hung between them like a cold draft. Hiruzen blinked, caught off guard despite himself. His brows rose—slowly, disbelief tightening the corners of his eyes.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “I was dismissed as Hokage. Surely that wouldn’t intimidate anyone.”

Silence rolled over the tent.

Sakumo turned his head.

This time fully.

His expression shifted subtly—no surprise, just a quiet, weary disbelief tinged with resignation, as though he had anticipated Hiruzen’s misunderstanding but still couldn’t stop being faintly, bitterly disappointed.

“Hiruzen,” he said, voice even, steady, almost too calm, “you didn’t honestly think that information ever left the village.”

The breath caught in Hiruzen’s throat.

Sakumo continued, leaning back in his chair. His arms folded across his chest in a slow, deliberate motion.

“I made sure the truth of Danzou’s death—and the real reason you stepped down—never crossed Konoha’s borders. If it had, it would’ve been ammunition for every other hidden village. A justification to probe us. To pressure us. To test how far they could push. Or worse—to attack while they thought we were weakened.”

His gaze hardened, sharpening like metal cooled into something unyielding.

“And considering the groundwork Danzou already laid in secret…” His jaw tightened at the name. “The chakra and blood contract is more important now than ever.”

Hiruzen stood very still at the explanation—so still it seemed the breath had left his lungs altogether. His expression froze between disbelief, wounded pride, and the slow, dawning sting of humiliation that crawled like ice water beneath his skin. The weight of Sakumo’s words lingered in the space between them—heavy, sharp, thickening the air until it felt almost solid.

Sakumo studied him for a long moment. His eyes traced Hiruzen’s stunned silence, the faint tremor in the older man’s jaw, the way his shoulders drew in by a fraction. Then Sakumo exhaled through his nose with open irritation, the sound low and dismissive, as though Hiruzen’s confusion itself was a strain on his patience.

“Did you honestly think I would let something like that get out of the village?” Sakumo said. His voice was flat—quiet but edged with incredulity. “Even the villagers of Konoha don’t know the full story. And I intend to keep it that way.”

The words hit harder than Hiruzen expected.

He frowned, the deep lines of age and burden tightening across his face, confusion knotting together with old wounds he never fully examined. “Then why are the people in the village looking at me?” he asked, softer than before. “Whispering?”

Sakumo shrugged—a single-shouldered, utterly unbothered gesture, as if the answer cost him nothing.

“I let out another rumour.”

He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he dipped his brush into the ink again, slow, as though the moment itself were insignificant.

But Hiruzen waited. His posture stiffened, breath held, revealing how deeply the answer mattered to him—even if he wished it didn’t.

Finally, Sakumo spoke, tone dry as sand. “They think you stepped down because you had… an unfortunate addiction to aphrodisiac medication. Embarrassing. Not dangerous. But still not fit enough to rule.”

Hiruzen’s mouth actually fell open.

For a moment he simply stared, unable to form a single word. And the silence that settled between them thickened—draping itself heavily over every breath, every heartbeat.

Outside the village, nobody knew anything.

Sakumo turned back to the scroll, sliding the brush across the parchment in smooth strokes as he set the framework of the contract. His expression remained impassive, attention wholly on his work.

“You’re dismissed,” he said, voice cool and final, never once glancing up. “I have more important things to do than coddle someone who’s more worried about the enemy than his own village.”

Hiruzen didn’t respond. He stood there for a long, aching moment—a heavy stillness wrapping around his chest—before he finally turned and left the tent, each step slow, stiff, almost hollow.

Days passed.

Still the barrier held.

Kumogakure threw everything at it—blinding chakra blasts that scorched the air, coordinated squad assaults, siege techniques, even the Raikage himself slamming his full, violent strength into the glowing wall. But nothing so much as trembled. The dome stood pristine and untouched.

No sound escaped from within. No chakra seeped beyond its walls. No message slipped through its surface.

The Uzumaki barrier swallowed everything.

It didn’t just trap bodies. It trapped chakra, sound, intent—every thread of energy that tried to breach it. No messenger bird could pierce it. No tunnelling jutsu could bypass it. The dome extended deep underneath the earth, its sealing lines layered in spirals so dense and interlocked that even natural terrain could not disrupt it. Kumo was caught inside a perfect sphere—an impenetrable, airtight bubble of luminous white, neither entry nor exit possible.

From the camp, the Konoha shinobi monitored it constantly. Especially Sakumo. Every time he passed the ridge overlooking the valley, his eyes flicked toward the dome. Calculating. Measuring. Ensuring it held.

Meanwhile Hiruzen withdrew further into himself.

Since the confrontation in the Raikage’s office, he spoke less and less. He lingerd at the fringes of camp, sitting apart during meals, avoiding the firelit warmth of shared conversation. He turned inward, spiralling through thoughts of failure, self-pity, and the heavy ache of not understanding why the new Hokage was so hostile toward him.

