Konoha Command Post, Ame Front
Heavy black clouds sagged low. Rain drummed endlessly on the window frames, a suffocating, ceaseless hiss. Inside the command post, oil lamps barely gnawed back pockets of shadow. The air reeked of chill damp, blood, and scheming. On the wall, a vast shinobi world map showed Konoha's marker, isolated over the Land of Rain.
Danzō sat at the main seat, his face darker than the sky outside. Before him lay a mission report scroll, stained with blood and grit, like a red-hot brand searing his nerves.
"Hmph." A throttled grunt broke the dead air. In the shadow behind him, two Root operatives tensed, then froze back into stone.
"So… Those spineless reeds of Kusagakure were acting for those stone-headed Iwa fools, sweeping the Land of Grass to collect Uzumaki remnants as vessels?"
His palm slammed the hardwood desk.
Bang.
The crack boomed through the cramped room. A teacup jumped, brown tea sloshed out, spreading a dark blot across a dry scroll. A palm print sank into the wood, fibers crushed shallowly by the blow. In the shadows, the two Root shinobi barely dared breathe.
Kusagakure, a fair-weather ally, a creeper squirming in the ninja world's cracks. And they dared. They dared not only to secretly help their sworn rivals in Iwagakure piece together a perfect jinchūriki, Uzumaki with powerful sealing physiques, but to meddle a hundred different ways besides.
Even Iwa's brutes had caught the scent, and yet Danzō, and the Root intel web he had painstakingly woven, had been deaf and blind.
"Useless. All of you are useless." His fury nearly blew the top off his skull. He wasn't angry over a few Uzumaki lives. He already knew about the girl Ryo's squad brought back, Kaori, and felt not a ripple. To Konoha, stray Uzumaki out in the world were fallen leaves, one more, one less, no matter.
What set his blood boiling was Kusagakure's vile conduct, betrayal to the bone, and the insult of being toyed with in the palm of their hand.
Some ally this is.
Worse than a naked enemy. More infuriating. More humiliating.
"Iwa… and what right do they have." Danzō's withered fingers dug grooves into the wood, nails packed with sawdust. Freedom from tailed-beast rampages and jinchūriki meltdowns had long been Konoha's strategic edge, thanks to Uzumaki Mito. While other villages wrestled their monsters, Konoha enjoyed a rare stability.
And now, those damned Grass and Rock shinobi dared covet that stability guarded by Uzumaki blood. They dared raise a new Uzumaki jinchūriki to break the balance. A direct challenge to Konoha's core interests, and a slap at Danzō's grip.
A cold, absolute plan formed, hard as steel, in his mind.
Those Uzumaki remnants scattered in Grass, either they obediently get protected back to Konoha by Root, Konoha's current helm rests with Danzō and the other elders, sheltering a few more Uzumaki won't rock the boat, the clan's sealing arts and heritage already sit in Konoha's pocket.
Or—
If they can't be taken?
Then erase them. Cleanly. Completely.
What Konoha cannot have must not fall to wolves with hungry eyes, least of all into the hands of the great villages.
For a flash he even thought, if not for the First's jinchūriki, old Uzumaki Mito, that ancient terror before whom even the Third bowed, being gone now…
Stray Uzumaki…
"Ryo…" Danzō's eye slid back to the bloodstained report, his mouth twisting into an ugly arc that mixed approval with greed. Setting aside the boy's untamable, uncontrollable defiance, judging only this extermination of Grass.
"Beautifully done." He all but ground the words out. "Betrayers like Grass, worse than pigs and dogs, tumors. They should be culled to the last. Purged is justice."
This brat fit Root's palate perfectly, ruthless, leaving no tails, decisive in killing, unafraid to bear the weight. Born for Root.
The itch to poach flared again. Kamiyama Ryo, why so stubborn? He'd hand the boy Root's number-two seat if asked, authority, resources, the lot.
The more he read the clean, crisp report, the more a stone sat on his chest, satisfied yet stifled. The little bastard simply wouldn't bend, wouldn't join Root, leaving Danzō little to pick at. The suffocation gnawed him raw.
Ryo seemed to read his thoughts, a faint smile at his lips. He stood straight before Danzō, without the least trace of a subordinate's humility, composed, even faintly oppressive.
