The name—Danzō Shimura—hung in the cool, scented air of the Hyūga receiving room like the lingering note of a struck bell, its vibrations felt rather than heard. The genteel hostility that had characterized their meeting evaporated, replaced by a new, denser silence. The steam from their untouched tea seemed to freeze mid-spiral.
For a fraction of a second—a lapse so brief it would have been invisible to anyone without the Sharingan's perceptual acuity—Hiashi Hyūga's composure cracked.
His pale Byakugan eyes, usually as emotionless as pooled milk, darkened with a flicker of profound, visceral recognition. It was not fear, but the shadow of a deeply buried, mutual understanding.
Then, like a shōji screen sliding shut, his face smoothed back into its mask of aristocratic detachment. Fugaku saw it. He noted the reaction with the satisfaction of a fisherman feeling the first, telling tug on his line.
Hiashi took a slow, deliberate breath, the sound a soft whisper in the quiet. He reached for his tea cup, the movement controlled.
"Danzō Shimura," he repeated, his tone neutral, almost dismissive. "An unsavoury man, to be sure. But his… interests have historically been more of an Uchiha concern than a Hyūga one. His fixation on the Sharingan is well-documented." He took a sip, as if discussing a minor bureaucratic nuisance.
Fugaku outwardly shrugged, a small, tight motion of his shoulders. Inwardly, he fought the urge to massage his own temples. 'Politics. He's playing the game, not denying the truth. He felt that twinge. He knows it.' He decided to bypass the deflection and strike at the core logic.
"His fixation," Fugaku stated, his voice dropping into a lower, more resonant register, "is on power. On unique, militarizable assets. The Byakugan is no less coveted than the Sharingan. It sees through walls, perceives chakra networks with surgical precision. Do you believe the villages that hired Iwa hunters during the war were only after Uchiha eyes?" He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes intent.
"And the threat is not merely external. It lives within our own walls. A precedent has already been set." He let the implication hang for a moment.
"A Sharingan already exists outside of my clan, gifted to a loyal Konoha shinobi. What is a precedent but an invitation for repetition?"
Hiashi's cup halted halfway to his lips. The mention of Hatake Kakashi was a masterstroke—it transformed paranoia into cold, historical fact.
"If it has happened once," Fugaku pressed, his words measured and relentless, "it can happen again. Not today, perhaps. But in five years? Ten? When the memory of the war has faded and new 'patriots' decide the village's security justifies any means?" He was painting a future, not of vague suspicion, but of inevitable erosion.
"Danzō's pattern is clear. He does not really fight in wars. He waits for them to end, for the village to be weary and grieving, and then he emerges. He speaks of 'securing our position,' of 'removing internal weaknesses,' of 'consolidating strength.' His selective aggression after wars is a mask for scavenging."
He delivered the next piece of information like a carefully placed explosive tag. "He recently convinced the Hokage to allow the integration of Uchiha shinobi into his Root organisation. 'To foster unity,' he claimed. 'To utilise our unique talents.' The first step is always inclusion. The next is extraction." Fugaku's gaze was unblinking.
"If he succeeds in harvesting Sharingan, do you truly believe the Byakugan will remain forever beyond his reach? Your branch family system provides him with a… convenient pool of subjects deemed less essential."
The time pressure was the final hammer blow. "We must act before the next Hokage is chosen. Danzō's influence is greatest in times of transition. At a minimum, he must be contained. And containment requires a counterweight on the village council. A voice of the great dojutsu clans, united."
Hiashi fell silent. The gentle clink of him setting his cup back on the lacquered tray was abnormally loud. He did not look at Fugaku. Instead, his gaze turned inward, to the grim calculus of clan survival. He could not refute the logic.
The risk was not hypothetical; it was a path already being cleared, stone by political stone. Fugaku watched the silent battle play out on Hiashi's impassive face—the rigid pride warring with cold, pragmatic fear. The silence stretched, but it was no longer dismissive. It was the silence of serious consideration.
A quiet satisfaction bloomed in Fugaku's chest. 'He is weighing it. The hook is set.'
Finally, Hiashi spoke, his voice flat, stripped of its earlier performative courtesy. "Your argument is… not without merit." He acknowledged the threat without conceding allegiance.
"I am willing to… play this game. To lend the Hyūga's voice to your candidate's recommendation." He lifted his eyes, and now they were the assessing gaze of a merchant, not a fellow noble.
"What are you offering for our support?"
Fugaku's face darkened. A spark of genuine irritation flared behind his eyes. 'Offering?'
