The late afternoon light had softened to gold, the shadows stretching long across the streets of Konoha as Renjiro and Shikaku walked side by side toward the hospital.
Renjiro's gaze swept the street—the shops beginning to close for the evening, the last of the day's customers hurrying home, the first lanterns being lit against the gathering dusk. It was ordinary. Peaceful. The kind of scene that war made easy to forget.
'Who exactly are we meeting?' he asked, his voice casual.
Shikaku's pace did not change, but his response came after a moment's pause—the particular hesitation of someone choosing words with care.
'The head of Konoha Hospital. Also, the head of the Medical Ninjutsu division.'
Renjiro nodded. He had expected something along those lines. The stabilisation seal was medical technology, or close enough. It made sense to bring it to the people who would be responsible for implementing it.
"Tsunade," he said, and the name was a question. "When exactly did she leave the village?"
Shikaku's expression flickered—not quite surprise, but something close.
"Immediately after the war ended. She didn't stay for the celebrations, didn't wait for the treaty to be signed. Just… left." He paused. "No one knows when she'll return. Or if."
Renjiro absorbed this, his mind turning. Tsunade gone. Orochimaru, too, was no longer part of Konoha. Jiraiya, the last of the Sannin, is still in the village for now, but would he stay? After Minato became Hokage, after the responsibility settled onto new shoulders, would the Toad Sage remain, or would wanderlust pull him away again?
'Konoha is losing its pillars,' he thought. 'One by one, the generation that built this village is fading.'
Shikaku glanced at him, his dark eyes probing.
"You didn't know?"
Renjiro shook his head. "I buried myself in work after the war. Seals. Training. Preparation."
They walked in silence for a moment, the rhythm of their footsteps a quiet counterpoint to the murmur of the village around them.
"Who do you think will be the next Hokage?" Renjiro asked.
Shikaku's response was immediate, but not illuminating.
"I don't know."
Renjiro considered this. The evasion was careful, deliberate. Shikaku was not the kind of man who spoke without thinking, especially not about matters that could shape the village's future.
"I hope Jiraiya becomes Hokage," Renjiro said, and there was something in his voice—not quite hope, but close. "He's strong. Experienced. He knows the village."
Shikaku's response was dry, almost dismissive.
"Highly unlikely."
Renjiro turned to look at him, waiting for elaboration. None came. Shikaku's gaze had shifted, fixed on something ahead—the white walls of the hospital, visible now through the gap between buildings.
"Why?" Renjiro pressed.
Shikaku did not answer. Instead, he gestured toward the building ahead.
"We're here."
The hospital rose before them, its white walls gleaming in the fading light. It was a structure of clean lines and practical design, built for function rather than beauty—but there was a dignity to it, a sense of purpose that transcended aesthetics.
Windows reflected the gold of the setting sun, and through them, Renjiro could see the shapes of people moving, the quiet urgency of a place where lives hung in the balance.
They passed through the main entrance, and the atmosphere shifted immediately. The air was cooler here, scented with antiseptic and something else—the particular smell of healing, of bodies fighting to survive. Nurses moved through the corridors with practised efficiency, their footsteps soft on the polished floors. Patients in simple robes sat in waiting areas, their faces carrying the particular patience of those who had learned that recovery could not be rushed.
But beneath the calm, there was urgency. Renjiro could feel it—the pressure of a system that was always operating at capacity, always stretched thin, always doing more with less. The war had ended, but its wounds were still healing.
A nurse at the reception desk looked up as they approached, recognition flickering across her features. Her gaze moved from Shikaku to Renjiro, and something in her expression shifted—awe, perhaps, or the particular attention given to someone whose reputation had preceded him.
"Shikaku-san. Renjiro-san." She bowed her head slightly. "How can I help you?"
"We're here to see the head of the hospital," Shikaku said. "Senju Kaede-sama. We have an appointment."
The nurse nodded, her fingers already moving across the papers on her desk. "I'll let her know you've arrived. Her office is on the third floor, east wing. You can go up."