"Danzō-sama," Ryo jerked his chin toward a corner of the command room, where a trussed, man-shaped bundle oozed the copper of blood and the stink of earth, a faint Iwa-ninja breath. "By protocol, this gift should be brought back to Hiruzen. But if you'd like to interrogate him now, I've no objection." His tone was casual, as if discussing a trinket.
Danzō's lone eye lit like a starving wolf sighting lamb.
Interrogate? Of course, now.
Root could pry three pounds of intel from a corpse. Handing a high-value captive, even half-dead, to the decaying ANBU under Hiruzen would be a waste.
"Mm. You have my thanks for capturing him." Danzō forced his excitement down, trying to keep the elder's gravitas. He flicked his hand, voice low. "Take him."
Two Root shinobi slid from the dark like ghosts, precise and cold, dragging the captive away and leaving a dark red smear on the rug.
"Efficient," Ryo said lightly, while laughing inwardly. Danzō, my dear scapegoat, so eager to take delivery? When Hiruzen asks why I erased Grass, I'll sell you out, your orders, of course. You're the Nabekage himself, what's one more lid on the stack?
Watching his men vanish with the prize, Danzō's irritation over Ryo's refusal to join was rinsed by this happy surprise. He turned back, a calculating glint in his eye. A spear like this belonged, ought to belong, to Root.
"Kamiyama Ryo," Danzō's tone picked up an imperious edge as he tapped a new spot on the map, "well done. There's a more urgent mission here. Your squad will depart at once—"
"That's enough, Danzō-sama." Ryo cut him off.
The room froze. The two Root shinobi who had melted back into the shadows rippled with the faintest, incredulous stir. Someone dared talk to Danzō like that?
Even a lowly clerk in the corner, tasked with passing documents, fumbled and almost dropped his files, face bleaching white.
Ryo ignored them. "My mission was to confirm Iwagakure's movements. It's done. I'm returning to Konoha for rest. For the time being, spare me further assignments." Not a request, notice.
"Insolence." Danzō erupted, the volcano unstoppered. The earlier stifling report and now this public challenge to his authority combined into a roaring blaze. His face went so dark it dripped. His eyes flashed icy spikes at Ryo.
"Kamiyama Ryo. Remember your place. You're a Chūnin on Konoha's rolls, a shinobi at war." His voice cracked with frozen rage and iron command. "When did it become your turn to decide for me, or for the village? Issuing orders is my duty. Obedience is yours."
He slammed the desk again, even harder. The oil flame jittered wildly. "Look sharp. This is the Ame theater. I am the commander. When I assign a mission, you execute, immediately."
He meant to squeeze Ryo, yes, but more than that, he would not tolerate any dent in his absolute authority. Ryo's stance was his face being ground across the floor.
No face? Why couldn't this be said in private? Why humiliate me before everyone?
"My place?" Ryo's eyes narrowed. His features showed not a flicker of fear. Instead, a dangerous curve tugged his mouth as a terrible pressure rose off him like a tide.
In an instant—
The command post seemed to warp. Lamp light stuttered. Scrolls rattled. Killing intent howled through like a gale, draining the room of air.
A Root agent in the dark grunted, veins standing at his temple, knuckles bone-white on his kunai. The clerk sagged into a corner, knees gone.
Danzō, foremost in the blast, felt an invisible hand clamp his throat. The cold pierced his Root will. His heart nearly seized. Frost stabbed up his spine to the skull. In that pure, crushing murderous will, the reflex to strike back died.
Ryo stepped forward. The pressure doubled. Looking down at Danzō's shifting face, he spoke, each word crisp as ice falling and shattering.
"Danzō-sama, listen carefully, what I said was a notification, not a request."
His eyes held no warmth.
"Understand?"
One second.
Two.
Three.
Just when everyone thought the infamous, iron-fisted head of Root would explode into mutual destruction.
"Hrnh… hrnh… hrnh…" A strangled, bestial chuckle scraped out of Danzō's throat, dry as a grinding wheel.
With extreme difficulty, reluctant to the point of farce, he forced words through his teeth, each one tasting of blood.
"…You… do well, Kamiyama Ryo."
Then, mustering all his strength, he straightened his back to show what he imagined was his most unyielding, indisputable posture.
But what came out of his mouth made every confidant present drop their jaw.
"Be careful… on your way back."
He strained to make it sound stern, like a warning or command.
"I will… immediately sign your transfer for rest and return to the village."
"Now get out."
Hardest stance. Most cowardly words. The contrast hit like a slap, equal parts absurd and painful to watch.
(To be continued.)
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