Azula, From The Same Generation As The Sainin (A Naruto fanfic about Azula as an Uchiha)

[Melonlord]

The history of Kirigakure was written in blood and mist, each chapter sealing away some new tragedy.

There were the bad days, like the infamous demise of the Second Mizukage and a generation of elites in a baffling, fruitless assault on Iwagakure.

Then there were the catastrophic days.

Today was rapidly shaping up to be the poster child for catastrophic.

First, the uneasy rumors: the Kazekage had gone to Uzushiogakure and simply… vanished.

Then, as if the tension were a ripe fruit, it burst.

No one in Kiri's history had ever needed an 'In Case of Village Invasion' protocol. The Five Great Villages waged war in buffers and borderlands, a civilized dance of death that never, ever crashed through the front gates.

It was an unspoken rule. So when the alarms screamed, the resulting chaos was less a military drill and more a panicked game of musical chairs, with nowhere to sit.

Through sheer dumb luck and the frantic herding of some quick-thinking Genin, the civilians managed to stumble into the ancient, dusty shelters carved deep beneath the village. It wasn't graceful, but it was, mostly, done.

By the time the final defensive barrier shrieked and failed, splintering under a storm of foreign jutsu, Azula stood at the breach.

Her sensory network flickered across the village—pockets of stubborn clan members hunkered down in their compounds, idiots with more pride than sense—but the common throng of civilians had largely moved beneath the village, probably thinking they are well hidden.

What faced her was an army, not at the level of the one that had attacked Uzushiogakure, but it was plenty: a sea of over six thousand enemy ninja.

The logical, clean, brutally simple play was to have Mito unseal a Tailed Beast Bomb and redraw Kiri's map into a glowing crater. Problem solved, village crippled, war potentially over but Azula didn't dwell on something that was impossible.

Instead, her gaze drifted upward. The sky was its usual self: a dismal, watercolor smear of gray clouds, perpetually weeping over the Land of Water. A miserable sight for most.

For Azula, it was a loaded weapon.

A slow, almost impish smile touched her lips. Here it was, the perfect testing ground for a jutsu of devastating, theatrical beauty she'd never had a canvas large enough to paint on. The pinnacle of Lightning Release, the dragon of the storm.

Kirin.

The question wasn't about morality. Azula had long since made peace with the grim arithmetic of shinobi life; in the face of an army, you used the biggest hammer you had.

The dilemma, frankly, was a tactical bore. Azula craved a Kiri that was sufficiently crippled—a broken sword she could later reforge into a pliant tool once she sat in the Hokage's chair and began her mostly peaceful unification of the ninja world.

A single thought, using her chakra, and she could summon Kirin. The majestic, dragon-shaped lightning would turn half the Kiri army below into commemorative ash piles.

A conservative estimate, really.

But… collateral damage, no one truly appreciated the party-crashing habits of lightning.

It wouldn't just strike the visible ninja; it would spear through their pathetic underground shelters, electro-frying every civilian huddled inside. 80% dead, the rest wishing they were.

And then poof goes her future obedient vassal state, replaced by a generation-wide blood feud. She'd have to exterminate them all, and that shifted the mission from 'necessary slaughter' to 'overindulgent butchery.'

And Azula had her standards.

'Honestly, it's fine,' she mused, a smirk touching her lips as she dismissed the storm's temptation. 'Why use a divine dragon to swat flies when a well-aimed newspaper will do? And be far more demoralizing.'

With the palpable aura of impending theater, she strode forward with the Sen-Uch-Uzu army behind her like. She stopped, ensuring every Kiri ninja could see her, could feel the terror of her Sharingan's gaze.

"People of Kirigakure!" Her voice, amplified by chakra, cut through the tense air like a kunai. It was louder than a shout because every genin and jounin present heard it perfectly. "I am Azula Uchiha. Matriarch of the Uchiha Clan. Leader of the unified coalition forces of the Uchiha, the Senju, and the Uzumaki."

"I've come to settle a debt. A rather substantial one." She paused, enjoying the silence. "Several days ago, your late Mizukage—bless his ambitious, foolish soul—led an army of ten thousand to the shores of Uzushiogakure. His mission? Extermination."

She saw the flinch, the dawning horror. If she was here, with Uzumaki at her back… then the Mizukage wasn't coming home.

"It did not go well for him." Her tone was almost conversational. "In fact, it went so poorly that not a single soul from that attacking force survived to send a letter. And your Mizukage? He was personally and quite thoroughly dismantled by Tsunade Senju."

She emphasized the Senju. Let that name resurface from the history books with the impact of a meteor.

"Now," Azula continued, her Sharingan beginning a slow, hypnotic swirl. "We will be visiting every village that signed onto that little genocide pact. But we decided to start with you. Consider it a tribute to your late leader's… pioneering stupidity."

She raised a single hand. Behind her, a thousand hands moved in unison, sealing ready, weapons drawn.

"Of course," Azula said calmly, hands clasped behind her back, "out of generosity, we're offering you a chance."

"Now, let's be reasonable," she said, as if suggesting they share a pot of tea, not discussing the village's vaporization. "We could do this the messy way. One Tailed Beast Ball. One re-enactment of that 'Ten-Thousand Army Vanishing' technique we used on the army led by the Mizukage."

She made a gentle, exploding motion with her fingers. "Then there would be no more mist."

"But that would involve innocent people," she added, as if mildly disappointed. "And I'm trying very hard not to do that today."

A ripple went through the gathered Kirigakure shinobi. There was fear, anger, a little awe but mostly confusion.

"So," Azula said brightly, spreading her hands. "You have two options."

She raised one finger.

"Option one: you die today. For a failed coup, a dead Kage, and a village that has become so bloodthirsty it can't tell enemies from its own children anymore."

A second finger rose.

"Option Two," she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow reached every ear. "Surrender and be peace lovers. It's a novel concept, I know. Hear me out."

She paused, letting the absurdity of an Uchiha preach peace to the Bloody village sink in. The cognitive dissonance was almost audible.

"Surrender," she repeated, "and you get to join the biggest cause in the elemental nations: actually making the world less bad. On my name as Azula Uchiha, you will not be mistreated. If you have talent—and let's face it, surviving here is a talent—I will use it. We'll finish what the two founders of the village system started. Your kids could grow up not wondering if their teacher is a spy. Think about it!"

She could see it working. A handful of younger ninjas, their eyes haunted by Kiri's unique brand of paranoia, were actually listening. They were looking past her at the calm, unnervingly smiling Senju and Uzumaki flanking her, and seeing… an alternative.

Still, she knew better than to celebrate.
This was Kirigakure.

Even before it earned the name Bloody Mist, it was infamous. Betrayal was casual here and loyalty was temporary. Missing-nin weren't an anomaly—they were a career path.

Convincing Kiri to trust anyone was like asking a shark to go vegetarian.

Sure enough, someone stepped forward.
A man in his forties, scarred, broad-shouldered, posture rigid with old experience.

"An Uchiha… talking about peace." He let out a dry chuckle that sounded like grinding gravel. "That's… impressive."

Azula's smile didn't falter. If anything, it grew more luminous.

"I assume you're Genji," she said, her tone polite but certain. "Second-in-command. Acting representative of Kirigakure."

Genji wasn't surprised she knew him. He was, however, deeply unnerved by the un-Uchiha-like aura of cheerful menace she projected.

This was what got the Senju and Uzumaki to play nice? Not just power, but this baffling, irresistible charm? He saw the doubt in his own ranks and felt a surge of old, familiar bitterness.

"You speak beautifully, Young Uchiha Matriarch. I've never heard one of your clan talk like this." A pause. "But how do you expect anyone in this world to hand over their lives based on words alone?"

The philosophy of Kiri is different from Konoha's Will of Fire, what for the village, what trusting camarade, what friendship, it's all nonsense here.

You don't even know when you may be betrayed by a decade long teammate or how the village would want to delete you because it's necessary, so from Genji's point of view, Azula is just politics.

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

Don't forget to vote, bonus chapter on 500 power stones

 

[Melonlord]

In fact, in Azula's mind, there is a file titled 'People To Remove For A Flawless Kiri Administration'—the name Genji was underlined, circled, and adorned with several efficient little kill marks.

He was, objectively, target number one.

She remembered the anime. A figure much like Konoha's fossilized F4, probably clinging to power long after his prime.

Seeing him in the flesh—the stubborn set of his jaw, the respect in the eyes of the jounin around him—only confirmed her assessment.

'Oh yes,' she thought, a spark of thrilling malice igniting in her chest. 'You're first on the vacation list. A permanent trip to the great hot springs in the sky.'

But her face was a masterpiece of placid, arrogant calm. A Uchiha's mask.

"You're laboring under a big misconception," Azula spoke. "This isn't a debate club. I'm not here to convince you."

She took a deliberate, graceful step forward, the Kiri ninja tensing as one. "I am merely presenting a dual choice, an opportunity. You can stand down when the… unpleasantness begins, or you can stand in my way. My goal—to burn this rotting world down and rebuild something that doesn't stink of decay—is non-negotiable. Join the future, or become kindling for the past. There will be no second offers."

Objectively speaking, it was only after this gloriously arrogant speech that Genji felt a familiar feeling.

This, he realized with a grimace, is exactly how an Uchiha should be. All unshakeable conviction and terrifying fire.

Both sides knew this talk would end in violence. A village like Kiri didn't surrender to a teenager and an army without testing its fangs.

This little chat was pure theatre, a battle for morale. And Azula, by announcing the Kazekage's death and casually mentioning their on-site Tailed Beast artillery, had already sunk the first psychological dagger.

Watching her now, so lethally eloquent, Genji knew more words would only dig their grave deeper. He advanced forward even more with his staff.

It wasn't bravery. The old shark knew better how strong she is; fighting two Kage simultaneously and even having an advantage, he would be a fool to attack her alone. He advanced just so he could command them and make them believe he didn't fear anyone and attack.

"Enough pretty words," he grunted, his temperament full of a middle-aged man ready to die for his cause. "You, who grew up in Konoha's sunshine, an heiress to one of the world's most spoiled clans… what could you possibly know of our struggle?"

He settled into a low, weathered stance, his sword held steady. "So Kiri is flawed. It's a village of blood and sweat where we earned everything. And you Uchiha? You're famous for hoarding your power. Would you share your clan's sacred scrolls? Would you listen if someone told you your glorious 'peace' was built on arrogance?"

A sharp, bark-like laugh escaped him. "Didn't think so."

He met her Sharingan without flinching. "So let's skip the philosophy. I've survived this long by fighting with everything I have—tooth, nail, and every dirty trick a clanless orphan ever learned. I don't plan on stopping today."
...
...
...
Azula couldn't help but let a smirk, sharp and knowing, twist her lips.

'Alright, fine,' she admitted to herself. Maybe the Kage and their advisors have the collective strategic depth of a puddle sometimes, but when it comes to playing 'Let's You and Him Fight'? Absolute, gold-medal-winning masters.

She didn't even need to look carefully to feel it. The charged, crackling morale of the previously hesitant ninja behind him. They were practically vibrating with renewed purpose.

Genji is a seasoned shinobi; he knew damn well what a Kage-level threat meant. And right now, he was looking at two of them.

Sure, only she and Kagami stood on this front line. Tsunade was busy redecorating the Yuki clan's landscape with her fists with Mito supervising, and Mugetsu was… well, probably turning the Kaguya into a porcupine homage with Uzumaki fist of love art, wanting to prove that the Uzumaki are also not weak.

But no matter what, two Kage levels are already overkill.

And this guy… with his fancy staff and his grandstanding… he was stepping forward like he had a chance.

She couldn't help but wonder if he found a secret stash of Hashirama's DNA in a seaweed wrap?

Her Sharingan had already dissected the scene, her sensor abilities brushing over the area.

There was no trap, no subtle chakra threads or hidden barrier seals. Nothing but wet rock and a whole lot of misguided courage.

Even if there was a trap, she is very confident concerning her speed, reflexes and the Flying Raijin which is a good technique even at Otsutsuki level fight and could save her at any time.

The playful glint vanished, replaced by a flat excitement in her face that screams I want to punch someone durable enough.

The shift was immediate. Across from her, Genji's brain finally caught up with his bravado, screaming a chorus of internal 'ABORT! ABORT!' alarms. Sweat beaded on his temple, not from the humid air.

He thrust his staff toward Azula and her forces, his voice a magnificent blend of theatrical command and sheer, undiluted panic appearing quite energetic. "Kiri-nin! Attack these invaders who defile our sacred mist! Avenge the Mizukage! Show them that attacking our village is the WORST MISTAKE OF THEIR SHORT, TRAGIC LIVES!"

He bellowed it with the passion of a true leader, while carefully, so carefully, beginning to backpedal into the thicker fog.

Oh, Kiri had smart ones, although a few. They saw the blatant self-preservation play. Their eyes met, eyebrows raised in silent, cynical understanding but didn't blame him because this was the most intelligent thing to do.

They were the 'intelligent' ones, so they knew the best thing to do was to keep their mouths shut.

The majority, however, roared and hyped on his words and mob mentality; they surged forward like a wave of steel and righteous fury, a human tsunami aimed at the army and principally at Azula who was at the front.

Genji, now halfway to becoming a misty silhouette, let out a mental sigh of relief. Let the cannon fodder distract her. A true tactician knows when to—

His brilliant thought was severed.

Because Azula had a rule: efficiency first. And what was more efficient than cutting the head off the snake to make the body flail uselessly?

The intelligent Kiri-nin saw the fear in Genji's eyes, and so did she.

Azula, but of course unlike them, she doesn't need to act as if she didn't understand anything.

The Kiri-nin surged toward her, kunai gleaming, shouts tearing from their throats but Azula didn't even glance their way.

Crrrk-zzzt!

Blue-white lightning erupted around her, in a wild surge, that made her look scary. The many Uchiha behind her with their Sharingan activated wanted to see everything clearly… and then nothing, she was just gone.

To their three-tomoe eyes, it was as if she'd simply been deleted from the world, with them only being able to catch blurry blue images.

Azula never thought about doing like Madara punching them one by one because if she did so, those Uchiha behind her would surely complain.

So, clad in her Lightning Release Chakra Armor, she wasn't just running—she was a living, crackling bolt of lightning, bulldozing a straight, ruinous line through Kiri which has become the battlefield, with shinobi and houses flung aside in her wake.

Genji, the target of this terrifying straight line, felt his blood turn to ice. It wasn't the speed—it was the look in her eyes just before she moved.

The cold, predatory glint of a hawk that has already calculated the kill. The moment the Kiri-nin moved to intercept, he didn't hesitate; he threw himself backward in a desperate, graceless leap.

A coward's move? Hardly.

Any ninja with a shred of survival instinct knew: you do not let 'The Lightning Princess' get close.

The woman who'd fought two Kage at once and lived to tell the tale? You created distance and you prayed for a miracle.

Azula's charge was efficient, like a needle dropped from the top of a pyramid, it drove straight to the point, leaving the sides largely untouched.

The Kiri-nin too far to her left and right staggered, unscathed, but their relief was short-lived.

"HEY! DON'T JUST STAND THERE GAPING!" shouted a fiery-haired Uzumaki, landing amidst them with a grin that promised pain.

"The sides are ours!" cried a Uchiha, with a fireball already released.

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

If one thinks Azula, her Uchiha army, and that handful of Senju and Uzumaki were the only ones having a good time, he will be completely wrong.

The real party at Kiri was being thrown by one man: Murasaki.

The only person coming close to matching his sheer, unadulterated joy was Tsunade, who was busy elsewhere politely turning Yuki clansmen into art.

At a spry eighty-something, Murasaki had long ago made peace with the fact his glory days were a relic of the Warring Clans era.

Sure, his Uzumaki genes were basically the world's cheat code for vitality—a cool 120-year warranty, if life came with those.

But his personal warranty was void, a thousand times void.

He'd treated his lifespan like a suggestion box, shredding years with every forbidden technique he'd ever gleefully performed.

Reaching a hundred was a pipe dream, but hitting eighty? In the ninja world, that made him a walking, grumbling museum exhibit.

His one true gripe? The modern Uzumaki. Since Konoha's founding, they'd traded relentless training for relaxed brunches.

Instead of inventing world-altering seals, they were perfecting the art of the afternoon nap. An embarrassment of talented youngsters, and what did they have to show for it? The fewest Kage in clan history!

It was enough to make a veteran spit his tea.

But the attack by the village coalition? This revenge on Kiri? It was the wake-up call the clan needed. The lazy haze was burning away, replaced by the good old-fashioned terror of impending doom.

Nothing like a little genocide attempt to get the blood pumping and the research notes flying again.

Not that he'd admit it out loud, but the other glorious motivator was pure, petty spite.

Watching those Uchiha show-offs flex their Sharingan all week in sparring matches had lit a fire under every Uzumaki backside.

Add the ever-righteous Senju to the mix, and suddenly the three founding clans were in a silent, brutal competition for 'Least Disappointing Progeny.'

The Uzumaki would not be bringing up the rear.

And just to sweeten the deal, the universe had gifted him two parting presents before his final curtain call. First: two little monsters in the making, who reeked of future Madara and Hashirama-level drama.

Second, and most importantly: one last, glorious fight.

Speaking of which…

A bone spear whistled past his ear, close enough to part his hair. Murasaki couldn't stop a cracked, joyful grin from spreading across his face.

His opponent was the young Patriarch of the Kaguya clan. All feral and pointy accessories. The 'boy' had been trying to punch through his Diamond Chains for what felt like an age.

"Any day now, youngster!" Murasaki cackled, still hard. "Or are your bones getting brittle? My great-grandchildren throw harder than that!"

Ryūkotsu was having the worst day; it was, in a word, a catastrophe.

In two words: a catastrophic, rage-inducing, insultingly inconvenient catastrophe.

He'd planned everything (he believed so)! Invaders attack the village? Excellent.

He'd wait for them to carve through a few expendable civilians, swoop in as the magnificent, bone-shattering savior, enjoy a decent scrap, and maybe 'accidentally' crumble a certain annoying Akiko's house in the process.

It was a simple plan.

The problem was the invaders. Without exaggeration, they were the most incompetent, brain-dead, philosophically confused invaders in the history of shinobi warfare.

Instead of pillaging, they were practically politely waiting for the village defenders to line up. It was like watching a siege conducted by an overly courteous door-to-door merchant.

Ryūkotsu, hidden in the wings, had to physically stop himself from storming out and screaming, "WILL YOU MORONS JUST KILL SOMEONE ALREADY?!"

But whatever, the village defense was organized now, and that meant he could finally fight.

His target was some dusty old fossil with wild red hair who led a people to attack the clan; it was simply an easy warm-up.

Except the warm-up had now lasted five infuriating minutes, and the old man wasn't even winded. He was, in fact, daydreaming.

The thing that made him waste so much time, without a doubt, was the shining golden lattice of chakra chains.

He wasn't a scholar—books were for people who lacked the ability to turn their bones into projectile weapons—but even he knew about this: the Uzumaki's Adamantine Sealing Chains.

The old man—Murasaki, someone had yelled the name—was serenely inside his barrier, looking less like a warrior and more like a gardener contemplating a particularly interesting weed.

He caught Ryūkotsu's murderous glare and offered a faint, placid smile.

Ryūkotsu saw red. A smile?! This was a fight! A sacred, brutal dance of shattering and blood! Not a tea ceremony!

There was no barrier he could not break. That was what he believed when he heard about the Adamantine Chains, but now he had wasted five whole minutes before breaking the barrier, not even the chains.

But it no longer mattered.

"You can no longer hide, relic!" he spat, cracking his knuckles with a sound like snapping fingers. "I hope you aren't only capable of hiding behind trinkets."

Talking was heresy to a Kaguya; action was prayer, and Ryūkotsu was feeling devout.

He lunged, a whirlwind of pale death, all earlier frustrations forgotten in the pure anticipation of feeling an old man's bones yield to his own.

Across from him, Murasaki had stopped daydreaming. The gentle, absent-minded look in his eyes solidified into something calm, focused, and deeply, dangerously patient.

He had not survived the Warring Clans era by being a mere barrier-user. And while he might think the Kaguya were a clan of spectacularly unsubtle lunatics, he was not arrogant. He knew one thing for certain: to lead lunatics, you had to be the strongest lunatic of them all.

Not only was his own body not at its best, but even if it was, the body of the Kaguya patriarch wouldn't be much worse than his.

Sure, Uzumaki vitality was no joke; you could stab one, and they'd thank you for the extra ventilation.

But the Kaguya had the ninja world's toughest body. Their bones were harder than a miser's heart, turning basic ninjutsu into disappointing tricks.

Fighting one was like trying to drown a brick.

That's why Murasaki's Adamantine Sealing Chains weren't just for show; they were part of a chakra- and stamina-draining plan.

It was a loss-loss business, sure, burning through his own reserves, but he was an Uzumaki. His chakra recovery wasn't just fast; it was the best.

So when Ryūkotsu finally lost his cool and lunged, Murasaki didn't dodge. Why would he?

Sure, he could fight long-range, but close-quarters was where an Uzumaki's love for a good tussle really shone.

Of course, first he had to make sure his opponent was properly exhausted, because all Kaguya clan members were damn good at close-range fights.

As the man bulleted toward him, Murasaki didn't flinch. A single golden chain shot forward like a laser guide.

The beauty of it was in the follow-up: the rest of the chains hung back, a hair's breadth behind the first. Dodge the spear, and you'd impale yourself on the spears behind it.

Ryūkotsu, to his credit, didn't turn into a pincushion. With a nasty crack, a bone sword sprouted from his arm, deflecting the first chain in a shower of sparks, then he twisted, parrying the second wave.

But his devastating charge was now an awkward standstill. And the chain he'd just slapped away was already recoiling, hungry for another bite, forcing him into a graceless retreat.

Everyone knew the scary secret of the Adamantine Chains: touch them, and they'd seal your chakra away. Ryūkotsu wasn't keen to find out whether they could handle a Kaguya patriarch's monstrous reserves. The memory of that barrier they'd created earlier was answer enough.

Some experiments are best left untried.

All this calculating took less than two seconds. The moment his feet left the ground in retreat, Ryūkotsu retaliated. Mid-air, he thrust his hands toward Murasaki, ten fingers aimed like gun barrels.

"Ten-Finger Drilling Bullets!"

Holes puckered at his fingertips. With a swing of his arm, he fired. These spiraling, shrieking projectiles tore the air with a sound like a thousand angry hornets, drilling straight for the smiling Uzumaki.

Murasaki was a man who appreciated the subtle art of passive-aggressive gardening—but being a standing target was not being passive-aggressive. Sure, his chains were fast, but they weren't 'outrace a barrage of hypersonic bone bullets' fast.

Luckily, he didn't need to be.

As Ryūkotsu's attack screamed toward him, a manic grin plastered across his face, Murasaki simply did what any sensible, over-powered Uzumaki would do: he cheated.

Pop.

Another shimmering Adamantine barrier materialized in front of him. The bone shards slammed into it with the sound of a hundred dinner plates shattering… and then… nothing, just sparkles.

Ryūkotsu's grin evaporated, replaced by a sputter of pure, unadulterated confusion. "Another one?! You just—! That's—! CHEAP!"

"You break one, I make another. It's the circle of life, really," Murasaki mused, his voice dripping with the calm of a man who had just refreshed a webpage. Of course, there were reasons he didn't spam this technique.

First, the chakra cost was obscene—if every Uzumaki could chain-barrier like this, they'd have conquered the world through annoying invincibility.

Second, and more importantly, where was the fun in that? He'd been waiting fifteen years for a decent scrap; ending it with a glorified turtle strategy was just poor fightmanship.

But defense was just the opening act, because while Ryūkotsu was still short-circuiting, Murasaki moved.

He didn't recall his brilliant chains. Instead, he channeled raw power into his legs—the kind of earth-crushing, Senju-style enhancement the Senju clan was famously known for. What is strange about an Uzumaki using Senju techniques?

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

But Murasake's attack only delighted Ryūkotsu. He knew he truly didn't have a good way to deal with this damn barrier, but when it came to close combat, that was his specialty.

He was even confident that in the whole village, only the Mizukage could match him toe-to-toe… and even then, purely in hand-to-hand, he would bet on himself every time.

"Dance of Willow!" he shouted, unleashing the technique without hesitation. Bones shot from his elbows and knees, turning him into a walking, lethal pincushion.

Now, Murasake didn't stop his assault. And here's why: he'd fought a few members of the Kaguya clan back in the Warring States era.

In fact, it wasn't an exaggeration to say he knew their fighting style like the back of his hand—if the back of his hand were covered in pointy, unpredictable bones and a complete disregard for personal space.

That was exactly why he'd used Chakra Enhanced Strength. Not only did it pack a serious punch (and kick), but it also came with built-in impact protection—so long as you controlled the output.

At the same time, the Adamantine Sealing Chains he'd kept out weren't just for show. They hovered nearby, ready to swat away any surprise bones and snag Ryūkotsu the moment he got sloppy.

Ryūkotsu might not have been the sharpest kunai in the pouch, but he knew one thing: getting caught was not an option. Still, his only play was to close the distance and fight dirty—which, honestly, was the Kaguya clan's brand of hospitality.

Their biggest advantage in close quarters was simple: you can't defend against someone who can stab you from their elbows, knees, and probably their eyebrows if they tried.

Take the Dance of Willow—against anyone else, it was a nightmare. How do you counter an attack that comes from everywhere at once? These were bones that could pierce rock. Your average kunai—or your average ribcage—wasn't going to cut it.

The punch didn't so much hit Ryūkotsu as it was intercepted by the sudden, grotesque bone that sprouted from his palm like a morbid welcome mat.

There was a sharp crack, not of the bone breaking, but of the air surrendering. The force scraped his knuckles raw and sent him skidding backwards, feet carving trenches in the earth.

And Ryūkotsu… grinned. A wide, manic, toothy spectacle of pure joy.

The Shikotsumyaku is a Kekkei Genkai so stubbornly rare that across the entire shinobi world, only five other poor souls had managed to wake it up—and even then, they'd gotten the kiddie version. Ryūkotsu had the deluxe edition.

And its most underrated trick is a recovery speed that would make a Jinchūriki blink. Fatal wounds only need a second, let alone shattered bones which they can simply replace with a whole new set.

So, while he was still sliding backwards, the flesh on his hand re-knit itself. The scrapes vanished like they'd been politely asked to leave.

Murasake didn't even blink because he hadn't expected a single punch to end it. Even as Ryūkotsu flew back, Murasake's chains were already uncoiling like metallic serpents, hunting the air where he'd stop. One hesitation, one single second of pause, and it would be over.

But the Kaguya Patriarch wasn't in the business of hesitation and didn't need to dodge. Instead, he used the freshly regenerated bone-spike on his palm to parry.

The sound was less clang and more SCREEEECH— a horrible, nails-on-chalkboard symphony as he batted aside each seeking chain.

And in the same breath, he launched himself forward at Murasake, stealing back the offensive so aggressively it was practically theft.

What followed was a blistering exchange, bones against chains, bones against seals, a scene of violence where the initiative changed hands faster than a bad rumor in a ninja village—practically a blur of white and red.

Sure, after a few moments of this, old Murasake—lacking the Kaguya clan's 'what injury?' policy—looked a bit worse for wear. His jacket was scuffed, his hair slightly more "artistically disheveled."

But the infuriatingly calm smile never left his face. He looked less like a man in a fight and more like a guy who'd just remembered where he'd left his keys, confident he'd find them any second now.

It was that smile that finally boiled Ryūkotsu's blood.