He had tried. Hadn’t he? He had tried to be kind, to rule with peace, to keep Konoha stable. But it hadn’t been enough—or worse, it hadn’t been appreciated at all.

And that coldness—that first chill he felt the day he was stripped of the title—had only burrowed deeper, coiling tight around his ribs.

On the evening of the fifth day, Minato interrupted the downward spiral.

The blond approached quietly, soft steps crunching faintly over packed dirt, carrying a steaming cup of tea in both hands.

“Courtesy of Jiraiya-sensei,” he said, offering it forward.

Hiruzen accepted the cup, palms warming instantly, grateful for something tangible to anchor him.

Minato turned to leave—but paused mid-step when Hiruzen spoke.

“Minato-kun,” he said, voice low and weary, “are you still angry with Jiraiya? Do you… not trust him anymore?”

The question halted the young man completely.

He turned back, expression puzzled, brows knitting as if the question itself had surprised him.

Then—almost sheepishly—he rubbed the back of his neck, a boyish gesture that softened the sharpness of his features. The sight made Hiruzen smile, faintly, unexpectedly. Outside the battlefield—where Minato became something fierce and blinding—he truly was an awkward, earnest young man.

Minato lifted his gaze again.

“Well… Jiraiya-sensei being back doesn’t erase everything,” he said honestly. “I’m still angry.” His voice gentled. “He left. And I felt abandoned. Still do sometimes. Oro-sensei helped the most, but… the feeling never went away completely.”

Hiruzen blinked. The admission wasn’t what he expected—raw, stripped of bravado, quietly honest.

“But,” Minato continued, “I trust him. Without a doubt.”

Hiruzen inhaled softly. “Even after all of that?”

Minato nodded, firm.

“Because I know that even if Jiraiya-sensei knows I’m angry with him… he’ll still be there if I need help. Or protection. Or guidance.” His lips softened into something small and fond. “And he apologized. To me. And to my teammates. He realized his mistakes—and he’s trying to make things right.”

The words landed heavily within Hiruzen—like stones sinking through water until they reached the quiet, aching bottom of him.

Minato turned to go again.

But just before he took the final step away, he paused, glanced over his shoulder, and spoke softly—barely above the evening wind.

“Maybe,” he said, “Sarutobi-sama should’ve started his talks with an apology too.”

Then he walked off, leaving Hiruzen absolutely stunned, rooted in place as the night settled around him like a second skin.

It was on the seventh day—just as Sakumo had predicted—when Kumogakure finally relented.

The morning air was brittle with cold, the kind that seeped straight through fabric and bone. A pale hush hung over the camp, suspended beneath the grey-blue sky. Frost clung thickly to the edges of the canvas tents, turning them rigid and silver tipped. The grass, still untouched by the rising sun, glittered faintly like shards of green glass under a thin veil of white.

Hiruzen sat alone beside the dying embers of last night’s fire. The charred wood glowed in slow, rhythmic pulses—orange, then dim, then orange again—breathing like a creature too tired to rise. Thin tendrils of smoke curled upward, dissolving into the crisp air. He extended his hands toward what little warmth remained, palms hovering above the embers as if trying to absorb the memory of heat rather than the heat itself.

He felt old. Worn. As though the cold outside had crept inward and found a permanent place inside his ribs.

He was still half lost in thought when the sharp, rapid rustle of footsteps against packed dirt jolted him upright. One of the Inuzuka scouts burst into view, skidding to a stop before Sakumo’s tent. His breath fogged in the air, coming out in quick white bursts.

“Hokage-sama!” he called, voice bright with urgency. “There’s a representative sent by the Raikage just inside the barrier’s border. They’ve come to discuss the signing of the contracts.”

The words hung like frost in the air.

Hiruzen rose immediately—too fast for his stiff joints. His knees cracked; his back protested—but he forced himself forward, straightening as Sakumo strode out of his tent with Jiraiya and Minato at his sides.

The three moved as a unit.

Sakumo walked ahead, posture steady, expression unreadable, aura cutting through the morning haze like a blade. Minato hovered to his right—quiet, sharp-eyed, alert in a way that made him seem older than his years. Jiraiya stood to the left, broader, tense, a line of steel running down his spine.

Hiruzen hovered on the outskirts, a shadow rather than a presence. He listened.

The scout repeated the message—more formal now—and Sakumo’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile.

“That’s excellent news,” he said, the calm warmth in his voice at odds with the cold morning.

He turned to Minato and Jiraiya. “We’ll go meet them. But I’m not entering the barrier until the Raikage appears in person.”

Hiruzen heard it. He didn’t comment. He had learned—painfully—that his words no longer carried weight here.

The Inuzuka Jounin shifted, uncertainty tightening his posture.

“Hokage-sama… is it wise to go inside at all? What if it’s a trap?”

