Deep within Konoha, the Aburame clan was holding a high-level meeting. The Clan Head and seven elders had gathered—a rare occurrence—to review the state of the clan and discuss a series of pressing matters.
The war was now in its second year. Many members of the Aburame clan had already laid down their lives, with the highest casualty rate found among the newest generation of shinobi. With no end to the conflict in sight, the elders were growing increasingly anxious about the mounting losses.
"Too many of our children are falling. If this war continues at this pace, what will become of the Aburame?"
"This war is far more brutal than the last. Even several of our Jonin have met with 'accidents.'"
"It's unavoidable. The scale of the engagements is ballooning. The forces in the Land of Rivers and the Land of Rain have both exceeded four thousand. When facing dozens of shinobi at once, our secret arts lose that decisive edge."
"The situation this year is indeed grim. The Kazekage, Hanzo, and Chiyo—they are all far too dangerous to our Kikaichu."
"No, the real problem is that these people are active on the front lines. That didn't happen during the last war."
"The Land of Rivers is manageable; the Hatake boy is there, and he's keeping Chiyo suppressed enough that she can't make any massive moves. But the Land of Rain? We don't have a single pillar capable of holding the line. If only the Hokage would step onto the battlefield himself..."
"..."
The Clan Head hesitated before speaking. "Lord Hokage has his reasons..."
"Forget it, let's not talk about that," Elder Shiki interrupted. He was the most vocal critic of the Third Hokage, and his disdain had reached the point where he no longer even felt like arguing about it.
Elder Shiki had aged visibly; his face was as wrinkled as withered bark. "Today, we need to decide how to help our children," he said expressionlessly. "I propose we teach the children the high-level secret arts they are capable of learning now. This is no time for hoarding secrets."
The Clan Head exchanged a look with the other elders. A heavy, hesitant silence descended, and the atmosphere in the room turned brittle.
Shiki's suggestion struck at the heart of the friction between the Direct Lineage and the Branch families. While internal conflict within the Aburame was never explosive, the division of interests was distinct.
The Aburame Direct Lineage consisted of three branches, each inheriting a specialized high-level parasitic insect art:
The Clan Head's Line: Specialized in all-around Kikaichu enhancement.Three Elder Lines: Inheritors of the Kidaichu (Giant Parasitic Insect) arts.Two Elder Lines: Inheritors of the Kiakuchu (Malicious Parasitic Insect) arts.
The Kiakuchu was the toxic strain wielded by Aburame Shige. He was currently researching a miniaturization process for the Kikaichu, having already named his target species the Kimichu (Nano Parasitic Insect). If he succeeded, he would establish a fourth Direct Lineage. Shige's status as the undisputed leader of the younger generation wasn't just because he was the oldest; while his rank as a Jonin at age fourteen was the foundation of his leadership, his work in pioneering a new path was what truly commanded the clan's respect.
The remaining two elders were veteran Jonin from Branch families who had earned their seats through merit and strength. They represented the interests of the more numerous branch members. Of the two, Elder Shiki held the most weight.
Beyond his seniority and strength, Shiki had personally mentored Tetsumaru—a boy who, at only eleven years old, had already carved out his own path and developed an entirely new "Zerg" system.
"Is this for the sake of Tetsumaru?" the Clan Head asked, trying to break the tension with a lighter tone.
"Should it not be?" Shiki snapped. He raised his voice. "Has Shibi not already learned the Insect Clone? What about the Insect Cocoon? Or the Insect Wall?"
No one spoke.
"We always say it's because the talent of the Direct Lineage exceeds that of the Branch families," Shiki said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'll admit, Shibi is talented. His chakra reserves are impressive."
It was true. At ten years old, Aburame Shibi was showing incredible genius and power—but it all depended on who he was being compared to.
Compared to Tetsumaru, Shibi had only one advantage: more delicate control over his Kikaichu. But even then, he couldn't win a pure insect-on-insect confrontation anymore.
"Brute force overcomes skill." Tetsumaru's chakra advantage had only widened with age. Now that he was eleven, it had reached a point of qualitative change.
