Deep within the heart of Kirigakure, nestled in a hollowed-out chamber beneath the village's ancient foundation stones, a presence older than the current age of shinobi waited.
Here, hidden away from even the prying senses of the Third Mizukage, Madara Uchiha had made his nest — a throne of decay and calculation, cut from obsidian and rooted in rot.
The cavern was silent, save for the occasional drip of water trickling from damp stone. The air was heavy with age, thick with the scent of dust, blood, and something else — the stifled scent of old chakra. Faint red light pulsed from aged torches embedded in jagged wall sconces, their flames flickering unnaturally, as if disturbed by some force unseen.
Amid this forgotten chamber, Madara Uchiha sat on his self-fashioned throne like a crumbling idol. His body was gaunt, skin stretched taut over muscle and bone, the vitality of youth long since replaced by the slow, creeping toll of time. His eyes were closed, his chest barely rising, as if life clung to him out of habit rather than necessity.
To the untrained eye, he looked like a corpse, left behind in the aftermath of war. Yet those with any sense would feel it — the immense pressure of chakra, dormant but far from gone. It slumbered within him like a coiled serpent in winter, ready to lash out the moment spring returned.
The silence was shattered by a subtle shift in the ground. Slowly, fluidly, a figure emerged from the stone like oil rising through water. Zetsu's body unfurled from the earth, black and white halves twisting in unnatural harmony until he stood fully formed before the throne.
"It is done," Zetsu said, his dual voices echoing.
Madara stirred, the slow, ancient motion of something awakening that perhaps never should have. His eyes opened with agonizing slowness — and there it was, the crimson kaleidoscope of the Sharingan flaring to life. For a moment, its brilliance pierced the gloom like twin beacons, then dimmed once more, as if the fire inside him had flickered but not quite died.
A rasp escaped his cracked lips, voice so low it was nearly a growl. "Good," he said, though the word carried the weight of fatigue.
He lingered in silence for a breath before speaking again, every syllable slow and deliberate. "The other task... the boy. Renjiro."
Zetsu's expression darkened slightly, though whether it was from concern or irritation was unclear. "Infiltrating Konoha has become... problematic," he admitted. "Their inner surveillance grows tighter by the week. Renjiro, especially, is watched. Between ANBU rotation and internal clan factions, even slipping into the compound unnoticed is nearly impossible. We're losing leverage."
Madara's brow furrowed, and he let out a deep, guttural cough that racked his entire frame.
"We cannot afford hesitation," he said once the fit subsided. "My body... betrays me more each day. If we don't act soon, everything will unravel. The war must begin. And it must begin now."
Zetsu nodded slowly but did not yet sink away. As he turned to leave, he paused halfway into the floor, half his body already absorbed into the earth.
"Why not simply take Iwagakure?" Zetsu asked, genuinely curious. "If we are fighting against time, then shouldn't we claim it before the other villages fortify their positions?"
A long, ragged sigh escaped Madara's lips — it sounded more like wheezing wind whistling through a broken flute.
"You lack foresight, Zetsu," Madara said, his voice tinged with disappointment. "A sudden seizure of power would ignite a storm. The other Kage would smell the manipulation. They would unite, not against each other, but against us. No... we must let them think this war is their own doing."
He coughed again, more violently this time, but continued. "Kiri must fall first — not to us, but to fate. To mistakes. We will ensure their failure, and make them the scapegoat. Then, and only then, do we isolate them. The illusion must remain intact. We are not the hand guiding the knife — we are the mist it vanishes into."
Zetsu did not reply, only dipped his head respectfully. A second later, the rest of his form slipped into the ground with a muted slip, leaving the cavern once more still.
Madara remained seated in the silence, though now, his mind drifted.
Renjiro.
"I wonder..." Madara muttered, staring into the shadows. "...how far this'll go."
And with that, he closed his eyes again, returning to the guise of a ghost slumbering beneath the world, one step away from reclaiming it.
