The false calm of a Konoha noon was a masterpiece of mundane serenity. The sun, a brilliant, unblinking coin in a cerulean sky, poured its gold over tile roofs and dusty training grounds.
The air, warm and still, carried the lazy symphony of peacetime: the distant, rhythmic thock-thock-thock of a carpenter's hammer; the cheerful bell of a street vendor calling out his yakitori skewers; the shrieks and laughter of children released from the academy for lunch, their tiny shadows darting like minnows across sun-baked streets. It was a day that breathed contentment, a village exhaling after the long, ragged breath of war.
The disruption, when it came, was a swift, dark slash across this canvas of calm.
A hawk, not one of the smaller, swifter message breeds used for internal communiques, but a broad-winged, stern-faced bird of prey used for formal, long-distance missives, cut a sharp silhouette against the blue.
It ignored the bustling market squares and training fields, aiming unerringly for the Hokage Tower. The shadow of its passing swept over two chunin on gate duty, causing them to look up, their casual chatter dying mid-sentence. The bird landed on a specific perch outside the intelligence office with a heavy thud of talons on polished wood.
An attendant, a young chunin with ink-stained fingers, moved with trained efficiency. He approached the bird, murmuring soothingly, and deftly removed the scroll case from its leg.
His eyes widened a fraction as his thumb brushed over the seal securing it. It was not the familiar spiral of Konoha, nor the stark symbol of any other hidden village. It was pressed into dark red wax, intricate and imposing: the crest of the Land of Fire's Daimyō.
He didn't walk; he broke into a swift, silent run down the polished corridors, the scroll held before him like a sacred, dangerous relic. The message demanded the Hokage's eyes.
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Hiruzen stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the peaceful village he had shepherded through hell. The door opened with a soft click. The chunin entered, bowed low, and placed the scroll on the massive, cluttered desk without a word before retreating. The door clicked shut, leaving Hiruzen alone with the silent, wax-sealed cylinder.
For a long moment, he did not move. He studied the scroll from across the room as if it were a sleeping serpent. Then, with a sigh that was the first crack in the day's calm, he walked to the desk, sat, and broke the seal.
The parchment unrolled with a soft whisper. His dark eyes, still sharp as ever, scanned the formal calligraphy. As he read, his expression, usually a mask of weariness, hardened.
He finished reading, letting the scroll reroll itself with a faint rustle. He did not look up. He addressed the empty corner of the room where the shadows were deepest.
"Summon the Elders," he said, his voice low but carrying absolute authority. "And inform Nara Shiba his presence is required."
There was a slight, almost invisible shimmer in the corner, and an ANBU operative clad in a weasel mask was gone, the only evidence of his presence the faint disturbance of air.
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The first to arrive was Danzō. He entered with the silence of a shadow given form, his footsteps making no sound on the wooden floor. His eyes swept the room, missing nothing, lingering on the sealed scroll on Hiruzen's desk before he took his seat to the Hokage's right without a word of greeting. His posture was rigid, his face a sculpture of suppressed severity, colder and more closed-off than even his usual demeanour.
Next came Utatane and Homura, together as they often were. They moved with the deliberate care of retired warriors, their bodies showing the stiffness of age but their eyes still holding the keen light of advisors who had helped steer the village through two previous wars.
After the Third Shinobi War, the other two elders who had shared their rank had quietly retired, their spirits broken by the conflict's toll. Only these three—Danzō, Koharu, and Homura—remained, a hardened, reduced nucleus of Konoha's old guard.
They nodded to Hiruzen, their expressions carefully neutral, and took their seats to his left.
Last was Nara Shiba. He did not enter with the same gravitas. He slipped in with the characteristic tired eyes and spiky ponytail of his clan. Unlike the elders, he did not sit. He took a position near the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, the very picture of an observer.
His role was to analyse, not to debate. He offered a slight, weary nod to Hiruzen and then let his gaze grow distant, already beginning to dissect the unspoken tension in the room.
The office felt suddenly smaller, the air thicker. Sunlight illuminated the dust motes dancing between these pillars of Konoha's power.
Hiruzen did not waste time with a preamble. He lifted the scroll. "A missive from the Daimyō's court," he announced, his voice filling the quiet room. He unfurled it again, though he needed no reminder of its contents. "A Kage Summit has been called."
A ripple, subtle but distinct, passed through his audience. Koharu and Homura exchanged a single, measured glance, a silent conversation of decades passing in an instant. Homura's fingers tightened minutely on the arm of his chair. Shiba, by the door, didn't move, but his distant gaze sharpened, focusing on Hiruzen.
"The purpose," Hiruzen continued, his tone flat, bureaucratic, "is to discuss the formal conclusion of the Third Shinobi War. Specifically, the negotiation of concessions and reparations."
He let the words hang. They all knew what that meant. The victors, however morally ambiguous that title was, would demand payment. The losers would seek to mitigate their losses.
"The summit is to be held in the Land of Iron as usual, under the neutral auspices of the samurai. We have one month."
The reactions were as varied as the individuals.
Koharu let out a slow, controlled breath. "So soon. The wounds are still fresh. This will be… delicate."
Homura nodded, his voice gravelly. "The balance of power has shifted. Iwa will be hostile. Kumo will be arrogant. Suna will be desperate. And Kiri…" He trailed off, the mystery of the Bloody Mist's new, young Mizukage a worrying variable.
Shiba remained silent, but his mind was visibly whirring, mapping alliances, resources, potential trade-offs.
Hiruzen's gaze, however, was drawn to Danzō. The man had not reacted. He sat perfectly still, his single eye fixed on a point on the floor between himself and Hiruzen's desk. His silence was not thoughtful; it was icy, detached. This coldness was a recent frost. Ever since Orochimaru's betrayal had been uncovered—the sordid experiments, the defection—a part of Danzō had retreated, sealing itself behind a wall of bitter disillusionment.
His lack of commentary on a matter of such supreme political and military importance was more telling than any outburst.
The unspoken tension in the room grew heavy, fed by Danzō's glacial silence and the monumental task now before them. They were to barter pieces of their village's future, its security, its wealth, in a room with the very Kage whose forces had so recently tried to slaughter their children.
Hiruzen looked from one face to another, finally letting his eyes rest on the scroll in his hands. He saw not just parchment and wax, but the spectre of long journeys, gruelling negotiations, and the safety of the village resting on his weary shoulders once more. He had hoped for a longer peace.
He had hoped to guide his successor into a gentler era.
The hope was a luxury the Daimyō's seal had just revoked.
He rerolled the scroll with finality, the sound loud in the quiet. He placed it squarely in the center of his desk, a declaration in itself.
"I will depart for the Land of Iron in two weeks' time," Hiruzen stated, his voice leaving no room for discussion. It was not a proposal. It was the Hokage's decree.
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