The question echoed Hiruzen’s own thoughts, a ripple of unease he hadn’t voiced.

Sakumo only laughed quietly—soft, breathy, almost amused.

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

He reached out and ruffled Minato’s hair, fingers brushing through blond strands. Minato stiffened but didn’t pull away—only flushed faintly and offered a shy, reluctant smile.

“First, I have Minato. He’s mastered Nidaime-sama’s jutsu. If things go wrong, we’ll be out before anyone can blink.”

Minato did not deny it.

“And second,” Sakumo continued, voice cooling, “the Uzumaki barrier seal has a few failsafes of its own.”

His eyes glimmered, cold and sharp.

“And… Jiraiya and I hold keys to the barrier. If Kumogakure even thinks of doing something foolish—” his tone dropped into something deep and dangerous, “—then we’ll let the barrier implode. Kumogakure will be wiped off the map.”

The Inuzuka swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. Silence stretched between them for a beat before he managed to speak.

“Hokage-sama…” he finally managed, voice thin, “is it even okay to do something like that?”

Hiruzen tensed.

Finally—someone who understood.

But Sakumo’s answer crushed the hope before it formed.

“No,” Sakumo said plainly, meeting the man’s eyes without flinching. “In no circumstance is it okay. But the village was attacked. It would’ve been destroyed. I won’t let that go.”

He let out a slow breath, the frost in the air catching the edge of it.

“It may seem cruel,” he continued, “but if we let this go unanswered, then next time they’ll push further. They’ll test our boundaries, escalate, get bolder. That’s how wars start—because one side believes the other is too afraid to act.”

His tone deepened, iron filling every word.

“Konoha cannot afford to appear weak. Not once. Not now. This isn’t about vengeance—it’s about preventing the next attack, and the one after that. If a single display of strength now saves thousands of lives in the future, then that’s mercy—not cruelty.”

The Inuzuka’s brows furrowed, but slowly he nodded.

He understood.

He was glad—relieved even—that their Hokage was someone willing to do anything to protect them.

Sakumo straightened, the movement sharp and final. “It’s time to go. If everything goes well, we’ll be home tomorrow.”

He turned without waiting for more questions, cloak shifting behind him like a pale shadow. Jiraiya and Minato followed in synchronized steps.

Hiruzen did not move.

The cold morning air gnawed at his skin, but he barely felt it past the turmoil inside him.

Sakumo had said all of that on purpose.

Not because the Inuzuka needed reassurance. But because Hiruzen needed to hear it.

The words settled deep—slicing through his thoughts, forcing him to confront the truth he had avoided.

For the first time, a thin, persistent thread of real doubt unwound inside him.

Had he ever truly been a good Hokage?

Had he ever protected the village with this kind of clarity, this brutal willingness to take responsibility no matter how heavy the decision? Had he ever inspired such loyalty—such confidence—in his shinobi?

Or had he clung too tightly to peace, too fearful of confrontation, too trusting that kindness alone could hold the world steady?

Had he hidden behind ideals because he was too afraid of the bloodier necessities of leadership?

Sakumo’s figure grew smaller in the distance, white cloak trailing like a ghost in the frost.

Hiruzen’s chest tightened. Something inside him shifted—painfully, irrevocably.

Maybe… he had been wrong in more ways than he wished to admit.

Orochimaru felt honestly like shit right now.

Not the sharp, immediate kind of pain that demanded attention—but the deep, drowning exhaustion that made his entire body feel wrong. Heavy. Bruised. Oversensitive. Even with his eyes closed, the light pressing against his lids was far too bright, a white glare that stabbed into the darkness behind his vision like needles of flame. Every inch of him ached—dull, throbbing pulses radiating outward from his ribs and lungs, blooming painfully beneath each breath.

Or maybe the ache was worsened by the warm weight pressed into his left side.

He drifted upward slowly, consciousness creeping back to him in thick, reluctant waves. First came feeling: the numb prickle along his fingers… then the faint tremor of movement returning to them. He tested them one by one—thumb, index, middle—slow, sluggish, but working.

Eventually he managed to lift a hand. It wavered in the air, heavy as stone, before he brought it toward his face.

Something bumped against his knuckles.

Huh.

Smooth. Firm. Plastic?

His thoughts dragged themselves together, slow and fogged, before the realization clicked.

A tube.

A breathing tube inserted past his lips and down his throat.

For an instant everything inside him froze.

Then memory hit.

Kushina’s house—scrolls scattered across tatami mats, sealing formulas half-finished. The air shattering with the sudden attack. Kyuubi’s chakra exploding outward in a violent, burning surge, shaking the foundations around them. The flash of pain as he was pierced from three directions like some human pincushion.

And the horrified, stupid expressions on their faces when they realized he had extended the seal—binding them inside it as well.

Idiots.

