The Fire Daimyō's fan snapped open and shut with a rhythm that sounded like a metronome for a headache.
Snap. Click. Snap. Click.
Danzō Shimura stood in the shadows of the temporary council chamber and watched the most powerful man in the Land of Fire treat a succession crisis like a tea ceremony.
The room was lavish—gold leaf on the walls, silk cushions, a vase that probably cost more than a genin squad's annual budget—but it smelled of dust. The invasion had shaken dust from the rafters of every building in Konoha, and no amount of cleaning could scrub the scent of vulnerability out of the curtains.
Hiruzen was gone.
The seat at the head of the table was empty.
It felt like a lung taking in air after holding its breath for forty years.
"The village is… fragile," Homura Mitokado said, wringing his hands. He looked older without Hiruzen beside him to absorb the light. "The treaties are strained. Suna claims they were manipulated by Orochimaru, but their troops were still in our streets. We cannot show weakness."
"We need a face," Koharu Utatane added, her voice brittle. "Someone the other nations fear. Someone who represents… continuity."
The Daimyō hid a yawn behind his fan. "Continuity is nice. Stability is nice. But who?"
Danzō stepped forward.
He didn't rush. He let the cane tap against the floorboards once—a heavy, wooden period at the end of their sentence.
"Continuity got us here," Danzō said.
The room quieted.
Homura looked up, eyes swimming with fatigue. "Danzō."
"Hiruzen preached continuity," Danzō said, voice low and gravel-rough. "He preached peace. He preached forgiveness. And because of that, his favorite student walked into our home, killed him, and walked out again."
He let the words hang there. Ugly. Undeniable.
"The era of soft answers is over," Danzō continued. "Konoha does not need a grandfather. It needs a general."
He moved to the table, but he didn't sit. He loomed.
"I offer myself," he said. "Not because I desire the hat. But because I am the only one willing to do what must be done to keep it from falling off."
The Daimyō lowered his fan slightly. His eyes were small and dark and unreadable.
"You are… very stern," the Daimyō murmured.
"War is stern," Danzō countered.
In the corner, the shadows seemed to thicken.
Three figures stood there, silent as furniture. They weren't standard ANBU. Their masks were blanker, their posture too still.
One was a boy with skin like milk and a smile painted on his face that didn't reach his eyes—Sai. A perfect vessel.
One was a girl who stood with the distinct, twitchy stillness of the Aburame or Yamanaka clans, sensing the room's emotional currents like a bug tasting the air—Fū.
And the third… the third wore a cat-like mask and held himself with the heavy, rooted presence of wood. The experiment that survived.
They were arguments made flesh. Proof that Danzō didn't just talk about strength; he built it.
Homura and Koharu exchanged a look. It was the look of people who were terrified of the dark and had just been offered a torch, even if the torch smelled like burning meat.
"Danzō has… experience," Koharu murmured.
"He knows the village's secrets," Homura added. "He would not hesitate."
The Daimyō hummed, tapping the fan against his chin. "Hesitation is bad. Yes. But… Danzō-san is perhaps a bit… dark? We want the village to bloom, not… wither."
Danzō's eye narrowed a fraction.
"Flowers die without roots," he said.
The Daimyō blinked. "Poetic. Grim, but poetic."
Danzō pressed his advantage. He could feel the sway of the room, the gravity tilting toward him. The vacuum Hiruzen left was vast, and fear was a heavy thing; it naturally rolled downhill toward the strongest structure.
"Give me the position," Danzō said. "And I will ensure that no invasion ever touches these walls again."
It was a promise. It was a threat.
It was almost enough.
Then the doors slammed open.
If Danzō was a scalpel, Jiraiya was a hammer.
The Toad Sage stood in the doorway, blocking out the hallway light with sheer bulk. His white hair was a mess, his clothes were travel-stained, and he looked like he'd slept in a hedge, but the chakra rolling off him filled the room instantly.
It tasted like mountain air and old sake.
"I heard," Jiraiya boomed, stepping inside without an invitation, "that we were talking about bad ideas."
Kakashi, leaning against the back wall in his usual posture of 'I am furniture, please ignore me,' let out a silent breath.
Timing.
Danzō didn't turn around, but his shoulders went rigid. "Jiraiya. You're late."
"I'm fashionable," Jiraiya retorted. He walked past Danzō like the man was a coat rack and stopped in front of the Daimyō. He didn't bow. He just nodded.
"Yo."
The Daimyō giggled. "Jiraiya-chan! It has been a long time."
"Too long," Jiraiya agreed. He turned his gaze to the elders. His face wasn't smiling anymore. "I heard you were considering putting the old warhawk in the seat. I thought we were trying to save the village, not turn it into a prison camp."
Homura bristled. "We need strength, Jiraiya! Hiruzen is dead!"
"I know he's dead!" Jiraiya snapped. The raw edge in his voice cut the room's tension like a wire. "I was there."
