The polished wooden floor of the administrative wing of the Hokage Tower was quiet in the late afternoon lull. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic "shush-shush" of a broom wielded by a cleaning civilians several corridors away.
Kakashi paused outside the door marked with the village's clan's distinctive leaf emblem and the title 'Jonin Commander.'
His mission scroll, delivered by a harried-looking chunin, had been tersely worded: Report to Shiba-sama's office. 1600 hours.
No context, no listed priority. That, in itself, was a kind of message.
As he raised his hand to knock, he caught the low murmur of voices from within. Two of them. One was the familiar, dry, measured tone of Nara Shiba.
The other, younger, carrying a similar lazy cadence, was undoubtedly Shikaku, his son. They were in the middle of something. Kakashi hesitated for a fraction of a second—interrupting a Nara's train of thought was notoriously unproductive—then rapped his knuckles against the wood with three sharp, precise taps.
The murmuring ceased. A beat of silence stretched, then, Shiba's voice, unchanged, called out,
"Enter."
Kakashi slid the door open and stepped inside. The office was a study in organised, minimalist intellect. It was smaller than the Hokage's cavernous room, but still spacious, the walls lined not with trophies or awards, but with maps of staggering detail—topographical, political, and resource distribution.
Behind a desk sat Nara Shiba, his spiky ponytail a shade greyer than Kakashi remembered, his eyes half-lidded but missing nothing. Standing to his left, a younger mirror image with a growing goatee and an expression of perpetual mild annoyance, was Shikaku.
"Kakashi, Renjiro. Just in time," Shiba said, his gaze flicking past Kakashi to a point over his shoulder.
Kakashi's visible eye blinked.
'Renjiro?'
The name registered, but the spatial awareness didn't. He had entered alone. The corridor had been empty. His senses, honed by ANBU missions and a lifetime of survival, had detected no one following him, no chakra signature clinging to his shadow. A cold thread of professional unease spun through his gut.
He turned.
Renjiro stood just inside the door, having apparently entered so silently and smoothly before Kakashi had even registered him.
He wasn't hiding. He was simply… present.
But the way he occupied the space was different. Kakashi had operated alongside Renjiro on ANBU missions years ago and had fought in the same battles during the war. He knew the older boy's presence—a sharp, contained intensity, like a sealed scroll thrumming with powerful fuinjutsu. This was not that.
This Renjiro felt… muted. Not weaker, but still. The usual subtle, electric hum of potent, carefully controlled chakra was absent, or rather, so deeply internalised it was undetectable.
His eyes, the usual dark onyx, met Kakashi's for a moment, and there was nothing in them—no challenge, no greeting, no shared history of blood and battle. Just a calm, observational depth that was somehow more unsettling than the crimson glow of the Sharingan. Something fundamental had changed, and Kakashi couldn't quite name it.
"Shikaku, we'll continue this later," Shiba said, dismissing his son without looking away from the two jonin before him.
Shikaku offered a shallow, respectful bow to his father, a nod to Kakashi and Renjiro that was more acknowledgement than greeting, and slipped out of the office.
With his son gone, Shiba leaned forward, "I have a mission for the two of you."
Inside, Renjiro felt a spark, bright and sharp, of pure anticipation. It had been nearly four years since his last formal, assigned mission. The war didn't count—that was a sprawling, chaotic national defense, not a discrete task with objectives and parameters. And before the war… his thoughts darkened briefly.
Before the war or the last Kage meeting, he had been effectively confined to the village, his wings clipped after the political fallout from his confrontation with Kumo's jinchuriki. That incident had painted a target on his back, given Kumo's hawks the provocation they needed, and seen him quietly removed from ANBU and placed on a village-bound leash.
The memory was a old bruise—a mix of frustration at the political short-sightedness and a resigned understanding of his own role as a catalyst. Now, that spark of anticipation was laced with a relief so deep it was almost physical.
Shiba continued, "The mission commences in two weeks."