"What's with the act, old timer?!" he roared, deflecting another chain with a spray of bone shards. "You're not winning! And take a look around—your clan isn't exactly throwing a victory party either! Hahaha!"

Murasake's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. In the heat of the dance, he'd deliberately dialed down his clan's famous sensory prowess.

In a close-range brawl with a monster like this, feeling every distant scrape of kunai and cry of pain was just distracting—a surefire way to get a bone through the gut because you paused to wince.

Murasake used the full extent of his sensing ability and… Yikes. The psychic feedback hit him like a missed forbidden jutsu.

He'd expected the Uzumaki to be having a rough time, but this was less of a 'rough time' and more of a 'total system failure.'

Honestly, this was in fact the real reason he kept his mental radio tuned to 'mild static' in the first place.

Even without focusing, a part of him just knew the Uzumaki were getting clobbered, and his subconscious, being a bit of a softie, preferred not to watch the highlights.

His little chat-and-clash with Ryūkotsu had lasted what, five minutes? In that brief commercial break, fifty-three bright, vibrant Uzumaki chakra signatures had winked off the map.

The Kaguya weren't faring much better, but realistically, they were a clan who considered 'impalement' a friendly handshake.

A bunch of lunatics with bones in weird places.

It was a gut-punch, sure. But Murasake, a man who had personally depopulated the equivalent of a small tourist village, understood the brutal math.

Sometimes, to save a clan, you had to let it get a little banged up.

The Uzumaki had just woken up due to the attack on Kiri, but they were still in a daze because they were wrapped in the secure, fluffy blankets of Senju and Uchiha protection, thinking they'd picked ride-or-die allies and could return to sleeping after it's over.

But Murasake knew the score.

What happens when Konoha's own walls are shaking and the Uchiha and Senju must make a choice? Would they abandon their village and their people?

Therefore, the Uzumaki needed to learn to stand on their own two, currently very wobbly, legs.

Knowing it was necessary didn't mean he had to like it. He sighed.

"Alright, that's probably enough to completely wake up those youngsters," he muttered to himself. He shifted his gaze back to the Kaguya leader, his previously lazy demeanor solidifying into something terrifying. "Playtime's over, kid. I have to admit you've got spark. With a few decades of experience you may be worthy. Unfortunately for you…"

Normally, Ryūkotsu would have interrupted with some drooling rant about blood and ossification. But the Kaguya patriarch was silent, his cocky grin frozen.

This wasn't the playful pressure from before; this was the weight of a mountain. Ryūkotsu had once spat in the Mizukage's face for kicks, but this time, it felt like staring into the empty eye sockets of the Shinigami itself.

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

Really unlucky, woke up with burning throat and then with headache in the afternoon yesterday and even today, I'm not feeling well

 

[Melonlord]

The pressure stunned Ryūkotsu for a while, then he couldn't help but grin because he liked this kind of pressure; he was even looking forward to what kind of trick the old man would come up with.

Murasake, for his part, would have rather swallowed a live scorpion than use this jutsu, but he knew if he wanted to end this fight fast, he could only do so by using his biggest masterpiece—a technique so stupidly demanding that the current crop of Uzumaki toddlers—er, youths under thirty—would rupture something just reading the scroll.

The prerequisites were a joke: First, master the Adamantine Sealing Chains (which immediately weeded out every Uzumaki who wasn't a certified freak of nature).

Second, possess either the vitality of a tailed beast or Yang chakra control so refined you could probably heal a splintered soul.

In his prime, Murasake hadn't just met these requirements—he'd tripped over them and then built a monument in their honor.

The technique was brutally simple: take the chains linked to your very body and soul, and set them on fire. Not with flame, but with raw, life-burning Yang chakra.

"Kagutsuchi no Kusari (Chains of the Sun-Searing Hearth)!"

The vibrant gold of the chains shone, then erupted into a luminous, terrifying emerald green, which honestly made it appear less intimidating.

But strangely, Ryūkotsu's instincts were warning him, and he even felt the base of his spine go cold.

He didn't recognize the technique—his knowledge of secret clan arts was roughly on par with his knowledge of flower arrangement—but his dragon gut was screaming.

Murasake, for his part, wasn't about to give a lecture. He was literally burning daylight with every second counting.

The attack itself was deceptively straightforward, simply a reenactment of their first clash: one chain lanced forward, a simple spear of intent, with several others coiling behind to strike.

Ryūkotsu's earlier smirk had frozen. He was cautious now, muscles coiled, but his arrogance still clung on. So what if the chains changed color? Really not a big deal. Unless they could erase him from existence, he'd just tank it and then tear this old fool in—

The thought died halfway through his skull.

There wasn't time to think, only to move—and thanks to a lifetime of near-misses and outright disasters, his body moved before his brain could finish screaming, flinging himself backward.

What in the name of all that was holy had he just seen? His bone—the same spear-like shard that had pierced armored flesh—had, upon touching those eerie chains, simply… disintegrated into dust.

A single, crystal-clear realization punched through the panic: Oh. I have massively fucked up.

In a flash, every life choice that led him here played in his mind. Why had he treated this like a game? Why hadn't he used the Larch Dance and ended this earlier, when he had the chance?

But he had no time for regret before a second wave of chains, shrieking like damned souls, was already carving through the air toward him.

His eyes darted to Murasake. The man's face was the color of old parchment, sweat sheening his brow.

'He can't keep this up for long,' Ryūkotsu thought, a spark of grim hope igniting. It grated on every single one of his prideful bones, but the math was simple: defend, dodge, survive. Wait for the smug bastard to burn himself out.

Murasake, however, was fresh out of patience.

Knowing delay was death, Ryūkotsu tapped into the one technique he'd never quite mastered, the one that made his own chakra feel wild and rebellious, slamming his palms to the earth.

"Sawarabi no Mai (Dance of the Seedling Fern)!"

The ground erupted.

Murasake's eyes went wide.

'Impossible,' he thought. Among the battle-crazed Kaguya lunatics he'd dismantled over the years, he'd never actually seen this legendary technique.

But as a scholar of every jutsu under the sun, he recognized it instantly—a forest of bone erupting from the earth, inescapable, a grinder of flesh.

His body moved on instinct, a desperate leap backwards. Yet, as a deadly thicket of bone spears shot skyward, his panic cooled into analysis.

The range was limited; the density, underwhelming. This wasn't the perfected, apocalyptic grove of legend.

A slow, bloodless smile spread across Murasake's face. The monster had a trump card, but he'd played it poorly.

"Is that all?" Murasake called out, his voice regaining its taunting melody. "I expected a forest… and you offer me a thicket!"

But Murasake had to hand it to the young Kaguya patriarch because he'd played this hand brilliantly.

He could feel his own life force flickering like a candle in a hurricane. The lad had gained precious seconds. Speaking of it, Murasake knew he couldn't last more than ten seconds using this Jutsu.

Just as he was mentally drafting his very dramatic, very final stand—

"That's enough, Elder Murasake!"

The voice cut through the tension, as a red-haired middle-aged man appeared at Murasake's side.

Murasake didn't even need to turn because he'd recognize that chakra signature anywhere—Mugetsu, the actual leader of this Uzumaki assault, and currently looking about as pleased as a cat in a rainstorm.

As the man in charge, Mugetsu had fully expected to square off against the Kaguya patriarch himself—a sprightly foe almost two decades his junior, which he found not bad as a matchup.

But then Murasake, in the timeless tradition of powerful elders everywhere, had waved him off with a 'Let me stretch my bones, boy!' And Mugetsu, who respected the old man's strength and wisdom, had relented.

Now, after just a few moments of politely disassembling a squad of Kaguya elders, he turned to find Murasake basically trying to ignite his own vitality against a lunatic not worth it.

'Respect for one's elders is one thing,' Mugetsu fumed internally, 'but watching one commit suicide by jutsu is where I draw the line!'

His expression left no room for negotiation. It was the same face a mother makes when she finds her child trying to adopt a scorpion.

Murasake took one look at him and sighed, the vibrantly glowing chains around him dissolving like mist.

Ryūkotsu stood frozen, a bone spear still clutched in his hand. His showdown… had just been parented.

"Wha…? Huh?!" he sputtered, his jaw unhinging slightly. "We were in the middle of a glorious life-and-death struggle! A clash of fates! And you just… stop?!"

He wasn't even taunting anymore. He was genuinely, soul-crushingly confused.

"I'd heard the Uzumaki were cautious," he muttered, voice thick with devastation, "but this is just an insult to the art of fighting! Where's your passion? Your fire? Your willingness to die?!"

A throbbing vein announced itself on Mugetsu's temple, pulsing in time with his rising blood pressure.

First, Murasake had the audacity to use Kagutsuchi no Kusari, burning his life, and now Ryūkotsu was launching into a monologue about… honor?

'We're shinobi, you absolute turnip,' Mugetsu thought, his eye twitching. 'We hide in trees, we poison wells, we fake our own deaths for tactical advantage. Since when did 'fair fight' enter our vocabulary?'

He watched Ryūkotsu gesture dramatically, spouting something about pristine combat and ancestral pride. A profound, soul-deep weariness settled over Mugetsu.

He was from the Kaguya clan. It explained everything. The whole bloodline was a case study in magnificent, bone-sprouting insanity.

Well, if the world insisted on handing him broken, raving tools, then Mugetsu would just have to be the fixer. As a matter of fact, he was exceptionally good at repairs. And sometimes, fixing something required taking it apart first.

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

[Ayane's POV(Azula's Tablemat, not a red flag, probably?)]

"Yosuke!" I hissed, the name leaving my lips while making the least sound possible. Then, with a flutter of my lashes that I hoped looked more calm than crazed, I raised two fingers to my temple.

He quickly understood my signal telling him the situation was catastrophically bad. Number of hostiles more than ours.

We were supposed to be on a simple run—investigate the smoke rising from one of Konoha's listening posts near the Land of Frost. 'Investigate and support,' the mission scroll said.

The investigation took all of five seconds: the post was a smoldering crater. The 'support' part? How can corpses full of worms be supported?

Now, we were a squad of twenty-eight, trying to be very quiet and return to the border of the Land of Fire—trying to slip home through the geopolitical crack between two superpowers.

Between the Land of Fire and the Land of Lightning is the Land of Hot Springs, where Konoha has many hidden bases, and the Land of Frost, where Kumogakure stashes theirs, making the two countries essentially the warzone between Konoha and Kumo.

And the base that was attacked was the nearest to the Land of Frost, which makes it most likely a Kumo attack because the Land of Frost and the Land of Hot Springs, under the supervision of the two countries, don't even have Ninja villages.

If not for my… particular talents, we'd already be decorating the trees in several artistic new ways.

My sensing range, which is one of the best in the village, screamed to me about the sixty-three chakra signatures, coiling and waiting like venomous snakes two kilometers ahead.

They were good, layered in concealment jutsu and tucked into the landscape. But to me, they blazed like bonfires in a pitch-black night.

I had to give credit to my best friend for training my sensing abilities to the limit, saying something like it's a requirement for being a friend of hers. Speaking of it, I couldn't help but recall her last letter.

It was, as usual, a masterpiece of backhanded concern: 'If you let yourself be blown to confetti by some common explosive tag, I shall strike your name from my memory. It would be an embarrassingly mundane end for my only tolerable correspondent.'

Thanks, Azula, the threat of your celestial disdain is one hell of a motivator. Because of it, I'd practiced sensory expansion until my brain felt like mush.

Now, I could out-range even a Hyūga's Byakugan. A fact that was currently the only thing standing between Team 'We're-So-Screwed' and an early grave.

Matsumoto-sensei, our Jonin commander and also the leader of our Team 8, was currently wearing the weight of all our lives like a lead cloak. He didn't flinch.

He just gave the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod. He felt it too, then, or, well, most likely he trusted my bulging-eyeball, two-finger-blinking signal.

We couldn't stop, not even by a half-step. Any break in our retreat's rhythm would be a neon sign screaming 'WE KNOW YOU'RE THERE!' And our one only advantage was their assumption of our ignorance.

The glorious life of a shinobi isn't just flashy jutsu and cool headbands.

It's this: marching with measured calm toward a killing zone the size of a small valley, your heart trying to climb out your throat, while you mentally review every contingency signal your team ever drilled.

It's planning for the worst possible outcome because, in our line of work, the worst actually has a rather good chance of happening.

Yosuke, to his credit, caught my signal and didn't panic. He just adjusted the strap of his tantō and scratched his nose with his free hand—our pre-agreed 'acknowledged' gesture. Good man. Maybe we'd all get to complain about the Frost Country's miserable weather back at the barracks tomorrow.

Or maybe, in about three minutes, we'd be testing just how serious Kumo's intentions really were.
...
...
...

Back in the village, Hiruzen was also having a day. Actually, he was having a decade.

But today, specifically, felt like someone had replaced his morning tea with distilled chaos and then kicked his desk over for good measure.

Ten years wearing the hat. A full decade of paperwork, petty squabbles, and politicking. Yet, for all his experience, overseeing an actual, honest-to-goodness shinobi war was a fresh and special kind of hell.

During the First Great War, he'd been a powerful weapon, a young 'Professor' on the battlefield.

But the real commanding had been left to the living legends, the Clan Heads from the Warring States era, men whose very names could make enemy troops reconsider their life choices.

They had the strength, the respect, and the terrifying gravitas. Hiruzen had just had a lot of fireballs and a can-do attitude.

Now, he was the one stuck in the office. And the title of Hokage, he was discovering, was less about majestic, mountain-carved profiles and more about being the village's designated adult while everyone else got to have a crisis.

Take the Uchiha situation.

Their conspicuous absence from the front lines wasn't just a tactical headache; it was a village-wide migraine that manifested as daily disputes.

Without their innate prowess and feared reputation keeping the peace, minor clan disagreements flared into full-blown shouting matches that inevitably, like gravitational pulls to a black hole, ended up in his office.

Just yesterday, he'd personally mediated a heated debate between a Hyūga elder and an Aburame representative over… ornamental garden beetle placement. He missed the days when his biggest concern was an Uchiha smiling.

And the cost? The budgetary pain.

Hiring and assigning other shinobi to cover the duties the Uchiha should have been performing was bleeding the treasury drier than Sunagakure in a drought.

Which, of course, brought him to his other favorite person: the Land of Fire's Daimyo.

The feudal lord had apparently decided that wartime was the perfect moment to practice fiscal restraint, squeezing Konoha's funding with the enthusiasm of a miser hoarding his last ryo.

The message was as subtle as a brick to the forehead: Let's see how mighty you ninja are without my money.

Hiruzen was staring at a scroll detailing the exorbitant cost of field rations for the northeastern front, wondering if he could get away with just sending everyone an IOU, when a sound broke his despair.

Knock. Knock.

Two polite, precise raps. It was so unnervingly civil it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

In his experience, urgent news usually arrived via panting ANBU, a crashing window, or a suddenly-materializing elder radiating displeasure.

A knock was… ominous.

"Enter," Hiruzen called, setting down his brush and arranging his face into what he hoped was a mask of serene, unflappable authority.

The door swung open to reveal Fukuyoshi, the Daimyo's personal envoy.

The man was a study in silken subtlety, gliding rather than walking, his smile a perfectly crafted artifact.

He looked down on shinobi as uncouth, hired tools—a sentiment he poorly concealed beneath a layer of courtly manners. Being the Daimyo's confidant granted him audience, not respect, but he often confused the two.

"Hiruzen-sama," Fukuyoshi greeted, his tone dripping with a familiar, almost cloying warmth. "I do hope my visit isn't an untimely intrusion. You seem… burdened."

Burdened? What a quaint word for 'one minor incident away from inventing a Shadow Clone just to have someone to scream with,' Hiruzen thought.

With his naturally amiable temperament and this man's practiced charm, anyone without a network of spies embedded in the capital might mistake him for a genuine ally. Hiruzen was not so naive.

He offered a smile that reached his eyes but no further.

"Fukuyoshi-sama, the pleasure is mine. You grace us with your presence. It has been too long since I enjoyed the capital's… refined atmosphere." Too long since I had to navigate your verbal labyrinths, he mentally added.

"Indeed," Fukuyoshi nodded, taking a seat without being offered one. "Lord Yoshiyuki often speaks of your past dialogues. He misses your counsel, but alas, the weight of the realm keeps him anchored to the capital." He misses having you where he can watch you, was the clear subtext.

They embarked on the delicate dance of meaningless courtesies—the weather, the state of the cherry blossoms by the palace, and the exquisite bitterness of the latest tea harvest.

It was a verbal sparring match, all feints and flourishes, each man measuring the other's steps.

Finally, Fukuyoshi made his true move, his voice laced with sympathetic concern. "A shame, truly. Reports from the borderlands grow more distressing by the day. Merchant guilds are in an uproar—banditry, skirmishes, and the roads grow unsafe. Commerce, the very lifeblood of the Land of Fire, is… clotting."

There it was. The pivot from small talk to soft, strategic pressure. The Daimyo wasn't sending money; he was sending a bill, wrapped in a complaint, delivered by a smiling messenger.

The goal was clear: leverage Konoha's desperate need for stability to extract concessions, more control, perhaps a few juicy, profitable trade monopolies for the Daimyo's cronies.

A decade ago, a younger Hiruzen might have taken the bait, rushing to prove Konoha's competence.

But ten years in this seat had sanded away any naivete. He was no fool.

He saw the board clearly: Kumo posturing like a thunderstorm testing the limits each day, Ame a den of shadows, Suna growing desperately bold, and Iwa, ever the stubborn rock, grinding away at their borders.

Hiruzen steepled his fingers, his gaze turning from that of a pleasant host to the hardened, calculating Professor.

"You are absolutely correct, Fukuyoshi-sama," he agreed, his voice dropping to a gravelly, serious tone. "The situation grows excessively dire. Kumo's aggression, in particular, is as brazen as it is troubling."

You want to talk about threats? Let's talk about the actual, enemy-ninja-army-shaped threats. "It is in times like these that the bond between Leaf and Capital must be… unshakable. A show of unified strength. Tell me, how does Lord Yoshiyuki propose we, together, reassure these anxious merchants?"

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

(Azula's POV)

I tilted my head, a smile playing on my lips that didn't quite reach my eyes.

"Well, Elder Genji? The floor is yours. Do you still abide by those noble proclamations?" I tapped a finger against my chin, feigning deep thought. "Or has the imminent prospect of meeting your ancestors inspired a sudden, pragmatic fondness for cowardice? I'm deciding between finishing this the classic shinobi way, or trying out what I've dubbed the 'American Democracy Style'—it involves a lot of explosive, widespread liberation. Very… persuasive."

The old 'thing' was less a man and more a pincushion for his own poor decisions, lying in a crater of his own making. He responded with a wet, gurgling cough that painted his chin crimson.

It took him a full five thirty seconds—I counted—to muster the breath for his final act of delusion.

"Uchiha… girl," he rasped, each word a struggle. "You may have… defeated me. You may choose to kill me. But Kiri… Kiri's spirit will never break."

He managed to focus his bleary eyes on me, summoning a pathetic ghost of defiance. "And what you've done today… Konoha will be buried under the combined wrath of every great village. You haven't won a battle; you've lit the fuse for a world war. You will drown the shinobi world in blood."

My amused smile vanished. Not out of fear, but out of profound, soul-deep boredom. Ugh. The 'greater good' lecture.

From a man who probably taxes the oxygen his subordinates breathe. I offered him a shrug. "If that's the best epitaph your propaganda department could pre-write for you, so be it. How tragically unoriginal."

"Wait, Azula."

I stiffened, my gaze cutting sideways to Mito-sensei. Her expression was as calm as a Nara's afternoon nap.

Oh, for the love of—she isn't about to gift-wrap a sermon about mercy and the circle of life, is she? I will actually Kirin this entire island.

"Don't give me that look," she said dryly, apparently reading my face like a particularly familiar scroll. "I'm not here to plead for his life. I'm here to plead for his brain. He is a walking Kiri archive of outdated policies and war crimes, holding every dirty secret Kiri has buried under the mist. It would be a waste of perfectly good intel to let him die before we've… extracted it all."

I blinked. Okay, that was… practical. Ruthlessly pragmatic from her, but I could respect that. Still, one couldn't simply be reasonable about these things.

"Alright," I conceded, turning back to Genji. His one good eye widened a fraction in hope. How cute. "But…"

In a flash of movement too fast for his battered senses to follow, my chakra-coated hand swept down twice with two wet thuds following.

Genji's shocked, silent scream was more satisfying than any verbal rant. He now belonged to the exclusive club of the disarmingly disarmed.

"And after the interrogation," I continued sweetly, wiping a stray droplet of blood on his own robe, "I get to kill him."

Some might call it overkill, but I called it efficient pest control.

There is nothing in this world—across any world, frankly—more insufferable than a fossil clinging to power, sacrificing generations for his own comfort, all while wrapped in a cloak of self-righteous 'for the greater good' nonsense.

Spare me the hypocrisy. At least my tyranny comes with an honest smirk.

Mito simply nodded, unsurprised. "Noted."

My attention then drifted to the main event, which was, of course, my glorious and dramatic, borderline-theatrical clansmen.

The past months on Uzushio hadn't just been about sulking and seawater; they'd been a masterclass in Uchiha-style overkill.

And the results were… beautiful.

The battlefield was a symphony of crackling blue light. Dozens of my clansmen, their Sharingan spinning wildly with three tomoe, weaved through the panicked Kiri ninja. Chidori wasn't just a technique here; it was an art form.

One Uchiha used it to carve his name into a rock mid-fight (show-off).

Another used its speed to style a Kiri ninja's hair into a ridiculous mohawk before knocking him out (artiste).

True, there were injuries—a slashed arm here, a burn there—but not a single Uchiha corpse littered the ground.

Mostly thanks to Mito-sensei, who moved through the chaos like a benevolent, sealing-tag-wielding ghost, flicking in to deflect a killing blow or slap a protective barrier on a distracted clansman. I'd noticed her during my own fight.

It wasn't just sentimentality; it was also asset management. Why let a perfectly usable, highly-trained warrior die when a minor intervention could preserve them? Especially in this dog-eat-dog world where loyal fools with Sharingan were so hard to come by.

Besides, the old methods of awakening the Sharingan through trauma were so… last season.

Why go through all that messy grief when a significant number of our clan now awakened theirs through the profound emotional journeys found in weekly manga serializations, or from receiving a particularly scathing comment on their fan-art? The future was here, and it was nerdy.

I'd find a stable, side-effect-free upgrade path for the Sharingan if it was the last thing I did. Maybe a nutritional supplement, Uchiha-Vision™, now with 100% more tomoe!

My clansmen had their fun. Their flexing time was up.

My eyes finally landed on the "traitors"—the handful of Kiri ninjas who'd had the profound sense to stay the hell out of the way.

Forty-seven out of thousands. A statistically insignificant blip of self-preservation in a sea of foolish pride.

A slow grin spread across my face. Lightning erupted around me once more, the Chakra Mode up again.
...
...
...
Mito couldn't help but wear a wry, grandmotherly smile as she watched Azula dismantle Kirigakure's finest like they were training posts, with most already regretting their choices of following Genji's choice.

One jonin after another met a swift, sparking end—the strongest among them lasting a grand total of seven seconds.

Mito almost felt like applauding. Or maybe offering the man a consolation prize.

She's getting impatient, Mito mused, sensing Azula's chakra—not a flaw but a flicker of restless energy. Probably eager to get back to Konoha, missing little Ayane, no doubt.

The thought was unexpectedly strange, a big contrast to the lightning-charged carnage unfolding below.

With Azula single-mindedly clearing the board, Mito's own role became even more simple: oversight.

She expanded her sensory awareness until it gently blanketed all of Kiri and its outskirts, a silent, invisible net.

It was to the point that not a single sneeze could escape her notice.

Their strategy had been efficient. By scattering their strikes across Kiri's major clans, they'd turned every defensive barrier into kindling.

This meant that even as Tsunade led the Senju strike force—including a fiercely determined Nawaki and a cunningly efficient Fugaku—into the heart of the Yuki clan's territory, Mito could follow the action as if she had the best seat in the house.

Her chakra sensing painted a vivid picture: the crash of ice mirrors, the eruption of earth, Tsunade's distinctive chakra flaring like a golden beacon as she punched a glacier into diamond dust.

They're holding their own splendidly, Mito noted with pride. The Yuki clan's infamous Ice Release was meeting its match in Senju brute force.

It helped, of course, that the Yuki's real heavy-hitters were conspicuously absent.

A fortunate mystery, she thought. Or a very unlucky one for them, depending on where they are.

Apart from the whirlwind of blue lightning currently rebranding Kiri's architecture, Mito was the only person on the planet who could use the Flying Raijin.

It was the ultimate safety net.

Not that I'd need it, she thought, idly imagining flashing into Kurama Chakra Mode and crossing the entire village in three seconds flat.

In what felt like a record time for wholesale regime change—about an hour—their forces had effectively pinned Kirigakure to the mat. It was a feat so absurdly fast it would give the other Four Great Villages collective heartburn.

It was in the subdued aftermath, when everyone gathered again, that the mood shifted.

Tsunade stood before Murasake, her usual bravado replaced by stark disbelief.

"Elder Murasake," she breathed, her medical-ninja eyes cataloging the terrifying decline. The vibrant, cautious old man she remembered was now a ghost of himself, his vitality gone. Her professional assessment was grim: a year, maybe, if he lived like a fragile vase on a high shelf.

Azula flickered to a stop beside Tsunade, her earlier impatience gone, replaced by a cool, analytical gaze.

Another familiar face, another life burning low. She said nothing, but the observation solidified a truth she'd long accepted: the ninja world was a far crueler edit than the stories suggested.

Her own obsessive precautions—the hundreds of contingencies to shield her loved ones—felt less like paranoia and more like the only sane response.

"It's nothing too serious," Murasake waved a frail hand, his voice a dry leaf rustle. "This old man has simply run his course. Lived long enough to see Kiri get a much-needed makeover, at least."

Among the gathered shinobi, only Mito truly understood the quiet relief in his words. Her own situation was basically similar.

She had options now. With Kurama's cooperation, she could probably stretch her lifespan. But the profound, soul-deep fatigue made the idea unappealing.

She was… tired.

She knew it was selfish. To want to step off the stage, to leave the future squarely on Azula's capable but young shoulders, to leave Tsunade and Nawaki as the last Senju of their line.

But she'd made a deal with herself: a few more years of semi-retirement. A vacation from destiny.

Her reason was a blend of hope and wry humor. She knew her brilliant, stubborn student, Azula, would never accept her passing as final.

The girl would likely scour the ends of the earth, reinvent forbidden jutsu, and probably yell at the Sage of Six Paths himself until she found a way to pull Mito back from the pure land.

And by then, maybe, she'd have figured out how to resurrect Hashirama, too.

The thought sparked a faint, mischievous smile on Mito's lips.

She'd better not expect me to go back to paperwork after all that, she mused, watching Azula confer tersely with a Konoha squad leader. Surely even she wouldn't be so unreasonable as to resurrect her teacher just to put her back on filing duty. Right?

…Then again, this was Azula. Mito made a mental note to include a strict 'no post-resurrection administrative work' clause in her eventual will.

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

Azula, not knowing the outrageous but somehow realistic thoughts of Mito, just placed her hand around Tsunade's shoulder, comforting the latter.

"Cheer up, Tsuna," Azula said, her voice composed. "Murasaki has made his choice. He chose to protect what he believes is worth it, so you should just give him some respect."

After all, Tsunade wasn't some fragile little girl having lost some people; she was… used to it, at least she thought so.

The moment was broken by Tajima, who strode over, his Sharingan deactivated and his posture screaming understanding.

