The question hung in the lamplight, suspended between them like a blade waiting to fall.
Renjiro went still. Not the stillness of calm, but the stillness of a predator who had suddenly sensed danger—every muscle frozen, every instinct focused, his mind racing through possibilities and implications in the space between heartbeats.
'Does Minato know about Obito?' The thought surfaced from the depths of his consciousness, cold and sharp. 'Has he suspected something? Found evidence? Connected dots I didn't even know existed?'
But no—Minato's expression was curious, thoughtful, not accusatory. He was not testing Renjiro. He was genuinely asking, genuinely seeking input. The Rin incident had shaken him, had made him question the village's defences, had sent his mind down paths it might not otherwise have explored.
'Maybe just a gut feeling,' Renjiro concluded. Maybe nothing concrete at all. 'He's a genius—his instincts are better than most people's certainties.' But he doesn't know. Not yet.
Minato noticed the brief pause. His blue eyes, sharp despite his exhaustion, flickered across Renjiro's face, searching for something. But he did not comment. Did not push. Simply waited.
Renjiro forced his shoulders to relax, his expression to smooth into something thoughtful rather than alarmed.
"I hadn't seriously factored space-time ninjutsu into the barrier calculations," he said, his voice calm, measured. "Space-time techniques are absurdly rare. The only confirmed user I personally know is you."
He paused, letting the statement settle.
"But I have to ask—why bring this up specifically? Is there intelligence suggesting such threats?"
Minato was silent for a moment. His fingers tapped the desk again—tap, tap, tap—a nervous habit Renjiro had never seen before. The Hokage's office, with its stacks of paperwork and its cold tea and its flickering lantern light, suddenly felt smaller, more intimate.
"I want to be thorough," Minato said finally. "The village cannot afford unknown vulnerabilities anymore. We were lucky with Rin—lucky that you were there, lucky that Kakashi found her, lucky that the beast didn't fully manifest before we could stabilise her. Even if she left us."
His voice hardened.
"I don't want to rely on luck anymore."
Renjiro nodded slowly. The answer was reasonable, even admirable. But it was also an evasion. Minato had not answered the question—not really. He had explained why he wanted to consider space-time ninjutsu, but not why he had thought of it in the first place.
'He's hiding something,' Renjiro thought. 'Or at least, he's not telling me everything.'
But he did not push. Some secrets were better left unspoken—for now.
"Could you modify the barrier?" Minato asked. "Theoretically. To counter space-time intrusions?"
Renjiro leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the schematic still half-rolled on the desk. The lines and symbols blurred as his mind shifted into a different mode—not the analytical assessment of existing systems, but the creative chaos of problem-solving.
'Barrier synchronisation,' he thought, mentally listing the components. 'The detection arrays are keyed to chakra signatures, to physical movement, to the displacement of air and energy. Space-time ninjutsu doesn't follow those rules. It doesn't move through space—it bypasses it.
So how do you detect something that isn't there?'
His eyes narrowed.
'Spatial distortion. Even if the user isn't physically present, their technique warps the fabric of space around them. If we could sense those distortions—the irregularities, the displacement, the echoes—
But the sensitivity required would be immense. The false positive rate would be astronomical. Every flicker of chakra, every fluctuation in the barrier's own energy field, could be misinterpreted as an intrusion.'
He shook his head slightly, dismissing the thought.
'Anchor-point interference. The Flying Raijin requires markers—seals that the user can teleport to. If we could detect those markers, or interfere with their activation—'
But that assumed the enemy used a technique similar to Minato's. What if they didn't? What if Obito's Kamui worked on different principles entirely?
'Too many unknowns,' he concluded. 'Without data, without understanding the underlying mechanics, any countermeasure would be guesswork at best.'
Minato watched him think, his expression unreadable.
"This is outside my primary specialisation," Renjiro said finally, choosing his words carefully. "To develop proper countermeasures, I would need actual data on space-time ninjutsu mechanics. Studying an existing technique would massively accelerate development. Even an incomplete formula theory would help."