The recollection snapped his eyes open.

The ceiling above him was a washed-out white—sterile, too bright, almost glaring. Sunlight streamed through a window somewhere to his left, cutting across the room in sharp golden bands, the rays almost painful against his vision. He let his hand fall back to the sheets, breath escaping him in a thin, exhausted sigh.

Turning his head was a slow, dragging process—muscles stiff, neck protesting. Machines surrounded him in a half-circle: blinking monitors, steady lines of green and red, wires leading across the floor, IV bags hanging from metal poles like pale translucent lanterns. Tubes snaked down into the back of his hand, feeding cool fluid into his veins.

A tiny shift beside him drew his attention.

A mop of silver hair. Pressed against his arm. A small body curled into the space beside him, fitting neatly into the crook of his elbow.

Kakashi.

The boy was curled tight, face tucked into Orochimaru’s shoulder, his breath warm and soft against the fabric of the hospital gown. One small arm stretched across Orochimaru’s chest, holding on even in sleep. His eyelashes cast faint shadows against pale cheeks, mouth parted slightly, mask pulled down.

Completely exhausted.

So that was the weight.

Orochimaru’s chest stung—but in a different way.

He lifted his free arm slowly—shaking, unsteady, far too weak for his liking—and pulled Kakashi a fraction closer, fingertips brushing through the familiar, soft strands of silver hair. The movement was clumsy but gentle.

He would have smiled if the damned tube wasn’t wedged in his mouth.

Annoyance flared weakly through him, and he reached instinctively toward the tube, fully prepared to yank it out himself—when the door swung open with a sharp click.

His head turned toward the noise, sluggish but alert.

Tsunade entered first—golden hair pulled back, eyes sharp, shoulders squared with the purposeful stride of someone who had not slept but was surviving on sheer will and probably a lot of caffeine. Behind her came Kushina, red hair swinging, expression serene—until they saw his eyes open.

Tsunade’s reaction was immediate.

Her eyes widened—shock, relief, clinical urgency all flashing at once—before sharpening into pure medic focus. She rushed forward, expression tightening into something fierce and determined.

Kushina gasped audibly, joy breaking over her features like sunrise. “Oro-sensei!”

She nearly tripped in her haste as she hurried to his side, grabbing his limp hand in both of hers, squeezing it.

“I’m so glad you’re awake!” she cried, voice thick with emotion.

The sudden noise jolted Kakashi awake.

The boy twitched, rubbed his cheek against Orochimaru’s shoulder in confusion, and blinked up at him with bleary, unfocused eyes—until he saw Orochimaru’s eyes open.

The transformation was instant.

“Tou-chan—!”

Kakashi burst into tears, the sound small and shaky as he scrambled upward, arms wrapping around Orochimaru with surprising care. Even panicked, he was gentle—mindful of the bandages, the wires, the bruises.

He buried his face into Orochimaru’s shoulder and mumbled soft, broken little words only Orochimaru could hear—fragments of fear, relief, and aching love.

Tsunade allowed it—just long enough for both of them to breathe.

Then she cleared her throat sharply and nudged Kushina aside with a firm but not unkind gesture.

She leaned over, slid her hands beneath Kakashi’s arms, and lifted the boy off the bed—ignoring his soft whine of protest—and set him gently but firmly onto the floor.

“I have to examine him,” she said, tone brooking no argument.

Tsunade started the examination right away.

There was no hesitation—no gentle easing into it, no warm greeting, no carefully chosen words. The moment she reached Orochimaru’s bedside, her hands were already in motion, precise and unwavering. She checked the monitors first, eyes scanning each line and number with razor‑sharp focus. Her fingertips brushed lightly over the IV line, then the tubing, following every connection as if daring them to be out of place.

Only then did she reach for the breathing tube.

Orochimaru felt her fingers at his face—deft, confident, cool against his overheated skin. She touched the securing tape, pausing long enough to tilt his chin upward, observing the subtle movement of his chest, gauging the steadiness of each breath. He could practically feel her mind working through the assessment.

He could breathe on his own.

She gave a small nod to herself.

Then she removed the tape with one clean, practiced tug.

And—

She pulled.

The tube slid out in a single, continuous motion, dragging against raw tissue on its way up. Orochimaru convulsed forward with a violent cough, pain exploding through his chest and abdomen like shrapnel. His throat burned—scraped raw, violated—and a gravelly, broken sound tore loose from him.

“T–careful,” he rasped, voice barely recognizable.

Tsunade didn’t even blink.

“Lay still,” she ordered flatly. “So I can check everything. Or I’ll make you.”

Despite the agony, Orochimaru managed a huff—almost a laugh, thin and strained. The movement hurt sharply, pulling at sutures, and he winced.

“It appears,” he croaked, “your bedside manner is still shit.”

Tsunade flicked his forehead—two fingers, sharp, expert, utterly unceremonious.