A man from the "kill first, don't ask questions later" Warring States era, he gestured with a thumb over his shoulder at the huddled masses of surrendered Kiri ninja and terrified civilians.

"The fight part's over," Tajima stated, his tone suggesting he found administrative clean-up only marginally more appealing than stepping on a rusty kunai. "Now comes the headache. What's the plan for them? In my day, we'd have wrapped this up by sunset. Now I'm confused."

He wasn't wrong. In the clan warfare days, victory was often a grim, final census, with the losers having their clan completely annihilated unless the winners wanted some slaves.

But this wasn't a clan; it was a village, a bloated, damp, dysfunctional metropolis of thousands.

The inconvenient volume of villagers made wholesale slaughter not just monstrous, but a logistical nightmare even Tajima's hardened soul couldn't stomach.

He glanced at Azula, whose idea of diplomacy was a well-aimed lightning bolt, and then at Mito, whose idea of conflict resolution was to seal your aggression into a teapot.

"It's giving me a migraine," Tsunade grumbled, cracking her knuckles. "We can't just leave, and we can't exactly adopt them."

Mito, the voice of terrifying reason, chimed in. "Isolation is the core issue. Iwa or Suna would have to march through the Land of Fire or go the long way around, inviting Konoha's… attention. But Kumo…" She didn't finish the thought.

The Land of Lightning had a direct sea route.

And with over forty percent of Kiri's forces on missions today—including the powerful, absent Yuki clan—leaving Kiri undefended was an invitation for the Third Raikage to come shopping for new territory and bloodline limits.

Azula, who had been mentally rehearsing the precise shade of fear she wanted to see in Hiruzen Sarutobi's eyes upon her return, felt her glorious homecoming fantasy evaporate like mist under a fireball.

A genuinely aggrieved sigh escaped her.

"Fine," she conceded, the word tasting like ash. "I will… grace this puddle of a country with my presence for one month."

The declaration had the effect of a minor explosion.

Tajima's eyebrows vanished into his hairline. Mito's serene smile gained a hint of victorious glee. Asami, who had been quietly wondering how to cook, was taken aback.

Tsunade, seeing an opportunity to delay her return to Konoha, slapped Azula's back with enough force to stagger a lesser woman.

"I'll stay too! Someone's gotta keep you from burning down all the infrastructure. And, you know, ensure the medical transition is… smooth." It had absolutely nothing to do with the three-day-long bender she'd planned in Kiri's less-destroyed bars.

But Mito shook her head. "No, Tsunade. You and Tajima-sama, along with the clan members, will return to Konoha. Azula and I are more than sufficient to handle any… residual trouble here."

She held up a hand to forestall the impending protest. "Skirmishes are flaring up across the continents. A true war is just a matter of time. But Konoha cannot afford to have both its founding pillars absent. The void left by the combined absence of the Uchiha and Senju is not a power gap; it's a chasm our enemies would love to see."

Tajima, after a moment's grudging calculation, nodded.

He pictured his daughter and the Uzumaki women alone in Kumo, and a savage, proud grin touched his lips. The Raikage would probably end up sealed inside his own favorite weapon and used as a paperweight.

"Mito-sama is correct. Our strength is needed at home. With those two here," he jerked his chin at Azula and Mito, "Kiri will be quieter than the Naka River at midnight. Sooner, if Azula gets bored."

Definitely not because he wanted to join the excitement happening in the Ninja World instead of being stuck in some isolated village.

With the three most formidable people in the immediate vicinity aligned against her, Tsunade could only cross her arms and deploy a legendary, world-class pout.

She could only stomp away, muttering about ungrateful relatives and the critical lack of sake in strategic planning. She had to admit, if only to herself, that the big picture was secure.
...
...
...

"Hokage-sama, they're back! The Uchiha and the Senju just passed the eastern gate!"

The ANBU who'd all but materialized in the middle of Hiruzen Sarutobi's office was practically vibrating.

Despite the mask, the excitement in his voice was as subtle as a flashbang in a library.

Hiruzen paused mid-signature, setting down his brush with the weary grace of a man who'd just finished auditing the annual explosive tag budget.

Normally, such a blatant display of unchecked emotion would earn the operative a week of poetic, roundabout critiques about the importance of stoicism—delivered via parable, of course, probably involving a particularly emotionally constipated badger.

But today, Hiruzen found he couldn't muster the hypocrisy. A slow, relieved smile crept across his face, smoothing wrinkles that had been carved deeper by the latest lightning-release jutsu scroll from the Land of Lightning.

Finally. An end to the passive-aggressive scrolls from Kumo. I'll just… nudge them in Azula's general direction. She has that special way of making guests wish they'd never found her in the house.

"Well noted," Hiruzen said, his voice the picture of grandfatherly calm. "Maintain distant surveillance. Do not approach them."

The ANBU snapped a sharp bow, his jubilation barely contained. "Yes, Hokage-sama!"

He disappeared in a swirl of leaves, though Hiruzen fancied he could still hear a faint, gleeful squeak echoing down the hall.

The Hokage allowed himself exactly three seconds of peace, savoring the mental image of the Kumo envoy's face when informed their 'discussions' would now be handled by a woman who treated diplomacy like a combat sport.

Fate, however, as if offended by his moment of respite, sent its next calamity through the door.

Not a calamity of nature, but something far more predictable and tedious: a council of his people.

Danzō Shimura entered first, with an air of dramatic urgency that suggested the village was actively collapsing behind him.

He was flanked, as always, by his ideological bookends, Homura and Koharu, whose expressions had been permanently set to 'mild disapproval' since a while ago.

"Hiruzen!" Danzō announced, with an intensity usually reserved for discovering a new, darker shade of black for his ops. "The Uchiha have returned."

There was a strange, almost tremulous quality to his voice—a fervor that made Hiruzen pause. Homura and Koharu exchanged a glance that spoke volumes.

It was the same look they'd give if they found Danzō meticulously polishing Madara Uchiha's old armor.

Why, Hiruzen pondered, does he sound like a man who just spotted his notoriously dangerous, long-lost ex-wife shopping for reunion tour outfits?

To his credit, Danzō felt the weight of their silent, bewildered scrutiny. He cleared his throat, the moment of unvarnished zeal passing as he rebuilt his façade of grim pragmatism.

A lesser man might have blushed; Danzō simply pretended the last five seconds had been a collective hallucination.

"Hiruzen," Homura picked up the thread. "Now that they have deigned to return, what is your intended course of action? Their desertion cannot be overlooked."

They'd been humming this chorus since the first day, itching to discuss sanctions and symbolic wrist-slaps for the audacity of leaving.

Hiruzen had stalled them, insisting any judgement required the accused to be present. Now, the calculus had changed dramatically.

The self-styled 'Konoha Exodus,' now bolstered by Uzumaki, hadn't just survived. They'd reportedly annihilated an army of ten thousand.

And the latest, unconfirmed intelligence humming through his networks spoke of something even more absurd: a visit to Kirigakure that had less in common with a diplomatic tour and more with a natural disaster that selectively targeted bureaucrats.

This, of course, was the real reason for the elders' urgent meeting. They saw powerful assets that had acted without their permission, and it itched like a wool uniform. But they weren't complete fools.

They preferred Hiruzen to wield the heavy, politically risky blade while they stood behind him, offering 'supportive' commentary on his swing technique.

It was precisely this transparent scheming that made Hiruzen wish, not for the first time, that the Hokage Tower had a secret trapdoor behind his desk.

"Sit," he said, the warmth leaving his voice. He reached into a drawer and produced a single, crisp scroll. "Before we discuss punishments for our wayward clans, review this. It arrived by falcon a few hours ago. From three independent sources in the Land of Water."

He slid the scroll across the polished wood. Danzō snatched it up, his eyes scanning the encoded text.

Homura and Koharu leaned in, their stern faces tightening with each line. The report detailed not an attack, but a surgical decapitation: the Mizukage's tower breached, Kiri's army neutralized, the village's defensive grid made a mockery of, and all executed with zero casualties on the part of the invaders. A perfect, terrifying spectacle.

Danzō finished reading. A profound silence filled the office, broken only by the distant sound of a merchant arguing about daikon prices.

Then, the scroll trembled in Danzō's hand. A vein throbbed at his temple.

"This… is a fabrication!" he hissed, his voice climbing towards a register Hiruzen hadn't heard since the last time they'd debated funding for the Konoha Puppet Theater. "It is impossible! A handful of about three thousand ninja, no matter their lineage, could not accomplish this! Kiri is one of the Five Great Shinobi Villages!"

His eye was wide, bloodshot. For a fleeting, hysterical moment, Hiruzen wondered if the sheer force of Danzō's denial could spontaneously awaken a Mangekyō Sharingan in a man with no Uchiha blood.

Danzō's mind was racing, comparing this obscene feat to the shadowy power he'd been cultivating in Root, to the delicate, expanding web of influence he'd been weaving beyond the Land of Fire.

This report didn't just describe a military action; it shattered his entire understanding of the possible.

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

"It's not impossible," Hiruzen stated. A tiny, utterly un-Hokage-like part of him preened at the synchronized look of scandalized shock that bloomed on the faces of Koharu and Homura and Danzō.

Sometimes, the simplest joys were watching your lifelong friends realize the world had shifted under their feet.

He knew the core issue. They understood, intellectually, the power that Azula and Mito, along with their clans, wielded.

They just refused to accept it, like stubborn shinobi denying they'd pulled a hamstring until they face-planted during tree-walking practice.

But he was the Hokage, Tobirama-sensei's chosen successor.

His job was to see the entire board, even when the pieces started moving on their own and glowing with terrifying chakra.

A quiet, internal sigh echoed in his mind. Realistically, I'll probably have to pass the Hat in… five years or so.

By then, Azula will be nineteen. The youngest Kage in history, yes, but with the bearing of a veteran. Perhaps I could start grooming her now? Make her the jōnin-sensei for Shinosuke's team?

Unlike Danzō and the others, he knew for sure what kind of person Azula was, and he knew the next Hokage was simply impossible if not her. So he planned a five-year plan.

The mental image was almost charming: his earnest, by-the-book son being whipped into shape by a fiery Uchiha prodigy who probably saw the shinobi guidelines as mild suggestions.

Then reality intruded. He gave a minute shake of his head, the motion lost in his pipe smoke. No, she's no longer just a prodigy; she's the Head of the Uchiha Clan. Having her babysit genin, even my son's team, would be an insult wrapped in a political disaster.

The heavy silence was finally shattered, not by Danzō's scheming murmur, but by Koharu's sharp, school-marmish tone.

"Hiruzen, this isn't merely about their capability to throw a fit," she said, as if discussing unruly children rather than the village's most potent human weapons. "This is about the very authority of Konoha! The system was established by the Shodai himself! If we allow a clan to make unilateral decisions, to come and go as they please, what does Konoha even stand for? A particularly well-defended campground?"

"You know as well as I do that Tobirama-sensei would never have tolerated this. He would have had them in his office for a frank discussion about the chain of command before anything."

Ah, there it is, the Tobirama Card. Played not with subtlety, but with the blunt force of a kunai to the conscience. It hit its mark with practiced ease.

Hiruzen knew she was right. In Tobirama-sensei's Konoha, this situation would have been resolved with icy efficiency and absolute authority.

But that was the crux of it, wasn't it? He had trained, he had grown stronger, but he would never be his sensei. He led through consensus and weathered loyalty, not unyielding command.

"Koharu," he said, his voice dropping into the deep, resonant tone that usually made even Anbu operatives think twice.

It was his 'I-am-your-Hokage' voice, and he used it sparingly. "Do not attempt to pressure me. My decision will come after I have all the information, confirmed and cross-referenced. Kagami and Tsunade are due to report shortly. We will hear their account. Until then…"

He didn't need to finish. The finality in his voice hung in the air, clearer than any smoke signal.

They understood: push further, and the famously patient Hokage might just decide his next Fire Release technique needed testing in a small, Hokage-shaped space.

Danzō, ever the pragmatist when direct confrontation failed, gave a derisive sniff.

"Very well. Let us table the domestic… problems," he said, dripping with condescension. "What of Kumogakure's provocations? How do you intend to deal with those cloud-headed brutes?"

Hiruzen leaned back, steepling his fingers. This, at least, was a more straightforward puzzle. "I am considering dispatching the Uchiha and the Senju to the Land of Lightning as a show of force."

"But they just returned. I need to understand their current state, their morale, before I send anyone. We cannot treat them as simple pieces on a map anymore."

In ordinary times, his strategy would have been different—spread the missions, use more civilian-born shinobi, keep the great clans, the Uchiha especially, carefully balanced and contained.

But Azula Uchiha was not a piece to be contained. She was a wildfire in human form, and trying to suppress her would only get you burned.

Better to point the wildfire at your enemies. Hiruzen was wise.

His long-term plan was shifting.

Suppression was out.

Cautious, strategic alignment was in.

If he could foster at least a working loyalty from these revitalized clans over the next five years, then when the inevitable happened—when a nineteen-year-old Azula inevitably took the Hat—he might still have a role to play.

Not as her commander, but as her advisor. He could use his seniority and the support of other clans to gently steer her away from any… excessively enthusiastic decisions.

Because, let's be honest with himself, he thought as he watched Danzō stew, the idea of Azula with the absolute authority of the Hokage was thrilling and utterly, bone-chillingly terrifying in equal measure.

He trusted her power. He trusted her loyalty to Konoha, in her own way. But he didn't yet trust her judgment not to set the world on fire just to see if the flames could dance.

•••

After making things clear, the meeting started involving 'long-term strategy'. Hiruzen and the ensuing ten-minute 'discussion' had been less of a dialogue and more of a verbal minefield, while still waiting for Tsunade or Kagami.

Then a polite, precise tap-tap-tap on the heavy oak door happened.

In a room where the occupants were, at minimum, Elite Jōnin, the visitor's identity wasn't a mystery. It was a chakra signature as familiar as their own, yet one that now carried the subtle, acrid tinge of complicated history.

A comrade they'd bled with, laughed with, and trusted with their backs. A friend from whom politics had since carved a careful, cautious distance.

Hiruzen's face softened into a melancholic smile. "Enter!"

The door swung open to reveal Kagami Uchiha, his trademark gentle eyes taking in the scene: Hiruzen behind the desk, Danzō's back facing Hiruzen, Koharu and Homura positioned like stern, stone bookends.

Kagami's polite expression didn't falter, but his gaze flicked to Hiruzen for a micro-second, his look screaming, dripping with Uchiha-grade exasperation. You do realize this is the interpersonal equivalent of juggling explosive tags? One wrong glance and Danzō might re-classify me as a 'hostile entity.'

Oblivious to the telepathic critique, Hiruzen merely beamed wider, the picture of congeniality.

Koharu, subtly, let out a sound that was half-snort, half-sigh of profound disappointment.

"Hmph. It seems you still remember you hold a Konoha hitai-ate," she said, her voice dry.

Her tone and the slight downturn of her lips spoke of clear disdain, but to Kagami's finely-tuned ears—honed by a lifetime of navigating clan politics and unspoken grievances—there was an unmistakable, lingering… sourness.

Kagami thought, an internal sigh echoing in the vault of his mind.

The 'Remember That Time We Saved Each Other's Lives And Maybe Briefly Contemplated A Different Life' talk. Still not over it, I see.

He offered a small, wry smile. He was a top-tier Uchiha, one of the clan's three strongest, bound by duty and expectation.

Marrying outside the clan, even for something as frivolous as love, was a path closed to him. Some doors, once shut, were sealed with ancestral seal-work.

"Now, now, Koharu," Hiruzen interjected, smoothly playing the role of the diplomatic Hokage, though the twinkle in his eye suggested he enjoyed stirring this particular pot a little. "Kagami has been performing his duties for the village flawlessly."

It was true. Of all the Uchiha, Kagami was their bridge, their point of contact. He walked the tightrope between the clan's growing power and the village's administration with the perfect balance of a master.

Hiruzen valued that immensely.

The last thing he needed was for this critical, calm-minded ally to be driven off by his council's… less-than-tactful approach.

After all, Hiruzen reminded himself, taking a contemplative puff from his pipe, he is an Uchiha. Patient, but not infinitely so.

"There's no need for such formality, Hiruzen," Kagami said, gracefully taking the offered seat as if settling onto a bed of needles. "And even less need to waste time with preamble. You know why I'm here."

Despite his famed interpersonal skills, even he had limits. Sitting with a group of people who once shared your dinner and dreams, but now mostly shared looks of strategic suspicion, was an exercise in acute social discomfort.

Hiruzen nodded, the pipe smoke weaving lazy circles above his head. Danzō's eye was fixed on a point on the wall, his expression carved from granite. Homura gave a curt nod. Koharu looked away.

"I assume you've been briefed on events up to our departure from Konoha," Kagami began, his voice taking on the measured cadence of an official report. "Let me begin from our arrival at Uzushio. We made contact with Mugetsu..."

What followed was a tale so bizarre, so utterly unhinged from standard shinobi protocol, that even Danzō's perpetual frown deepened into a crevice of disbelief.

"…and so," Kagami concluded, letting the words hang in the smoke-filled room, "Azula and Lady Mito have elected to remain in Kiri for one month. A… stabilizing presence, as it were. The time is for Konoha to assemble a team of shinobi capable of ensuring the 'alliance' holds firm long after their… unique brand of diplomacy departs."

Silence descended, heavy and profound.

Hiruzen, who had weathered a Shinobi World War, his wife's anger, and the quarterly budget meetings with the Fire Daimyo envoy, looked as if he'd been lightly concussed.

This, coming from a man who'd once seen Azula try to "improve" a standard evasion drill by adding actual strange blue fire.

Homura was massaging his temples. Koharu had stopped pretending to be composed and was just staring into the middle distance, possibly questioning every life choice that led her to this moment.

But it was Danzō's reaction that Kagami, with a carefully concealed flicker of pure Uchiha satisfaction, enjoyed it the most.

Danzō, who always viewed the Uchiha clan as a problem to be contained, a variable to be controlled, now sat utterly still.

Kagami saw a flicker of something far rarer: despair. The kind of despair that comes from realizing that you may have completely lost your chance towards something.

"So," Kagami said, his tone perfectly, politely neutral. "About that deployment schedule for the reinforcement team to Kiri. I have a few suggestions."

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

(The 100th chapter )
...
...
...

"Akiko-sama, the moment has come," Hikuto announced, his voice doing an impressive impersonation of someone who hadn't just choked on his own dread. "We have assembled over seven thousand shinobi. We are ready to take back control of the village."

He stood as straight as a kunai, trying to project a confidence he'd buried about three existential crises ago.

Seven thousand sounded like a lot, and it was.

It was also, his brain helpfully supplied, potentially seven thousand very elaborate funeral arrangements because they weren't marching against a normal enemy.

They were marching against more dangerous than natural disasters—the kind of monsters who had killed the Mizukage along with ten thousand ninja and had redecorated Kiri's streets with the previous regime.

Akiko, perched on a weathered stump that served as her makeshift command throne, didn't blink.

The mantle of leadership, she was discovering, was 10% strategy and 90% pretending you couldn't hear the terrified squeaking of your subordinates.

"Good," she said, her voice cool and clear. "Today, the village will enter a new era, and no matter what, we will clear the blood debt."

Blood debt. The words made Hikuto's jaw clench hard enough to break steel. As Akiko's most devoted—and currently most nauseated—subordinate, his loyalty was absolute.

He was a Hozuki, a clan with a legacy of Second Mizukages, not a Yuki.

He'd aligned himself with Akiko because a) she was terrifyingly competent, b) she had the kind of glacial, unshakeable poise that made you believe in miracles, and c) his one (1) braincell devoted to political strategy had taken one look at her and bet the entire farm.

It was the best and worst decision of his life.

But politics didn't erase family. Intelligence from the few who had slipped past the invaders' strangely permissive blockade painted a grim picture.

The Kaguya clan was basically an archaeological site now, with very few left alive.

The jonin of his own Hozuki clan were gone, completely wiped out.

Only the kids, the non-combatants, and the unlucky few who'd been out fishing for glory remained.

His little brother, an elite chunin with more enthusiasm than sense, had been right in the thick of it.

The math was brutally simple, and it added up to a gaping hole in Hikuto's chest.

It had been exactly twenty-one days since the Three-Tails had been unceremoniously crammed into Akiko's body.

Twenty days since the sky over Kirigakure had cracked with unfamiliar fire and the screams had begun.

For the last two weeks, while Hikuto rallied remnants and tried not to vomit from stress, Akiko had been engaged in a different kind of war: a domestic dispute with a living tsunami of chakra residing in her.

Her progress, by any sane standard, was horrifyingly fast.

But she knew it wasn't enough, and unfortunately, she didn't have a choice. There were so many of them, and their supplies were basically gone.

And there was also the fact that the longer they waited, the more likely troops from Konoha would come to completely take control of the village, which was not good.
•••

It was in such a complicated state that Akiko stood atop a hill, a lone silhouette against a bruised twilight sky, looking down at a sea of restless shinobi that churned like the ocean below the island cliffs.

Thousands of them, which gave her a very particular feeling.

Sure, most sported the familiar slash of the Kirigakure headband.

But to Akiko's expert eye—honed by a lifetime of Kiri's brand of backstabbing—at least thirty percent were undercover ninjas.

She spotted a Suna nin trying too hard to slouch; an Iwa guy whose glare was pure boredom...

The fact that the tri-clan alliance of Uchiha, Senju, and Uzumaki had collectively attacked Kiri on its own island was the worst-kept secret in the Five Nations.

These 'allies' weren't here for charity; they were here to make sure the fire they'd quietly fueled kept Konoha's toes in pain.

They'd provided the supplies, the weapons (through, of course, indirect 'neutral' merchants), and now they'd come for the show.

Akiko smoothed the front of her flak jacket, a familiar, cold mask settling over her features. For the performance of a lifetime, she had to look the part.

She drew in a breath, and when her voice rang out, it wasn't her usual dry, cold tone.

It was raw, thunderous, and vibrated with a fury that was, ironically, one hundred percent genuine.

"Shinobi of Kirigakure!" she spoke straight to them. "It has been twenty days since the village our ancestors carved from the mist and the rock was desecrated. Not by honorable conflict, but by the treachery of the Uchiha, the Senju, and the Uzumaki!"

She let the names spit from her mouth like poison. "They did not come as warriors. They came as butchers. They showed mercy to none—sparing not a single clan, cutting down every elite who stood in their path. They have plunged Kirigakure into the single most humiliating chapter of its long history!"

Her fist clenched at her side. The anger was real because she knew her clan had lost most of its younger generation.

Her gaze swept over the crowd, connecting with each pair of eyes—grieving Kiri natives, and calculating foreign agents alike. "We stand at the precipice! They have left us with only two paths: to fight with everything we have, to the very bitter end… or to become wandering ghosts, hunted and despised across the entire ninja world! Is that the legacy you choose?!"

"But we…" she declared, her voice somehow carrying to the very back, "are shinobi of the Bloody Mist. We have never, ever feared death. But we fear disgrace! We fear irrelevance! And we despise hypocrites who preach peace while bathing in our blood!"

She threw her arm out, pointing vaguely in the direction of the mainland, where Konoha undoubtedly sat feeling very pleased with itself. "So I ask you now, with the very spirit of our ancestors screaming in our ears… are you ready? Ready to give your all? To seize back your stolen honor…"

She let the silence hang for one beat, two, her eyes gleaming with a dark, knowing light.

"…and reclaim our GLORY?"

There it was, the magic word. In any other village, 'glory' might mean valor, legacy, or protecting the precious leaves or some such nonsense.

In Kiri? It translated directly to reputation and cold, hard ryo. It was the language of every true Kiri-nin, from the lowest hunter-nin to the former Mizukage, understood better than their own heartbeat.

The effect was instant and volcanic. The genuine Kiri-nin, inflamed by rage and the promise of profitable plunder, roared.

The foreign shinobi, thrilled at the prospect of Kiri and the three strongest clans grinding each other down to the nub, roared even louder, cheering for a 'glory' that would bleed their rival dry.

(Akiko's picture)

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

Well well, this is the 100th chapter, yeah.

 

[Melonlord]

Would Akiko and her band of Kiri-nin actually get what they wished for? In a word: no.

While they'd been busy plotting their 'big revenge' these past few days, Azula hadn't exactly been taking a vacation.

Having mastered the Flying Raijin meant she could pop back to Kiri for a cup of tea whenever she liked. She'd just been… scouting.

Frankly, she'd doubted they'd have the spine to make a move before her one-month deadline to return to Konoha, but hey, she loved being proven right about people's 'determination'.

And so, she'd found them. She'd been standing right there in the crowd, disguised, munching on metaphorical popcorn as Akiko gave her big, passionate 'freedom' speech.

It was almost touching.

Almost.

Watching the raw, gleeful bloodlust shining in their eyes, a wicked thought had crossed her mind: what if she just… dropped an S-rank jutsu right here? How fast would all that lofty morality evaporate?

'Oh well,' she mused, her gaze drifting over the particularly beautiful kunoichi. 'It's a shame. She's quite attractive. A real waste.'

Azula, now verging on fifteen, had to admit that chakra and a little… creative application of Lightning Release to stimulate cellular growth had been very kind to her.

Honestly, if not for the old soul piloting this teenage body, she might be dealing with some truly distracting hormonal crises. As it was, she could only sigh internally.

This world was unfairly stocked with stunning women—each one putting her past life's supermodels to shame—and here she was, too busy for anything but professional appreciation.

'Focus,' she chided herself, shaking her head minutely. 'Teenage angst later, world domination now. Or at least, Mangekyō first. Otherwise, that old coffin-dodger might get ideas.'

The thing she currently hated most was a tactic she'd once used herself: threatening a person through their loved ones. The irony wasn't lost on her, and she had zero desire to be on the receiving end.

Her attention snapped back to the present. The plan with Mito was simple: whoever found the hidden Kiri-nin first would alert the other.

But Azula had a… personal goal. She'd always wanted to see what it felt like to face down an army solo, just like Madara. No fancy tricks, just pure taijutsu and ninjutsu pushed to the absolute limit. So, normally, she wouldn't call.

But this wasn't normal. Mito wasn't bloodthirsty; she'd probably just show up to watch the spectacle with judgy, crossed arms.

And since Azula had already keyed her chakra into Mito's Flying Raijin formula, her sensor-grade teacher could find her across countries, let alone across a few islands.

She pulled out a special kunai, its handle inscribed with Mito's own sealing formulae, and channeled a spark of chakra into it.

"Hey, you! What are you doing?!" a nearby ninja barked, his senses prickling at the focused chakra flow.

Azula didn't even grace him with a glance. As dozens of eyes swivelled toward her, two brilliant wings of roaring blue flame—her Conflagration Wings—exploded from her back. She shot into the air like a firework.

And in that same instant, with a soundless shunshin pop of displaced air, Mito appeared.

Well, she almost appeared. She'd expected solid ground, not empty sky three meters up.

With the impeccable grace of a seasoned ninja, she twisted mid-air, landed in a perfect crouch that sent dust billowing out, and rose smoothly to her feet beside the hovering, flame-winged Azula.

'Old but showy. Very showy,' Azula complained inside.

Mito, as if sensing the blatant disrespect radiating from Azula's very soul, turned and gave her a long, slow look that said I feel you are thinking about something disrespectful, to which Azula responded by absolutely, definitely, one-hundred-percent not looking at a nearby 'innocent' ninja.

She then swept her gaze across the sea of shinobi—over seven thousand of them, packed onto that island. Thousands of eyes locked onto her.

Some sweating, some trembling, and a few brave souls tried to swallow, only to discover their throats had apparently forgotten how throats worked.

