The forced smile on Fugaku's face was a mask so thin that Renjiro could see the tension cracking through its edges. The clan head's lips were curved upward, his eyes carried the appropriate warmth, but something behind them was rigid—controlled.
It was the smile of a man who had learned to hide his true feelings behind layers of diplomacy, but who had not quite managed to perfect the art.
"Of course," Fugaku said, his voice smooth, measured. "Renjiro. Report back when you're done."
Shiba inclined his head, the gesture barely an acknowledgement, and turned away. Renjiro followed, falling into step beside the older man, leaving the Uchiha delegation behind.
The moment they were out of earshot, Renjiro imagined Fugaku's smile dissolving. He did not need to look back to know it.
"What's wrong?"
Mikoto's voice was low, pitched for Fugaku's ears only. She had seen it too—the tension in his jaw, the way his hands had tightened at his sides. She knew her husband well enough to read the signs that others missed.
Fugaku's smile vanished. The warmth drained from his expression, replaced by something harder, more calculating.
"I have a bad feeling about today."
Fugaku was not a man given to premonition. He dealt in facts, in strategy, in the careful accumulation of advantage. For him to admit uncertainty—to voice it aloud—meant something was wrong.
"The council will choose the Hokage," Mikoto said, "You've done everything you could. The rest is out of your hands."
Fugaku's gaze followed Renjiro's retreating back, his dark eyes narrowing.
"It's not the outcome I'm worried about."
Renjiro walked beside Shiba through the crowded hall, the noise of the gathering swelling around them.
"What do you want?" Renjiro asked. There was no point in pleasantries. Shiba was not a man who appreciated them.
'Multiple people seeking me out today,' Renjiro thought, 'Aiko. Shiori. Fugaku. Now Shiba. I'm becoming a hot commodity.'
Shiba's response was blunt, "You owe me."
Renjiro's steps faltered for just a fraction of a second.
'Owe him? For what? The barrier inspection? The negotiations? The political backing?'
He defaulted to the most obvious interpretation.
"You want kickbacks? A share of the seal profits?"
Shiba stopped walking.
"I don't want your money." His voice was flat, dismissive. "I want a supply of seals for the Nara clan. Stabilisation seals, specifically. At a discounted rate."
Renjiro blinked. The request was so straightforward, so lacking in the usual layers of political manoeuvring, that it took him a moment to process.
'That's it? That's all?'
"Done," he said.
Shiba's lips curved into a smirk—the first genuine expression Renjiro had seen on his face all day.
"Shikaku told me about the Kaede incident," he said. "The way you handled her. The legacy question." He shook his head slowly. "You've got teeth, Renjiro. More than I expected."
Renjiro's internal reaction was a cold spike of realisation. 'So that's why he's being so direct.'
He understood then. Shiba's usual manner—the circuitous conversations, the layered implications, the careful dance of words—was a defence. A way of protecting himself from people he did not trust. This bluntness, this directness, was a gift. An acknowledgement that Renjiro had earned something more.
'This is the most straightforward Shiba has ever been with me.'
Before either of them could speak further, a figure appeared at Renjiro's side.
"Shiba-san. Renjiro." Minato inclined his head to each in turn. "I was hoping to find you."
"Minato-sama," Renjiro said, the honorific automatic.
Minato's smile widened slightly. "I heard about the stabilisation seal."
He placed a hand on Renjiro's shoulder, "Congratulations. It's a remarkable achievement. And sharing it with the village—that takes character."
Renjiro inclined his head, accepting the praise without comment.
"Kushina didn't mention any knowledge about it," Minato added, a hint of curiosity in his voice.
"I told her today," Renjiro replied. "Before the council."
Minato's eyebrows rose slightly—a flicker of surprise that was gone almost before it appeared.
"I see," Minato said, "We'll talk more later. After the council."
The doors at the front of the hall opened.
The conversations that had been buzzing through the room died, one by one, like candles being extinguished. Heads turned. Bodies shifted.