He winced again.

“You,” she said, pulling her stethoscope free and snapping the earpieces into place, “have no right to talk.”

She pressed the cold diaphragm to his sternum.

“Breathe in.”

He inhaled—shallow, ragged, painful.

“Again.”

She listened, brows tightening at the faint wheeze beneath his ribs, the uneven rise of his chest. Then she moved behind him, sliding her hand beneath the hospital gown with clinical precision, steadying him so she could reach the lower lobes of his lungs.

“Hold.”

He obeyed.

She counted his heart rate next, fingertips finding the pulse in his neck, then his wrist—cool, gentle pressure paired with a stern, steady gaze. She lifted one eyelid, shining a small medical light into his pupil, watching the constriction with meticulous intensity. Then the other.

After that came the bandages.

She loosened the wrappings carefully—just enough to inspect the sutured wounds. Her eyes traced the edges of the incisions, the surrounding skin, the colour, the swelling, the faint heat that lingered over healing tissue.

Her silence stretched. Sharp. Focused. Heavy.

When she finally stopped moving, she stood there gripping the bed rails. Her knuckles blanched white beneath the pressure. A tremor ran through her breath—not loud, but noticeable to someone who knew her as well as he did.

Then—without warning—she leaned in.

And hugged him.

Not gently. Not tentatively. But fiercely—arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, forehead pressed to his, her whole body shaking with the force of emotions she refused to let show.

“You’re such an asshole,” she whispered, her voice cracking even as she tried to force it steady. “I was doing just fine wallowing in my fear of blood, but no—you had to drag me out of it the hard way.”

Orochimaru huffed softly—something between amusement and fondness—returning the embrace as best he could.

“I’m always glad,” he murmured, “to help you get your ass up.”

That earned a wet, breathless laugh. A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another.

She pulled back just enough to press a firm, careful kiss to his forehead.

When she withdrew, Orochimaru shifted his gaze toward the side of the bed.

Kushina stood there—eyes shiny, shoulders trembling, smile wavering from relief.

“And you?” he rasped, turning his head slightly. “Are you alright?”

Kushina let out a shaky laugh, squeezing his hand tightly.

“I’m fine,” she said—though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.

Kakashi had been quiet until then—trying with all his might to behave.

But the moment Orochimaru looked away, the boy sniffled loudly, wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and shuffled awkwardly closer.

Then he climbed back onto the bed.

“Tou-chan…” His small voice cracked. “I’m glad you’re back. I was so scared when Papa told me what happened.”

Orochimaru gathered him close, pulling him into the crook of his arm until Kakashi was nestled against him again. He pressed a soft kiss to his son’s forehead and wiped the lingering tears away with his thumb.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured. “No matter who or what stands against me.”

Kakashi’s fingers tightened in his hospital gown as he buried his face into Orochimaru’s chest.

Orochimaru let him. Held him. Protected him.

Then, even while comforting his son, Orochimaru’s gaze drifted—searching the room for someone who should have been there.

Tsunade caught the look instantly.

“He’s not here,” she said softly. “Sakumo is out of the village right now.”

Orochimaru’s brows rose—confusion clear, questions already forming.

Tsunade crossed her arms over her chest, exhaling slowly.

“Sakumo didn’t take the disrespect kindly,” she said. “Especially since you were hurt badly. It’s the first time I was honestly afraid of him. I’ve never seen anyone react like that.”

Kakashi nodded vigorously against Orochimaru’s side.

“Of course, Papa reacted like that,” he said. “Tou-chan is ours. They hurt him. They deserve what Papa will do.”

Orochimaru spared him a brief, gentle glance before turning back to Tsunade.

She gave a soft chuckle.

“Before someone interrupted me,” she said pointedly, ruffling Kakashi’s hair, “yes—Sakumo took his butt to Kumogakure. He took Jiraiya and Minato with him. Apparently, sensei too, though I don’t know what he’s planning. They left four days ago.”

Orochimaru’s spine tensed. His eyes widened.

“How long was I unconscious?” he whispered.

Tsunade met his gaze squarely.

“Counting the day you were attacked?” She took a slow breath. “Five days.”

The two days after Orochimaru woke up were quite exhausting.

Not in the explosive, dramatic way battles exhausted him—but in the slow, draining, suffocating way that came from lying still for too long, from thinking too much, from being awake yet unable to move or do anything. The pain was manageable—Tsunade’s work made sure of that—but boredom, restlessness, and the unnatural stillness of hospital life grated on him more than the wounds ever could.

He hated lying in that bed with nothing but white walls and the faint beeping of monitors to keep him company.

At least he wasn’t alone.

Kushina was with him every day after she dropped Kakashi at the academy. Sometimes she helped Tsunade with whatever medical tasks the Sannin deemed safe for her—fetching supplies, handing over tools, organizing charts. Other times she simply sat with him, telling him everything he’d missed, filling the room with warm chatter and comforting noise.