Azula grinned. "I could've sworn I heard someone screaming about revenge and glory, which sounded messy. So here I am."

The silence was the kind of quiet you get when a room full of people had talked about rebellion only to collectively realize the man they are planning to rebel against is in the room.

You could hear a kunai drop. Actually, one did. Some poor chuunin's fingers gave up on life; no one blamed him.

Floating there, mid-air, Conflagration Wings blazing behind her like she'd stolen a phoenix's wardrobe, Azula was impossible to miss.

And not just because she was literally on fire. It was the presence—the kind that made you suddenly remember every unflattering thought you'd ever had and wonder if she somehow knew about them.

She smiled.

"That's more like it." Then, with all the casual menace of someone ordering takeout: "Now. Let's dance."

And just like that, the wings dissolved and she dropped back down—landing right next to Mito, who hadn't even blinked. Azula's Sharingan spun to life, three tomoe spinning excitedly.

She launched herself at the first idiot brave enough—or stupid enough—to have already recomposed himself.

It was admirable. Short-lived, but admirable.

Within seconds, the collective shinobi mind underwent a rapid, horrified recalibration. We're being surrounded. By two women. One of whom is literally playing with us.

At the vanguard, a safe distance from the absolute blender that was Azula, stood Akiko—freshly Jinchuriki of the Three-Tails, Isobu—and her right-hand man, Hikuto.

Akiko's chakra reserves had quadrupled since the sealing, and she still couldn't access even half of Isobu's power. It should have felt like a lot.

Then she looked at Mito.

Specifically, she felt Mito. The nine-tails chakra rolled off the woman in slow, patient waves, like an ocean that had decided to wait politely before drowning you. Akiko couldn't even estimate it. It was like trying to count the stars while blindfolded.

Three times? she thought hysterically.

But Mito wasn't fighting. She simply retreated to the opposite end of the battlefield, arms folded, watching Azula with the serene detachment of a cat observing a mouse that thinks it has a plan.

Akiko didn't know whether to feel grateful or deeply, deeply unnerved. Both, probably.

As for Azula, she was having fun.

No chakra mode and no flashy jutsus. Just her Sharingan, her fists, and her kind of creative brutality.

Punch—and a jonin's arm became a sad, floppy memory. Kick—and another shinobi folded like origami, now paralyzed from the waist down. A glance from her Sharingan, and a third man stood frozen, his mind scrambled, drooling slightly. Then another punch and he was done.

She spared some. Only the ones who looked like they'd be useful once Kirigakure officially became hers. But that almost made it worse.

A monster who kills is terrifying. A monster who picks and chooses while just crippling some is a horror.

"How… how is this possible?" Hikuto's voice came out strangled. "Twenty jonin from Kiri alone could level a small country. At our peak, we barely had five hundred jonin, maybe sixty elite. And she's—"

He gestured vaguely at the absolute chaos unfolding before them, where a woman was treating trained assassins like a game of whack-a-mole. "—that. She's just… that."

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

Kishi, one of Akiko's more emotionally available followers, winced as another squad of Kiri-nin got absolutely yeeted into the afterlife.

"Uh, Akiko, maybe we should… do something? Because I feel no matter their numbers, they are just dying for nothing."

Akiko didn't even blink. Her face was as expressive as a block of ice—which, given her Yuki lineage, was probably a genetic trait.

"It's not for nothing, Kishi. They're not dying for 'nothing'. Every kunai that misses, every bone that breaks, every scream—it's all depreciating her stamina and in the long run, it's worth it."

Her voice was calm. The kind of calm that made birds stop singing.

Her closest subordinates exchanged a look. The one that said: "She's doing that thing again where her heart became as cold as ice."

They knew the deal.

Akiko wasn't evil—she just viewed emotions the way most people view expired milk: technically present, but why would you ever touch it?

She'd become a jinchūriki not out of desperation, but because the math checked out. Power-up: high. Everything else didn't matter.

Meanwhile, Azula was starting to get bored.

And when Azula got bored, people tended to stop being alive.

She'd already mulched through nearly a hundred shinobi—including a dozen jōnin whose only mistake was being within twenty meters of her bad attitude. Another fifty were currently questioning their life choices from hospital beds that didn't exist yet.

She paused mid-incineration and tilted her head.

Huh.

She'd known Iwagakure took down the Third Raikage with ten thousand men in the anime.

The Raikage she knew could probably solo a small country while doing his taxes. How did rocks of all people manage that?

Whatever. Probably sand in his shorts.

She dismissed the thought and surveyed her handiwork. Within a twenty-meter radius, the only things moving were the wind and a few guys who were technically alive but had wisely chosen to play dead.

Smart choices, which are rare in Kiri.

The surviving ninja stared at her like she'd personally insulted their ancestors.

Which, to be fair, she probably had.

None of them were old enough to remember Madara or Hashirama, but this? One woman, zero fucks given, and a body count that would make a shinobi historian weep?

This was the kind of trauma that got passed down for generations.

Azula smiled. It was not a nice smile.

She practically watched the fear crystallize in their eyes, which pleased her, then finally figured out that throwing bodies at her was less 'strategy' and more 'aggressive recycling'.

"This saves me so much nonsense."

All that remained was the final boss fight—or, if Akiko was smart, the 'submission'. Azula turned her gaze toward the White Demon and her little entourage of true believers.

Please don't be another Genji, she thought. One self-righteous speech about justice was enough to last me several lifetimes.

The crowd parted. Not out of respect—Kiri ninja didn't do respect unless it came with a price tag—but out of self-preservation. Kiri wasn't known for loyalty; it was known for stabbing first and asking questions while you bled out.

Azula strolled through the corridor of terrified shinobi like she was walking a red carpet. Her Conflagration Wings flared to life, not for combat—just for dramatic emphasis.

She hovered a few feet above the ground, looking down at Akiko and her squad on the hill with the casual superiority of a cat eyeing a mouse that thought it was a lion.

"Akiko Yuki." She spoke with 'admiration' in her tone. "White Demon of the Mist. Patriarch of the Yuki clan—and I have to say you do seem to deserve your title."

Akiko opened her mouth, about to say something, but then closed it.

She was standing face-to-face with the 'girl' who had helped level her village, killed half her family, and was much younger than her. And now this 'girl' was… complimenting her?

Should I say thank you?

Instead, Akiko did what any self-respecting jinchuriki with zero social training would do: she returned the compliment like they were trading Pokémon cards at recess.

"I've also heard about you." Her voice was flat. Neutral. Totally not panicking inside. "Azula Uchiha. The only Matriarch in the history of the Uchiha clan. Fought two Kage at once and came out unscathed. I didn't expect to meet you in this kind of situation."

Akiko indeed knew Azula because she understood how hard it is for a woman to become clan head, let alone the current strongest clan in the world.

Of both Azula and Tsunade, she had a good impression of them before, especially Tsunade, the latter having humiliated Mizura.

That was, of course, before they murdered her clan; now her impression of them is negative zero.

Azula just nodded slowly, as if Akiko had just explained the obvious. "People from different villages. If not on a battlefield, where else would we meet? A spa?"

Akiko blinked.

"But let's skip the small talk." Azula waved a hand, already bored. "I've heard of your talk and here's the thing: Kirigakure started this mess when you rolled up on Uzushiogakure wanting to exterminate it, but nobody cares who swung first, do they? Everyone's too busy screaming, 'But my family!' and sharpening kunai."

She said this while staring directly into Akiko's soul through her Sharingan.

And there it was—what she had hoped for: a nanosecond of hesitation, a 'was she… kind of right?' that flashed across Akiko's face like a startled cat.

Azula smirked internally.

Perfect. One solid beatdown, then I could hit her with the Talk no Jutsu. Step one: establish dominance. Step two: emotional manipulation. Step three: profit.

She didn't try it now, of course. Talk no Jutsu wasn't a drive-thru. You couldn't just roll up and expect results without first cracking a few ribs.

It was a ritual, a sacred art. First, you punch the trauma in. Then you talk it out.

Akiko, for her part, caught the distinct lack of warmth in Azula's eyes. No cozy tea-chat energy here. It would've been creepy otherwise.

She straightened. "Kishi. Hikuto."

Her voice dropped lower. The kind of tone that preceded a very bad day for someone else.

Behind her, two figures shifted. Kishi and Hikuto weren't just jonin—they were Kirigakure's top jonin, which meant they'd drowned their childhood pets for practice. Top fifteen in the village. Almost on her level before the tailed beast.

They didn't speak, but they understood.

And then Akiko's chakra erupted, red and thick, rolling off her in waves like a bad sunburn with intent.

Azula recognized it instantly. She'd interrogated Genji long enough to know exactly why the Matriarch of the Yuki clan was not present when they attacked.

Isobu, the Three-Tails. The 'pitiful' giant turtle with boundary issues.

Azula didn't move out of genuine curiosity.

Genji had called Akiko his chosen Mizukage. Just needed to beat Ryūkotsu, collect the hat, and start signing executive orders. She left the village when they attacked to become a Jinchuriki.

Now Akiko was standing there, two tails of boiling chakra whipping behind her, eyes sharp, mind intact.

Impressive, Azula admitted. Either she was a prodigy, or Isobu just really liked her. Or probably both.

Azula also flipped the switch back into Battle Mode, but still 'casual god-tier' with none of her two chakra modes activated.

She hung in the sky like a final boss who forgot to load her ultimate abilities.

Then she made a Rasengan. Just... made one since it wasn't a big deal.

And then—because subtlety is for people who don't have fire powers—she ignited a controlled explosion at the soles of her sandals and cannonballed herself toward the ground like a comet with a grudge.

Hikuto and Kishi took one look at the screaming ball of the Uchiha-Fire-Princess death hurtling toward them and collectively said, "Nope."

They backflipped like their lives depended on it along with Akiko in her Tailed Beast mode. Because they did.

The hill behind them, however, did not have the luxury of legs or survival instincts.

It just... stopped existing.

Mito, watching from the sidelines with the weary patience of a grandmother who's seen too much, pressed her fingers to her temple.

She'd witnessed a lot of ridiculous chakra control in her lifetime. Hashirama could grow forests with a clap, but every time, she would always be impressed by Azula.

This was a girl who said, 'Let me make an explosive spinning ball of death, then use explosions to deliver it faster than sound, and oh, I'm not even using my special powers yet.'

Mito sighed. Somewhere in the Pure Land, Hashirama was probably crying tears of pride and inadequacy.

The fight, however, did not pause for Mito's sake.

Hikuto and Kishi, still airborne like startled cats, retaliated instantly—kunai raining down with explosive tags fluttering behind them.

Meanwhile, Akiko was having some serious remorse. She'd popped her bijuu cloak way too early, and now she was juiced up but locked out of her Ice Release, which ruined what could have been a perfect combo.

Azula didn't even blink.

She shifted.

Using her Fire Body Flicker, a burst of chakra, a smear of orange light, and suddenly she was in Hikuto's face while the kunai passed through her afterimage like she was already living five seconds in the future.

Hikuto's brain screamed: Hydrification. Now. Now now now.

He melted. Literally. His body became liquid on instinct, because every Hozuki worth their salt knew that when a Uchiha princess with Sharingan and zero chill flies at you, you do not try to tank that.

You become water. You run.

Kishi, the close-combat specialist, saw his friend about to get turned into soup and had approximately one thought: I'm too far, I'm too slow, I'm too— He threw kunai anyway. Non-explosive ones, of course, hoping to slow her down and buy a second.

Azula parried them with her bare palms like she was shooing flies, not even slowing down.

Her Sharingan spun and she felt the chakra patterns of Hikuto felt familiar, then recalled information about him.

Hozuki Hikuto from the Hozuki clan, good at body Hydrification which turns solid body into liquid and turns physical attacks into sad splashes.

Weakness: lightning release.

She was 0.2 meters away from Hikuto's watery face.

She hadn't even done hand signs.

But her hands were already coated in crackling, screaming, gleeful lightning.

Hikuto's heart—somewhere inside his liquid form—did a panicked teleportation. His brain helpfully supplied the memory of the last time lightning hit him in this state. It wasn't a good memory; it involved twitching and smoke.

Also a distinct lack of dignity.

Oh no, he thought, bracing for impact. Not again.

From the sidelines, Akiko's jinchuriki-enhanced reflexes caught every frame: the lightning, the distance, the utter lack of mercy in Azula's eyes.

"Not good," she whispered. Understatement of the century.

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

Akiko's plan was simple.

Step One: Hikuto would stall Azula and be the world's most distracting decoy.

Step Two: She, with her Three-Tails chakra enhancing her physical strength, would punch Azula's face so hard no one would recognize her.

Hikuto did his job, attracting attention even if he knew he was about to get hit, although it wasn't the kind of hit he probably expected.

The problem was what happened afterwards.

She channeled so much of the Three-Tails' chakra into her legs that her jōnin-grade calves were hurting, then with clawed hands ready to rend, she launched herself at Azula.

But "exposed" for Azula was apparently a relative term. Her Sharingan had already clocked Akiko's trajectory, calculated four different ways to counter, and then, just for fun, picked a fifth option that was pure style.

In a move that defied both physics and common sense, she used Hikuto's liquid body as a springboard. A perfect, contemptuous front flip. Akiko's claws, meant for Azula's spine, shredded nothing but water as they passed through Hikuto.

"Worth it, though," Hikuto thought, his molecules slowly reassembling.

But Azula wasn't done showing off. Mid-flip, with the grace of a gymnast and the malice of a honey badger, she'd already packed a brutal axe kick with Lightning Chakra, aiming it directly at Akiko's skull. It was a kick that screamed, "I'm not trapped in here with you; you're trapped in here with me."

Akiko, with a snarl, brought up her other arm, the chakra cloak flaring as she blocked the kick; the shockwave cracked the ground beneath them. For the first time since she appeared, they actually managed to stop her.

The unstoppable force had, for a fraction of a second, been stopped.

And that was all Kishi needed.

He'd been feeling a bit like a background extra in his own fight, but this was his moment.

His blade, the legendary Kubikiribōchō, cleaved through the air towards Azula's neck.

Azula's eyes, for just a moment, flickered with genuine curiosity. That blade was the same one she'd seen in the anime, the one wielded by Zabuza.

She hadn't known it was. Interesting.

'Interesting' didn't mean 'dangerous.' She flowed around the swing like water, her leg snapping out in a counter-kick that sent Kishi skidding back, his sword almost flying from his grip.

Now Hikuto saw his opening. Azula was facing Akiko. Her back was wide open. His chance to be the hero!

But he didn't use a jutsu; if he used one and she dodged—which would likely happen—it would instead hurt Akiko.

He settled for a physical attack, a surge of water-enhanced speed to land a hit on her exposed back.

Feeling his actions, Azula couldn't help but smirk.

Both Akiko and Hikuto lunged, a perfect pincer movement. It was an unsolvable situation.

And then, she wasn't there.

She reappeared on the far side of the clearing, near a very calm-looking Mito, who had been quietly observing like it was a particularly violent nature documentary.

"Whew," she exhaled, rolling her shoulders with a satisfied crack. "Now that was a warm-up! I haven't had a workout that fun since I tried to teach Shikaku to do the Rasengan."

She flashed a grin at Mito. "Seriously, this was more satisfying than my fight against Ōnoki and the Kazekage, even though I was only running at, like, half-power."

Mito let out a knowing chuckle, the kind a legendary kunoichi lets out when she's seen it all. "Well, if after all these years of blood and sweat you weren't at this level, I'd be more worried."

Azula's grin widened. She wasn't complaining about being strong, not even a little bit. It was more like… she was a competitive eater at a buffet of justice.

She loved a challenge, that feeling of reaching for the last shrimp tempura just as someone else does, and then snatching it with a smirk.

Someone almost on her level? Perfect. Someone she had to actually work to surpass? Even better.

Back on the battlefield, the three-headed monster of shock—Akiko, Hikuto, and Kishi—stood with their jaws unhinged. After all that buildup, after all that epic clash, it turned out the enemy could just… clock out whenever she felt like it?

From their perspective, it felt less like a battle and more like watching a shinobi who had unlocked some forbidden, god-tier jutsu stroll through the field.

They ran down the checklist in their heads, their thoughts shared:

First, she'd debuted her Lightning Release Chakra Mode as a Genin, which pushed her reputation in one fell swoop.

Then, when she threw down with two Kage, she'd casually switched to a brand-new Fire Release Chakra Mode.

Then, when it was time for a tactical retreat with her team, she'd used the Flying Raijin, one of the Second Hokage's trump cards.

And now, she'd zipped back to Mito's side with the same instant transmission trick.

It meant she'd been fighting them with one hand tied behind her back, using techniques that can only be considered normal in her arsenal, while they'd been emptying their entire ninja toolkit.

And all without forgetting who she was casually chatting with: Mito Uzumaki, the wife of the freaking Shinobi God and the Nine-Tails Jinchūriki. The woman they called the Strongest Kunoichi during the First Ninja War.

But the thousands of grunts of the other ninjas who were puffing up their chests showed they aren't as pessimistic as the three, literally spelling, "Ha! We forced her back!"

"Not bad, not bad at all," Azula mused, a competitive spark igniting in her eyes. "You know, I'm starting to actually look forward to these Ōtsutsuki showing up. I hope they are fun to fight."

Suddenly, brilliant, crackling lightning began to wrap around her body, making her hair stand on end.

"Alright, time for reality to hit them again."

She wasn't going to hold back this time. The Lightning Release Chakra Mode was not only her signature; it was also her comfort zone, her favorite fighting style. It was way more fun than playing tag with the Flying Raijin or messing around with that new Water Release technique she'd been fiddling with.

 

[Melonlord]

"It seems you've finally hit your limit?" Azula's voice dripped with mock regret as she surveyed the three broken shinobi before her.

One was completely unconscious, drooling slightly. Another lay twitching on the ground, apparently discovering new ways to regret his life choices.

And she was well, technically in the best condition—which meant she was only on her knees, gasping like a fish that had recently discovered the joys and horrors of breathing air.

But when Azula looked into Akiko's eyes, she didn't see the expected defiance, the burning hatred, or even the "You are a villain!" speech.

Instead, she saw something that looked suspiciously like... resignation?

"Wait," Azula tilted her head, genuinely curious now. "Did you actually know from the beginning that you couldn't win? That's either incredibly wise or incredibly depressing. I haven't decided which yet."

Akiko didn't bother denying it. "I'm a Jinchuriki. I understand the power of Tailed Beasts. More importantly, I understand the power of someone who can defeat two Kage at the same time." She paused, then added with a hint of dark humor, "I could feel the power of the Nine Tails Jinchuriki, it's something despairing."

Azula's eyebrow climbed toward her hairline.

"So it was Mito-sensei who made you realize you were out of luck? Good instincts, terrible luck running into me." She waved her hand dismissively, as if brushing aside Akiko's entire life story. "I'll generously overlook the fact that you underestimated me."

The air grew heavy as Azula's expression shifted from playful to predatory. "Now then. Do you surrender?"

And there it was. The legendary weapon more powerful than any jutsu—the Talk no Jutsu. Well, Azula's version of it anyway.

Where Naruto would give a heartfelt speech about dreams and friendship and maybe cry a little, Azula's approach was more like: "I just kicked your butt. Wanna join my side? No? Okay, I'll kick it again."

Still, a plan was a plan.

Akiko stared at her like she'd grown a second head.

"Surrender? You do remember we are mortal enemies, right? The thousands of people your group killed? We would never surrender."

Azula didn't respond with words. Instead, she slowly turned and gestured behind her—a grand, theatrical sweep of her arm that would have made a stage actor jealous.

Thousands of Kiri-nin stood there.

Correction: thousands of Kiri-nin stood there without weapons, without scrolls, and with expressions ranging from 'I have made a terrible mistake' to 'please don't hurt me'.

Some of the clever ones—or perhaps the most cowardly, depending on your perspective—had actually managed to seal their own chakra.

One enterprising fellow had apparently tied himself to a rock with his own rope, just to make sure there were no misunderstandings about his surrender intentions.

Azula turned back to Akiko with an expression that screamed Are you absolutely sure about that "never surrender" speech?

Akiko, to her credit, maintained her cool composure. Her face remained perfectly neutral, a mask of calm indifference.

Inside, however, her brain was screaming: THESE TRAITORS! THESE ABSOLUTE—THEY COULDN'T EVEN PRETEND TO FIGHT FOR FIVE MORE MINUTES?!

She pretended not to see anything. It was the only dignified option left.

Azula's playful demeanor evaporated like water on hot concrete.

"In every war, there are winners and losers. That's just math. The winners decide what happens next. Usually, that means the losers get erased from history like they never existed." She snapped her fingers for emphasis. "It's the tradition. The way things have always been done."

"But here's the thing." Her voice softened, though her eyes remained sharp as kunai. "I'm not most people. I'm feeling... magnanimous today. Generous, even."

She flashed a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "So I'm going to allow Kiri to surrender. All of you, but it is a limited-time offer."

Every ninja present heard her. They didn't need superhuman hearing—her voice carried with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how much power she wielded.

She didn't need to turn around to feel the shift in the air behind her. Fear transforming into cautious hope. Hatred twisting into something complicated and uncomfortable.

Gratitude. That's what it was. Reluctant, shameful, bitter gratitude.

Akiko's mind raced, even as her body refused to move. She had prepared herself for death. She had accepted it, embraced it even. Dying on her feet, fighting to the last breath—that was honorable. That was what a leader should do.

But she wasn't a fool. She could feel Azula's intention, strange as it was. The woman actually seemed inclined to let them live.

Why? Akiko had no idea. Maybe she just liked collecting surrendered villages like trophies. Maybe she had a soft spot for hopeless causes. Maybe she was just weird.

Whatever the reason, Akiko found herself turning to look at her fallen comrades.

Kishi was still unconscious, drool now joined by a small bubble that expanded and contracted with each breath but at least he was breathing.

Hikuto was awake, technically, but 'awake' was doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence.

His eyes were open, but they had the glazed, unfocused quality of someone who was currently having a very profound conversation with his ancestors. His injuries were severe enough that if help didn't arrive soon, he'd be having that conversation in person.

And then there were the Kiri-nin themselves. They looked back at her with expressions that practically screamed 'PLEASE SAY YES, AKIKO-SAMA'.

They had already surrendered in every way that mattered—their weapons were on the ground, their hands were in the air, and their dignity was somewhere in the dirt.

My role is the leader of what's left of Kiri, Akiko reminded herself. My goal is to reclaim control of the village. Every decision must benefit the village and its people. Personal feelings should be irrelevant and emotions should be tossed somewhere.

Objectively, logically, strategically—surrendering was the correct choice. They would preserve their forces, they would return to the village and most importantly, they would rebuild.

They would only have to pay some prices to Konoha which is an acceptable loss.

But then she thought of Haruki. Of Fara. Of Inā.

Did this mean they died for nothing? Should they have just surrendered from the beginning? That their lives didn't matter from the beginning to the end?

Azula's perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched. The look Akiko was giving her was absolutely priceless.

It was like she'd just caught Azula kicking puppies and stealing candy from babies.

"Why are you looking at me like I'm the final boss in some tragic opera?" Azula's voice dripped with theatrical offense. "You swung first! We just happened to swing back harder, faster, and with better aim. That's not villainy, that's called winning with style."

She leaned forward slightly, her smile sharp enough to cut diamond. "And let me be crystal clear about something, because I think the blood loss might be affecting your hearing—when we 'attacked,' we were practically saints about it. We only removed the ones who chose to remove us first. No clan exterminations or family annihilations. We didn't even kill anyone's beloved pet, and trust me, some of those ninja hounds were asking for it."

She paused for dramatic effect, because what was intimidation without a little theater?

"But please, by all means, be stubborn. Dig those heels into the ground. Refuse the very reasonable terms I'm offering. I'm sure your clans will appreciate your principled stand as they're being turned into historical footnotes. The destruction of Kiri won't be on our hands—it'll be your signature move. Really add it to your resume: 'Akiko of the Bloody Mist, Professional Bad Decision Maker.'"

Azula had discovered something wonderful about herself during this war: she was absolutely magnificent at capitalism. Not the boring parts with ledgers and interest rates, but the fun parts.

The carrot and the stick. The velvet glove over the iron fist. The whole 'make them an offer they can't refuse' energy.

Centuries of human history had proven one thing—if a trick sticks around that long, it's because it works. And watching Akiko's internal struggle was like watching a particularly entertaining puppet show.

The rage was there. The pride was there. But underneath all that, the survival instinct was doing some very interesting gymnastics.

From what Azula had gathered about this walking ice sculpture disguised as a kunoichi, Akiko was the type who could meditate through an earthquake and negotiate through an apocalypse.

Give her thirty seconds to process, and rational choice would win. Probably. Hopefully. If not, well... Azula's fire was always hungry even if it's pitiful to delete a hottie.

Akiko's teeth ground together with enough force to mill grain. "Kiri... accepts defeat."

The words clearly tasted like poison on her tongue.

"On one condition." She held up a finger that was shaking almost imperceptibly. "No humiliating conditions."

Then her body, which had been held together by spite and stubbornness alone, finally threw in the towel. Akiko's eyes rolled back with the dramatic flair of a theater student dying on stage, and she crumpled into a heap of unconscious kunoichi before Azula could even formulate a response.

Azula blinked at the unconscious form.

"...Well." She smoothed down her robes. "I suppose that's one way to start and end a negotiation. Definitely not how I'd do it, but points for timing."

 

[Melonlord]

"Hokage-sama. The barrier team just sent a report about Azula-sama and Mito-sama being back at the village."

Hiruzen, mid-sigh over a mountain of paperwork that seemed to breed when he wasn't looking, straightened up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

He didn't bother asking why the sensors hadn't caught them entering the village. Why would they?

Azula knew the Flying Raijin technique—the immortal legacy of his late sensei.

The proper etiquette, of course, was to teleport to a designated marker outside the village walls and then walk in like a civilized shinobi.

But expecting the walking, talking, black-haired calamity that was Azula to follow "proper etiquette" was like expecting a cat to file its own tax returns.

It was a nice thought, but utterly divorced from reality.

The important thing, however, was that they were back. A wave of pure relief washed over him, loosening the knot of tension that had taken up permanent residence between his shoulders.

The ANBU agent, sensing the shift in the Hokage's mood, simply waited for a nod before dissolving into the shadows.

Hiruzen leaned back in his chair, which groaned in protest.

"Should I… pop over and say hello?" he mused aloud to the empty office. "Or wait for them to report in like proper shinobi?"

He pictured the scene: him, sitting here, waiting. Azula, probably already elbow-deep in a bowl of ramen at her favorite stall, Mito-sama likely already at the Senju archives, her nose buried in a scroll. They would 'report in' when the moon turned to cheese.

He could be waiting here until his funeral, and they still wouldn't darken his doorstep with an official report. They'd probably send a cheerful, late condolence card.

His gaze drifted back to the paperwork. So much paperwork. It was a S-rank mission all on its own.

With a theatrical sigh that would have made a stage actor proud, he did hand seals.

Poof. A perfect copy of himself, albeit with a perpetually confused expression, appeared in the corner.

"Just… hold down the fort," Hiruzen said, gesturing vaguely at the desk. "Sign anything that isn't a resignation letter. If Danzō slithers in, tell him I'm in a meeting. A very long meeting."

The clone sighed. It already knew it had drawn the short straw.

Now, Hiruzen knew the rules. There was a village regulation specifically stating the Hokage couldn't offload his work onto Shadow Clones except under 'extenuating circumstances'. This was an extenuating circumstance, right?

Dealing with the return of two forces of nature was practically a national security matter!

