Land of Wind, Sand Ninja Village.
On the second morning, Konoha's envoys, Homura Mitokado and Koharu Utatane, wore composed masks, though their hearts bruised with unspoken anxieties. Their footsteps echoed across the smooth stone floor as they entered the council chamber. Sunlight slanted through narrow windows, dust motes drifting in silent currents around them.
The Sand Village's advisory elders, Chiyo and Ebizo, awaited them behind a low, round table strewn with scrolls. Chiyo's lined face reflected sleepless nights; Ebizo's eyes, deep-set, shimmered with worry. They exchanged formal bows, but the weight of the desert's scarcity pressed between the pairs.
"Alas," Chiyo began, voice raspy as wind-borne sand, "our resources dwindle like the last grains beneath a storm. I dare not foresee how we shall endure this year's trials."
Homura inhaled, lips pressed tight. Koharu's fingers tapped a slow, steady rhythm on her teacup. The tension coiled in the air until Koharu lowered her cup and spoke with measured clarity.
"Let us dispense with delicacy. The battlefield in the Land of Whirlpools demands Sand Village's aid. Since the Third War, our alliance has united us—now Konoha calls upon Sunagakure to hold back Iwagakure's aggression."
Chiyo's gaze flickered; Ebizo's jaw tightened. Yet they did not waver.
"The Nine-Tails' rampage and Orochimaru's treachery carved deep wounds into our borders," Koharu continued, voice firm. "Our defenses fray with each passing dawn. We require your shinobi's strength to stabilize this front."
Chiyo exchanged a glance with Ebizo, then lifted her chin in defiance. "It is no reluctance born of malice," she countered, voice thin with fatigue. "Our coffers lie empty—our academy struggles to train even a single squad. We cannot furnish more than empty promises."
Ebizo added, voice low, "We lack funds for proper gear; our children's pouches go unfilled."
Koharu inclined her head. "We acknowledge Sunagakure's hardship. Thus, Konoha offers to reduce our annual war-study quota—five percent less than the twenty percent currently ceded."
Ebizo's eyes gleamed. Chiyo's lips quivered as relief flickered across her features. But Homura and Koharu maintained composed expressions—knowing this concession was but a small salve on a grievous wound.
In Chiyo's rough voice, "Five percent… perhaps enough to clothe our academy, if only barely."
Ebizo dared a wry smile. They imagine this little gift binds our loyalty.
Chiyo's expression sobered. "Yet the Land of Fire blossoms with abundance—rivers flow where we know only dust. If you would show true solidarity, Konoha must waive the war-task treaty altogether. In return, Sunagakure shall stand unwavering at your side."
Silence settled like twilight. Koharu's brow furrowed. "Impossible," she said finally. "Those mission shares sustain clans that bled for Konoha's survival. Stripping them deeper courts revolt. The lowest reduction we can sanction is eight percent."
Chiyo's gasp echoed. She swirled tea in her cup before offering a trembling, "Twelve percent."
Thus commenced the gauntlet of barter: offers and counteroffers sharpened like kunai's edge. Voices rose with heated resolve; insults flickered beneath polite veneers. Threats lay hidden in each breath.
"Do you doubt Onoki's resolve?" Koharu challenged, ice lacing her words.
Chiyo's eyes flared. "And do you brandish your Uchiha prestige to browbeat us?"
Ebizo intervened, palm extended. Homura stepped forward, fingers splayed in a gesture of peace. The two sides—good cop and bad cop—tilted the balance back toward accord.
At length, the chamber's heated winds stilled; by mutual grit, they anchored upon a single figure: eleven and a half percent. Neither side yielded further, neither side rejoiced fully.
Chiyo bowed, voice hushed with relief and regret. "Eleven and a half percent—our alliance endures; our honor remains."
Koharu inclined her head in return. "May this pact last as long as the desert dunes."
Yet behind their bowed heads, each counted the cost in silent dread.
Battlefield, Land of Whirlpools.
Ashen skies hung low over a forest wrought with battle. Mist ninjas, masked and merciless, swarmed among shattered trunks. Their kunai sliced the air in silent arcs; exploding tags bloomed like black roses.
Sheltered beneath gnarled roots, wounded Leaf shinobi clung to consciousness. Medical tentacles of chakra wove through broken ranks, healing wounds on the fly. Near the chaos's heart, a cry rose: "Reinforcements!"
From the haze emerged a cadre of elite shinobi—veterans once forged in Orochimaru's shadow. Their armor glinted with fresh polish; their gait, disciplined and certain.
Leading them strode Uchiha Kaien, cloak whipping like storm clouds behind him. His Sharingan flared, tomoe spinning with predatory focus. In his hand, the Kusanagi blade gleamed—cold promise incarnate.
Ahead, Suikazan Fuguki confronted him. Samehada, coiled and alive, rippled at Fuguki's side. The ground between them trembled with unleashed intent.
Kaien's lips curved into a mocking tongue. "Your Samehada frays," he observed softly. "Losing it would haunt you beyond any scar."
Fuguki's grip narrowed. "Speak plainly, Uchiha," he demanded. "State your terms."
Kaien's eyes glinted. His blade whispered as he shifted stance. "Ninjutsu? Forbidden tomes? Gold and jade? None suffice. No… I want people."
Fuguki's eyes widened in rage. "You dare ask for our children—our heirs? Betray Mist's blood?"
Kaien's smile sharpened. "Not the elite you parade before elders and lords… those precious geniuses. No—offer me the castoffs, the overlooked. Preserve your pride and your blade."
A hush swallowed the forest. Mist thickened, cloaking their hushed feud in spectral curtains. Their blades clashed once, twice—phony strikes masking a darker bargain.
Fuguki's mind churned: expose Kaien and risk clan war; concede and tarnish honor. He inhaled, fist unclenching.
"Very well," he hissed. "I shall deliver them. But cross me, and no Sharingan trick saves you."
Kaien inclined his head, seal accepted. The fog swallowed them further—pawns in a grander scheme.
Beyond that clandestine exchange, the battlefield raged on. Leaf reinforcements surged, Mist nin retreated, and the fragile shore between war and fragile peace trembled with each breath.
Thus closed another chapter of shifting sands and shifting loyalties: alliances paid in wounded pride, debts measured in lives, the hidden currents of power ever anew beneath every blade's edge.
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