The blood-soaked skirmish finally ended with Raizen's outburst.
By the time the smoke cleared, most of the Kaguya Clan's vanguard lay broken across the mud. One of their elite Jōnin had fallen by Raizen's own hand — the kind of kill that turns whispers into names feared at campfires.
When he returned to the Daitō Clan's command tent, the soldiers greeted him like a hero.
He hated that word. Heroes don't live long out here.
While Raizen stood off to the side, the Daitō commander, Daitō Kiyoe, wasted no time — barking orders for cleanup, body collection, and patrol rotations.
The Kaguya weren't the type to stay down after a loss. No one relaxed; not even the wind dared to.
Once the noise settled, Kiyoe gathered the high-ranking shinobi for another war council.
Raizen leaned against a post, arms folded, watching the commander unfurl a map still smudged with blood. Kiyoe wasn't particularly strong in chakra, but his coordination skills were razor-sharp — the kind of man who could turn chaos into order with a few words. No wonder he'd been sent to manage the front.
"You've all seen it yourselves," Kiyoe began, voice hoarse but steady. "If not for the young heir of the Amamiya Clan showing such strength, our losses would've been far worse."
Blood still streaked across his armor, but he didn't bother to clean it off.
The other captains turned to Raizen, murmuring praise — words that slid right past him.
"If only he were one of ours," Kiyoe muttered, almost wistful.
Raizen said nothing, just met his gaze with that familiar, tired half-smile.
Kiyoe tapped the map laid across the table.
"This is Heiwa Canyon," he said. "Cliffs, ravines, dead ground everywhere. Three viable attack routes — that's it."
He pointed to three spots marked in red ink.
"We'll split our defense into three sectors — the main canyon front, the left flank, and the right flank."
"Amamiya Gen-sama will command the left wing. Hatake Gintama will take the right. I'll remain at the canyon's mouth with the main army. Thoughts?"
The tent went silent, filled only by the low hiss of torches.
Everyone knew what that meant. The main front wasn't a battlefield — it was a meat grinder.
Gen nodded after a long pause.
"If that's how the formation stands, then we'll follow it."
He didn't argue, though his jaw tightened. He'd been in too many wars to mistake bravery for recklessness.
Kiyoe gave a tired, knowing smile.
"Then it's settled."
But as the meeting began to close, Kiyoe's tone shifted.
"One more thing. I have a request."
He turned toward Gen, his eyes sharp under the flickering light.
"I ask that the young heir — Amamiya Raizen — remain here on the main front with me. We'll need someone strong enough to anchor the line when the Kaguya strike again."
Gen's eyes narrowed.
"Raizen…?"
He hesitated. Raizen was the clan's next generation — reckless, yes, but undeniably gifted. Sending him to the most dangerous position was like tossing their last torch into the storm.
Before Gen could refuse, Raizen sighed and stepped forward.
"It's fine, Gen-san. I'll stay."
His grin was crooked, half sarcasm, half stubborn resolve.
"Can't let the old men have all the glory, right?"
Gen's shoulders slumped — not from weakness, but resignation.
"You never did listen," he muttered, then looked to Kiyoe. "Very well. The young heir will hold the main front."
Kiyoe bowed his head slightly.
"You have my gratitude."
By nightfall, the camp came alive with movement.
Over five hundred shinobi filled the valley — four hundred from the Daitō Clan, barely a hundred from the Amamiya. Nearly every Daitō capable of fighting had been called here; only the infirm and children were left behind.
The main canyon front would be held by three hundred ninja. Open ground — no walls, no trees, just skill and nerve.
The left flank, under Amamiya Gen, controlled a steep ridge with natural defenses. Fifty would hold it — few, but enough to stall an assault.
The right flank, under Hatake Gintama, stood closest to the camp. If it fell, the canyon and left ridge would both be exposed. A hundred ninja would guard it with everything they had.
The rest were assigned to logistics, scouting, and recovery.
War was a machine, and every shinobi was a cog turning toward dawn.
Meanwhile, far beyond the canyon walls, the Kaguya Clan seethed.
The broken survivors of the earlier fight limped back to their village with tales of shame.
Their patriarch, Kaguya Arata, flew into a rage — decapitating the messengers himself before ordering full mobilization.
By dawn, nearly nine hundred Kaguya shinobi had gathered — half the clan's strength.
The combined forces of the Amamiya, Daitō, and Hanashima Clans barely reached six hundred.
The difference was like a hammer facing a wall of sand.
And as the wind howled through Heiwa Canyon, every man and woman on the field could feel it —
The storm was coming.