Tetsumaru's "lack of control" was only an issue when compared to geniuses like Shige or Shibi; through relentless practice, he had reached a standard level of competency. However, backed by ten times the chakra volume, every wave of his Kikaichu was a landslide. Shibi could no longer block a single wave of Tetsumaru's insects by maneuvering three or four of his own.
The disparity in raw power meant that Shibi had to exhaust himself, mobilizing ten waves or more just to barely stall one of Tetsumaru's attacks. He was being utterly suppressed, left with no room to counter-attack. Furthermore, Shibi was a "standard" Aburame; his chakra was that of an elite graduate. Trying to match Tetsumaru's output would drain his reserves in a matter of exchanges.
Everything the clan preached about Direct Lineage superiority had been turned on its head by Tetsumaru. He was the most credible challenger to Shige's position as the future leader. It was only because of the conflict with Shimura Danzo—where the clan had sacrificed the Branch families' interests to protect the Direct heirs—that Tetsumaru had missed his promotion, causing his reputation to suffer.
Ordinary clan members might not know the details, but the eight people in this room knew exactly what had happened. Faced with Shiki's mockery, no one dared to argue. Facts were the ultimate persuasion.
"I understand this war less and less every day," Shiki continued, "but I know it is far more cruel than the last. If we remain obsessed with the distinction between Direct and Branch, the Aburame clan will not survive this slaughter."
The other Branch elder stood up. "I concur."
The remaining five elders either looked around or stared at their toes, waiting for the Clan Head to make the call. Their silence was a tacit agreement; they were merely giving the Clan Head—the most traditional of them—some face and a moment to process.
"Fine. We will do as Elder Shiki suggests," the Clan Head said after a long silence. He looked resolved. "If we are making a change, we will make it absolute. We will establish a merit-based reward system. All shinobi in the clan will gain access to secret arts based on their contributions and skill."
"Now you're talking!" Elder Shiki's face split into a wide grin, his wrinkles folding like the petals of a blooming chrysanthemum. This was a goal he had pursued for twenty years, and today, he had finally achieved it.
The other elders smiled as well, offering their praise to the Clan Head.
The Clan Head suddenly held up a hand. "Wait. This applies only to the clan's shared secret arts. Those inherited within individual households remain private property."
"Of course."
"Naturally."
Everyone present was a seasoned veteran. Only the Clan Head was "young" by comparison. They understood the necessity of keeping public and private interests separate. Individual household arts were the result of ancestral labor—private property. Forcing them into the public pool would only stifle the incentive to innovate.
In fact, most of the clan's "shared" arts had started that way. Once a private art proved its combat effectiveness, the Clan Head, with the elders' approval, would exchange clan assets for the rights to it, strengthening the clan as a whole.
With the decision made, the Aburame clan moved with ruthless efficiency. They began distributing specialized secret art scrolls to members on the front lines and even arranging for some to return to the village for intensive study.
This was a tectonic shift for the Aburame. It wouldn't just change the internal power structure; it would directly influence the selection of the next Clan Head.
Aburame Shige was personally recalled to the village to oversee the transition.
"Give Tetsumaru the Insect Clone," Elder Shiki told Shige. "The boy has been badgering me about it forever. He's usually a stubborn brat who never asks for anything twice, but he's mentioned that technique multiple times."
Shige laughed. "Tetsumaru is very aware of social boundaries. If he asked more than once, he really wants it. That settles it. Besides, given his capacity, he could probably learn everything we have."
A few days later, Tetsumaru—who had been busy refining his "three signature swings"—took the Insect Clone scroll from Shige's hands. The sudden windfall was so great that his grin reached his molars.
Apparently, pies really do fall from the sky, he thought.
He unfurled the scroll and scanned it rapidly in front of Shige before tucking it away. "I'll memorize it and destroy the scroll as soon as possible."
"Good. Be quick about it. This is the front line, after all."
"Understood."
In a war zone, anything could happen. If a scroll were lost, the clan's secrets would be at risk. While outsiders couldn't learn the insect-manipulation techniques without the right biological "hardware," a high-level leak could allow the enemy to analyze and exploit the technique's core weaknesses.
