Konoha
Inside Hiruzen Sarutobi's cramped office, curling smoke drifted under the low ceiling. The sweet, acrid scent of tobacco clung to the scroll-stained walls. Hiruzen set the steaming pipe aside and slid a fresh intelligence report across the desk to his three oldest confidants.
"Read this," he said softly, voice lined with concern. "Our front-line commission against the Mist ninja."
Koharu Utatane leaned forward, squinting through the haze. Homura Mitokado tapped his fan impatiently. And Shimura Danzo's one uncovered eye darkened as he studied the ink-blotted pages.
Danzo was first to speak. "Hiruzen, that young Uchiha"—he spat the name—"has grown far too dangerous. If we don't rein him in, he might lash out at Konoha itself."
Koharu exchanged a glance with Homura. Koharu drew a slow breath. "Are you more worried about the Mist, or the Uchiha?"
Hiruzen's fingers drummed the desk. "Fuguki," he said flatly, naming the Fourth Mizukage's right hand. "He carved a decapitation plan right into our lines—failed, but see the wreckage? They must've sent at least two hundred extra ninjas, or we'd never have lost those supply dumps."
Danzo snorted. "Stop fretting over one brat. The Mist want the Whirlpools' resources, and that port— stepping-stone to the sea."
Homura shook his head. "Even if we reinforce, Hiruzen, the real issue is their intent. Do they want war?"
"Exactly." Hiruzen's grey eyes clouded. "Another conflagration would bleed us dry—we just ended the Third War. If we get bogged down here, the other villages will pounce."
Danzo tightened his robes. "Then our response rests on one thing: do the Mist press forward, or sue for peace?"
Hiruzen lifted his pipe again, exhaling a lazy ring of smoke. "We've already ordered 430 shinobi from the Land of Lightning to reinforce the Whirlpools." The mention made Homura's fan flutter, and Koharu's jaw dropped.
"Dare we?" Koharu's voice was hushed. "Over a thousand shinobi in those jungles—a show of force or a provocation?"
Danzo's lip twitched in amusement. "Hiruzen, are you testing them?"
Hiruzen's rare smile cracked the tension. "Danzo, you know me too well. The Mist have bled through three wars, their Bloody Mist policy choking them. If they choose full–scale battle now, they'd mire themselves in endless strife."
Koharu nodded slowly. "Their clan is built on elite doctrine—but their numbers aren't endless, not like the Sand after their losses."
Homura added, "Still, we must grant them face."
Hiruzen's expression softened. "So the resupply convoy will pretend to shore up our wounded troops. If the Mist front lining opts for talks, it's just an inspection, and we pull back."
Danzo's scowl deepened. "Then why summon us?"
Hiruzen leaned back, smoke drifting from his pipe. "If you gentlemen have objections, speak now. The plan's not set in stone."
Danzo's fury flared, but Hiruzen's calm stare halted him. At last, the F4 quietly reshuffled the pieces on their war-scarred chessboard. Their goal: force the Mist into limited skirmishes—no more than a thousand shinobi at a time.
They did not know that elsewhere, the Fourth Mizukage's true master moved unseen.
…
A brittle peace settled across the Whirlpools' jungles, but every camp crackled with unease.
Leaf ninja faces carried afterburn of triumph: they'd driven back Fuguki's strike and nearly captured him. Yet rumors spread that Mist reinforcements had torched supply warehouses—and worse, ambushed relief convoys.
In the Mist's own tents, Fuguki sat swathed in bandages, his twin arms aching more from pride than pain. Losing the charge of Samehada, his prized blade, gnawed at him.
"What game is Konoha playing?" he growled. "They claim our supply lines—yet no whisper about my sword." He clenched his fists. "They must plan a private deal, conceal the blow to avoid spoiling relations."
Satisfied by this gamble, Fuguki vowed silence—better to hide his own loss until he struck again.
…
Back at the Leaf base, the moon dipped low as Uchiha Yoru rested in his tent. His eyelids fluttered open—his Mangekyō Sharingan still throbbed from tonight's frantic minute of power. He knew he'd skirted blindness; restraint would be his watchword.
Kakashi slipped in, bowing with the day's loss sheet. "Here, Lord Yoru."
Yoru scanned the numbers, a wry smile curling his lips. "Kakashi, you exaggerated."
Kakashi's one eye twinkled. "I hid some chakra metal, fine iron, medical kits— makes the tally look dire, but it's tidy."
Yoru said nothing; beside him, Hyūga Hizashi and Shisui's eyes flickered at that ruthless candor. Hizashi, as branch-family head, swallowed his awe, while Shisui's lips twitched between dismay and admiration.
Hizashi cleared his throat and offered his own report. "Thirty percent of my camp's supplies rescued—timely pulls from the rear."
Shisui's voice followed: "Under ten percent saved. The rest burned or stolen."
Ashes had erased every record—perfect cover. Yoru tapped the mahogany desk, voice soft. "Hizashi, you bear heavy burden. I'll overlook the rest—steady your household's coffers."
Hizashi bowed deeply. "Thank you, Lord Yoru."
That small gesture sealed deeper bonds: the Hyūga branch, long scorned, now stood unassailable by Konoha's politicos. Kakashi—future Hokage—had shown he could match shinobi skill with accounting finesse.
Yoru leaned back, exhaling moonlit shadows. "Chief Kakashi, spread word: the same strategy to aid Shisui's lines—light on details, heavy on urgency."
Kakashi nodded. "Understood."
Even in victory, the warning flared across every headquarters: the Mist would strike again soon. Supplies must flow—lines must hold firm. Yoru tapped his Sharingan-marked forehead.
"All clans, stay sharp. Intelligence wins wars."
And in that still night, beneath the swirling eddies of power, Konoha's future war plans quietly took root—seeded by smoke, carved in fire, carried on blood.
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