Kakashi came the moment the academy ended. He didn’t want to go to class at all—had thrown a quiet, determined fit about it—but Orochimaru had insisted with a firm stare that brooked no argument.

On the third day after he woke, Tsunade finally declared he had recovered enough to stand.

And walk.

Just a little—just enough to get his circulation going—but Orochimaru took the small freedom as if it were a blessing.

That day, he returned from the rehabilitation wing slowly, steps steady but cautious, Kushina close beside him in case he faltered. The soft echo of their footsteps followed them down the corridor, mixing with the distant murmur of nurses and the persistent medicinal scent of antiseptic.

When Orochimaru opened the door to his room—

Sakumo was standing inside.

Time seemed to slow.

Orochimaru’s eyes widened, breath catching in his throat, and he instinctively moved toward him—but Sakumo was faster.

The Hokage crossed the room in a heartbeat, appearing before him in a blur of white and silver, and wrapped him carefully, reverently, in his arms.

Orochimaru froze—just for a moment—as if needing time to convince himself that the warmth pressed against him was real. Then the realization crashed through him, and he hugged Sakumo back with all the strength his recovering body allowed.

Sakumo buried his face in Orochimaru’s dark hair, inhaling deeply. Vanilla and jasmine—the familiar scent he had missed so fiercely it hurt.

He pulled back slightly, enough to study Orochimaru’s face.

There were still shadows beneath his eyes. His skin was paler than usual. Fatigue clung to his expression.

But his eyes—his eyes shone bright, alive.

Sakumo’s hands slid to cup Orochimaru’s face, palms warm against cool skin. He leaned down and kissed him.

The kiss was slow—unhurried, careful, tender.

It carried relief deep enough to tremble, longing that stretched across days of fear and sleepless nights, and something fierce and grateful and aching all at once. It felt like breathing again after nearly drowning. Like coming home. Like too much time had passed and yet not nearly enough.

When they parted, Sakumo pressed a soft kiss to his temple, lingering for a heartbeat before pulling him fully into his arms again.

“I’m so happy you’re awake,” he murmured into his hair. “You can’t imagine how worried—how afraid I was.”

Orochimaru melted slightly against him, letting himself lean fully into Sakumo’s warmth.

“I’m not going anywhere this soon,” he breathed.

Sakumo let out a quiet laugh—a low, relieved exhale—and pressed another kiss to Orochimaru’s head.

A cough sounded from across the room.

Orochimaru pulled away a little, glancing over Sakumo’s shoulder.

Tsunade, Jiraiya, Minato, Kushina—now standing next to her boyfriend—and Hiruzen were all gathered near the window, watching.

It was Jiraiya who had coughed, looking equal parts annoyed and begrudgingly relieved.

“Glad you’re better, Oro,” he said.

Sakumo turned as well, a faint sheepish smile tugging at his lips. He guided Orochimaru back to the bed with careful hands. When Orochimaru sat down, Sakumo took the chair beside him and gently lifted his hand, brushing his knuckles with a soft kiss.

Orochimaru smiled—small but genuine—leaned forward and pressed another quick kiss to Sakumo’s lips.

Then he turned back to the others.

“What happened in Kumogakure?” he asked.

Jiraiya was the first to speak—launching into the story of everything that had happened until they reached the border of Kaminari no Kuni.

Then Sakumo took over.

He told everything.

He spoke in that steady, low voice of his—the one that carried quiet authority even when softened by exhaustion—each word measured, deliberate, heavy with the weight of recent days. Orochimaru didn’t interrupt once. He watched him instead, watched the tiny things Sakumo couldn’t hide: the slight stiffness in his shoulders, the faint tremor in the thumb brushing unconsciously across his knuckles, the shadows under his eyes that spoke of far too little sleep.

He began with the reason. Why Kumogakure had attacked in the first place—what had driven them to such desperation and recklessness. His voice dipped lower when he described their arrival at the Raikage’s office, how the very air inside the chamber felt taut, charged, thick with suspicion and bitterness. He told of the way the Raikage had stared at them like intruders rather than envoys, the tension coiled in his muscles like a storm waiting to break.

Sakumo recounted every detail of the demands he placed before A: the restitution, the public acknowledgment of wrongdoing, the routes, the mines, the apology, the contract. Each request spoken calmly, logically—yet carrying a steel the Raikage had felt instantly. He described the moment A had exploded into rage, the temperature of the room seeming to shift with every angry breath.

He didn’t soften the next part.

He explained how they had no choice but to siege the village. How Kumogakure had hurled itself against the barrier over and over, shouting defiance even as the seal held without a single crack. How the Raikage’s strength had clashed against the unyielding dome, how panic and frustration slowly took root as all attempts—brute force, clever strategy, desperation—failed.

