The afternoon light filtered through the windows of the Hokage's office, casting long, golden rectangles across the polished floor.
Several clan representatives were present. Nara Shiba sat near the front, his posture relaxed, his dark eyes half-closed in the particular way that suggested he was paying more attention than he appeared to be. The Akimichi representatives were nearby, their large frames somehow fitting into the chairs with practised ease.
The Aburame clan representatives sat in their characteristic silence, while Hyūga main family delegates had positioned themselves slightly apart. And a few civilian council observers, their expressions carefully neutral, occupied the periphery.
Scrolls and voting proposals were spread across Minato's desk—reports on mission assignments, proposals for training reforms, analyses of the Jonin Commander's authority and how it should be restructured under the new administration.
Renjiro sat slightly apart from the main group, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable. He had spoken little during the meeting—had contributed when asked but had otherwise remained silent. His role was not to persuade, not to negotiate, not to build consensus. His role was to observe.
And observe he did.
He watched the Nara clan representatives, noting the subtle shifts in Shiba's expression, the way his eyes tracked the room, the almost imperceptible nod he gave to the Yamanaka when a point was settled. He watched the Hyūga the way they positioned themselves to avoid direct eye contact. He watched the civilian council observers, noting their discomfort in a room full of shinobi, the way their hands fidgeted with the edges of their scrolls.
'This meeting was less about competence and more about influence,' he thought.
"Thank you all for your cooperation regarding the village restructuring," Minato said, his voice carrying the particular warmth that had made him beloved.
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room.
"Before we adjourn, I want to ask: can I rely on your support during the upcoming council vote for Jonin Commander?"
The silence that followed was brief but significant. Eyes shifted, glances exchanged, subtle signals passed between representatives.
Nara Shiba spoke first. "The Nara clan will support your recommendation, Minato-sama."
The Yamanaka representatives nodded. The Akimichi followed. The Aburame, after a moment of silence, inclined their heads. The Hyūga delegates exchanged a glance, then nodded as well. The civilian council observers, clearly outnumbered and outmanoeuvred, offered their assent.
Minato smiled.
"Thank you. This meeting is adjourned."
The representatives rose, gathering their scrolls and papers, their voices rising in quiet conversation as they moved toward the door. Renjiro rose as well, falling into the stream of bodies, prepared to leave.
"Renjiro. Stay for a moment."
Minato's voice was casual, almost offhand, but Renjiro caught the edge beneath it. He paused, turned, and watched as the last of the representatives filed out. The door closed behind them with a soft click.
He returned to his seat, settling into the chair, his expression curious.
"You wanted to see me?"
Minato leaned back in his chair, his blue eyes studying Renjiro's face.
"Are you anxious about the upcoming vote?"
Renjiro considered the question.
"Anxiety would not change the outcome," he said finally. "If I win, I win. If I lose, I adapt."
Minato smiled—a small, genuine expression.
"That's a very pragmatic answer."
"I'm a pragmatic person."
The silence that followed was comfortable, easy, the silence of two men who had fought together and trusted each other.
"Have you found a replacement for the ANBU commander?" Renjiro asked.
Minato's expression shifted—a flicker of frustration, quickly suppressed.
"No. There are few candidates I trust." He paused. "I'll ask Jiraiya to temporarily remain in the role. He dislikes administration—always has—but he understands the importance of the position. And he's one of the few people I know won't use the authority for his own ends."
"Temporary?"
"As temporary as I can make it. Jiraiya is not suited for this kind of work. He's a wanderer, a seeker, a man who needs freedom to do what he does best. Keeping him tied to a desk is... wasteful."
Renjiro nodded. He understood the dilemma. Jiraiya was loyal and capable, but he had never been comfortable in the dark.
Minato changed the subject, his tone shifting to something more conversational.
"I noticed one of your shadow clones leaving the village earlier."
Renjiro's internal pause was brief, barely perceptible, but Minato caught it. The Hokage's blue eyes were sharp, observant, and he had spent years learning to read the micro-expressions of those around him.
"Where is it going?"
Renjiro considered his answer carefully. The truth was not an option—not the full truth, at least. But he needed to offer something believable.
"A personal research task," he said. "Uzushiogakure ruins. Fuinjutsu study. Old sealing remnants."
Minato's expression did not change, but something in his posture shifted—a subtle relaxation, as if the answer had confirmed something he had already suspected.
"Be careful," he said. "The ruins are unstable. And there are... parties who might take an interest in what you're doing."
"I'm always careful."
"I know."
The conversation ended. Renjiro rose, bowed, and walked toward the door.
'I hope Minato believed the story,' Renjiro thought. 'It was plausible. Uzushiogakure ruins, fuinjutsu study, old sealing remnants. Nothing that would raise suspicion.
But it was also false.'
He had not sent a clone to Uzushio. He had sent a clone to track Orochimaru—to find the Snake Sannin, to establish contact, to begin the process of negotiation.
====
The terrain was rugged, unforgiving—rocky valleys that plunged into shadow, sparse forests that clung to the slopes, steam vents that hissed and billowed, their white plumes rising into the dim twilight. The air smelled of sulfur and damp earth, and the ground was warm beneath his feet, heated by the geothermal activity that gave the region its name.
Renjiro's shadow clone stood at the edge of a rocky outcropping, his Sharingan active, his gaze sweeping across the landscape below. He had been tracking Orochimaru for days, following fragments of intelligence, whispers from informants, traces of chakra that lingered like ghosts.
'This was his last confirmed sighting,' the clone thought. 'An informant placed him in this region three days ago. He's looking for something—experimental subjects, perhaps, or ancient ruins, or simply a place to hide.'
In the original timeline, Orochimaru should still be in Konoha—should still be a loyal shinobi, a member of the Sannin, a candidate for Hokage. But events had changed. The fallout with Hiruzen had happened earlier. Minato had become Hokage under different circumstances. The political structure of the village had shifted.
'The butterfly effects are growing, the clone acknowledged. I can no longer rely entirely on my knowledge of the original timeline. Too much has changed. Too many variables have shifted.
Orochimaru is out there. And I need to find him.'
The clone pushed the thoughts aside, forcing himself to focus. Speculation would not help. Only action would.
'Orochimaru is the priority.'
The silence was wrong.
Renjiro noticed it first as an absence—the lack of birdsong, the missing chatter of insects, the strange, dead stillness that settled over the landscape like a shroud. His instincts, honed by years of war, screamed a warning.
'Something is not right.'
He extended his senses, his chakra field expanding, searching for the source of the disturbance.
And then he felt it.
Beneath him. Beneath the rocky outcropping, beneath the thin layer of soil, beneath the geothermal vents that hissed and steamed—a concentration of chakra so dense, so focused, so malevolent that it could only be one thing.
Explosive tags. Thousands of them. Layered in the earth, waiting for a trigger.
The clone moved.
He flickered—a burst of speed that carried him away from the outcropping, across the rocky valley, toward the relative safety of the forest. But the trap had been designed by someone who understood shinobi reflexes, who had anticipated the direction of escape, who had layered the explosives in a pattern that covered every possible angle.
The ground erupted.
BOOM.
The explosion was deafening, a wall of fire and force that consumed the outcropping, that tore through the valley, that sent shockwaves rippling across the landscape. Debris rained down—chunks of rock, splinters of wood, clouds of dust and ash. The steam vents, ruptured by the blast, screamed their fury into the sky.
=====
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