He paused, watching Minato's reaction.
"I'm not saying it's impossible. I'm saying I can't do it with what I currently know."
Minato grew quiet. The silence stretched, filled only by the soft hiss of the lantern flames and the distant murmur of the night shift moving through the corridors.
Renjiro wondered if he had pushed too far.
'The Flying Raijin,' he thought. 'He has access to the formula. The Second Hokage's notes. His own refinements. If I could study those—'
But he could not ask directly. Could not reveal how much he wanted it, how much he had always wanted it. Space-time ninjutsu was the ultimate force multiplier. The ability to be anywhere, instantly, to escape any danger, to strike any target—it was the power that had made the Yellow Flash a legend.
'And it's the power that could counter Obito,' Renjiro thought. 'Kamui is space-time. The Flying Raijin is space-time. If I could understand the principles, find the weaknesses, build seals that could interfere with the technique—'
He suppressed the excitement before it could show on his face.
Minato finally spoke, his voice quiet, almost hesitant.
"Would access to the Flying Raijin formula scrolls be sufficient?"
Renjiro kept his composure externally. His expression did not change, his posture did not shift, his breathing remained steady.
Internally, his heart nearly skipped.
"Any authentic space-time formula would drastically speed up the process," he said, his voice calm, almost casual. "I can't promise results—not without studying the material first—but it would give me a foundation to work from."
He intentionally avoided sounding desperate. Avoided showing how much he wanted this, how long he had waited for an opportunity like this.
Minato nodded slowly.
"I'll give you access," he said. "To my notes. And to Lord Second's original scrolls. They're restricted, obviously—only the Hokage and approved researchers are supposed to view them. But I think this qualifies as approved research."
He smiled—a tired, genuine expression.
"Just don't lose them. The council would have my head."
Renjiro's lips curved.
"I'll be careful."
'Flying Raijin,' he thought, the words echoing in his mind. 'Actual space-time theory. The foundation of the Hiraishin. The principles that allowed a shinobi to teleport across any distance, to appear and disappear at will.'
The applications were staggering. Barrier integration—imagine a defence system that could teleport incoming attacks into the ocean, or into a containment zone, or simply into nothing. Marking systems—seals that could be placed on enemies, on allies, on strategic locations, allowing instant response to any threat. Teleport-linked seals—networks that could move resources, personnel, even entire armies across the continent in seconds.
He suppressed the thoughts, filing them away for later.
The tone of the conversation shifted. Minato leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight, and for a moment, he looked less like the Hokage and more like a man who was carrying too much.
"This position," he said, his voice quieter now, almost reflective. "It's harder than I expected."
Renjiro waited; he had already implied this, but since he began again, it seemed the situation was worse than what Renjiro expected.
"The political pressure. The clan interests. The civilian demands. The administrative burdens. I knew there would be paperwork—I didn't know there would be so much fighting. Everyone wants something. Everyone thinks their problem is the most important. Everyone expects the Hokage to fix everything overnight."
He rubbed his eyes, the exhaustion visible in every line of his face.
"And the resistance… the older shinobi, the ones who served under Hiruzen for decades. They don't say it openly, but I can feel it. They're watching me. Waiting for me to fail."
"They're threatened," Renjiro said. "You're young. You're different. You represent a future they can't control."
"Maybe." Minato sighed. "But I need people I can rely on. People who support me, not just the Hokage title."
He looked at Renjiro, his blue eyes sharp despite the fatigue.
"You've been watching. Analyzing. Seeing things others miss."
Renjiro's internal wariness spiked.
'Where is this going?'
"The ANBU needs restructuring," Minato continued. "Too many loyalties remain divided. Some divisions answer to old power structures instead of the Hokage. I've been trying to untangle it, but it's slow work. I need someone I can trust to take charge."
He paused, letting the words hang.
Renjiro's mind raced. 'ANBU. He's talking about ANBU. He wants me to—'
"Renjiro," Minato said, his voice quiet, deliberate, serious. "I want you to take charge of the ANBU."
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