And how finally, only when Kumogakure found itself fully cut off—its pride bleeding, its people frightened, its leader cornered—the Raikage had relented and signed the treaty Sakumo had prepared.

Orochimaru listened in silence, his gaze softening with every word. Then he squeezed Sakumo’s hand—lightly, but the meaning was unmistakable.

“I appreciate you being so protective,” he murmured, voice gentle but edged with concern. “But you shouldn’t have risked so much. Kumogakure is still one of the Five Great Villages.”

Sakumo shook his head before the sentence even fully ended.

He brought Orochimaru’s hand into both of his, holding it as though it were something fragile and precious.

“They disrespected our village,” he said quietly. “Our sister village. But most of all—” his voice lowered further, roughening at the edges, “they hurt you. And I will set an example for that. I don’t care how cruel I have to be. How risky. For you…”

He lifted Orochimaru’s hand and pressed it against his cheek, closing his eyes as though grounding himself in that touch.

“…for you, I would let the world burn.”

Orochimaru’s breath faltered, chest tightening with a sudden swell of emotion he hadn’t expected.

Before he could respond, Sakumo straightened and looked toward the others.

“Everyone except Hiruzen,” he said quietly. “Please leave the room.”

The command was soft—but it held no room for argument.

Jiraiya blinked, Tsunade’s brows lifted, Minato hesitated, and Kushina cast one last searching glance toward Orochimaru.

Yet one by one, they stepped out.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Hiruzen remained alone in the space they left—standing stiffly, shoulders tense, gaze flickering between Sakumo and Orochimaru like a man facing judgment.

Sakumo’s breath flowed out in a slow, weary exhale. He turned fully to Hiruzen, though his hand remained wrapped around Orochimaru’s.

“I will be sealing the memories of this incident in you as well,” he said.

Hiruzen’s breath caught. His hands twitched slightly at his sides.

But he didn’t argue.

He lowered himself slowly onto the small sofa, elbows braced against his knees and rubbed his face with both hands. When he looked up, there was no fire, no indignation—only resignation, a hollow tiredness, and the slumped posture of a man forced to confront truths he’d avoided for far too long.

“Me being taken with you…” Hiruzen said quietly. “It was a test too, wasn’t it? You didn’t bring me just to intimidate the Raikage—you wanted to see my worth.”

Sakumo didn’t look away.

“Yes,” he said simply. “I wanted to see where your loyalties lay. Where you stood. And whether, depending on how things went, I would ever unseal your memories.”

He held Hiruzen’s gaze.

“But you didn’t pass the test.”

Hiruzen let out a dry, humourless chuckle—one that held no amusement, only weariness.

Sakumo continued, voice firm but not cruel.

“You hesitated when strength was needed. You worried more about the enemy’s pride than our people’s safety. You doubted me when unity mattered most. You held back when you should’ve stood firm. And you repeated the same patterns that weakened this village before.”

His expression softened by a fraction—not forgiving but acknowledging.

“That’s why I won’t unseal the past—and why I’m sealing this as well.”

Hiruzen nodded slowly, the motion heavy, resigned. A trembling breath escaped him.

“I understand,” he said at last. “And… I agree. I’ve watched you make decisions these past days—decisions I never could have made. I was always too afraid.”

He swallowed, gathering the remnants of his composure.

“When will you do it?”

“I’ll be at your place this evening,” Sakumo replied.

Another nod—small, mechanical, accepting.

Then Hiruzen stood.

He turned toward Orochimaru.

Orochimaru tensed instinctively—old memory and hurt flickering beneath his calm expression.

But instead of speaking—Hiruzen bowed.

Deeply. Slowly. With sincerity heavy enough to fill the room.

Orochimaru froze. Sakumo did too.

Still bowed, Hiruzen spoke—voice trembling with age, guilt, and a lifetime of mistakes pressing down on him.

“I’m sorry, Orochimaru. For everything I have done—and everything I failed to do. For ignoring you. For dismissing your concerns. For convincing myself I knew better when I didn’t. For letting my ego blind me. For not seeing your pain, not once, when I should have.”

His shoulders shook faintly as he drew in a breath.

“Minato made me realize something… I should have started my talks with apologies—not accusations.”

He straightened slowly—almost reluctantly—and for the first time in years, he met Orochimaru’s eyes without the shield of pride, authority, or excuses.

Only honesty. Only regret.

Orochimaru’s grip tightened around Sakumo’s hands, his fingers trembling faintly with the effort—as if the emotions swelling in his chest were too large for his body to contain. His lips pressed into a thin, unmoving line, and for a moment the entire room seemed to hold its breath with him. The silence grew heavy, settling over the sterile hospital air like dust collecting in the corners.

Slowly—painfully—Orochimaru straightened his spine.