Besides, it's not like he had a spotless record to protect. His every move in the village was monitored. The higher-ups knew exactly what he did with his free time.

They knew about the crystal ball, the private viewings, the extensive collection of Uchiha Holy Uncensored Doujinshi Art he devoured with the focus of a man studying a sacred text.

If one of the advisors burst in without knocking, they might find him so engrossed in the latest masterpiece that he wouldn't even notice until they were standing right behind him, reading over his shoulder.

If he added 'letting Shadow Clones do all the heavy lifting' to his list of indiscretions, his approval rating—already being carefully cultivated as the only thing keeping Azula from turning the Hokage Tower into a bonfire when she inevitably took over—would plummet faster than a rock in a lake.

No, he had to be seen and had to be present. He had to maintain the illusion of a hard-working, dedicated leader.

Making up his mind, he left the clone to its fate and strolled out of the Hokage Tower, making a beeline for the Senju Compound.

The fresh air was a welcome change from the scent of ink and anxiety.

His walk through the village was a familiar, almost therapeutic ritual.

"Hokage-sama, lovely day for a walk!"

"Look, kids! It's the Hokage! He just winked at me! Nah, I'm done!"

"No, he didn't! He was looking at my new sandals! He approves!"

Wherever he passed, villagers lit up. A simple nod from him was enough to make someone's entire week.

Children would wave, old ladies would offer him vegetables, and shopkeepers would try to press free goods into his hands. It was a wave of goodwill he'd grown accustomed to over the years, and frankly, it never got old.

_This_, he mused, _was the essence of being Hokage. You were the face on the mountain, the face in the villagers' minds when they woke up, the face they saw on their morning milk cartons. It was a status few could fathom._

It was this exact feeling, the reverence, the automatic respect that made Danzō's eye twitch every time he saw it. It was the reason Koharu and Homura, for all their bossy, advisory posturing, would never, ever taste this particular brand of power.

In the entire shinobi world, only four other people got to experience this.

Well. Three others, now. And the woman he was on his way to see was a primary reason that number had recently shrunk.
•••

"So, let me get this straight," Azula said, pinching the bridge of her nose as if fighting off an impending headache. "Tsunade and my father are already at the frontlines, warring against Kumo while we were not here?"

Nawaki bounced on his heels like a puppy who'd just spotted a squirrel, his eyes practically sparkling with envy.

"Exactly! And they even took some clan members with them!!" He crossed his arms with an impressive pout. "But nee-san got all weird and protective and refused to let me go. Can you believe it? Me! The future Hokage! Being treated like some fragile flower!"

_Oh, I don't know_, Nawaki, Azula thought, fighting the urge to laugh hysterically. _Maybe it's because she knows in another timeline, you get turned into confetti by a paper bomb?_

She physically had to stop herself from facepalming too hard—she'd done it so many times since arriving in this world she was worried about giving herself a concussion.

"Should I join them?" she mused aloud.

The truth was, she missed Tsunade.

It had been nearly a month since they'd separated, and despite her general cynicism about this entire universe, she had to admit the blonde medic had grown on her like an especially stubborn fungus. An endearing fungus with super strength.

But she shook her head firmly. No, there were things she needed to do in Konoha. Plots to hatch, plans to set in motion, sanity to maintain.

Plus, as much as she hated what this village would become in the original story—the hypocrisy, the darkness hiding beneath the pretty leaf motif—she had to admit something embarrassing.

This dump had become home.

She'd grown up here for fourteen years. Fourteen years of waking up to the same streets, the same annoying civilians, the same ridiculous ninja running everywhere instead of just walking like normal people.

It had that effect on you. Like a particularly violent case of Stockholm syndrome, but with more ramen.

Azula's attention suddenly shifted to Mito, who had been observing their exchange with the quiet amusement of a cat watching mice argue.

The Uzumaki woman met her gaze, then slowly turned toward Nawaki.

She didn't say a word.

She didn't have to.

One look at Grandma Mito's face and Nawaki's expression crumpled like paper in a toddler's fist.

He could read that look perfectly: Run along now, little one. The adults are about to discuss things that would scar your innocent childhood.

"Fiiine," he dragged out the word, shuffling toward the door with the dramatic flair of a condemned man walking to his execution. "But I'm putting my name in for the next cool mission! I'm calling dibs! Dibs, I say!"

The moment he stepped outside and nearly collided with Hiruzen Sarutobi, something clicked in his brain with his eyes narrowed.

And suddenly, the Third Hokage found himself on the receiving end of a look that could only be described as "supreme eight-year-old resentment."

Hiruzen blinked, utterly bewildered. What had he done? He'd literally just arrived. He hadn't even said anything yet. Was this what parenting felt like?

Deciding to ignore the inexplicable hostility (children were strange, mysterious creatures), Hiruzen plastered on what he believed was a warm, fatherly smile.

It looked more like he was passing a kidney stone, but he was trying his best.

"Would you be so kind as to inform Mito-sama that I'm here to see her?" he asked, his voice dripping with diplomatic politeness.

Nawaki responded by curling his lip like a pissed-off raccoon. "Tsk. She already knows."

And with that, he sauntered off, leaving Hiruzen standing there like a fool, his smile frozen on his face.

For a long, uncomfortable moment, Hiruzen considered whether it would be inappropriate to give the grandson of the First Hokage a stern talking-to.

Perhaps a lesson in manners. A very gentle, completely-not-abusive lesson.

But no. He was Hokage. He had to be the bigger person.

Even if that bigger person was currently standing in an empty courtyard, feeling thoroughly disrespected by a child who hadn't even hit puberty yet.

He gritted his teeth and approached the house, the silence somehow more insulting than any words could be. This was the welcome the Hokage received? Where were the fanfares? The honor guards? The ceremonial tea?

Thankfully, the universe decided to have mercy on him. Mito slid open the door just as he reached it, and for a moment—just a moment—the sunlight caught her just right, framing her in gold.

And Hiruzen was transported back.

Back to when his teacher was alive, back to when the Shodaime's laughter echoed through these halls, back to when this house was filled with life and youth and hope.

They'd been so young then. So innocent. They hadn't known they were living the best days of their lives, too busy chasing tomorrow to appreciate today.

"What are you doing, Hiruzen? Daydreaming on my doorstep like a lost puppy?" Mito's voice cut through his nostalgia like a kunai through butter. But her eyes were soft, understanding and with some complex emotions. She could feel his emotions radiating off him like heat from a fire. "Come in."

Hiruzen blinked away at the ghosts of the past and stepped inside.

 

[Melonlord]

When Hiruzen stepped inside, Azula was sitting sipping tea with the same delicate posture and the same unhurried elegance as Mito.

She even smiled at him.

"Hokage-sama." She set down her cup. "I see word of our arrival travels swiftly."

Hiruzen chuckled, spreading his hands. "I'm the Hokage. Of course I'm aware of every movement in the village."

You aren't beating the allegations with this one, Hiruzen. Azula thought. It means the future you did know about Orochimaru's future abduction of villagers, about Danzō's root operations, the children stolen and modified in darkness and most importantly about the Uchiha because no barrier sealed an entire district without a Hokage's awareness.

The question was never whether he knew. The question was what he allowed.

She pressed forward. "Then you're also aware of what happens beyond the village. To our allies."

The Uzumaki, their almost annihilation while Konoha watched.

Hiruzen's smile tightened. Troublesome brat.

Then something even more troublesome happened, because Mito spoke.

"Don't speak like that to the Hokage, Azula." Her voice was very calm, almost as if it wasn't sarcasm. "The village couldn't spare manpower at that time. Completely understandable."

He knew that tone. Mito didn't do sarcasm—until Azula.

Corrupted. She's been corrupted.

Everyone in the village knew of Azula's hundred titles, one particular: The Queen of Sarcasm.

The woman who made the Raikage burn with impotent rage.

Hiruzen offered Mito an apologetic smile. "The world situation was complicated. Every village had ninja stationed at our borders, ready to strike. We could only prepare for the worst."

Azula's lip curled. "Since when do we care about other villages' reactions? They attack Konoha, that's what they do and that's what they've always done. So what changed? Did we become too weak to make our own choices?"

She simply couldn't bother with him. One day he played the strong leader; the next, he bent to any wind, just spineless. And she had no use for spine.

Years ago, she would have played the game—smiled, deferred, calculated. But she had the Uchiha now. And she stood at the limit of Kage-level strength, strong enough that anything hardly mattered.

She planned to overthrow him anyway.

So why pretend?

Hiruzen saw the open contempt, the lack of pretense. And it surprised him.

Did one year of achievement make her this arrogant?

She had always been particular, always sharp with opinions about him, but she had never been so openly dismissive."

He glanced at Mito, seeking support. Her expression, however, was stone—her gaze weighing him and finding him lacking.

It was then that Hiruzen realized that the situation was far worse than he and his advisors had imagined.

"The situation is indeed worse than you think," he admitted, delivering Azula a verbal jab. "But there are some secrets you can't access yet, all I can promise is to have been planning for a way to save the Uzumaki while protecting as many villagers as possible."

"My role is first and foremost as Hokage to protect the villagers no matter what. If I were to support Uzushio openly, Kiri, Suna, Kumo and Iwa would have attacked 'Konoha' at the same time, which would have started a war."

"My plan was to support Uzushio secretly while stalling time, enough time so that you, Tsunade, Orochimaru, Jiraya, Sakumo, Shikaku and all the rest would grow up so that the village would need to fear no one, but I underestimated you all."

He was 'sincerely' stating his thoughts.

"Hiruzen, do you know why the village was created?" Mito suddenly asked.

This surprised Hiruzen because the question appeared somewhat nonsensical, but he didn't dare to voice it.

Still, he gave it a few seconds of thought for respect toward Mito and just in case he overlooked something, but it didn't seem to be the case.

"I have always believed in what Tobirama-sensei said," he invoked his teacher's name for cover. "The village was created to prevent clan chaos and endless conflict, maintain order, protect the Land of Fire and protect the villagers."

Mito shook her head. "I know Tobirama's view, what I'm asking is why do you think the village was created?"

"Not only that, when you first became the Hokage, what was your ideology, and what about now?"

She was looking at him with eyes that seemed to be staring at his soul. Azula was also doing the same.

Hiruzen remembered those eyes, they were the same as when they had returned, when informing about Tobirama's sacrifice and how he was designated as the next Hokage.

He was also aware of her ability to sense emotions; he knew lying or some deception would simply not work here, so he could only truly contemplate her question.

Why was the village created? "Konoha, founded by the First Hokage despite defeating the Uchiha clan, wanting to end the cycle of endless wars between clans, uniting them and bringing order. Hashirama-sama is someone who doesn't like war, Konoha's creation was to end these wars."

He murmured unconsciously. Although Mito didn't agree with him – after all, her husband had told her everything – she nodded because, as Tobirama's student and being raised by the Sarutobi clan, it wasn't strange that he had such a reason for the creation of the village.

"I still remember clearly what happened and when Tobirama-sensei said word by word I would be the next Hokage, at that time, my feeling was despair and guilt, because from the teacher's eyes, there was that resolve to die, while it was our fault because we were just a burden to him at that time."

"But I didn't dwell on these sentiments. Death is the most permanent thing in this world, and I was entrusted with a heavy responsibility. I swore at that time I would never let such a situation happen and be a burden; I swore I would do anything to protect the village like Tobirama."

Then Hiruzen appeared helpless. "Alas, I underestimated the position of the Hokage because things weren't as simple as 'just' protecting the village; to do so, one must have the resolve to take decisions that are against his beliefs."

"All for the village," he murmured.

Does he think he is slick, that he looks wise or that what he said would make people pity him? Azula asked herself.

Hiruzen was giving her the impression of someone with a victim mentality.

Her expression suddenly became serious, and she said something that almost gave Hiruzen a heart attack. "Hiruzen Sarutobi, you are no longer fit to be the Hokage."

"I may not know what quality the second Hokage saw in you that makes you superior to Kagami, Torifu Akimichi and the latter, but I'm sure the you standing here isn't someone worthy."

As if she thought of something, she relaxed. "Unless it's leading it to chaos of course."

Hiruzen frowned. "Azula Uchiha, you know what you're saying is enough to have you accused of rebellion, right?"

He was very displeased, but well, she was pleased with his displeasure. "Do you dare to? I don't mind waking up some people who have completely lost contact with reality."

What was even more despairing, Hiruzen didn't see a hint of a joke in her expression. And with her personality, she really wouldn't feel the slightest burden to become a missing-nin.

Suddenly, Mito knocked Azula on her head.

"You shouldn't disrespect the Hokage like this," Then she turned to Hiruzen with her narrowing. "You should never mention making my student a missing-nin for something like this, you know if she were to become a Konoha enemy, this isn't a responsibility you can take."

She was the one who said her initial plan was to take the Uchiha clan and leave somewhere, and in fact, she has access to all Jutsu Konoha has to offer, leaving the village wouldn't matter much to her. Mito thought, knowing Azula wasn't bent to Konoha as much as Hiruzen believed.

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

Hiruzen's head was starting to pound. Mito was dancing right on the line of what the village could tolerate, and the Hokage's authority wasn't something people got to just walk over. Especially for stating the obvious.

He really wanted to rub his temples, but that would look weak. It would look like he was showing his displeasure to her face, and he wasn't about to do that.

"Mito-sama." His voice came out steady this time, without weakness. He was the Hokage. "You can feel what I'm feeling. You know I've never once been disrespectful to you."

He paused. "I respect Azula-san, I do. The way she handled the Uchiha situation was something else. But you know as well as I do that the way she's been doing things over the years wasn't according to procedure. Especially the Uchiha leaving the village—I just turned a blind eye."

He kept going, the words coming easier now. "No one says it out loud, but everyone in the village knows how the Uchiha and the Senju left. Everyone knows how they made the Hokage look like a joke. It happened once, it can happen again."

He took a breath. "I should've punished both clans. By all rights, I should have. But I didn't. And you know why."

Yeah. 'Course he did. Because he's flexible like a wet noodle and about as eager to take responsibility.

Azula didn't say it, but the way the corner of her mouth curled up said enough. Hiruzen caught it, and his jaw tightened.

"I'm trying to figure out where you got that idea, really." Her voice carried this gentle confusion, like she was genuinely puzzled by his thought process. "Why do you talk about Konoha like it's some sacred temple nobody's allowed to leave? Come on. You know exactly why you don't actually want to push this."

She wasn't dancing around it.

"Here's the simple truth. If I decided tomorrow that the Uchiha were leaving to start our own village? Mito-sensei's the only one who could stop us. And they would follow. Every single one. Probably half the civilians too, the ones who actually remember who gave them a way to survive when they had nothing."

She gestured loosely, almost casually.

"And this whole thing about 'turning a blind eye'? Let's call it what it is. You're scared. You know what I can do. More importantly, you're terrified that pushing me means splitting this village right down the middle until one of us is gone. And we both know how that ends."

A sigh escaped her, bored already.

"Look, I don't actually care about any of this. Your thoughts, your plans, your motivations—none of it matters to me. The only question is whether you've finally accepted what you are. A placeholder. A transitional leader who's already past his expiration date. You can step down gracefully or I can make that happen for you. Either way, one thing's absolutely clear now."

She held his gaze, completely at ease.

"You don't give me orders anymore."

•••

(Azula's POV)

So I just checked out of that conversation with Hiruzen. It'll just be a never-ending cycle of 'but the village this' and 'the council that'. I don't have the time or the patience for a debate on political science 101.

So I did what any reasonable person would do when faced with a boring, nonsensical debate with someone who has power. I just... left.

I just activated the Hiraishin and poof, I was back to the compound. Hiruzen came to see Mito anyway, not me. The outcome is all that matters, and I know which way the wind blows with her. She's got my back.

Anyway, I got home and immediately did a quick sensory sweep of the place and it was empty. Like Nawaki said, probably on the battlefield.

The old man, although very protective, doesn't treat Fugaku the same way as her. Not like Tsunade, all super-protective and worried after knowing about Nawaki's future.

So yeah, he probably dragged Fugaku back to the front lines for some more "on the job training." Tough love, Uchiha style.

And my mom's chakra signature also doesn't appear anywhere in the compound or even the village. She's definitely with them.

Probably fussing over Fugaku's bento box in between skirmishes, making sure he eats his vegetables even while dodging lightning blades.

But I can feel some clansmen—their chakras are all over the village. I can sense a couple on patrol by the East Wall, another near the main gate. They're back on duty after being gone for almost three months.

That's good. It means things are moving.

And that means I need a new plan because things have a habit of shaking themselves up just when you think you've got a handle on them.

Like the whole Uzumaki thing. We didn't last there for as long as I expected. There was also us invading Kiri—it wasn't on my wish list of the year because I did not see 'orchestrate a hostile takeover of a hidden village' in my schedule before awakening the Mangekyō, but it seems I was too conservative.

That was just... a bonus round.

But I'm not complaining. I've got the Uzumaki clan eating out of the palm of my hand. I spent a few weeks mentoring some ridiculously talented kid from Kiri and in exchange, I basically got the keys to the kingdom.

All their bloodline limits, every secret technique they had, the works. And as a little cherry on top, I now have a complete library of every single Water Release jutsu they've ever invented—a nice little addition to the collection and a whole new element to play with.

But yeah, after all these changes, my plan obviously must also keep up the pace.

So like, obviously I want the hat. Who wouldn't want the Hokage chair.

But ahh, I feel like Hiruzen has some kind of plot armor, right now with Kumo's being a menace on the border and my entire family is there, am I supposed to be here playing politics or doing a coup d'état?

If it was just my father one on one with the Raikage, fine he'll be coming home. Maybe missing an ear, definitely missing a limb or two, but he's walking through that door.

But you give that man a bunch of clan members to protect along with his son who isn't Jōnin level, suddenly he can't do the cool thing anymore.

And Kumo's gonna take this personally too because of the Uzushiogakure things. They were a big part of that whole ten thousand ninja extermination party. They didn't bring as many bodies as Kiri did but they showed the second most, more than Suna and Iwa.

Anyway, the point is power comes second but it's really first. And speaking of power? I got too many ideas.

Genuinely too many. I might be the only ninja in existence whose biggest problem is having too many ways to get stronger and not enough time to do any of them.

So seals. I can comfortably say there's maybe five people alive who are better than me right now and I'm being nice with that number. Which means I'm finally at the point where I can just do whatever I want with them.

Create Sealing Chains, cook up an Anti Madara seal just in case that guy ever shows up. Make a Fugaku Safety Net seal so we can stop worrying about his safety. Not to mention the You Don't Get The Kill seal and the This Is Mine Now seal which are self-explanatory honestly.

That's already a few years of work right there.

Then there's the Mangekyō plan. This one's even bigger because imagine having reality bending powers but without the whole trauma thing. Maybe I take Sarada's route you know? Love path.

'Wait. Thinking about it now. What's more stimulating than trauma? What's more intense? What gets the blood pumping and the eyes evolving?'

Sex, obviously.

'If I get really really into it with someone, like genuinely excited, could that do it? Could I just awaken Mangekyō by having really really good sex with some of these disgustingly perfect chakra sculpted humans? Japanese ones at that?'

Just to be clear I'm asking for science. Mostly. The scientific curiosity is there. The wanting to taste part is separate.

Probably?

 

[Melonlord]

The afternoon sun filtered through the leaves as a sudden shiver ran down Tsunade's spine while she leaped from tree to tree, pulling her from her thoughts.

Her body moved on instinct, muscles coiling with readiness—but there was nothing there.

She didn't sense any chakra signatures or anyone's presence, nothing but the gentle rustle of wind through the trees.

That's strange.

She trusted her instincts implicitly—they had kept her alive through more missions than she could count, and what she felt was like someone targeting her.

A Shadow Clone materialized beside her with a soft puff of smoke, immediately disappearing into the front to scout. Just in case.

"Am I getting paranoid?" she murmured, brow furrowing in that way that made her look simultaneously thoughtful and adorably puzzled.

She shook her head, golden hair catching the light. Probably just stressed. The past few days had been... a lot.

Then, like the sun breaking through clouds, a thought surfaced that made her lips curve almost against her will, forgetting that she was in a situation where she'd felt danger.

By now, Azula should be back in the village, right?

The realization hit her with unexpected warmth.

It had been almost a month since they'd last trained together, shared meals, bickered over strategies, or simply existed in each other's orbit. Tsunade pressed her lips together, something soft and unfamiliar fluttering in her chest.

Their bond hadn't always been this way. When Tsunade graduated—two years ahead of Azula—they'd been little more than acquaintances connected by Mito.

But somewhere around the time Azula made chūnin, when they were both almost nine, something had shifted.

They'd become inseparable mission partners, the kind of duo that other shinobi talked about with a mixture of envy and exasperation.

We drive each other crazy sometimes, Tsunade thought, a genuine smile tugging at her lips.

Her mind wandered, as it often did when she thought of Azula, to comparisons.

"Come to think of it," she said aloud, tapping her chin, "isn't this exactly how Jiraiya and Orochimaru are?"

She froze.

Wait. No. That's not—

Her fair skin flushed a brilliant crimson as her traitorous brain supplied, with perfect, mortifying clarity, the memory of that manga. The one some Orochimaru fangirl had published years ago, depicting her teammate and his... and Jiraiya in that way.

Tsunade had burned it. Immediately after reading it three times. For research purposes.

If someone ever wrote something like that about me and Azula...

The thought alone made her want to sink into the earth. She was the Princess of the Senju, daughter of the God of Shinobi. Azula was the Uchiha Matriarch, leader of that clan's terrifying legacy. Surely no one would dare—

Nude paintings.

The image exploded in her mind unbidden: her and Azula, captured in ink and pigment, without armor or uniforms or pretense. She could picture it with mortifying clarity—the sharp line of Azula's jaw, the way her onyx eyes would probably hold that same intense focus they did during battle, the—

If that happened, who would be on top?

Her practical mind seized on the question with the same analytical focus she applied to medical jutsu.

I'm physically stronger, obviously. So probably me? But Azula's fire techniques are nothing to dismiss, and she's so intense about everything she does, she'd probably—

Tsunade buried her face in her hands, her cheeks burning like she'd stood too close to one of Azula's fireballs.

WHAT ARE YOU THINKING, TSUNADE?!

She shook her head violently, golden hair whipping around her face, trying physically to dislodge the thoughts. When she finally stopped, she was slightly dizzy, slightly breathless, and still blushing like a schoolgirl.

Focus, Tsunade. You're heading back to camp. Like Azula said, you should always appear with class and that certain aura.
•••

It didn't take Tsunade long to clearly see the camp's perimeter and spot her two favorite idiots waiting up ahead, her expression turning into a blush as she recalled that manga.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Jiraiya asked, immediately suspicious. Then it hit him—he remembered exactly when he got that look from her. "Wait. No. I know that face. Whatever you're thinking, it's disrespectful."

Even Orochimaru, who usually lived to contradict Jiraiya, looked personally offended. Which made sense—the man had standards. Being grouped with Jiraiya in any context was unforgivable. It should have been a better manga—.

"Nothing, really," Tsunade said, and for once—once—she offered an apologetic smile to Jiraiya. "Finished my scouting for today. Something's off, though. There were fewer Kumo ninjas than there should be."

Normally, someone of her caliber wouldn't be running point on suicide missions like "let's poke the Cloud ninja nest and see what bites."

But Tsunade had two modes: patching people up and punching problems until they stopped being problems.

Scouting was fine as long as it kept her busy.

The problem was, the last few days had been quiet. Instead of Cloud attacks or explosions, there was the kind of silence that made you wonder if the brutes were actually, for once, planning something that wasn't just "run in loud and figure it out later."

"Definitely weird," Jiraiya agreed, smart enough not to push his luck with the apologetic smile. "They usually fight first and maybe think about it later if there's time. So why are their big players hiding? Raikage not living up to his reputation?"

Tsunade snorted, remembering the last time that man ran into Sakumo. "Oh, he's not really brainless. But 'strategic genius'? Azula literally left him speechless last time."

Jiraiya scratched his head. "Wait. Does getting left speechless by Azula mean you're not smart enough? Or does it mean everyone's just not smart enough around her?"

"Don't start your nonsense," Orochimaru cut in before this could spiral into whatever Jiraiya thought counted as conversation and his delusions. "Kumo isn't even retreating. They're definitely planning something big, and we need to figure out what."

They fell into step together, weaving through camp toward the command tents. Jiraiya and Orochimaru had just gotten back from their own scout routes—different directions, different teams, the same lack of answers.

All fourteen, pushing fifteen, already jonin, the Hokage's students—already the kind of people no one in camp questioned, even if they were technically the kids at the table.

The only things they didn't have yet were rank, seniority, and the official titles that made the war council actually listen instead of just nodding politely.

But Tsunade was about to become a clan head, since the Senju were about to get back their family name.

And among the people running this show were her best friend's dad, a bunch of her clansmen, and about a hundred soldiers breathing easily because she'd dragged their half-dead bodies back from the edge with nothing but stubbornness and medical genius.

So yeah. They'd listen if she had something to say.

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

"I have to admit, A," Ōnoki spoke, his voice carrying genuine surprise, "I never thought you'd possess the nerve to stroll into the heart of my country without an army at your back."

The Tsuchikage floated a few inches off the ground, a habit born of both comfort and caution, and regarded the mountain of muscle before him. The Third Raikage, A, stood with his arms crossed, his presence very intimidating.

A simply snorted. "Hmph. In this world, there isn't a man alive who can stop me."

His confidence wasn't mere bravado; it was a solid, immovable fact in his own mind. It was rooted not just in his infamous resilience, but in logistics.

Apart from Konoha's blasted spatial techniques, no other village could teleport an army. And for him, personally, they only had one man fit for the job of moving him at all.

Ōnoki could practically see the gears turning in the Raikage's head. He felt a petty urge to poke a hole in that impenetrable ego.

Don't get too cocky, he wanted to say. Remember that time a single Konoha Jōnin called Sakumo had you wrapped up tighter than a present?

The words were right on the tip of his tongue. But then, a different memory surfaced. A memory of him and the Kazekage, two Kage, flailing uselessly against a girl made of fire.

A memory of himself, the mighty Ōnoki, too terrified to even let his feet touch the ground. His mouth snapped shut.

Some rocks were better left unturned.

For his part, the Raikage, as dense and direct as a lightning bolt, saw no point in trading barbs. A waste of precious breath.

Instead, he let his gaze sweep over the landscape—the jagged peaks, the dust in the air, exactly as one would expect of the Land of Earth.

His eyes then settled on the delegation. For a hidden village supposedly on high alert, only Ōnoki was visible.

A knew better, of course.

He could feel the thousands of eyes on his back, the chakra signatures buried in the rocks like ticks, ready to swarm the moment the old man gave the word.

His gaze finally landed on a small, distinct group. Suna-nin. Their desert robes looked absurdly out of place in this rocky wasteland.

A's lip curled in a faint sneer.

"It seems the Kazekage's courage is as brittle as his village's walls," he rumbled, his voice dripping with undisguised contempt. "Sending his underlings while he hides behind his desk."

The disdain was for Satō, a man who, despite having Ōnoki as an ally, had managed to get himself carved up by one girl.

A single girl.

It was, in A's eyes, a stain on the very title of Kage.

Ōnoki, who had spent a good portion of that humiliating fight trying to keep the Kazekage's head attached to his shoulders, felt no urge to defend him.

In fact, he decided to add a little kindling to the fire. "Hmph. From what my little birds tell me, he's too busy playing shadow games with Hanzo of the Salamander to worry about courageous entrances. What they're scheming, your guess is as good as mine."

