The Tactician: Naruto Fanfiction

[4902 Words]

Yasu was back where he started. 

His body ached in ways he hadn't thought possible. Every breath rattled in his chest like broken glass, every shift of his limbs sent sharp pain lancing through his muscles. His left eye refused to open—too swollen, too bruised. His right ear still throbbed, though the pain had settled into something dull, almost distant compared to the rest of him. 

They had beaten him. 

He could still feel the weight of their fists, the crunch of bone against flesh, the sheer force behind every strike meant to remind him of his place. He had been so close—so close—and now he was back in the cold, dark cell, his body barely able to move, let alone fight. 

And yet, that wasn't what scared him. 

No. 

What scared him was them. 

The shinobi had argued for hours. He had heard them—sharp voices bleeding through the walls, confusion woven between frustration and unease. They didn't understand what had happened. He had done something, and none of them could explain it. 

Not even Yasu. 

They had demanded answers. Dragged him up, shaken him, tried to beat the truth out of him—but he had none to give. What could he say? That he had disappeared without vanishing? That he had felt himself unravel like a thread being pulled too thin? That he had barely existed at all? 

He had felt it. He had felt himself slip. 

Like he had been sinking into something too vast, too formless, something stretching beyond the edges of his body. He hadn't faded—he had spread. His chakra had bled into the air itself, making him less of a person and more of a whisper. A presence half-formed, half-forgotten. 

And then the pull. 

Like something inside him had been ripped away. Like the very act of existing had drained him, leaving behind only hollowness and exhaustion so deep that even breathing hurt. 

The shinobi had accused him of Genjutsu, of a cloaking technique, of some forbidden art. But Yasu wasn't a liar. He told them the truth. 

"I don't know what I did." 

That only made them angrier. 

He had nothing left to give them. So they had left him here, beaten and broken, locked away while they argued among themselves. 

Yasu let out a slow, trembling breath. His ribs protested the motion. His hands twitched at his sides, aching, weak. 

And then— 

A shiver ran down his spine. 

His chakra. 

It was coming back. 

The moment the thought hit, he clenched his jaw. The seal was broken. He had felt it—the weakening, the strain—and now, it was gone. No longer holding him back. 

All of it. 

All the chakra that had been sealed off from him… was returning. 

His fingers curled into fists. 

This should be a relief. This should be power. 

But instead, it was terror. 

Because he wasn't sure he could control it. Not like this. 

Not when his body was failing him. 

Not when his mind still trembled from the memory of being stretched too thin, of unraveling, of losing himself in the space between thought and presence. 

Control. 

That was all he had. 

That was all that mattered. 

He had to hold on. 

Had to stay together. 

His breath came shallow, slow. His chakra was already stirring, a deep, restless current beneath his skin, waiting. 

He had to control it. 

But could he? 

Like this? 

Like this? 

Yasu closed his eyes. 

And he tried. 

. 

. 

. 

Ren 

It had been six days. 

The Endurance Trial had ended early. No explanations, no ceremonies, just a quiet, forced conclusion. The shinobi overseeing the event had gathered the children, tense and unsmiling, and led them back to the village. No one had said why. No one had spoken Yasu's name. 

But everyone knew. 

Ren sat on the wooden steps outside the Academy, his hands tucked into his sleeves, watching the grey sky. The usual morning chatter among students was subdued. There was an unease in the air, something thick and unspoken. 

Yasu was gone. 

No one had said it directly, but Ren could see it in the adults' eyes. The way the instructors whispered to each other when they thought no one was listening. The way some of the higher-ranked shinobi looked almost… angry. 

Something had happened. 

And Ren had seen enough of the world to know that when the adults refused to answer questions, it meant they didn't have an answer they wanted to give. 

A breeze passed through the courtyard, rustling the trees. Ren pulled his cloak tighter around himself. It wasn't even that cold, but his chest felt hollow. 

Yasu wasn't the kind of person who just disappeared. 

And yet, he had. 

. . . 

. . . 

Daichi 

"I should have been there." 

Daichi sat against the training post, arms crossed, staring at the ground like it had personally offended him. Sumire and Ren were talking, their voices low, but he wasn't really listening. 

He should have been there. 

He kept repeating it in his head, like somehow, if he thought it hard enough, it would change something. 

It was stupid. 

Yasu had always been annoying—too smart, too composed, too good at everything. He was the one Daichi had been chasing since the start, the one who had always stayed just out of reach, no matter how hard Daichi pushed himself. 

And now he was gone. 

And Daichi hadn't been there. 