The sheer transactional gall of it, after he had just laid bare a threat to both their clans' very essence, was offensive. He bristled, his own composure thinning.
"I am trying to secure a future where our children's eyes remain in their heads, Hiashi. That benefits us both. Or do the Hyūga have a candidate of Renjiro's proven talent and war merit to propose for Jonin Commander? A Hyūga whose very existence would shift the village's power balance in your favour?"
Hiashi actually laughed—a short, dry sound like stones knocking together. "The Uchiha have no allies, Fugaku. Your clan is respected, feared, and isolated. An alliance with you is, in itself, a political risk for us. We would be tying our fate to a clan the village watches with… considerable anxiety."
He leaned forward, seizing the leverage Fugaku's desperation had handed him. "If the Hyūga are to take that risk, the price must be sufficient. So I ask again, plainly: what are you offering?"
The atmosphere crystallised into something hard and mercantile. The shared enemy was the foundation, but the structure would be built on trade.
Fugaku rubbed his temple, a rare public sign of strain. His hope of securing Hyūga support through shared threat alone evaporated.
'So be it.'
"Name your price," he said, the words gritted out.
"Chakra crystals," Hiashi said without hesitation.
Fugaku's eyes narrowed. They were a controlled, valuable resource, used to advance shinobi's chakra natures and high-end weaponry. The Uchiha's allotment from the village mines was substantial, a perk of their policing duties and historical contributions. But still the village has been reducing them over the years.
"How many?"
"Fifty."
Fugaku almost sighed in relief. It was a significant number, but manageable. A one-time payment for such crucial support? Perhaps Hiashi was being more reasonable than he seemed.
"Agreed," he said, perhaps too quickly.
A faint, cold smile touched Hiashi's lips. "Fifty," he repeated, "per chakra nature."
The world seemed to tilt.
Fire. Water. Wind. Earth. Lightning. Two hundred and fifty crystals. Fugaku's control shattered. He slammed a palm on the low table, not enough to overturn it, but with a crack that made the teacups jump and chime violently against each other.
"You cannot be serious!" he snarled, the polite clan head vanishing, replaced by a furious protector of his clan's resources.
"That is nearly our full village allotment for two years! Four hundred crystals are allotted for our clan! You ask for more than half of our total reserve!"
Hiashi remained unmoved, a statue of icy resolve. "This is the only path to Hyūga support, Fugaku. Otherwise, I will not merely withhold my voice. I will actively lobby the other clans for a different, safer candidate. One who does not carry the Uchiha name and all its… complications."
The power had decisively shifted. Fugaku was cornered, and they both knew it. He saw in Hiashi's eyes the same ruthless calculus that governed the Hyūga's internal caste system. Sentiment held no value here. He took a long, shuddering breath, forcing the rage back into its box. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse but controlled.
"...Agreed. But payment will be in instalments."
"Half," Hiashi said, stating the first condition, "upon the public announcement of your nomination. Delivered before the Hokage departs for the summit."
Fugaku gave a single, sharp nod. "Done."
"And there is one more condition."
Fugaku nearly snapped. His jaw clenched so tight a muscle leaped along his cheek.
Hiashi's gaze was unwavering. "Your clansmen in the Police. They are to cease their… heightened scrutiny of Hyūga-owned establishments in the central business district. The 'inspections,' the delays, the implicit threats over minor permit infractions. It ends. Consider it a test of good faith and your clan's discipline."
It was a petty, domestic grievance, but one that spoke volumes about the daily friction between the two powers. Fugaku understood its symbolic weight. A smirk, brittle and without humour, returned to his lips.
"Very well. The harassment will cease." He paused, then added his own, final condition, the steel returning to his voice. "And Uchiha Renjiro will become Jonin Commander. That is the goal. Your support must be unequivocal and effective."
Hiashi inclined his head, a minimal gesture of assent.
Fugaku rose to his feet, the negotiation concluded. He looked down at the seated Hyūga head, his expression now one of grim solemnity. "Remember, Hiashi. This alliance is forged in necessity. See that your clan remembers its part."
He turned to leave, but delivered the chapter's final line over his shoulder, a quiet, political threat that lingered in the incense-heavy air long after he was gone.
"If Renjiro does not secure the position… I make no promises about what my clan's frustration might look like. And where it might be directed."
The door slid shut behind him with a softer shick, leaving Hiashi alone in the sunlit room, the scent of threatened upheaval and extorted chakra crystals mingling with the fading aroma of tea.
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