At this, both Kage's attention zeroed in on the Suna delegation with the focused weight of a collapsing mine shaft.

Ebizō, the Kazekage's representative and the group's leader, felt a cold trickle of sweat trace a path down his spine. He was a seasoned ninja, a strategist, a man used to pressure.

But being the sole focus of two Kage from rival villages, who were now openly radiating waves of casual malice wasn't even pressure. That was the kind of experience that gave impressionable young genin nightmares for the rest of their lives.

He maintained his composure, but internally, he was already composing a very strongly worded letter to the Kazekage about the hazards of this particular diplomatic assignment.

Calm down, Ebizō, and breathe. They can't touch you because the situation's too delicate, too much of a powder keg. You just gotta stand your ground and not blink first.

Probably. He mentally crossed his fingers. Hopefully.

He really, really hoped it wasn't the kind of bluff that got him turned into a fine red mist.

Summoning every ounce of political backbone he possessed, he straightened up.

"I'd appreciate it if the two Kage refrained from disparaging our leader," he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

The Suna ninjas flanking him weren't exactly known for their sense of humor or loyalty; they'd absolutely sell him out for a slightly better seat at lunch if he let insults to the Kazekage slide. "Suna has a few more... immediate concerns than Konoha's seating arrangements at the moment."

He didn't need to spell out Hanzō's name. The Salamander's recent 'negotiations' had been less about diplomacy and more about seeing how many enemy nin he could personally drown before breakfast. It was getting excessive.

Did the man think that, because there were Four Hidden Villages now, he had a chance to rise?

Apparently, this was not a concern that kept Onoki or A up at night, especially A.

"Suna envoy," the Raikage's voice boomed, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in Ebizō's bones. "Respect is earned. It is not a participation trophy handed out to a Kage who's too scared to leave his own office, let alone his village."

Ebizō opened his mouth, ready with a retort that was absolutely brilliant and would definitely not get him killed, but A wasn't finished.

"If it weren't for this 'current situation' we're all so fond of," A continued, each word a tiny hammer blow, "someone like you wouldn't have the guts to stand in front of me and breathe, let alone say such nonsense as respecting the Kazekage."

With A staring at him with eyes that said, I dare you to say something, Ebizō felt his brilliant retort shrivel up and die a sad, quiet death in the back of his throat.

His silence was apparently the correct answer. A just grunted, a sound of pure contempt, the pressure in the air dropping from 'crushing' to merely 'deeply unpleasant.'

For a long, excruciating moment, nobody spoke and it started feeling awkward.

Here was the Raikage, who clearly felt he'd already martyred his pride just by showing up. There was Onoki, the human vulture, circling for scraps and waiting to see how much he could squeeze out of everyone else's misery.

And then there was Ebizō, trying his absolute hardest to maintain a poker face while internally screaming, Why couldn't I have been born a farmer? Farmers are nice. Farmers have peace.

"You know," the Third Raikage finally rumbled, his voice cutting through the awkward atmosphere. It was almost conversational. Almost. "This is probably our last, best shot to ever put a dent in Konoha's ego. We let this slide, and it's not a question of 'if' they'll dominate the future—it's a question of how they'll do it."

It clearly pained him to admit it, but the Raikage was many things—loud, intimidating, prone to solving problems with his fists—but he wasn't an idiot. He could accept a crappy reality when it was staring him in the face.

Konoha, hell, the Uchiha, the Senju, and the Uzumaki collectively decided to yoink the Mizukage's hat and run Kiri themselves, and they did it.

And that's not even counting the actual Konoha forces.

And these three clans? They're basically Konoha's founding fathers, minus the Uzumaki who decided to build their own property instead. But even then, Uzushio was basically Konoha's cool cousin who lived by the sea and sent really angry letters if you messed with them.

So when you add in the Hyūga, the Ino-Shika-Chō trio, the Sarutobi, the Aburame, the Shimura, and literally everyone else who decided to call that one forest home? Yeah.

Looking at the full Konoha roster was like staring at an all-you-can-beat buffet of elite shinobi. It was honestly depressing to think about.

And standing there, in the middle of this realization, A suddenly felt a weird regret, the kind where you realize you just sent your elite Kumo-nin on a field trip to get folded like origami at Uzushio.

Yeah. That was a bad call.

But in a twisted way, if that hadn't happened, Konoha might've just kept playing nice, stacking power like they were hoarding ramen coupons in the shadows. Nobody needed A to spell it out.

The terrain was full of people who could read between the lines of a disaster.

Onoki sighed loud enough to sound very envious. Hiruzen, you lucky old bastard.

He turned to A, eyebrow raised like a bored cat. "So, Raikage. What's the brilliant suggestion?"

A didn't even blink. "Wrong question, Tsuchikage. It's not what I suggest. It's rather what we do and how we don't get dominated next. You've already got a sketchy plan cooked up, don't you?"

When it came to sneaky, under-the-table, "I-didn't-see-that-coming" tactics, A would happily hand Onoki the gold medal. And yeah, the old man had plans.

He always had plans.

Onoki's grand scheme was simple and, well, a little bit evil—so much so that anyone with a brain could guess it: letting Konoha and Kumo beat the crap out of each other.

Sure, Konoha was stacked like a clan reunion brawl, but Kumo, especially with A in charge, wasn't exactly a daycare.

The dream scenario was for Konoha to push Kumo to the edge, A does his dramatic 'I'll take you all with me' move, blows up half a battlefield, and dies like the legend he thinks he is.

Kumo's headless, Konoha's bruised and limping, and suddenly they're not so eager to pick a fight with both Iwa and Suna at the same time.

Because let's be real—if Kumo started crumbling, Suna would come running like a scavenger with a sand gourd, ready to grab a slice of the pie.

And with Iwa and Suna holding hands in mutual benefit, Konoha would just have to sit there, watching from the sidelines as their victory lap got hijacked.

It was beautiful, flawless, and practically poetry.

But.

There was one terrifying variable.

Konoha had an Azula Uchiha.

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

For a man like Onoki, who had seen Uchiha Madara in his prime, watching Azula fight was like witnessing a pale imitation that had somehow become more terrifying than the original.

She was literally one Mangekyō Sharingan away from becoming the next common person in everyone's trauma.

In a ground fight, she is too fast, she can also obviously flight. She also has ability to show up at your window at 3 AM and leave without anyone's knowledge with the Flying Raijin.

As of now, Onoki couldn't think of a single way to contain her at full power.

If she ever awakened that legendary Uchiha bloodline nonsense blindness like Madara, then the entire shinobi world might as well pack up and go home, find a nice farm somewhere and retire early.

And the part that made his old bones ache even more was the absolutely, terrifyingly, almost definitely fact that she was going to awaken those cursed eyes someday.

It was just a matter of when.

Onoki glanced at A, feeling the weight of every single year he'd been alive pressing down on his shoulders. Iwa and Suna couldn't handle this version of Konoha alone.

And he couldn't afford Kumo to lose their Raikage and get themselves wiped off the map, sadly.

"Alright," he said smiling as if he didn't thought about backstabbing A. "Before we start planning our collective survival, I need to know exactly what's happening on the frontline."

His spies are good, had them in the two villages but they aren't at the 'invite them to dinner and get the full story' level.

The moment the frontline was mentioned, A's face turned darker than a moonless night in the Land of Lightning.

"It's bad," he said flatly. "Let me put it simply: we are losing."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

"Before, we were actually holding our own on equal footing with slight advantage. But then reinforcements led by Tajima and Kagami Uchiha, followed by Tsunade Senju and their respective clans, and suddenly we started losing."

A's eye twitched just thinking about it. Especially about her.

"That Tsunade Senju," he growled, "has mastered some kind of twisted Water Release Chakra Mode. Fighting her is like punching the ocean, even if we're not on water terrain—which should be her weakness, theoretically—her armor just... absorbs everything."

"I hit her and she just smiles, although it was with the help of the other two that she can faces me but nonetheless."

He didn't need to explain that Water Release techniques were supposed to be strongest near actual water. That was shinobi kindergarten stuff.

And speaking of Chakra Modes, A felt a deep existential sadness creeping in. Before, his Lightning Release Chakra Mode made him special and unique. Jinchuriki didn't count because it wasn't their chakra technically.

But now, there was Hatake Sakumo running around with his own version. Azula Uchiha had not one but two Chakra Modes because, and Tsunade just had to join them.

All of them from Konoha.

All of them making his special technique feel less 'exclusive lightning god' and more 'congratulations, you have the oldest model'

"Oh," Onoki muttered. "So the girl figured out the Water Release Chakra Mode."

He let out a wheeze that might have been a laugh if it wasn't so bitter. "Tobirama Senju, the man known as the Ninjutsu Master, the peak of Water Release didn't create this one in his entire lifetime. But another Konoha teenager managed to achieve such a feat, two Konoha teenager at that."

He paused, genuinely baffled.

Uchiha, Senju. I swear, do these clans just... produce their own body weight in monster prodigies every generation? Is it something in the water over there? And if so, why am I not stealing that water?

His face, already looking like a wrinkle with eyes, somehow managed to wrinkle further into solemnity. "Well. That's not ideal."

Beside him, Ebizō finally stirred from his silence, shaking his head with the weary resignation of a man who had long accepted that life wasn't fair.

"Konoha really is the Land of Geniuses, isn't it?" he said, and there was a distinct note of envy in his voice. "Back at Suna, we have to actually work for our stuff. We built puppetry from scratch. Magnet Release was something invented by the Kazekage. Meanwhile, Konoha's over with genius coming out every year just because they are from a major clan with a stable inheritance system."

The Raikage crossed his arms with the kind of smug satisfaction that suggested he was about to say something very obvious and very annoying. "Now you get it. And this is still without their heavy hitters. Neither that Uchiha brat, Hiruzen, Mito or even other two disciples of the Second Hokage."

"So here's my question. Do we really need to waste time for an alliance that we both know is inevitable or do we just take the shot right now, while they're still busy with Kiri?"

"Because once Konoha actually show up with all their cards on the table, the situation would be even more hard to deal with."

Nobody needed a second to think about that one. Because he was right, and they all hated it.

Onoki sighed for the umpteenth time. "Fine. I have a rather direct method to deal with their forced, how about we..."

...

...

...

After sitting through yet another marathon meeting about what those Kumo knuckleheads might be plotting, Tsunade was finally free to stumble back to her little slice of 'luxury'.

Being the head of the Senju clan and the most cracked medic in Konoha at fourteen has its perks.

While most were out there catching sleep on tree branches or using the cold hard ground as a mattress, she actually gets a tent. A whole tent to herself!

It's not exactly the lap of luxury but there was a bed, a table with one (1) chair, that ridiculously fancy bath contraption Azula created, and a small mountain of manga she keeps stored away like contraband. She's got priorities.

First things first: clothes off, bath time. She practically melted into the water... and immediately scrunched up her face. Ugh, not the absolute worst but clearly cooled down.

She let out this dramatic sigh that would make a theater kid jealous.

"Listen to me," she muttered to no one, "I've gotten so spoiled by Azula that I'm out here thinking about using jutsu just to fix my bath temperature."

And then, without missing a single beat, she absolutely used jutsu to fix her bath temperature.

She controlled the intensity of course or it would be enough to destroy the tent despite Fire Release not being her speciality and—

"Oooohhhh yeah. That's the stuff."

Finally, her muscles actually remembered what 'relaxed' felt like. She slumped down until her chin touched the water, steam curling around her face. "This is perfection. Well... this and one of Azula's new manga. And maybe some snacks and that would be actual perfection."

Her brain, already in cozy mode, drifted to that thing Azula's been tinkering with. Some tiny little gadget she's calling a 'ninphone'.

Apparently, it'll let you watch her animated stories anywhere, anytime, like some kind of portable dream machine. Tsunade already had her wallet ready, but six months couldn't come fast enough.

She was just starting to drift off, thoughts getting fuzzy and warm, when her eyes snapped open.

Someone was in her tent.

Specifically, someone was sitting on her bed. On top of the pile where she'd literally just tossed her clothes and her kunai. Azula. Just... sitting there looking right at her.

Azula's eyebrow arched.

"You know, I was actually worried. Heard you fought the Raikage. But..." her gaze swept over the scene—Tsunade, butt-naked, in a bath, looking like a very startled cat, "...you seem to be handling the stress just fine."

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

When Azula caught wind that Tsunade had thrown hands with the Raikage, her heart nearly dropped to the floor. Not because she doubted Tsunade's strength, but because she knew exactly how that fight would go.

Tsunade hits hard, sure, but the Raikage hits hard and moves like lightning on crack.

Thankfully, it wasn't a one-on-one beatdown. Tsunade had backup—Tajima, Kagami, and a handful of Uchiha and Senju heavy hitters standing shoulder to shoulder against the Raikage and Kumo's finest.

Kumo eventually pulled back, probably because they realized they didn't have another Kage-level fighter to tip the scales.

Still, Azula couldn't shake the thought that Tsunade might come out of this battle feeling a little... crushed.

It's that feeling when you've worked your butt off, gained confidence, finally feel like a boss—and then someone stronger shows up just to remind you there's always a bigger fish?

Depressing and discouraging.

But when Azula finally saw Tsunade, she was surprised by the lack of moping or existential crisis. Tsunade looked... fine. Actually, more than fine.

The moment she spotted Azula, her whole face lit up like she'd just found the last piece of mochi. She tried to play it cool, really tried, but her face completely betrayed her. That smile just slipped out anyway.

Her mouth, though, listened to her brain, unfortunately.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tsunade said, crossing her arms as if showing her 'pride'. "If I had Uncle Tajima and Kagami backing me up and still couldn't handle the Raikage, then you're just underestimating me."

Azula blinked. That's... not what I meant, but okay. I'll let you have this one.

She wasn't about to say, "Hey, I was actually worried your fragile ego couldn't take the hit," because that would go over like a lead balloon.

Tsunade rose from her bath, water dripping everywhere, and that's when her expression shifted. Confusion flickered across her face, then something sharper.

"Why'd you activate your Sharingan?"

Then, as if on cue from some cosmic comedian with terrible timing, a memory surfaced in Tsunade's mind. It was something Azula had mentioned offhandedly once, probably while she was explaining why she'd set a training dummy on fire with her eyes.

"The Sharingan can be activated unconsciously in case of intense emotions," Azula had said, ticking off fingers. "Fear, joy, excitement… it may even lead to its evolution."

Tsunade, who had shared more baths with Azula than she could count, had always found the concept of nudity between them to be about as noteworthy as breathing. It was just… normal.

A fact that, up until that precise, unfortunate moment, she had considered perfectly mundane.

Now, standing under the stark, unfiltered light, that assumption hit her with the force of a Gamabunta-sized hammer.

"HENGE NO JUTSU!" she yelped, the words exploding from her. In a puff of smoke and chakra, an illusion of her usual clothes snapped into place over her skin. It was a flimsy, transparent lie, a digital fig leaf in a world of analog truth, but it was all she had.

And, miraculously, it was enough.

Azula's eyes, which had been doing a very enthusiastic jig of rotating Tomoe, suddenly stuttered to a halt. The three commas, which had been blurring together into a new, terrifyingly complex pattern, separated and went still.

She wasn't looking at Tsunade's henge, not really. She was looking through her, or rather, at her in a way she never had before. When had that happened?

When had the gangly girl with scraped knees and mud in her hair turned into… this? It was like watching a flower bloom in fast-forward, except you blink and miss the flower entirely and suddenly you're just staring at the seeds, wondering where the time went.

Time, she thought, the word appearing strangely in her mind. It slips away so easily. One day you're teaching someone to control chakra, the next… they're standing there, and you're realizing you haven't really seen them in years.

You've just been… with them. And time, that thief, never sends a warning.

For a split second, the very fabric of the universe had been poised to grant the ninja world a brand new, incredibly awkwardly-acquired Time-Space Mangekyō Sharingan. All it would have taken was one more second of unbroken eye contact.

But alas, Tsunade's henge, an illusion of clothes over reality, was enough to break the spell.
...
...
...
Tsunade's POV

Brain, I have questions. So many questions.

I don't even remember walking to my bed. My legs just moved on feeling alone while my consciousness was busy buffering like a crashed slug.

Next thing I know, I'm wearing clothes? When did that happen? Who authorized this?

Okay, let's take a breath and process what I just witnessed.

Azula literally saw me naked and her eyes went FULL SHARINGAN. Just BAM - tomoe spinning like she just witnessed the secret forbidden technique of Tsunade's Entire Body.

And here's the thing that's actually blowing my mind: activating the Sharingan unconsciously with her chakra control? That's like grandma Mito passing a whole day without tea. It shouldn't be possible.

Wait.

Wait wait wait wait wait.

So... those romance manga Jiraiya leaves lying around like the absolute pervert he is? The ones where girls get all flustered around other girls?

Like, even JIRAIYA knew about that dynamic when he was SIX. SIX! And he's the densest man alive! Meanwhile I'm over here thinking I understood the assignment, and apparently I've been reading the wrong textbook this entire time.

I've had people crushing on me. On Azula too. Plenty of them. But whenever I tried to feel that spark everyone talks about, I felt nothing and honestly, even when I really REAAAAALLY tried to force it, my heart was like "No!"

And now I'm remembering that one time I stumbled upon that manga of Jiraiya and Orochimaru. My first thought was literally: "Wait, men can do that? With each other? Is that legal?" Then immediately followed by: "OH. Then women can also... OH."

And then my traitor brain, without permission, without warning, just casually projected me and Azula into that scenario and I didn't think about it again because I'm a COWARD who avoids emotional realizations the way I avoid green vegetables.

But now I'm also remembering EVERY SINGLE TIME Azula paid 'suspiciously close attention' to women. Like. All women. Young ones, older ones, the lady at the market, that kunoichi from the next village over.

And I thought she was just... being polite? Being friendly? Being impressive?!!

A light bulb moment so bright it could power the entire camp.

SHE'S BEEN ATTRACTED TO WOMEN THIS WHOLE TIME.

THE ENTIRE TIME.

AND I MISSED IT.

HOW DID I MISS IT?! I'm a SENJU.

We're supposed to be perceptive! I can read people in battle! But my best friend has been out here with her women attracted to women 'radar' and I just thought she had really good manners?!

HELP.

My brain has left the building. It's gone on vacation. It saw the 'Tsunade's Emotional Realizations' sign and noped right out.

I'm on my bed now. Rolling back and forth like a chicken being roasted. It's probably the middle of the night and I have officially entered my 'staring at the ceiling questioning every life choice that led to this moment' era.

This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm just going to roll here until the sun comes up and pretend I don't have to have A CONVERSATION about this eventually.

"But the question is, does Azula love me specifically?" And something I didn't even dare to murmur, what if it's a one-sided crush?

 

[Melonlord]

Tsunade wasn't the only one to enjoy herself after the war council meeting ended, Tajima also enjoyed the rarest of luxuries on the front lines: peace and quiet with his family.

Well, as many of his family as he could get. He sat with Fugaku and Asami, with the tent flap tied open to let in the cool evening air.

Tajima sighed, staring at the ceiling of the tent. "If Azula were here, this war would've ended two weeks ago. But then again, she's probably off… perfecting her laundry-folding technique or something equally weird."

Fugaku, seated stiffly beside his mother, fought the urge to roll his eyes. His father missed his sister, the man wore his heart on his sleeve when it came to Azula.

Fugaku couldn't help the tiny flicker of envy in his chest. If he disappeared even for a year, would the old man even notice before the next meal?

But then again, it was nee-san. I miss her too, he admitted to himself. Even if she did use me as target practice for her 'playful' fire jutsu last year.

Asami watched her husband and son with an amused smile. She had long ago accepted that she was the only one in this tent with a fully developed brain.

"According to the clansmen in the village, she's been back for two days," she said smoothly, sipping her tea, a gift she had gotten from Azula. "Knowing our daughter, she's probably ready to appear at any moment, just waiting for the most dramatic possible time to do so."

The tent flap was yanked open.

"No one knows me quite like you, Mother."

Azula stood in the entrance, silhouetted against the light like a terrifying goddess of war. She stepped inside, and not a single barrier seal, tripwire, or alarm tag so much as twitched, which they should have.

She could have been a ghost.

"Nee-san!" Fugaku jumped to his feet, his initial joy immediately replaced by sharp-eyed suspicion. "Wait… why is your face red?"

It was faint, barely visible unless you were looking for it. A light dusting of pink across her cheeks that absolutely did not belong on the face of the Uchiha clan's Matriarch.

It was the exact same shade Fugaku had seen on his idiot friend Nawaki's face after he'd stumbled upon that manga behind the Hokage monument.

Fugaku's own face erupted in a mortified crimson. DO NOT THINK ABOUT THAT INDECENT MANGA, FUGAKU.

Asami and Tajima exchanged a loaded glance. A silent conversation passed between them in less than a second.

Asami: So, that's happening.

Tajima: She's almost fifteen, and he is almost nine.

Azula, blissfully unaware of her parents' telepathic counseling, cleared her throat with theatrical dignity. "Ahem. I simply teleported directly from the village. A slight… miscalculation in chakra exertion."

She lied with the flawless grace of someone who had been practicing in the mirror since birth. My brother's innocent eyes must never see weakness. Or the fact that I saw my 'best friend' naked and lost control while activating the Sharingan. Damn, I probably almost awakened the MANGEKYŌ SHARINGAN.

Before Fugaku could probe further, Tajima sighed.

"I thought you'd stay in the village for more than a week. You've never been away for more than three weeks, and now you've been gone for almost three months, but after you returned, you left immediately?"

His tone was gruff, but his eyes—those sharp, battle-hardened Uchiha eyes—were soft. He missed his little girl. He'd never say it without sarcasm, but he missed her after a month.

Azula met his gaze, then glanced at her mother. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "I don't remember ever seeing Mother outside of the village for more than three weeks, either. Yet the moment she returned from Uzushiogakure, you dragged her straight to this mud pit."

"First of all," Asami shot back, a hint of a smile playing at her lips, "it was my choice to come here. Nobody dragged me."

She waved a dismissive hand before her husband could interject. "Anyway, enough about that. How about it? You hungry?"

Azula shook her head, already settled onto a supply crate. "Ate before I left."

Her gaze swept the tent. It was bigger than Tsunade's, which said something. Tajima might carry himself like just another veteran shinobi, but Konoha knew exactly what they had in him.

Reputation and titles were one thing; status was another. This tent sat three comfortably, which meant Fugaku had probably been crashing here too.

Her brother, for all his Uchiha pride, wasn't even Jōnin yet. The thought of him bunking with their father while refusing to pull rank—

Azula's lips twitched. Yeah. That had their mother's iron fist written all over it. Fugaku would rather sleep in the branches like some rookie than hear anyone's lecture about entitlement.

She turned back to Tajima. "How's the front? I heard Kumo went quiet after your dance with the Raikage."

It wasn't exactly secret intel. Hiruzen had made sure of that, spinning the confrontation into propaganda so fast it probably gave the council whiplash.

He was probably thinking the morale was already high, so why not polish Konoha's reputation while the iron was hot?

Tajima's expression shifted, that easy serenity giving way to something more measured.

"They were aggressive before we arrived. Pushed past the Land of Frost entirely, we had sightings near Hotsprings." He paused, letting the implication settle. "After our... exchange, they pulled back. Still poking around with reconnaissance, but no major movements."

"They haven't withdrawn to Kumo." Azula stated it flatly, not a question. Her mind was already working, slotting pieces together. "Which means they're not retreating. They're repositioning."

She tilted her head, considering. If she were the Raikage right now, outmatched, outgunned, pride bruised, what would she do?

"They're going to look for friends," she said. "Iwa's the obvious play. Probably whoever else will listen."

Tajima nodded. The serene mask had slipped completely, leaving something harder underneath.

"That's our read too. The village is bracing for Iwa, Suna and whoever else smells opportunity, although it's unlikely for any other village to dare to enter Konoha's sights." He paused, thinking about something. "What we don't know is what Sarutobi's planning."

You'd have to be brain-dead not to see it coming. After what happened in Uzushio and Kiri, when the three clans flexed very hard, the entire shinobi world was staring at Konoha like they'd just watched a man pull a sword out of a stone.

You don't unsee that, and you certainly don't forget it.

So obviously, the leftovers like Kumo, Iwa, and Suna were going to do what any rational animal does when it spots a bigger predator on the horizon: huddle up.

A real alliance this time, not that flimsy paper treaty nonsense. They'd be defending their right to exist, and when people fight for that, they fight mean.

The smart play was for Konoha to hit first, hard and fast. Knock one of the three out before they can even lace up their sandals. That's how you win wars before they start.

But no.

Hiruzen, the Hokage, the man with the hat and the final say, decides Konoha will defend the Land of Fire—just hold the line.

Now, sure, technically Hiruzen's not calling the shots on the frontline anymore. That's what the council's for.

But the council's still operating on village direction, and that direction came from him. So his fingerprints are all over this strategy, or lack of one.

And that's what's gnawing at everyone on the frontline. It isn't disrespect or rebellion, just... confusion. Because nobody here thinks Hiruzen's an idiot.

So what's the angle? What's he seeing that they're not?

Azula's theory? He's not seeing anything. He's hoping.

"Probably isn't planning a damn thing," she mutters, and nobody blinks. They're used to her taking scalpels to sacred cows. "Hiruzen's a hypocrite with an idealism complex."

In her head, she's already stacked him next to Naruto. Same vibes, less sincerity. Naruto would bleed himself dry trying to find another way, sure. But he'd also punch you in the face if you threatened his people while he was looking.

Hiruzen just waits. Asks the other side to take a step back. Then another, and then another. Until they're backed up against the wall and pulling out knives because there's nowhere left to go.

And then, only then, does he act.

That's not strategy. It's avoidance dressed up as patience.

Tajima chews on his daughter's words like tough meat. He trusts her read on people. If she says Hiruzen's an idealist, then the man's got some pretty picture in his head that doesn't include Konoha painting the map red.

But what picture?

For a second, Tajima almost has it, almost sees it. But then he shakes his head, because the thought is too stupid to hold.

No, it can't be. He's the Hokage. He wouldn't just... hope they settle down, would he?

It'd be like a lion watching a pack of starving hyenas circle its cubs… and deciding not to roar because he hoped they might get bored and leave.

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

Seeing Azula study him with that knowing smirk, Tajima realized he really understood the truth but just didn't want to accept it.

"He's basically crossing his fingers and hoping the other villages decide to play nice," Azula said with a shrug. "Maybe he thinks they're scared of Konoha's strength, maybe something else. But yeah, his whole strategy is 'please don't attack me.'"

If anyone else had said this, he would've laughed in their face. But this was Azula.

The Hokage, the student of Konoha's biggest hawk, the Second Hokage himself. And his chosen successor was... this? A pacifist playing dice with enemy nations?

Even Fugaku, who'd been quietly lurking in the corner this whole time, couldn't stay silent.

"A Hokage who relies on his enemies being nice isn't a Hokage," he said flatly. "He's a gambler, and gamblers always run out of luck."

Tajima found himself nodding before he even realized it. Unfortunately, harsh truth was still truth.

"Now I get it," Tajima muttered, and for the first time in years, he didn't tack on Hokage after Hiruzen's name. Somewhere around year five of the monkey's reign, Tajima had stopped bothering with formalities in private. "Now I really get why you never liked him."

Azula just waved a hand.

"Doesn't matter anymore. Their best shot was when I was stuck in Kiri." Her eyes sharpened. "I'm here now, which means the war's over."

She didn't elaborate and didn't need to. Tomorrow, she'd be raiding Kumo's base in the Land of Frost directly because she didn't see a reason why she would waste her time waiting until they attack.

