The Shinobi world's mood shifted as unpredictably as June storms, more mercurial even than a noble's smile.
Across the desert-swept dunes and verdant forests, Sunagakure and Konohagakure had bolstered their bond—jointly hunting down border ruffians defaming both banners.
Not long after, Iwagakure quietly opened talks with the Sand: not a formal pact, yet clear to all that Salt and Stone had each walked away richer.
Only days before, the Four Great Shinobi Villages had whispered of banding together against the Leaf. Now, winds reversed: Sand and Leaf rekindled old ties, and Iwa seemed eager for peace.
All three stood to gain. Suna reclaimed 11.5% of high‑rank missions, Iwa joyfully achieved its aims beside Sand—and only Konoha had sacrificed its share to satisfy others' appetite.
In Kumogakure's vaulted halls, the Fourth Raikage flung outstretched arms against his gleaming desk. "Onoki! Traitor!" he roared, splinters flying.
"You preached unity, promised joint strikes on Leaf scum—then backstabbed us to cut your own deal!" veins throbbed at his temples. "You cut crumbs from Konoha's table and left the rest starving!"
His glare glowed crimson with fury—and envy. How had the Leaf lavished such largesse on Sand? And why had Iwa, too, suddenly turned so accommodating?
Sand now held a full 20% of high‑tier contracts—enough to finance a middling village. The Raikage's rage peaked: none of the other four would risk another Great Shinobi War, yet here were Sunagakure and Iwagakure feasting on Konoha's spoils without sharing.
"Spread word among the minor villages that Konoha is weak, that Kirigakure plots fresh offensives," he snarled. "Let discord mar their borders—while we bide our time."
Fuelled by spite, he'd rope the Mist into igniting fresh strife. If Suna and Iwa chose peace, then Kirigakure must shoulder the burden of aggression.
Snow fell in thick drifts across the Whirlpool front, silencing blades with its muffled grace.
Under the crystalline hush, another Shinobi year dawned.
Itachi Uchiha turned eight; Kakashi and Kaien Uchiha each marked seventeen—this year's brightest prodigies.
Kakashi Hatake: Genin at five, Chūnin at six, Jōnin at twelve. Kaien Uchiha: Orochimaru's pupil, master of a thousand frontline troops, a calm strategist whose victories equaled—or outshone—Hatake's.
Konoha's fortunes had soured: Hyūga civil war, Hokage succession scandal, border skirmishes fracturing calm. Impoverished by endless conflict, the village feigned serenity even as its frontiers teetered.
Blanketing the Whirlpools, snow turned battlefields into glassy ice floes. Within Konoha's eastern outpost, war tents flickered against stained‑white drifts.
"Captain Kaien," a messenger reported, breath steaming, "Mist shinobi raided three forts this month. Per your orders, we saved shinobi first—so our supplies took the brunt. Yet casualties stay low."
A cautious relief rippled through the camp: skirmish after skirmish had kept them on edge. Minor clashes came every three days, major strikes every five; all-out war held in abeyance.
Obito Uchiha, Kirigakure's true power behind the Mizukage, seethed. Though his schemes ran deep, the Daimyō and Jonin balked: a Fourth Shinobi War would crumble them all.
Listening by candlelight, Kaien gave a wry nod. "Resources can be replaced—our people cannot."
Eyes brightened among the elite. Shinobi knew their leader spoke from experience: tales of the Third Hokage's words carried weight, but Kaien delivered action. He regarded every ninja as vital—heroes forging the future.
"Maintain watch," Kaien cautioned. "This storm won't last forever—and I won't have our lines breached over New Year's revelry."
Laughter rang out. "Lord Kaien, our scouts cover every ridge. The Mist won't slip past."
That night, Avalanche winds roared. The storm migrating from the Land of Iron shrouded both camps, forcing weary warriors to hunker down.
Trees strained under ice; the world seemed to hold its breath. In a hollow oak ringed by moonlight, Kaien paused, scanning for tails. Satisfied, he slipped inside.
"Orochimaru‑sensei," he murmured, voice echoing, "the ceasefire starves your experiments."
A dry chuckle slithered through darkness. "Storm and truce are only part of the story."
From shadowed roots, Orochimaru emerged, snake‑tongued grin appearing first. His pupil had grown swiftly—too swiftly.
In Kaien's mantle, warlord and politician blended. Had Orochimaru not found flaws in his Reanimation art, this body would have tantalized any vessel‑seeker.
"Iwa's Onoki stabilized Water's rear—no heroics needed out here. Many wish this feud ended. Iwa and Suna rebuild while Leaf and Mist lull."
Kaien's brow creased. They sought to recall him—send Sarutobi Shinzō east to craft renown on a forgotten frontline. A hollow quest for prestige cloaking fears they'd outgrown his ascendancy.
"Old fools pushing his rise—fond memories of the Third's bloodline, yet blind to Kaien's prowess."
Orochimaru spat an intelligence scroll. "Jiraiya treads near Iwagakure, and Tsunade—yes, Tsunade—approaches. My research peaks."
"Princess Tsunade?" Kaien's lips curved. "Would she brave bloodshed?"
A rasping laugh. "She'll sever red from her sight. The strongest medical ninja can alter her own optic nerves—no more hydrophobia when fate demands it."
Kaien absorbed the truth. He had not measured their resolve: allies yet adversaries, each playing subtle gambits.
"Tsunade's approach means caution. My next moves must be unseen."
Under the blizzard's howl, Kaien's shadow melted into snow—plans shifting like drifting flakes.
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