Hiruzen Sarutobi entered first, his aged face carrying the particular gravity of a man who had worn the Hokage's hat for decades and was about to pass it to another. Behind him walked the village elders, their postures carrying the weight of institutional memory.
And behind them, in a cluster of formal robes and ceremonial guards, walked the Fire Daimyo and his entourage.
The hall, which had been loud moments before, fell into a tense, expectant silence.
Minato straightened, his hand dropping from Renjiro's shoulder.
"Duty calls," he said
Shiba watched him go, his expression unreadable.
"We'll talk later," he said to Renjiro. "About the seals. About the barrier. About other things."
He nodded once and moved toward his own seat, toward the Nara section where his clan waited.
Renjiro stood alone for a moment, the crowd flowing around him like water around a stone. Then he turned and made his way toward the Uchiha section, toward the dark cluster of his clan, toward the seat that was waiting for him.
The Uchiha delegation had arranged themselves in a tight formation near the centre of the hall.
Renjiro scanned the seating arrangement, looking for an empty chair.
There was only one.
Next to Nakada.
His jaw tightened. The movement was small, almost imperceptible, but he felt the muscle tense, felt the flash of irritation that came with being cornered.
'Of course. Of course, they put me next to her.'
He ignored her. Deliberately, pointedly, he walked past without acknowledgement, without a glance, without any sign that he had registered her presence. He sat down, his gaze fixed on the front of the hall, his posture rigid.
Nakada's eyes flickered toward him—a glance that carried something between irritation and hurt. She did not speak. Neither did he.
The silence between them was a wall, thick and unyielding.
Hiruzen stepped forward, "This council is called to order."
The room, already quiet, grew stiller. The rustle of clothing, the whisper of papers, the soft breathing of hundreds of shinobi—all of it faded into the background.
"We are gathered to choose the Fourth Hokage of Konohagakure." Hiruzen's gaze swept the room, touching each face, each clan, each faction. "The process has been underway for two weeks. Nominations have been submitted. Now, we will hear the names."
Renjiro's attention sharpened. He knew the candidates—had known them for weeks. But hearing them read aloud, in this formal setting, carried a weight that was different from the quiet conversations of strategy sessions.
The hall was larger than usual. Not just clan heads and council members, but jōnin from across the village—men and women who had earned the right to vote, who had survived war and loss and the slow grind of service, who would now have a say in who led them.
Renjiro's gaze swept the room, cataloguing the alignment of power.
Fugaku's camp was clustered near the centre—the Uchiha, their traditional allies, the hardliners who believed that the village needed a firm hand, a leader who would not be swayed by sentiment. Their faces were serious, determined. They knew the odds were against them, but they were here to fight.
Minato's camp was larger, more diffuse. Hiruzen loyalists, progressive voices, shinobi who had fought beside the Yellow Flash and had seen what he could do. Their energy was different—not desperate, but expectant. They were here to witness, not to fight.
And in the spaces between, the neutral parties sat, their expressions unreadable, their votes still uncommitted. They would decide the outcome—not by choosing a winner, but by making the winner's margin decisive.
'Fugaku will lose,' Renjiro thought. 'But he will lose well. He'll be seen as a contender. He'll position himself for the future.'
The calculation was cold, but accurate.
Hiruzen unrolled a scroll.
"The nominations," he said, "submitted two weeks ago, are as follows."
He paused, letting the weight of the moment settle.
"Fugaku Uchiha."
The name landed in the quiet hall. The Uchiha section stirred—not loudly, but visibly. Fugaku's posture did not change, but something in his expression shifted. He had been nominated. He was a candidate. Whatever happened next, that fact would be recorded.
"Minato Namikaze."
The reaction was different—a ripple of approval, of expectation, of the particular energy that came when a crowd heard a name they had already decided was inevitable. Minato, seated near the front, inclined his head slightly, accepting the acknowledgement without arrogance.
"Jiraiya."
A murmur.
Hiruzen paused. The scroll was not empty. There was one more name.
Renjiro's attention sharpened. He had not expected this. There should have been only three.
"And finally, Renjiro Uzumaki."
=====
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