None of the Uchiha in that tent doubted her for a second. Even Tajima, who usually made it his personal mission to remind his daughter that arrogance got people killed, kept his mouth shut.

Some things just weren't worth arguing.
•••

"Hey. Psst, did you hear?" a ninja whispered, his voice so low it was practically subterranean, yet absolutely vibrating with the kind of excitement usually reserved for discovering a new fascinating art. "The Uchiha Matriarch showed up on the frontline yesterday."

His companion's eyes went wide enough to compete with the full moon. "What? Are you serious?"

"As serious as a Hyuuga's resting murder face. I saw her with my own two eyes. She was standing right next to Tsunade-hime this morning."

A profound silence fell between them. Words weren't necessary. Their eyes did all the talking, sparkling with the kind of manic glee you'd expect from kids who just found out the cafeteria was serving dessert first.

And if you scanned the camp, you'd see it was a contagion. Every ninja on the frontline had the same look. It was the look of people who just got a massive, fire-wielding security blanket.

And why wouldn't they be excited? Who makes Azula's current reputation so exaggerated?

In the village of Konoha, her name wasn't just golden; it was forged from indestructible legendary chakra metal.

The official, polite, surface-level agreement you'd use in mixed company was that she was the second strongest person in the village, right after the Hokage, of course.

But the unspoken agreement shared over a clandestine cup of sake after a mission was a whole different story.

Everyone knew, deep down in their ninja guts, that the strongest person in the village was a fourteen-year-old girl. (Okay, yes, there was a technicality. The older generation would mumble about Mito Uzumaki, but the new generation just saw that as ancient history.)

Her resume was less a list of accomplishments and more a collection of historical events she personally set on fire.

She's the one who essentially folded the Land of Water's ninja village like origami, made Kiri regret every life choice that led to that moment.

Basically, if strength was a currency, Azula was the economic superpower.

The general consensus around the campfire was that she was a lock for the next "God of Shinobi" title once she finished growing into her adult-sized pedestal.

Which is why it was so incredibly, perfectly on-brand for Azula to be planning something that would launch her reputation not just to the next level, but into a whole new orbit around a different planet.

Just as she'd mapped out the day before, she was gearing up to slip away for a little solo trip to visit the Hidden Cloud Village camp. It was the perfect plan, a classic two-birds-one-stone situation.

Bird one: Show Kumo why poking the Fire Country bear is a terrible idea. Bird two: Give the rumor mill enough material to run for a decade so that it'll not be strange when a fourteen-year-old girl becomes the first female Hokage.

"You're planning to attack Kumo, aren't you?"

Azula, who had been plotting her glorious, one-woman invasion while staring blankly at a wall, jerked so hard she nearly performed an unscheduled evacuation of her chair.

She whipped her head around to find Tsunade. And there was that smirk that said, "I am brilliant and smart."

Since when did she become so easy to read? Azula wondered. It was an unfamiliar sensation, like wearing someone else's clothes, they fit, but something felt fundamentally off.

Tsunade was sitting cross-legged on her cot, with the manga she was reading closed because of course, she somehow managed to get a new book delivered to a war zone before essential medical supplies every day, a girl has her priorities.

"You got me this time," Azula admitted, setting down her quill with a small nod of acknowledgment. "I didn't realize my intentions were so transparent."

"Though that raises an interesting question, when did your brain actually start functioning? I was under the impression you'd lost it somewhere between your last gambling debt and your questionable taste in manga."

Tsunade's eyes looked at Azula with intensity, the manga crumpling slightly in her grip. "Hey! What's that supposed to mean?"

Her voice pitched upward with indignation, but there was no real heat behind it. "I'll have you know I'm brilliant. I just don't feel the need to perform intellectual gymnastics every five minutes like some people who shall remain nameless but whose name definitely starts with A and ends with zula."

Azula raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious despite herself. Tsunade wasn't wrong about the performing part—Azula did like people to know she was the smartest person in any given room. It wasn't arrogance if it was simply true.

But this sudden insight into her thought processes was new.

The truth was simpler than Azula might have guessed. After yesterday's rather awkward moment, Tsunade had found herself doing something unusual.

She'd actually thought about things from Azula's perspective. Not to win an argument or prove a point, but to genuinely understand her friend better.

This morning, waking up on the frontline with the tedium of waiting settling over the camp like fog, Tsunade had asked herself a simple question: what would Azula do?

The answer had been so obvious it almost hurt. Azula didn't wait. Azula acted. Azula saw an opportunity and took it, because waiting meant giving control to someone else, and Azula didn't do that. Not ever. Not for anyone.

"So," Tsunade had pieced together, "you're planning to attack. Probably alone. Probably after breakfast but before lunch, meaning at any moment."

And now here they were.

"Sure, if you say so." She returned her attention to her maps, but her mind was already somewhere again, turning over this new development.

Maybe it was maturity, or maybe Tsunade had been starting to pay attention, which, well, still is maturity.

Tsunade set her manga aside completely now, giving Azula her full attention, not going to let the latter think thoroughly. "Since you're planning something this monumentally stupid, don't you think you should at least loop me in?"

"What if I hadn't figured it out? Would you really just disappear in the middle of the day like some kind of angsty protagonist from one of Jiraiya's terrible works?"

She already knew the answer before she asked. But she asked anyway, because hope was stubborn like that.

"Yes."

Azula didn't even hesitate, blunt with her words. "I wasn't planning to inform anyone. The Raikage is one of the very few people in this entire shinobi world who might actually push me to fight seriously. Adding his elite Kumo ninja into the equation? They might even force me to reach my absolute limit."

A small, almost imperceptible smile curved her lips. "That's not an opportunity I'm willing to waste on bureaucracy, permission slips and nonsense."

She was replaying yesterday in her head, and yeah, she'd not only popped the Sharingan without meaning to, but she actually felt that little click like when it evolved from Two Tomoe to Three Tomoe.

She got so hype she nearly pushed straight to Mangekyō.

But she missed it.

The only silver lining was she didn't have to come up with some weird excuse about how it happened. 'Oh yeah, I awakened it because I walked in on my best friend naked' is... not the flex.

So instead, she locked in on the next best emotional trigger: a real fight. The kind that makes your soul vibrate.

In the current ninja world, only the Raikage really fits the bill. Well, him and the old man who like'em young.

A's Lightning Release Chakra Mode means she doesn't have to hold back. She can actually hit him. His speed matches hers, so no awkward "oops, too fast" moments and no Mito-style restraint.

Just raw, life-or-death chaos.

Basically she can go all out. And if anyone can push her buttons hard enough to unlock Mangekyō through sheer adrenaline? It's him.

The grin tugging at her lips was impossible to miss, especially for Tsunade.

Tsunade could only sigh. "You know, for someone so sharp, you can be weirdly one-track. All you care about is whether they'll push you. You ever think about the 'what if' where things go sideways?"

What worried her wasn't Azula's ambition; it was that unshakable belief she'd walk out alive no matter what.

"You mean dying?" Azula didn't even blink. "It's not arrogance, Tsunade. It's confidence. Confidence in the grind I've been on since I was three. Confidence that I've already run the numbers on just about every worst-case scenario I could stumble into."

"And none of them end with me dead. I'm sure of it."

The certainty radiating off her was almost blinding. Tsunade felt something twist in her chest, part envy, part reluctant respect. For the first time, she started to actually accept something she'd been dodging for a while:

Azula wasn't just more talented than her. She'd also earned her strength. The training, the obsession, the sleepless nights all added up. Of course she'd ended up on top.

Tsunade exhaled. "Alright. That was your plan before I knew about it. Now that I do know, you're taking me with you."

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

The Land of Frost is exactly what it sounds like, a place where even your thoughts feel cold.

It's famous worldwide for weather that makes you regret existing outdoors, and as if that wasn't enough, it shares a border with the most aggressively territorial village in the Ninja World: Kumogakure.

Tucked deep inside this frozen wasteland, just a stone's throw from the Land of Lightning's border, Kumo-nin are already scattered around like uninvited guests who refuse to leave.

The main camp is barely a kilometer behind them, and they're technically on patrol duty. But even if they are ninja, patrol duty in this weather is less about vigilance and more about surviving until lunch without losing a toe to frostbite.

They're not exactly worried about an attack. Konoha? Come on.

According to them, Konoha's Hokage is the kind of guy who apologizes to chairs he accidentally bumps into. A pacifist through and through. So yeah, no chance those leaf-huggers are showing up.

"Tsk. This is so boring," one of them groaned, dragging his feet like they were made of lead. His name is irrelevant, but his attitude is not. He's a Chūnin. They all are, five of them, freezing together in a brotherhood of misery.

Another one sighed dreamily. "Honestly? I'd rather be wrapped around Nanami right now than standing in this frozen hell."

Nanami. Just the mention of her name made all five men pause, exchange glances, and break into the kind of greasy smiles that would make any respectable person uncomfortable.

Memories of good times flooded back.

A third ninja nodded vigorously. "For real. Kento and the rest back in the village are probably living the high life right now. So unfair."

The first guy smirked. "Pfft. You guys can keep dreaming. Me? After today's patrol? I've got Michiko waiting. Warm, soft, eager Michiko."

He said it on purpose. And sure enough, the envy in the air was so thick you could cut it with a kunai. Michiko was a catch—beautiful, smart, and way out of most Chūnin's league.

But well, among the five of them, he's got 'future Jōnin' written all over him. In about five years, when he's in his mid-twenties, he'll probably make it.

Michiko's just betting on the right horse.

What none of them noticed was the two women walking toward them with Konoha headbands in an area where the only living things for five kilometers should've been them and maybe a very lost rabbit.

Azula, for her part, was very happy.

This little scene confirmed something she'd been suspecting for a while: her Yin Release was getting dangerously good.

A few years ago, she could project her thought to reality and now, she's basically a bootleg version of Kyōka Suigetsu, able to manipulate what people perceive through scent, sound, sight, even the subtle flicker of her Sharingan as long as her Yin Chakra affects them.

She can make them smell smoke, hear whispers, see things that aren't there. It's like directing a movie inside their skulls.

But she calls it a 'castrated version' for a reason. If someone figures out they're under her spell, all they have to do is disrupt their chakra flow, surge it suddenly, and poof, illusion gone.

And Kumo-nin coincidentally love Lightning Release, which is basically nature's way of saying 'screw your genjutsu'.

Lucky for her, these five idiots weren't just unaware, but they were also lazy, distracted, and mentally undressing Michiko instead of being alert.

Neither Azula nor Tsunade wasted breath on nonsense.

One moment, five Kumogakure shinobi were doing their patrol route, the next moment, they were very, very dead.

Azula claimed three before their bodies hit the snow, Tsunade took two, and the only sound was the soft thump of fresh corpses decorating the landscape.

"From this point forward," Azula said, watching the steam rise from her fingertips, "every second that passes is a second they might figure out we're here."

Which was funny, because they hadn't exactly been trying for subtlety. It's just that slaughtering a few scouts before the alarm got raised seemed like common courtesy. Why waste a perfectly good tactical advantage?

Tsunade nodded, though inwardly she was already doing the math. Azula was being optimistic, and Tsunade had seen enough battlefields to know optimism usually meant someone was about to die horribly.

Here's the thing about ninja, even lazy ones on a boring deployment in the middle of nowhere. You give them a job, like patrol duty, they usually do it. And when five of them suddenly stop checking in, they notice it pretty fast.

The Kumo camp noticed.

They just didn't have time to do anything about it.

Because Azula and Tsunade moved through that forest like the Four Horsemen decided to show up early for dinner, painting the white snow red with anyone unlucky enough to cross their path. One hit, two hits, done. Clean, efficient, and absolutely terrifying.

"They're just ahead."

Azula's familiar smirk appeared as the tree line began to thin. Tsunade braced herself for whatever waited beyond.

Turns out, what waited beyond was a lot.

The trees gave way to an open space that wasn't really open at all, not with the sheer volume of Kumo-nin spread out before them like a convention for people who really hated visitors. Tsunade's blood went from room temperature to ice water in about half a second.

Following Azula into enemy territory, she thought bitterly, best decision I never actually made.

From within that sea of enemies, a figure emerged. D, commander of the main Kumo force while the Raikage was off doing whatever Raikages did when they weren't home. He looked at the two women standing at the forest's edge like they were particularly amusing insects.

"What guts," he called out, voice dripping with something between admiration and disbelief. "Two brats actually attacking our camp. I'd say you're either the bravest shinobi in the world or the stupidest."

Azula ignored the compliment-slash-insult entirely. "Where's the Raikage?"

Her sensing abilities had already told her he wasn't within fifteen kilometers, but she wanted to hear it from someone who knew.

D tilted his head. "Why would a dead person need to know about A-sama?"

Smooth words. Confident delivery. But here's the thing about D—he wasn't stupid, far from it. He knows Azula had escaped from the Raikage himself, completely unscathed.

She had that Flying Thunder God nonsense that let her teleport wherever she wanted whenever she wanted. You couldn't kill someone who could simply decide to leave the moment things got spicy.

Unless.

Unless she couldn't react fast enough.

Unless it was a one-hit kill.

Unless she got arrogant.

And weren't the Uchiha famous for exactly that?

D's eyes lit up with the beautiful warmth of a man who just found his opponent's weakness, which stunned Azula for a while.

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

Azula saw that flicker of confidence in his eyes. The kind a man gets when he's holding a pair of threes but wants you to think he's got a royal flush.

Interesting.

Her lips curved. So he thought he had something up his sleeve. A trump card. Some hidden ace that would turn the tide.

Only one way to find out.

She almost felt bad for him. The Raikage would've been a fun real challenge that may have made her blood sing and her bones ache the next morning.

But since he wasn't there, she chose to go for the second objective, which was to kill, maim, eliminate and thin the herd until these mountain-dwelling guys decided their little cultivations were better off practiced back home where it was safe.

She liked that wording. Make them retreat to their mountain.

Time to put on a show.

The first crackle of lightning made a few of them swallow. By the time the full Lightning Release Chakra Mode cloaked her in blazing electric aura, some of them had stopped breathing entirely.

She could see the recognition and the fear in their eyes. They'd watched their Raikage tear through battlefields with this very technique. They should know exactly what it could do.

And now a stranger was wearing it like a second skin.

Beside her, Tsunade's Water Release Chakra Armor flowed into existence with a wicked grin. The same armor that had laughed off the Raikage's full-powered punch. The same woman who'd turned that punch into a learning experience.

D's earlier optimism took a sharp left turn into 'oh no' territory.

But Azula had to give credit where it was due. These weren't Kiri-nin.

There was no panic in their eyes, no desperate glances toward escape routes. Some of them had already made peace with dying here. They just wanted to make it hurt on the way out.

That was almost respectable.

"Squad 9—Earth Barrier. Now."

D's voice cut through the tension without hesitation. A commander doing what commanders do even if it may not have been the correct decision.

Too bad casting speed meant nothing when your opponent's speed was almost like teleporting.

Azula blinked out of existence and reappeared directly in front of him, fist already cocked. Squad 9's hands were still halfway through their seals when her knuckles introduced themselves to D's ribs with enough force to crack stone.

Crack, maybe literally.

Behind her, Tsunade had been waiting, letting them build their precious walls first. Let them feel safe behind all that earth and effort.

"Pressure Super Punch!"

She didn't just punch the wall. She annihilated it. The kind of hit that made physics cry and retreat to a corner. One wall was strong enough to tank B-rank jutsu, then it ceased to exist. The second wall joined it, then the third, fourth, fifth.

But the real cruelty was the broken pieces that flew instead of just falling. A shotgun blast of stone shrapnel moving faster than most Chunin could track, much less dodge.

By the time D picked himself up off the ground, courtesy of Azula's fist introducing him to it, she'd already carved through a dozen ninjas trying to intercept her pursuit. Their bodies hit the floor in rhythm, a percussion section for Tsunade's ongoing demolition project.

First contact: thirty seconds and almost thirty bodies.

What in the actual hell?

For the first time in his career, D questioned whether he understood what 'ninja' even meant. This wasn't even a battle. This was a slaughter wrapped in lightning and served with a side of absolute terror.

But he was the commander.

His function wasn't to understand. His function wasn't to survive. His function was to defend this base and make them pay for every inch of it.

If we can kill even one, he thought, pushing through the pain in his ribs. If we can take even one of them down, A-sama will understand. And the village will be safer for it.

The math was simple and the cost was acceptable. At least that's what he understood despite him being bad at calculation.

He rose to his feet, blood dripping from his mouth, and prepared to die like a Kumo-nin should.
•••

While Azula and Tsunade were duking it out in what could only be described as a 'who-can-kill-the-most-kumo-nin' contest, things at the back of the army were getting interesting.

With over 10,000 Kumo-nin packed into the area, the two heavy hitters were way too busy trying to kill to notice the little people.

Then there was Mabura, the Raikage's secretary—a gig he inherited from his father, who got it from his grandpa, who got it from his father was was a Daimyō guard during the Warring State era.

It was a family business, really. And what did this family do? They had this neat trick called the Heavenly Transfer Technique. You want something shipped anywhere at the speed of light? They're your guys.

Great for wartime logistics, right?

But then came A, the current Raikage, who decided to one-up everyone by being tough enough to survive being transported.

Suddenly, this technique went from 'useful' to 'absolutely terrifying'. The guy could theoretically pop up anywhere in the ninja world faster than one can say 'oh crap'.

'Mabura. What is the current status?.' A voice crackled inside his head, his buddy from Comms using some top-secret mind-whisper technique.

Mabura's mental gears turned. 'Uh, the Raikage just got the news. He's currently sprinting toward the teleport station. I'm guessing ten minutes, give or take?'

'Ten minutes...' The voice trailed off, and Mabura could almost hear his colleague's gaze drifting toward the absolute chaos unfolding up front. Lightning was cracking, the ground was quaking and people were screaming.

Ten minutes? That's a lot of lives. And even if the boss showed up with all the lightning and muscles in the world... would it even be enough to settle the score?
°°°
(A few minutes ago)

It had been almost two full days since the Raikage left Kumo for Iwa, and today was supposed to be the day he headed back. In that time, he, Onoki, and Ebizō had cooked up a solid plan to systematically weaken Konoha.

But just as things were falling into place, the emergency lightning transmission network crackled to life. And that changed everything.

The setup was simple: before leaving, the Raikage had a portion of his Lightning Chakra sealed inside a special tool back in the village.

If that seal was ever broken, the chakra would instantly snap back to him faster than thought. Kind of like how a Shadow Clone's memories hit you the moment it poofs out of existence, except instead of memories, it's pure chakra surging back.

There were limits, of course. You couldn't keep that chakra sealed forever, and you couldn't store enough to fully recharge someone who'd been drained dry.

But It was perfect as a distress signal. The moment that chakra slammed back into him, A knew something had gone very, very wrong.

Without missing a beat, he formed a Lightning Clone, his twist on Tobirama's old technique and flickered into his Lightning Release Chakra Mode.

Then he was off, tearing through the landscape at speeds that would leave 99,99% shinobi in the dust, heading for the nearest Heavenly Transfer Technique station.

Normally, if Mabura were here, the guy could teleport him anywhere in the world. But Mabura was stationed at the frontlines, with no clue where the Raikage was at any given moment.

So the only way this worked was if A reached one of the preset transfer stations. Once there, the formation would let Mabura pull him back either to another station or directly to his location.

The nearest station was just outside the Land of Earth. And with A's speed second only to Azula and her Flying Raijin, he'd be there in a few minutes.

The clone he left behind would fill Onoki in. Normally, A would've loved to bring reinforcements. But he knew neither the Tsuchikage nor anyone could keep up with him, and after a Heavenly Transfer, the strain would flatten someone like them

Still, as he blurred across the terrain, one thought gnawed at him: What the hell could've happened?

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

(???'s POV)

So this is what Kirigakure faced? The thought drifts through my mind like smoke as I watch them, two teenagers doing exactly two things: killing, and killing.

My body feels wrong. Cold in a way that has nothing to do with the Land of Frost's temperature.

I've felt cold before, fought Konoha in the First War when they were at their peak. This isn't that cold. This is the kind that seeps into your bones and whispers lie down, give up, it's easier.

Twenty-eight years in this world, and I'm watching two girls erase grown men like they're chalk drawings in rain.

Despair is a funny thing. It's neither loud nor quiet. It's looking at the enemy and realizing your brain has already clocked out and your legs just haven't gotten the memo yet.

How many minutes? I wonder. Seven? Less? More?

Doesn't matter. What matters is the math is simple: them plus us equals zero.

Not how I pictured going out. When you're a kid, you think you'll die meaningful.

Maybe save someone. Maybe take one with you. Maybe do something that makes your name worth remembering around a campfire.

Reality's funnier. I'm going to die as a number, a statistic and one of the many casualties, maybe the 147 or 183 or 227, just part of the body count.

Only Aiko cries for me, right? The twins? They'll forget my face by the time they're ten. Some guy in a photograph mom points at sometimes. That's your father. He was a ninja.

Fuck.

I should've quit when I wanted to, three years ago. But what would people say? Toru couldn't handle it. Toru tucked tail and ran. Reputation's a hell of a drug. Worth dying for, apparently. Worth making your kids orphans for.

Good one, genius. Real smooth.

I look around. Sweat on faces while in the Land of Frost. If that's not ironic, I don't know what is.

"Hey, Toru." The voice cuts through. "You cowardin' in the face of death like always?"

Kai. Of course. Twenty years of knowing this idiot, and he's choosing now to run his mouth.

"Huh?" I shoot back. "Then why's your voice shaking?"

He laughs. It comes out wrong—too high, too fast. "It's the wind. My voice is perfect. You're the one trembling. Honestly, Toru, biggest coward I know. Always have been."

I open my mouth to clap back. Nothing comes out. Because here's the thing—he's saying all this, and his voice is wobbling like a toddler learning to walk, and it's so ridiculous, so perfectly Kai, that all I can do is—

Laugh.

"Hahahahaha!"

It starts in my chest and explodes out. And then—someone else joins, then another and then everyone.

"Hahahahahaha!"

"Hehehehehe!"

The sound bounces off the frost. Grown men, seasoned ninjas, veterans of wars—laughing like drunk uncles at a wedding.

Some are laughing at Kai's voice, same as me. Most probably don't even know why they're laughing. They just are. Because it's either this or scream, and laughing feels better, even if it's stupid.

Even if it's the last thing we do.

Guess dying like this isn't so bad, I think, the laughter still shaking my shoulders. At least we're funny.

Azula and Tsunade paused and finally looked our way.

I smiled. Future strongest ninja? Yeah. Honor's all yours.
...
...
...

Azula's head swiveled toward them like a hawk spotting a particularly obnoxious field mouse.

To be clear, Azula was not scared. She had never been scared. Azula once stared down the Avatar, her crazy brother, and an angry waterbender all at once while literally on fire, and the only thing that got singed was their pride.

So no, not scared.

But when you are surrounded on all sides, absolutely dominating the battlefield like it's your personal playground, and suddenly you hear a hundred people laughing at you? You look, It's called situational awareness.

So she looked.

And what did she see? A bunch of desperate faces twisted into smiles, eyes wide with that special kind of crazy you only see in people who have completely accepted their own death.

Hysterical, amusing, and... pathetic.

Honestly, it just pissed her off.

This, she thought, lightning crackling between her fingers like impatient snakes, is exactly why this stupid Ninja World is completely backwards.

Because here's the thing about villains that most people never get, and Azula, being a former villain herself, understood this on a molecular level—the biggest, baddest, world-ending monsters?

They were just people who looked at the world's broken system and said, "You know what? Screw this. I'm gonna burn it all down and build something better."

Sure, their methods were usually "twisted" and "genocidal" and "generally frowned upon," but the intention was there. Sort of.

In the Avatar World, she had killed people. Nickelodeon might have conveniently cut away from those scenes because cartoon characters have plot armor and sponsors to worry about, but Azula remembered.

She remembered every single one. It wasn't like a hobby or anything, but it happened. More than twice.

Then there was her life on Earth, with its regular people and regular problems and regular not trying to kill her every Tuesday. The her from that life naturally had a little squeamishness about murder. Like a weird aftertaste you can't quite get rid of.

But here? In this blood-soaked, backstabbing, "I'll kill you for the last rice ball" of a world?

That squeamishness went out the window faster than a Konoha ninja running from a paperwork deadline.

She had killed, then killed again, and kept killing because apparently that was just what you did here—like paying taxes, except the tax collector was trying to stab you in the face. And she had made peace with it.

Because in the Ninja World, the laws were simple: Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. Survive or become a very sad memorial stone that everyone walks past on their way to lunch and be known as the "what if" woman.

Soon, she told herself, lightning armor around her body like a billion angry bees, soon, Azula. There isn't a single system in the entire multiverse that's going to make you bow to its rules. You're almost there, just one more push.

And then—

She smiled.

This was the kind of smile that made the laughing ninjas stop laughing.

This was the kind of smile that made grown men question every life choice that had led them to this exact moment.

This was the kind of smile that had probably inspired several horror movies in alternate dimensions.

To them, she looked like the devil himself had put on a very attractive face and decided to clock in for overtime. She was harvesting lives like it was harvest season and she had a quota to meet. And the terrifying part was the fact that she seemed to be enjoying it.

Even the most hardened shinobi, guys who had seen things that would make regular people cry themselves to sleep for a decade, felt something twist in their chests watching her work.

Lightning Release Chakra Mode crackled around her like a second skin. Her eyes, red with three tomoe spinning, locked onto target after target. Life after life, she danced through the battlefield like death with really good hair.

She was in the middle of a particularly satisfying stab toward some poor twenty-something ninja who had definitely chosen the wrong career path, when—

Something.

She felt it before she saw it.

The poor guy she was about to turn into a human shish kebab suddenly found himself very much alive, mostly because Azula had completely forgotten he existed. He also discovered that he had, in fact, peed his pants just a little bit.

Or a lot.

In that moment, the distinction felt academic.

A flash of white-blue light streaked across the battlefield like a comet with anger management issues.

Azula's attention snapped toward it like a magnet finding its soulmate.

She didn't hesitate. Didn't even bother finishing her sentence in her own head before moving.

One second she was there. The next second she was there, lightning crashing into that light like two freight trains that really, really hated each other.

And then she felt herself being pushed back.

Azula's eyes widened. Then she was excited. "Hahaha, Raikage, it seems among the current Kage, only you are worthy of your title in the current Ninja World."

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

A didn't answer Azula's question right away, mostly because his brain had just finished buffering and was finally processing the absolute chaos around him.

When he got teleported here, his danger sense went off like a fire alarm. He felt Azula mid-kill, and there was zero time to scan the area, assess the vibe, or even wonder what he'd have for dinner.

He just acted straight hands, and now...

He was looking at what had to be at least a hundred bodies scattered across the field like some kind of horror movie set.

He let out a heavy sigh. I'm too late.

Still, a small, cold part of him knew the truth: this wasn't even the worst-case scenario. With Azula and Tsunade running around, ten minutes should've produced way more than a hundred bodies.

That meant Kumo-nin actually did something extraordinary—they stood their ground. No one ran nor folded.

They died like real shinobi.

He finally broke the silence with a dry, sarcastic tone. "Should I be flattered? Getting praise by a fourteen-year-old only a few years older than my son?"

Little did he know, in about a decade, this exact moment—this exact roast—would be remembered as the greatest highlights of his entire career.

But nobody knew that right now. Except maybe Azula, who just nodded like he'd made an excellent point.

"Honestly? Yeah. I don't praise people every day. And this isn't even the first time I've complimented you. You should add that to your resume."

That tone, that look. That unholy amount of confidence.