====
Beneath the tree's flowering crown, Jiraiya lay with his back to the earth, hands behind his head, and one knee lazily bent. He looked like a man dozing in the peace of spring, a traveller stopping to nap beneath the shade of poetry. But his stillness belied the sharpness of his senses. A shinobi of his calibre did not simply relax—not in these times.
His breathing was steady, his expression almost boyishly calm, but every chakra shift within a kilometre radius brushed against his senses like a ripple against a taut string.
He felt it then—a change, slight but distinct.
The air, moments ago serene, rippled with presence. It wasn't the whisper of a breeze or the creak of tree limbs. It was the subtle disturbance of chakra entering the perimeter—controlled, quiet, but not invisible.
Jiraiya opened his eyes slowly, a smile already curling his lips as he watched a blossom drift across his vision. He didn't sit up yet. Instead, he exhaled as if this moment was long-anticipated, even welcomed.
"It seems you got the message," he said, his voice warm, almost playful, as though greeting an old rival rather than an envoy from a historically hostile village.
A voice answered, curt and measured. "What do you want, or rather What does Konoha want?"
She stepped from behind a cluster of stones a few meters away—Koari Inzaki, Iwagakure's representative. Her cloak, sleeveless, rustled faintly as she walked, her eyes narrowing beneath her rustling hair. Though her face remained composed, her shoulders were set with tension, her steps careful. Not cautious from fear, but from calculation.
Jiraiya finally sat up, brushing fallen petals from the red fabric of his cloak. "Straight to business, eh? You always this charming, or is it just me?"
Koari didn't smile.
"Your performance back at the auction wasn't subtle," she said flatly, folding her arms. "The other villages aren't fools. They'll be racing to deliver word to their Kage that Konoha and Iwa are… getting cosy. You've just worsened our position."
Jiraiya's grin didn't falter, but his voice dropped an octave, playful turning to pointed. "Worsened? Nah. I'd say it's just ambiguous enough to confuse them. What they saw wasn't an alliance—it was a flirtation. Let them think Konoha is courting Iwa like a bashful suitor. It keeps them guessing."
He stretched his arms over his head, joints popping softly.
"They'll think we're playing a political bluff," he continued. "And when people think you're bluffing, they usually waste time trying to call it. Time we both need."
Koari's lips pressed into a line. She studied him with a stillness that mirrored the landscape. The tension didn't vanish from her posture, but it shifted—no longer suspicion, but contemplation.
"So," she asked finally, "was the gold mine just bait?"
Jiraiya reached into his sleeve and produced a tightly bound scroll, its surface sealed with a distinctive red wax bearing the Sarutobi clan crest. He held it out to her with both hands, a rare gesture of formality.
"The auction was a stage," he said. "A flashy one, sure—but it gave me a reason to talk to you without it being treason. That scroll is from the Third Hokage to the Third Tsuchikage. A message only you can deliver."
Koari stepped forward, her boots crunching softly against dried leaves. She took the scroll, but her fingers hovered for a second before making contact. A shinobi's instinct: always assuming the worst. Even in peacetime. Especially in these quickly peaceful times.
"Is that all?" she asked, her tone still edged with steel, but fainter now, as if the weight of responsibility was sinking in.
Jiraiya nodded, the humour finally draining from his expression. "For now."
Koari held his gaze for another moment—just long enough for him to realize that she wasn't going to walk away.
She was going to vanish.
And she did.
With a bubbling slosh, her form melted into mud, collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut. The earth swallowed the sludge, leaving behind a damp, misshapen smear on the mossy soil.
Jiraiya blinked once, staring at the soiled patch with mild dismay.
"Ugh," he muttered, wiping a fallen petal from his sleeve. "She could've at least left the place clean."
He stood slowly, dusted himself off, and took one last glance at the jacaranda above. For a moment, the wistfulness returned to his eyes. The war hadn't even begun, but the preparations had already cost him something.
Peace, perhaps.
Or perhaps the comfort of having a place untainted by politics, deceit, and calculated risk.
He exhaled, then disappeared in a muted puff of white smoke, leaving nothing behind but a swirl of petals and the tree that bore silent witness to secrets exchanged beneath its boughs.
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