They moved through the corridors, past rooms where patients lay in beds, past nurses carrying trays of supplies, past the quiet, constant rhythm of a place that never truly slept. The stairs were worn smooth from decades of use, the walls lined with framed certificates and faded photographs of hospital staff from years past.
They reached the third floor and turned into the east wing. The corridor here was quieter, the doors larger, the sense of authority heavier. At the end of the hall, a single door stood closed, a small plaque beside it identifying the office within.
Shikaku knocked.
"Come in."
The voice was calm, composed, carrying the particular authority of someone who was used to being obeyed. Shikaku opened the door and stepped inside, Renjiro close behind.
The office was spacious but not ostentatious. A large desk dominated the centre, its surface covered with papers and reports, a single lamp casting warm light across the workspace.
Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with medical texts and research journals, their spines worn from use. A window looked out over the village, the last light of day painting the rooftops in shades of gold and rose.
Behind the desk sat Senju Kaede.
She was middle-aged, her dark hair streaked with grey, her face lined with the particular weathering of someone who had spent decades in service to others. But there was strength in her features—the strength of someone who had seen suffering and chosen to fight it rather than flee. Her eyes, dark and intelligent, assessed them as they entered, missing nothing.
She was, Renjiro recalled, Tsunade's cousin. The Senju blood ran in her veins, though its expression was different—less flashy, perhaps, but no less formidable.
Shikaku bowed slightly. "Kaede-sama. Thank you for seeing us."
Kaede inclined her head, her gaze already moving to Renjiro.
"Shikaku-san. And you must be Renjiro." She studied him for a moment, and something flickered behind her eyes—recognition, assessment, the particular attention of someone who had heard the stories and was measuring them against the man before her.
"The rising star."
Renjiro mused. 'Minato has a title. The Yellow Flash. Everyone knows what it means. And me? What am I called? Just the Rising star?'
He searched his memory. There had been a name, during the war. Something the troops had whispered when they thought he couldn't hear. Something about… he couldn't quite recall. The war had blurred many things.
'I did earn a title,' he reminded himself. 'I just… forgot what it was.'
He pushed the thought aside and bowed.
"Kaede-sama. Thank you for your time."
Shikaku moved the conversation forward, "We're here regarding a new medical seal. One that Renjiro has developed."
Kaede's eyes sharpened. "A seal? Not a technique?"
"A seal," Renjiro confirmed. "It's designed for battlefield use. Stabilization. It doesn't heal—not truly. But it holds the body together long enough to reach a medic."
He explained it concisely—the function, the limitations, the potential impact on the medical corps.
Kaede listened without interrupting, her expression unreadable. When he finished, she was silent for a moment, considering.
"You've tested it?"
"Yes." Renjiro did not elaborate on the nature of the testing. Some details were better left unspoken.
"And you're confident in its safety?"
"As confident as anyone can be with a new technology. There are risks. There are always risks. But the benefits outweigh them."
Kaede nodded slowly.
"Do you need to demonstrate?"
Renjiro hesitated. He had brought a seal, had prepared to show its effects if necessary. But the offer was genuine.
"There's no need for that." Kaede waved a hand, dismissing the suggestion.
"Shikaku is Shiba's son. And you, Renjiro, are not unknown to me. Your reputation precedes you." She paused. "I trust that you wouldn't bring something here unless it was working well."
Renjiro's internal reaction was a flicker of surprise. 'Connections matter more than I expected.'
He had assumed that proof would be required, that his words would need to be backed by demonstration. But Kaede's trust was not in the seal—it was in the people standing before her.
'Influence,' he thought. 'Not proof. That's what moves leaders.'
"We need your approval," he said, bringing the conversation back to its purpose. "The stabilisation seal. To present it to the village council, we need the medical division's endorsement. Your endorsement.'
Kaede's expression shifted. The openness of moments before did not disappear, but something else layered over it—the particular wariness of someone who had spent years navigating the politics of the village.
"I have conditions."
Renjiro's posture straightened slightly. He had expected this. No one in power gave approval without extracting something in return.
"What conditions?"
Kaede met his gaze directly.
"The rights to the seal must belong to the village."