A suddenly remembered exactly why he couldn't stand her.

She was too sharp. Too smooth, too... much.

He wasn't here for the verbal sparring. "Save the poetry. You realize what you've done, right? Is Konoha trying to shatter the entire balance of the ninja world?"

Before she could answer, he waved a hand. "Actually, forget it. Politics is out the window. You showed up here with that Senju brat probably because of that. I never thought I'd see the day an Uchiha hid behind Flying Raijin like a coward. What's the matter, soon as things heat up, you'll just zip away?"

Azula tilted her head, amused before smiling.

Not a nice smile.

"Sounds like a skill issue, Raikage-sama."

The words landed like a slap.

"If you didn't have the skills to back it up, maybe you shouldn't have started a war. Or was that the plan all along? Throw bodies at Konoha until your resources even out? Maybe you're hoping for a pity funds from the Daimyō after this because honestly, starting a war with us? Everyone knows that's just suicide with extra steps."

The bodies around them weren't helping his case. Neither were the whispers about Konoha's current lineup of absolute monsters.

Tsunade nodded, arms crossed, eyes cold. "Exactly. Honestly, they should be grateful the village is busy. Otherwise, I'd have made sure every single loss they've given us was paid back in full."

She wasn't joking. You could feel it.

Her hatred for Kumo wasn't some surface-level rivalry. It was personal. They killed her father and her second uncle.

And growing up with Azula meant she'd absorbed a very specific mindset: you don't just take losses, you return them.

So no. She didn't feel bad about the bodies.

The utter emptiness in Azula's eyes as she regarded the lives she'd just extinguished, combined with the pure hatred radiating from Tsunade hit A right in the feels.

Here he was, hoping for some Madara-and-Hashirama level dynamic, some mutual respect between warriors, and instead he got... this. Two young women who looked at him like he was an inconvenient bug. Didn't feel too hot, honestly.

"Beating that washed-up Kiri failure has clearly gone to your heads," He declared, his voice carrying absolute conviction. "But you little brats are seriously underestimating me. And underestimating Kumo."

And just like that, he slammed back into his Lightning Release Chakra Mode.

Those few seconds of conversation were perfect because they gave him just enough time to catch his breath after his high-speed express trip to the station, ten minutes of full-throttle Raikage movement weren't a joke no matter if he was one of the few Ninjas with the most stamina.

Azula responded in kind, her own chakra mode flaring to life. Tsunade, meanwhile, wisely bounced backward.

With the Raikage's dramatic arrival, the encirclement had essentially dissolved, Kumo-nin scrambling to position themselves behind what they clearly viewed as their ultimate security blanket, their maximum-security walking fortress of a leader.

Not that Tsunade was going anywhere. She had no intention of jumping into this fight, Azula looked way too excited about it, like a kid who'd just spotted the world's largest candy store, but she positioned herself perfectly in the backline, ready to introduce herself to anyone foolish enough to try interfering.

A raised eyebrow at this formation. He had thoughts, many thoughts. But he kept them to himself because he wasn't stupid.

Solo against Azula? Maybe fifty-fifty? Solo against Tsunade? Solid sixty-forty in his favor. But both of them together?

Those odds dropped to a humiliating ten-ninety, and the Third Raikage hadn't survived this long by ignoring basic math.

Then they moved.

One moment, standing. The next, nothing but bluish-white light and screaming lightning for the assembled shinobi to process.

Azula was fully locked in now, her Sharingan pushed to absolute maximum overdrive, because this was the MAN.

"FOUR-FINGER NUKITE!" A roared, because apparently shouting your attack names before using them was still mandatory shinobi etiquette.

Azula had long since stopped questioning this. Ninjas, she'd learned, were weirdly committed to their dramatic traditions.

But the name-drop triggered something. Three key facts, crystal clear in her memory:

Fact One: This man's lightning armor was so ridiculously durable it had tanked a direct Tailed Beast Bomb from the Eight-Tails. Also Naruto's Rasenshuriken, the attack that detonates into countless microscopic wind blades, so many that even the Sharingan gave up trying to count them. His defense was basically the bane of the 'no ball'.

Fact Two: His One-Finger Nukite—the 'ultimate spear' had pierced through that same Eight-Tails' chakra cloak and then through his own absurdly defensive lightning armor. The man could apparently punch through his own invincibility.

Make it make sense.

Fact Three: Black Lightning. The stuff Darui had built his entire career around, the technique that eventually made him the Fifth Raikage. And this guy just... had it.

Probably as a casual side technique.

Unbreakable defense, perfect piercing, and black lightning. Any single one of these abilities made someone a Kage candidate.

All three together? The Third Raikage was basically a walking cheater, a paradox wrapped in lightning with a bad attitude.

These thoughts zipped through Azula's mind in under half a second, her body moving on pure instinct while her brain caught up.

She wasn't convinced the Four-Finger would actually break her armor, but she wasn't eager to find out either. Damage was damage, and she had standards.

She dodged.

At the same time, she gathered chakra to her arms, shaping her own lightning spear in response. The strike landed clean—

And did absolutely nothing.

Azula didn't even flinch when her lightning dissipated against his skin. She'd already tested this theory a while ago and disappointment was for people who failed to do their homework.

The Raikage tanked her attack like he'd just stubbed his toe instead of eating lightning that would turn most Kage into ash sculptures.

They locked eyes and in that moment, they both understood the same terrible truth: this was going to be fun.

In terms of raw speed, it'll be a draw. They'd run laps around each other until the cows came home and died of old age.

But Azula was slippery—twisting through the air like lightning given form, her Sharingan analyzing in every twitch of his muscles before they could fire.

Meanwhile, the Raikage hit like a meteor with personal issues, and his skin might as well have been forged in the core of a star.

His durability was giving her a headache. Her Sharingan was giving him an aneurysm. He'd wind up for something devastating, something that could actually hurt her, and she'd read it in his kneecaps three seconds before he threw it.

Dancing around the apocalypse, one centimeter at a time.

My theory was right, she thought, redirecting another bolt of lightning straight into his chest. Any other ninja would be decorating the landscape right now. The Raikage just staggered backward through the forest, using trees as break pads. This isn't just chakra armor anymore. He's built himself a force field.

He came back instantly, rocketing toward her with all that lovely momentum. His fist screamed toward her face, close enough that she could count the calluses, and she waited until the last possible nanosecond before sliding aside like water around a stone.

Her foot, already humming with enough lightning to power a small city, caught him right in the spine as he sailed past. His own speed plus her power should have sent him into orbit. Instead, he just stumbled through the snow like a grumpy bear who'd tripped over a root.

Completely, impossibly unscathed.

Fine then.

She smiled, the kind that meant her brain was firing on all cylinders and the world was about to get very interesting for someone.

This is what chakra nature transformation looks like when you take it to its absolute breaking point.

But here's the thing about Azula: she didn't just want to win. She wanted to understand. Any idiot could blast their way through a problem. She wanted to take it apart, figure out what made it tick, and then use that knowledge to make her enemies weep.

So she watched, analyzed and theorized.

Theory One: The Tesla Coil Approach. Imagine ionizing the air around your body until it becomes a constant electrical field, a repulsion layer that says 'no' to anything stupid enough to get close. She'd tried to do it once. Nearly melted her own nervous system into soup.

Apparently, you need a body that's been bred for generations to handle this kind of abuse. The Raikage's ancestors clearly had better hobbies than hers.

Theory Two: The Walking Railgun. This one made her laugh when she first thought of it.

Moving electricity creates magnetic fields, basic Maxwell's equations. If you generate enough current, you're not just wearing lightning, you're wearing a localized magnetosphere.

Every punch becomes a railgun shot and every defense becomes an electromagnetic 'get lost' field wrapped around your skin like a second atmosphere.

Theory Three: The Hybrid.

A high-voltage scream wrapped in magnetic pressure, each feeding the other until you're basically wearing a small star.

Which one is it, old man?

She hated admitting that her body couldn't do this. Hated it with the burning fire of a thousand suns. She'd trained since birth, pushed herself past every limit, and some people just... had the hardware she couldn't manufacture.

But that's why she had the software.

Her mind was already spinning through countermeasures, each more delicious than the last. A dozen ways to shatter his pretty shield, ranging from 'elegant' to 'cruel' to 'he won't see this coming because he probably can't pronounce 'electromagnetic induction'.

Which method should I try first?

The Raikage's fist caught her mid-thought landing a solid connection, going through three boulders and a small hill before she stopped laughing.

Perfect.

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

"Tch. Old man is not exactly taking it easy, is he?"

Azula didn't even bother finishing the thought before she was on her feet again.

Lying down? He would've turned her into a charcoal sketch the second her back touched the floor.

Her Lightning Release Chakra Mode wasn't going to win any contests against the Raikage's flashy aura, sure. But she was also still in one piece, breathing, and very much well.

The moment she stood, he was already barreling toward her like a bull on steroids.

Alright, warm-up's over. Time to get scientific.

She'd thought about something interesting about his whole electric mode. It made her remind her who she truly was.

Before she was a ninja, she was a bender. And not just any bender, she was the kind of prodigy that made other prodigies cry into their pillows at night.

Lightning Redirection was basically baby stuff. You catch the lightning, you let it flow through you like you're hosting a very aggressive houseguest, and then you show it the door, preferably in someone else's direction.

And the beautiful part was the technique didn't care if the lightning came from some angsty firebender, natural lightning or probably a rage-filled Kage with a superiority complex; game was game.

So here was her working theory: touch the Raikage's lightning, let his it flow through her like she's a human extension cord, and see how it will work, if it can disturb his Chakra Mode.

In the worst case? Azula would switch to the Fire Release Chakra Mode, heal herself and annoy him from the sky.

The Raikage clearly couldn't read her mind and he charged to press his advantage.

And then Azula did something that made every Kumo-nin in the vicinity question their career choices.

Instead of dodging, which she'd been doing all fight because honestly, it's polite to let the elderly tire themselves out first, she planted her feet.

Her Sharingan spun so hard it actually stung, with a little blood trickling from her eye.

New experience. She'd add it to the list.

Her left hand came up, palm open, fingers slightly curled. To the watching shinobi, it probably looked like she was trying to catch a cannonball with a butterfly net.

His fist connected with her palm.

And then she glitched reality.

Not literally, though the sound that followed could've fooled anyone. The impact didn't send her flying or crack her bones.

Instead, her arm gave, folding with the kind of practiced grace that made master calligraphers look like toddlers with crayons.

Instead of blocking the force, she welcomed it. Her body became a circuit, not a wall. His lightning surged into her—

And found an exit.

Her right hand swept up in an elegant arc, like she was brushing aside a curtain or waving goodbye to someone's dignity. A torrent of blue electricity—his electricity, mixed with the crackling remains of his chakra mode—erupted from her palm.

Okay, she didn't have the time to aim it at him, but around him? Absolutely.

The blast hit the stone floor like an angry god dropping a hammer. The CRACK split the air, sent Kumo-nin stumbling backward clutching their ears, and carved a crater big enough to host a small picnic a few meters from the Raikage's dumbfounded face.

Azula wanted to take advantage and attack him when he was dazed, but as a Kage, he reached a point where he could even fight unconsciously, let alone when he was awake.

His instinct took over, and he defended himself from the instantly formed Rasengan that Azula launched on him.

After defending, he jumped back, retreating for the first time because he had a question.

Azula didn't follow him, taking the time to analyze what had happened while watching his face cycle through confusion, realization, and the particular shade of purple men get when their entire understanding of physics gets mugged in an alley.

Excellent, it's time to mess up with his mind. She flashed that smile that meant someone was about to wish they'd never learned to speak.

"What's wrong, Raikage?" Her voice dripped with the kind of syrup they use to coat poison. "Don't tell me the big strong Kage is having an existential crisis because a girl not even half his age reverse-engineered his signature technique in the time it takes to enjoy a good tea?"

A's eye twitched, which she only enjoyed.

"I mean, they call you 'The Lightning Axe,' right?" She tilted her head, all mock curiosity. "Very intimidating title, just a shame about the whole... swings a dull blade thing, though."

The Kumo-nin around them shifted uncomfortably. Nobody talked or breathed at the Raikage like this.

"All that power. All that speed. And you're just..." she made a gesture with her hand, vague and dismissive, "... A one-trick pony who can't even house-train his own electricity."

"But I get it. When you're used to bulldozing through walls and enemies, you never really learn the finer points of the game, do you? Let me give you some advice. Free of charge, because I'm generous like that."

Her eyes flashed red with her Sharingan.

"Raw power without control isn't strength; that's a tantrum. And you, Raikage..." she paused for everyone to get it, "...are throwing a spectacular one right now."

A's fists clenched so hard his knuckles went white. The ground beneath his feet spiderwebbed with cracks.

"You..." His voice came out rough, like he'd been swallowing gravel. "You arrogant little brat."

Inside his head, chaos reigned. I knew the Uchiha were the most annoying bloodline to deal with, but how do they produce someone this insufferable?

But he couldn't punch her right now. He couldn't even frown too hard, because thirty feet away, half his village was watching.

The Raikage doesn't get to lose his composure so openly. The moment he let her get under his skin, the moment he played her game, he'd look like exactly what she accused him of being: a child throwing sparks because someone broke his toy.

Since taking office, A had built his legend on one simple truth: when problems appeared in the ninja world, he appeared too.

He isn't anything like the other Kage, waiting for reports or sending subordinates. The Strongest Spear went where the fighting was, and people believed that nobody could take a full hit from him and stay standing.

And then this girl child had not only taken his hit, but caught it, played with it, and thrown it back like yesterday's garbage.

Now she was insulting him.

And he had to stand here and take it, because the moment he retaliated emotionally, he validated everything she said.

On the inside, A was a supernova trying to be patient.

On the outside, he snorted. The sound carried across the training ground like thunder.

"Hmph." He straightened, rolling his shoulders with deliberate casualness. "You think I don't see what you did?"

"It's a clever trick. Miracle, even, I'll give you that much. Absorbing my lightning, redirecting it, something probably no one in the ninja world can do apart from you. But here's the thing about miracles, girl."

He raised one massive hand, and lightning crackled between his fingers. "You redirected one attack from one direction. What happens when I hit you from everywhere at once? What happens when lightning comes at you from angles you can't see, from strikes you can't predict?"

The Kumo-nin behind him stirred with hope flickering back into their eyes.

Yes, how could defending against the Raikage be so easy? If so, why didn't she do it since the beginning?

Interesting, it seems not one who can become a Kage is a fool. She thought, admiring how he analyzed what he did, but then she remembered their somewhat questionable decision, and remembered a certain Hokage. Well, it shouldn't be too big of a compliment, right?

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

In the center of a clandestine space, a twelve-year-old boy with spiky white hair and a face full of freckles sat cross-legged, his expression one of intense, scholarly focus.

Jiraiya of the Sannin, well, Jiraiya of the Academy, soon to be Sannin if he had anything to say about it, was engaged in his most sacred ritual.

He reached into a small, hidden compartment beneath a loose floorboard and reverently withdrew a stack of papers.

This was his collection, his library and his reason for living.

"Ah," he breathed, his voice a reverent whisper. "The latest from the 'Temptations of the Hidden Cloud' series."

He fanned through the pages, his eyes glazing over at the generously proportioned kunoichi depicted within. "Masterful. The artist truly understands the… tactical advantages of a larger… asset in the field."

He set that prized volume aside and picked up another, this one a dog-eared, well-loved copy of 'Icha Icha Tactics,' a name he'd coined himself for his private collection.

"Now, this one," he muttered, licking his thumb and turning a page carefully. "This is the pinnacle of literary achievement. The heroine's confession scene on page twelve is simply a masterpiece of emotional and physical vulnerability; sensei truly knows games."

For Jiraiya, this was his true path. The shinobi arts were just a means to an end: funding his research and providing him with real-world experience for his characters.

He dreamed of the day his name would be whispered not just with fear, but with a knowing, appreciative grin. The day he would be known as the world's greatest Mangaka, with the exception of Azula Uchiha, of course.

His dream, however, was a fragile, beautiful bubble, and it was about to be popped.

A faint, almost imperceptible thump came from his window. Jiraiya froze, his senses sharper than most gave him credit for.

He quickly stuffed his collection back under the floorboard and slid it shut just as a small, paper-wrapped package sailed through his open window and landed on his futon with a soft fwump.

Jiraiya stared at it. It was tied with a simple red string. A delivery method he recognized. This was how you got the good stuff, the stuff the vendors were too scared to sell openly.

With trembling hands, he untied the string. The paper fell away to reveal a stack of freshly bound pages.

On the cover, written in elegant, flowing calligraphy, was the title: "Serpent's Embrace." The art was incredible, far better than the usual stuff.

It showed two shinobi locked in a passionate embrace.

His heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. This was the premium content. And from the look of it… were those two… men?

He paused. He wasn't… against it. Art was art, after all. And the linework was phenomenal. He could appreciate the craft.

He flipped to the first page, just curious.

The art was breathtaking. The characters were unmistakable. One, with long, dark hair, pale skin, and calculating golden eyes. The other, with a mane of wild white hair and a look of boisterous confidence.

His blood ran cold.

Page one: The white-haired one, who looked an awful lot like a handsome, cooler version of himself, was laughing. "Orochimaru," the speech bubble read, "your mind is as fascinating as your smile!"

Jiraiya blinked. Orochimaru? My teammate? The creepy snake guy?

Page two: Orochimaru, depicted with long, elegant lashes and a slender, almost delicate frame, blushed. "Jiraiya… you're the only one who understands my true research." He leaned in.

Page three: Their lips met.

Jiraiya's soul tried to leave his body. He slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a noise that was somewhere between a dying cat and a boiling kettle.

He couldn't stop. It was like a wagon crash. He had to see how bad it was. He flipped through the pages with increasing horror.

There was a scene where "Jiraiya" serenaded "Orochimaru" with a badly written poem under a full moon.

Another where "Orochimaru" fed "Jiraiya" a dango, gazing into his eyes with unnerving tenderness. And then… the hot springs scene.

He slammed the manga shut, his face a perfect, burning crimson, and his breath came in ragged gasps.

This was a fan comic about him and Orochimaru by someone who apparently thought they were the star-crossed lovers of the Leaf Village!

He looked at the final page, where a little note was written in the same elegant hand:

"To the beautiful mangaka at the market who always buys the 'Temptations' series. Your passion for the craft is inspiring. I hope you enjoy my humble work. Please, write more stories! The world needs to see the depth of your feeling! - A devoted fan."

Jiraiya stared at the note. The beautiful mangaka at the market. That was him.

This girl, and it had to be a girl, no guy would draw him this way, this girl had seen him buying smut and had decided he was a kindred spirit.

A fellow romantic. And her romantic fantasy was… this.

He looked back at the cover, at the two of them locked in that embrace. His teammate. The one who had once tried to use him as a test dummy for a new poison. The one whose idea of a good time was dissecting something.

A horrifying, beautiful, soul-crushing realization dawned on him. This was a market. A new market he hadn't even considered.

Other people could write stories about him.

And apparently, some of them wanted to see him locked in a torrid romance with the human equivalent of a shed snakeskin.

Suddenly, his dream of becoming the greatest Mangaka of all time felt less like a noble pursuit and more like a curse.

He imagined a future where his legacy wasn't the "Tales of Jiraya the Great," but a library full of comics where he was the blushing love interest of every weirdo in the village. "Jiraiya and the Akimichi Crush!" "Jiraiya's Forbidden Love with the Dango Shop Owner!" The horror was endless.

He heard a slow, slithering sound from outside his door. A familiar, chilling voice echoed in the hallway.

"Jiraiya… are you awake? I saw a light. We should study together. I have some new… specimens to show you."

Jiraiya shrieked. A high-pitched, truly undignified sound for a future legendary shinobi.

He grabbed the manga, his hidden collection be damned, and threw it under his futon.

Then, realizing Orochimaru might actually come in and somehow sense its presence, he snatched it back up.

He looked around the room in a blind panic. The window? No, too slow. His closet? Too obvious.

In a final, desperate act, he shoved the entire stack of papers—'Serpent's Embrace' and all—down the back of his shirt, flattening himself against the cold wall.

The door slid open. Orochimaru stood there, his golden eyes narrowed.

"Jiraiya," he hissed softly. "You're sweating."

Jiraiya forced a laugh that sounded more like a strangled gasp. "Hahaha! Orochimaru! Old buddy! Old pal! I was just… uh… doing some intense… calisthenics! Yes! Building core strength! For… for toad summoning! You need a strong core to… uh… ribbit effectively."

Orochimaru's gaze slowly traveled down Jiraiya's form, lingering on the suspicious, papery bulge at his lower back. A slow, unnerving smile spread across his lips.

"Indeed," he murmured. "You seem to have developed a rather… pronounced spinal condition. We should examine it thoroughly."

Jiraiya's freckles stood out in stark relief against his ghost-pale face. He was trapped. His dream lay in tatters at his (metaphorical) feet, and the subject of his new, unwanted fame was offering to "examine" him.

This was, without a doubt, Jiraiya's worst nightmare.

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

 

[Melonlord]

He wasn't wrong, though. She'd give him that much.

Azula rolled the thought around like a smooth stone in her palm, turning it over, examining it from every angle. Because that's just what she did.

Why don't I use lightning redirection more often? Someone actually has to throw lightning at you first. Kind of a prerequisite because without lightning bolt, there's no redirecting, basic math.

But oh, it went so much deeper than that.

First, there was the raw physics of it. The kinetic force behind his blasts would rattle her teeth loose if she got it wrong.

Then came the chakra situation: trying to absorb his lightning while keeping her own Lightning Chakra Mode active was like trying to fill a glass that was already overflowing with water.

At least for now, she thought.

She'd figured out something: keep just enough chakra wrapped around her brain like a helmet while letting the rest of her system power down.

The redirected lightning got a nice, clear highway that wouldn't turn her thoughts into scrambled eggs, and her Sharingan handled the microscopic tweaks this party trick required.

Still doesn't solve the real problem though.

His annoying defense was what she didn't like.

"Okay, so you're half right," she admitted, her voice practically dancing. "Lightning redirection isn't exactly the most efficient way to deal with you. Fair point."

"But this is just one method. One of the theories I wanted to test drive today. I've got a whole list, actually. So many ideas I've been dying to try." Her smile stretched wider, sharper. "I really, really hope you're as durable as you look."

Those who were watching from the sidelines didn't see an ounce of fear. To them, they saw the same kind of excitement as a kid who just got let loose in a candy store with an unlimited budget.

Wide-eyed, manic, absolutely thrilled.

"Round two?" she asked, like she was offering him a snack.

And then she did something stupid. Or smart?

Depends on who you asked.

She completely switched off her Lightning Chakra Mode.

Sure, it gave her speed and defense, but it also came with a catch, making her chakra so aggressive and chaotic that even she struggled to keep her Sharingan active.

Fire Release Chakra Mode would've been the same problem. Different flavor, same headache.

So instead?

Fwoosh.

Flames erupted at her feet and she shot skyward like a firework with an attitude problem. Because without Lightning Mode, engaging A head-on was basically asking for a dirt permanent nap, and she had better things to do than that.

And this was exactly the kind of thing that made brawlers like A want to throw furniture.

How exactly do you punch someone who's currently chilling in the stratosphere?

"What's wrong, Uchiha? Scared of me and flying after speaking nonsense?" A called up, and if you listened closely, you could hear the jealousy leaking through.

His chakra control could never. He refused to believe anyone else on the planet could fly like she did.

Azula tilted her head, looking down at him like a cat evaluating a particularly boring bug.

"Scared? Don't be ridiculous." Her smile turned patronizing, the kind adults give children who ask stupid questions. "I'm just choosing the optimal attack angle. It's not my fault your entire fighting style becomes useless the moment your opponent demonstrates even a single brain cell."

"You're like a guard dog," she continued, sweet as poison. "And I've just climbed the fence. See? Nothing you can do."

"What—" A tried to speak, but Azula didn't care much for what he had to say.

That's the thing about her. The second you show even a flicker of weakness, she's already inside your kitchen raiding the fridge.

Theoretically, A is fast. He should've dodged that attack even with his mouth half open and his brain half engaged. But theory is theory until proven otherwise, which Azula did.

He stared at her like she'd just grown a second head.

The shock was painted all over his face, and yeah, maybe a little sprinkle of fear too, because there was now a very angry burn on his shoulder and something that looked suspiciously like his own blood doing its best impression of a leaking faucet, not even able to hide it from his expression this time.

"She's... she's got it that mastered?" Tsunade whispered, because sometimes you just have to state the obvious when the obvious is trying to barbecue one of the fastest men alive.

As if to twist the knife, blue lightning flickered to life in Azula's right hand, then blue fire joined the party together at the same time like they were old friends at a reunion.

This time, A actually saw it. And seeing it somehow made it worse.

In the Ninja World, using two jutsu at once from the same chakra nature is already the kind of flex that gets you featured in the history books. But sure, there are prodigies; they break rules and make everyone else feel inadequate, which is still fine.

But two jutsu from completely different chakra natures?

At the same time?

How? How was she doing it? By selling her soul to some fire-and-lightning demon? Is this even legal? His brain was running laps around his skull trying to find an answer.

And then it hit him: during their entire fight, he'd never once seen her use hand signs. He'd brushed it off because Lightning Release Chakra Mode lets you coat yourself in lightning and that takes concentration—maybe she was just too busy to gesture.

You can theoretically still release jutsu without flailing your hands around if you're that good.

Except now he realized 'that good' was putting it mildly. She was playing a completely different game on a completely different board while he was still trying to figure out the rules of checkers.

He wanted to ask questions. But she was standing right there with her lightning-fire hybrid of doom, and falling for the same trick twice? That's the kind of reputation you don't come back from and the kind of mistake that follows you to your grave and gets carved on your tombstone.

"What a pity," she murmured.

Not quietly enough.

A's eye twitched.

"Lightning–Fire Style: Plasma Spear."

This time she took her sweet time building it. The surprise was gone, so why rush? Let him appreciate the artistry.

They were twenty meters apart, maybe more with snow everywhere. Land of Frost living up to its name, and yet, A could feel the temperature climbing like someone had accidentally left the door to hell cracked open.

How is she not burning herself alive? The question burned hotter than the actual heat. How is her skin still attached to her body? How is she standing there like she's making tea instead of holding a miniature sun?

Today, A has the most "How?" moments in his life.

Unfortunately for him, Azula wasn't the type to explain her techniques like some third-rate villain monologuing before the final act.

If he knew she was running on fumes, if he knew how close she was to tapping out, he might've just said 'you know what, this isn't worth it' and taken his injuries back to Kumo for a refund.

But he didn't know. And she wasn't telling.

Here's the thing about Plasma: it's what happens when heat and electricity get together and decide to make something beautiful and terrifying.

Fire meets Lightning, things get spicy.

Azula called it Proto Plasma Release because she liked naming things and also because "Fire-Lightning Combination That Will Absolutely Ruin Your Day" felt a bit too long, but it's not yet a Kekkei Genkai.

The tricky part was getting the ratio right. Too much Lightning and it's fast but bounces off A like rubber off a wall, basically Light Release, then too much Fire and it hits hard but not fast enough for A to dodge, basically enhanced Explosion Release.

It had to be perfect.

And then there was the small matter of everything else.

Fire Burst at her feet to keep her mobile. Yang Chakra working overtime to patch up the damage her own techniques were doing to her body. Two different chakra natures weaving together like they'd been doing this their whole lives, all at once.

It was a lot.

Unfortunately, she thought, because even geniuses have limits, it's also way too much chakra to keep up for long.

(END OF THE CHAPTER)