The Uchiha clan marched once more.
Unlike before, this wasn't a full-clan sortie.
This wasn't another "Norman Conquest" snatch-and-grab—it was total war. So the Uchiha would move in formation, one cog among many in Konoha's war machine.
Even so, when the clan gathered and Uchiha Fugaku announced, "This time I won't go to the front; I'll remain in Konoha handling rear-echelon work," it shocked everyone.
Fugaku wasn't the timid type, nor was he too old or injured to fight.
So why sit out?
After a heartbeat's surprise, they all guessed the answer—Uchiha Yorin.
Since the birth of the New Hidden Mist, Yorin's prestige had far eclipsed his clan head's. Publicly, no one said it; privately, the grumbling ran: "Captain Fugaku, why not retire and let Yorin-nii be clan head already?"
In truth, Fugaku was thinking the same. He believed the clan was safest in Yorin's hands.
Before Sasuke was born, Fugaku still fretted—Yorin's attitude toward Itachi was… fraught. He worried about problems if he abdicated. But after Sasuke's birth, seeing Yorin doting on this "dear godchild," that last worry evaporated.
Of course, stepping down needed timing.
And the timing had come—the Fourth Shinobi War.
If Fugaku went and the northeastern front still fell under Yorin's overall command, differences of seniority would muddy command. If he didn't go, that problem vanished.
A test—and a runway.
If Yorin excelled, racking new merits, Fugaku would step down with the tide. If he stumbled—even lost his shirt—then the movement to seat him as clan head would quietly gutter out, and the clan's calm would be no bad thing.
…
Uchiha Yorin—who fully understood Fugaku's thinking—of course didn't refuse the chance. In fact, this was exactly what he'd wanted.
"Prodigy of the Uchiha" no longer fit. To push the Senju revival and his world-order project, the title of Uchiha clan head wasn't merely useful—it was necessary.
"I won't let you down," Yorin said. "From here on, I lead the Uchiha—for Konoha, for the clan—to victory!"
At his ringing declaration, even some of the elders went hot-blooded, dropping to one knee as one and shouting, "Yes, Yorin-sama!"
The sight made Fugaku both gratified and a little sore. He nearly barked: "Damn it, I'm not dead yet!"
But in the end, he swallowed the line.
"Young really is something," he thought. He wasn't old—yet watching Yorin, he felt the strength leaving his hands.
…
Fifteen thousand shinobi were assembled at speed. At the same time, Yorin flickered by Flying Thunder God straight into Mei Terumi's home.
Sensing his chakra, Mei's heart leapt; she almost sashayed over to press herself against him.
If Tsunade were here, she'd shout: "Why are you so good at this?!"
Usually, Yorin would fold her into his arms and "this and that." But not now—he stopped her.
"Hold on—business first."
At his tone, Mei sobered, face going properly serious. "So it's time to move?" There was a tremor of joy in her voice. "War—is it starting?"
"Yes." Yorin nodded. "Earth and Lightning have allied; Iwa and Kumo are advancing into the Land of Fire. War's begun."
"Then how do we act—how do we coordinate with you?" Mei asked.
"I've been appointed overall commander of the northern front. Fifteen thousand Konoha shinobi march with me."
"Mist can mobilize six thousand."
At the number "fifteen thousand," Mei's envy slipped out.
After civil strife, Mist could scrape together perhaps eight thousand at best; six thousand was more realistic. The stronger Konoha became, the harder an ally like Mist had to push to keep up.
She'd expected Yorin to descend like a five-star emperor with a handful of elites, commanding Mist's troops. She hadn't expected last time's "nominal vanguard general" to now be generalissimo in fact.
Fifteen thousand elites under his hand. The Uchiha tacitly recognizing him as next clan head. The Hokage's office treating him as future adviser. If anything happened to Minato, the odds-on successor would be Yorin. Even if the Third came out of retirement to run, it would likely be Yorin's win—his age alone tipped the scales.
How should Mist respond to such a figure?
In the midnight hush, waking in his iron arm, she kept turning it over: lovers have three endings—break, marry, or carry on. Allies too—rupture, union, or sustain. If she could, she'd choose a sweet marriage. Whether "union" or "alliance" after would depend on relative strength. If Konoha soared and Mist lagged, there'd be no ally to speak of—only a dependent, a satellite, a "maid-fief."
Picturing herself in a maid outfit, smiling professionally as she poured tea and polished spears, made her itch. If she must kneel under Uchiha's blazing blades, she'd be the principal, not a perky maid.
…
Yorin sensed her resolve but didn't chide it. It suited his purposes—better a lichee-heart Mei than a salted-fish Mei.
Especially as he meant to entrust Mist with an important task.
Though Minato's ask was merely "don't lose," Yorin wanted more. Minato would hope, after beating Iwa, to pivot with his victorious army to rescue Yorin. But Yorin's script was different.
He didn't want a strategic stalemate—he wanted a clean break, to gut Kumo in one sweep. Not to annihilate them—too hard, too ugly, and it breeds the fear that topples powerful men.
And besides, Yorin's end goal wasn't simply conquest. Slaughtering them may feel good today, but when the Ōtsutsuki come, where will he find the bodies? In a chakra economy, living adults are capital—even shackled to plow, they're worth more than dead men.
So: a crippling blow; huge losses; a long memory of fear. Then they'd docilely enter the "Ninja Sect" family.
"Mist's job is this," he said. "When war opens, stay 'neutral.' When Kumo and Konoha are locked, strike directly into Kumo's rear. Can you do it?"
"I see—Mist as a shock force." Mei's eyes flashed. "Six thousand straight into their flank! Done well, Kumo could collapse fast—and we'll take the war in one breath!"
It sounded workable. But—
What if Mist couldn't pull it off? It was humiliating to ask, but she truly worried. Isolated on the sea, Mist was good at rear-stabs. They'd cut many lines in past wars—sometimes with triumph, sometimes with blood.
The worst was last war's Seven Swordsmen, thinking Konoha's back was open—only to be blasted to paste by the original "Watermelon Head."
If they failed, shame would be one thing; what if Konoha lost because of them, angering Yorin, enslaving Mist as a maid-fief?
"Don't worry," Yorin said. "Kumo's not stupid. They'll worry about Mist's moves too. When the moment comes, I'll move—don't forget Flying Thunder God."
"And how do I contact you?" Mei asked.
He handed her a ring—Nagato's gadget for zero-lag comms. Every Akatsuki senior had one.
"In that case—no problem," Mei said. "I have a feeling Kumo's going to suffer badly this time."
Her seductively wicked smile bloomed—like those queens whose names history curses. Yorin couldn't resist. Business concluded, next came ten thousand "omitted words" of joy.