Silence fell again, heavy and uncomfortable.
"Then you take it," Koharu said, voice pleading. "You are one of the Sannin. Hiruzen's student. The people love you. You have the strength."
Danzō turned slowly. His single eye fixed on Jiraiya.
"Yes," Danzō said, voice smooth as oil. "Take it, Jiraiya. Sit in the chair. Do the paperwork. Make the decisions that kill children. Can you do that? Or will you run away again to write your… novels?"
It was a trap. Kakashi saw it instantly.
If Jiraiya accepted, Danzō would undermine him from the shadows, bleed him dry with bureaucracy until he failed. If Jiraiya refused, he proved Danzō's point: that he was too soft, too flighty.
Jiraiya looked at the empty chair at the head of the table.
He looked at the hat resting on the table surface.
For a second, he looked every one of his fifty years.
"No," Jiraiya said.
Koharu made a sound of despair.
"I'm not the guy," Jiraiya said. "I'm a wanderer. I'm a researcher. You put me in that chair, and I'll be miserable, and the village will suffer for it."
"Then we have no choice," Danzō said, stepping forward again. "The council must—"
"There is one other," Jiraiya interrupted.
He reached into his robe and pulled out a small, battered scroll.
"One other Sannin," he said. "Loyal. Strong. And a hell of a lot scarier than me or Danzō combined."
Kakashi straightened off the wall.
He knew that name.
"Tsunade," Jiraiya said.
The room reacted as if he'd dropped a bomb.
"The Slug Princess?" Homura sputtered. "She hasn't been in the village in years! She's a gambler! A drunkard!"
"She's the granddaughter of the First Hokage," Jiraiya countered.
The Daimyō perked up immediately. The fan snapped open.
"Granddaughter of the First?" he chirped. "Hashirama-sama's blood? Oh, that sounds very… prestigious. Very legitimate."
"She abandoned the village," Danzō said coldly. "She has no loyalty."
"She has grief," Jiraiya shot back. "Same as the rest of us right now. And she's the greatest medical ninja who ever lived. The village is bleeding, Danzō. We don't need a general. We need a healer who can punch a mountain in half."
The Daimyō clapped his hands.
"I like it!" he declared. "A strong woman! A legendary lineage! It feels very… modern."
Danzō's hand tightened on his cane until the wood creaked. He had been outmaneuvered by nostalgia and branding.
"She is not here," Danzō pointed out. "We need a leader now."
"I'll go get her," Jiraiya said. "I leave in the morning. I'll drag her back by her collar if I have to."
"And until then?" Koharu asked, looking around the room helplessly. "Who manages the village? Who assigns the missions? Who organizes the defense?"
The room went quiet.
Eyes started to drift.
Not to Danzō. He was too polarizing now.
Not to the elders. They were too frail.
They drifted to the back wall.
To the silver-haired jōnin trying very hard to blend into the wallpaper.
Kakashi froze.
"Hatake," Homura said.
"Uh," Kakashi said.
"You were the Hokage's most trusted field commander," Koharu said, latching onto the idea like a lifeline. "You led the ANBU. You know the protocols."
"I'm a field agent," Kakashi said quickly. "I have a genin team. I have a student with a curse mark and a lightning addiction. I am very busy."
"You are Jōnin Commander," Danzō said.
Kakashi blinked. "Since when?"
"Since five seconds ago," Danzō said.
It wasn't a compliment. It was a tactical retreat. If Danzō couldn't have the hat, he wanted someone in the seat who hated it, someone he could bully or bypass. He thought Kakashi was just a scarecrow he could push over.
"Interim proxy," Jiraiya agreed, grinning a grin that said I am so glad this isn't me. "Just until I get back with the Princess. You can handle a few forms, right, Kakashi?"
Kakashi looked at the empty chair.
He looked at the stacks of paper accumulating on the side tables.
He looked at the Daimyō, who was nodding enthusiastically.
"I…" Kakashi started.
A clerk materialized at his elbow with a stack of folders three feet high.
"Sign here, please, Commander," the clerk said. "And here. And these are the casualty reports for the east sector. And the reconstruction budget estimates. And the Hyūga clan has filed a formal complaint about the Kumo delegation's diplomatic immunity status."
Kakashi felt a physical weight settle onto his shoulders that was heavier than any flak vest. He stared at the mountain of folders. It was an impossible amount of ink.
"This isn't a morning's work," Kakashi muttered, eye twitching. "This is going to take days just to categorize."
"Then it is fortunate you are starting now," Homura said dryly from the doorway. "The village does not pause for your schedule, Hatake. We need order before any missions can be authorized."
Kakashi sighed. He wasn't going on a mission to find the legendary healer. He wasn't going to track Orochimaru.
He was going to sit at a desk and drown in ink while Jiraiya went on a road trip with Naruto.