And for the Aburame, the most dangerous situation was an enemy knowing a weakness that the clan themselves hadn't discovered yet.
Tetsumaru happily committed the entire three-thousand-word scroll to memory. He then summoned a Hive, stuffed the scroll inside, and sent it back to the clan compound. He knew that until he had mastered the technique, his memory alone wasn't 100% reliable. In daily life, people forget eight-digit phone numbers; he wasn't going to bet his future on remembering every nuance of a 3,000-word instructional manual.
If you forget a line in a text that long, your brain subconsciously "fills in the blanks." But there's no guarantee the filler is correct. Errors stack on errors until you're practicing something completely different.
He had finally obtained his dream technique, but he had no time to practice it.
The Rain and Stone forces had regrouped. Sensing the Sand's weakness after their defeat, they had launched a counter-offensive and successfully driven Suna back.
Konoha, paralyzed by internal power struggles and the change in command, had missed the significance of this shift. Even Squad Aburame had been occupied with a village-assigned hunt for a rogue ninja.
The new commander had barely sat in his chair when the combined Iwa-Ame army struck.
In the ensuing panic, mission orders began falling like snow—a chaotic mess of conflicting instructions. Regardless of how the brass tried to fix the problem, the low-level squads bore the brunt of the misery.
Squad Aburame received two missions back-to-back: one for document delivery to the east and one for reconnaissance to the north. After three days of non-stop trekking, Tetsumaru ended up having to physically carry Kurama Yun on his back just to return to camp and turn in the reports.
That was life on the front: surprises were everywhere. They were actually the lucky ones; they had just been busy and sleep-deprived for seventy-two hours.
Some squads in the camp received two simultaneous missions—one for patrol and one for camp defense. Those captains were truly at a loss. There was no one to appeal to; the commander himself was dazed, and no one cared about a lowly Chunin. If you didn't complete the mission, it was "incompetence."
In a way, the commander's logic held up in the shinobi world: There is such a thing as a Clone Jutsu, after all. If you can't be in two places at once, that's on you for not knowing a Shadow Clone.
The unfortunate targets of these administrative blunders could only swallow their bad luck and accept the "Mission Failed" marks on their records.
After three days of chaos, they finally had two days of downtime.
Tetsumaru used the window to master the Insect Clone. The three thousand words on the scroll were comprehensive, detailing the art's origin, usage techniques, training methods, and numerous case studies from clan history.
Tetsumaru was shocked that he had been allowed to read these case studies, as many involved the closely guarded secrets of past clan members. It was a clear sign that his status had indeed risen significantly.
By studying the history, he understood the why behind the techniques, which allowed him to truly internalize the mechanics.
The Insect Clone was a top-tier art. Interestingly, it wasn't a variation of the Shadow Clone; rather, it was a high-level evolution of the basic Clone Jutsu combined with Aburame Secret Arts.
"I thought I'd finally have a Shadow Clone," Tetsumaru mused. "I still need to find a way to redeem that one."
The Insect Clone was superior to a Shadow Clone in combat; it could engage in Taijutsu, cast ninjutsu, and sustain a significant amount of physical damage before dispersing.
However, because its foundation was the standard Clone Jutsu, it lacked the key features of a Shadow Clone: it couldn't travel far from the caster, and it didn't return experience or memories upon dispersal. This was exactly why Tetsumaru wanted the Shadow Clone—he needed it to explore the Sea of Souls.
Currently, whenever Tetsumaru fell asleep, he was involuntarily pulled into that realm. He spent roughly a quarter of his life sleeping; being forced to spend that much time in a "sensory deprivation room" where he couldn't do anything was becoming a daily torment.
Worse, he couldn't simply skip sleep. In the high-stakes theater of the Land of Rain, mental fatigue was a death sentence. He had to endure the boredom of the "Black Box" for the sake of survival.
Once he had the Insect Clone down, Tetsumaru burned the scroll. The information regarding his clan's predecessors was too sensitive to risk.