The pull of his sutures was immediate and sharp, a white-hot sting rippling across his abdomen. He winced, breath hitching, but he refused to ease back. His posture stayed rigid, unwavering. When his gaze finally lifted and locked onto Hiruzen, it carried a cold, crystalline clarity—not vicious, not emotional.

Simply final.

“I appreciate the apology,” he said at last. Each syllable was precise, crisp, heavy as falling stones. “But it is far too late. Not after you called me a whore. Not after you tried to convince me your dismissal was my fault. Not after being betrayed like that.”

He turned his face away, jaw tightening until the muscle trembled beneath his skin.

“Maybe,” he continued, quieter but just as sharp, “maybe there would have been a chance at reconciliation if you had apologized in the beginning. But now… I’m done with you.”

His voice thinned into silence, fading like smoke. He did not look at Hiruzen again.

Hiruzen absorbed the words like a man taking a blow straight to the ribs—no outward flinch, but something inside him folded inward, collapsing in on itself. Wounded. Resigned. Accepting. He bowed his head, shoulders sagging, and stepped toward the door with slow movements, carrying the weight of his own failures with him.

He reached for the handle.

Before he touched it, the door swung open.

Kakashi shot into the room like a silver blur—hair wild, cheeks flushed, breath sharp from sprinting through the hallways. His little sandals slapped against the floor loudly, urgently, without hesitation.

Behind him came Minato, flustered and pink-faced, practically tripping over his own apologies.

“I–I’m sorry!” Minato gasped. “I tried to hold him back, but he’s… he’s very clever—”

Kakashi didn’t hear a word of it.

His eyes found Sakumo instantly, and in the next heartbeat he threw himself forward, small hands gripping desperately at the Hokage’s robes as he slammed into his father’s chest.

“Papa!” he cried, voice cracking with emotion as he burrowed into Sakumo’s warmth. “You were gone so long—I wanted to see you again!”

Sakumo laughed softly—a gentle, warm sound that melted the remaining tension in the room. He wrapped his arms around Kakashi, lifting him slightly off the ground as he pressed a lingering kiss into the boy’s soft silver hair.

“I missed you too,” he murmured, nuzzling him back. Then, in a light, teasing scold, “You can’t do things like this in the future though, cub.”

Kakashi whined, scrunching his little face, but nodded with exaggerated reluctance.

Minato reached to take him, cheeks still bright with embarrassment. “I’ll take him—sorry for the interruption—”

But Hiruzen lifted a hand, halting him.

“No,” he said softly. “We’re already done. I won’t take any more of your time.”

He looked—one last time—at Orochimaru.

Orochimaru did not look back.

He sat curled into Sakumo’s side now, one hand instinctively resting across Kakashi’s back, shielding him. His gaze stayed fixed away from Hiruzen, his expression unreadable but closed.

Hiruzen swallowed, straightened his shoulders with effort, and left the room.

The door slid shut with a soft, final whisper.

Weeks passed.

Then months.

Hiruzen sat once more on the engawa of the quiet house where he now lived. A cup of tea rested beside him, steam long since faded. Morning sunlight spilled across the wooden boards, warming the old timber and his tired bones in equal measure.

His memories had been sealed again.

But this time… he did not collapse into self-pity. He did not drift through the compound like a ghost. He did not hide from the world he had failed.

This time—he carried responsibility.

He stepped out into the village he once led.

Sometimes he helped at the academy, guiding classes, supporting teachers who were short-handed. Occasionally, he taught Kakashi’s class—watching the boy’s sharp mind and effortless discipline, seeing both Orochimaru’s brilliance and Sakumo’s warmth living side by side in him.

And every time he saw that kindness—untainted, genuine—it made something inside Hiruzen ache. The thought that this light, this gentle spark, could have been wiped out by Danzou made his stomach twist.

Other days he helped repair small homes. Rebuilt fences damaged by storms. Sorted minor, non-classified paperwork in the Tower. Sat beneath the vast trees at Senju Park, surrounded by giggling children who begged for stories of old heroes.

Small tasks. Quiet tasks. Tasks that steadied his hands and reminded him why he had once accepted the mantle of Hokage in the first place. Why he had wanted to protect the village and its people.

And painfully—where along the path he had lost himself.

Orochimaru still did not speak to him.

Hiruzen did not expect he would—not now, not soon, perhaps not ever. But sometimes he saw Orochimaru walking with Jiraiya and Tsunade, or sitting at a food stall with his family, or standing in the sunlight instead of a dim laboratory.

And that alone eased Hiruzen’s heart.

They were strong. They were growing. They were protecting the village in ways he had failed to.

As he sat on the engawa, morning light warming the boards beneath him, Hiruzen closed his eyes and tilted his face toward the rising sun.

The warmth touched him.

Slowly—hesitantly—it seeped inward.

For the first time in a very, very long while—

he felt it reach all the way through.