This time, the surprise was external. Kakashi's single eyebrow twitched upwards behind his hitai-ate. Renjiro's own calm expression didn't shift, but his mind, so recently settled, began calculating at high speed. A two-week lead time was unusual for anything requiring two elite jonins.
"This is not an urgent deployment," Shiba clarified, as if reading their thoughts.
"It is a planned escort detail. You will be part of the contingent escorting the Hokage to the Kage Summit in the Land of Iron."
'Escort. Kage Summit.'
The pieces clicked together in Renjiro's mind with an almost audible snap. His eyes narrowed a fraction, his gaze flicking sideways to Kakashi before returning to Shiba.
'Minato isn't going.'
The deduction was instant. A Kage traditionally brought their probable successor or their strongest protector to such a gathering. It was a display of legacy and power. For Hiruzen to leave Minato behind… it was a statement.
"You will use the next two weeks to arrange your affairs and prepare," Shiba instructed, his tone leaving no room for debate. His eyes, however, lingered on Renjiro with a particular, pointed weight. "That means being *reachable, and having your personal logistics in order."
Renjiro tilted his head. "Is there a particular concern, Shiba-sama?"
"Your noted habit of becoming unreachable for days or weeks on end," Shiba replied dryly.
"It's an inconvenient trait in a shinobi being assigned to protect the Hokage's person."
"I don't disap—" Renjiro began, the denial automatic.
"We had people searching for you for a week, Renjiro," Shiba interrupted, his voice like flat stone. "They only located you and delivered the summons yesterday."
Renjiro paused. The week on the floating islands, immersed in the training of his Mangekyo after accessing its abilities. Time had lost meaning there. He had been utterly, completely off the grid. He exhaled, a soft, conceding sound.
"Understood. I will ensure I am prepared and available."
"See that you do." Shiba leaned back, "Dismissed."
=====
In the towering, lightning-scarred fortress of Kumogakure, the Third Raikage stood alone on a stone balcony overlooking his militant village. The message was crumpled in his fist, his massive shoulders a tense line against the bruised purple twilight. No advisors murmured behind him. Here, the decision was his alone. The silence around him was not contemplative, but stern, charged with the memory of recent war. He would go to the summit not to negotiate, but to dictate. Even if he didn't during the war.
In the deep, earthy caverns of Iwagakure, the Third Tsuchikage, Ōnoki, floated a few inches above his stone chair, the scroll held at arm's length as if it smelled. His wrinkled face was a mask of profound irritation. Concessions? Reparations? The very words were gravel in his mouth. His village had bled, had been humiliated by Minato Namikaze's speed and the stubborn resilience of Uzumaki Renjiro and other Konoha shinobi. This summit was a battlefield he'd rather avoid, but one he could not cede. Around him, the very rock seemed to echo with stubborn, grudging pride.
In the wind-scoured council chambers of Sunagakure, the Third Kazekage, Saitetsu, sat with his future successor, Rasa, standing rigidly at his side. The air between them was thick with unspoken tension. The scroll lay open between them, a harbinger of more than diplomatic struggle.
For Suna, desperate and resource-poor, this summit was about survival. Every concession would be a wound, every negotiation a potential death knell. Rasa's eyes were hard, already calculating the mineral worth of their sovereignty, his Kage's face grim with the weight of a legacy of dust and dwindling water.
And in the mist-shrouded, blood-stained halls of Kirigakure, the newly installed Fourth Mizukage, Yagura, read the message in a room too large for his small frame. His expression was placid, almost vacant, but the air around him throbbed with a quiet, terrible menace.
The Three-Tails' chakra, perfectly synced and yet utterly dominating, was a silent scream in the mist. His advisors kept a careful distance, their eyes downcast.
For Kiri, the summit was an opportunity to step out of the crimson fog and project a new, terrifying kind of power. The stillness around Yagura was not peace, but the calm of deep, controlled insanity.
=====
Bless me with your powerful Power Stones.
Your Reviews and Comments about my work are welcome
If you can, then please support me on Patreon.
Link - www.patreon.com/SideCharacter
You Can read more chapters ahead on Patreon
Latest Chapter: 726-Pretty Suicide