He scowled, tightening his arms over his chest. What could he have even done? Fought off whoever had taken Yasu? Protected him? It wasn't like Yasu needed protection. Yasu, with his plans, his stupid tricks, his endless strategies—if anyone was supposed to be untouchable, it was him. 

And yet— 

The trial had ended early. The shinobi had been tense. The instructors wouldn't tell them anything. And Daichi had seen the way some of the jōnin had looked at each other—like they weren't just confused. Like they were worried. 

Yasu had done something. 

That much was obvious. 

But what made Daichi's stomach twist—what made the unease crawl under his skin—was the fact that even Yasu had failed. 

He exhaled sharply through his nose, kicking at the dirt. 

He wasn't worried. Not really. Yasu would come back. He had to. 

…Right? 

. . . 

. . . 

Sumire 

"He should be here." 

Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the air like a blade. 

Daichi and Ren both turned. Sumire sat with her legs tucked beneath her, staring at the dirt beneath her hands. Her fingers traced idle patterns in the dust, restless, unfocused. Her usual energy was gone—no teasing, no smug remarks. Just the weight of something missing. 

"Yasu should be here," she said again, more to herself than to them. 

Daichi scoffed. "Yeah, well, he's not. He'll come back, so stop acting like he's—" 

"Don't say it," Sumire snapped, her head jerking up, blue eyes flashing. 

Daichi blinked at her, caught off guard. 

Sumire let out a slow breath, rubbing at her arms like she was cold. "It's weird without him. Too quiet." 

Ren nodded. "I've noticed." 

"No, I mean…" She hesitated. "It's like he was just here, but now he's not. And everyone's acting like he was never here at all." 

Daichi frowned, shifting uncomfortably. 

"They won't tell us anything," Sumire muttered, her fingers curling into fists. "But I can feel it. Something's wrong. Yasu isn't just missing. He was taken." 

The words hung heavy in the air. 

Daichi's scowl deepened. Ren exhaled quietly. 

They all knew it. 

No one wanted to say it. 

. 

. 

. 

The map lay flat on the table, weighed down by four smooth stones, its inked lines stark against the parchment. Hisao's gaze swept over it, mind sharp, dissecting every detail. The 'X' marked the place where Yasu had been taken—a cruel, deliberate mark meant to taunt him. The forests beyond Iwagakure's borders, the old battlegrounds… it all pointed to Suna. 

Or so he had thought. 

"Sir," a soldier at his side spoke hesitantly, breaking Hisao's focus. "Something isn't right." 

Hisao didn't look up immediately, merely extended a hand. The soldier, a younger man—efficient, disciplined—placed a bundle on the table. Hisao unwrapped the cloth, revealing a broken kunai. His sharp eyes flicked over it, taking in the details. 

Not a Suna design. 

His fingers traced the hilt's engravings, subtle but distinct. The weight, the balance—wrong for a Suna-nin. 

A quiet breath left him. "Where was this found?" 

"Near the end of the tracks, before they disappeared." 

Hisao turned the weapon over once more, a ghost of a memory surfacing. He had seen this craftsmanship before. Not in Suna, but in Kuma's forces. A smaller nation, lesser in number, but tactically vicious. This wasn't Suna sloppily covering their tracks. This was a setup. 

Hisao's jaw tightened. They wanted us to chase shadows. To waste time. To turn our eyes toward the wrong enemy. 

The weight of his near-mistake pressed against his ribs. A flicker of something dark passed through him—Kuma wanted me to believe this. 

A pause. 

Then, his voice, calm as stone. "Triple the scouting parties, but not toward the Wind border. Shift east, toward the river outposts. Quietly. If anyone asks, Suna is still the priority." 

The soldier hesitated. "Sir?" 

Hisao finally looked up, eyes glinting with something colder than rage—understanding. 

"We're being watched," he murmured, setting the kunai down with deliberate care. "And I have no intention of playing the fool." 

. . . 

. . . 

The forest was still. Too still. 

Hisao moved through the undergrowth with practiced ease, his team shadowing him, their presence nothing but a whisper against the wind. The usual sounds of the night—chirping insects, rustling leaves—had dulled to an eerie quiet. 

They were close. 

The faintest imprint of a boot in the damp earth. A snapped twig, half-buried beneath fallen leaves. Signs of passage. Recent. 

Hisao crouched, pressing a gloved hand to the soil. It was still loose. Someone had stepped here not long ago. His sharp gaze followed the faint disturbances in the terrain, mapping the path ahead in his mind. The enemy wasn't expecting pursuit. They thought they had covered their tracks. 

They were wrong. 

He lifted a hand—halt. His team froze instantly, bodies melting into the shadows. Hisao's ears strained, picking up a distant murmur. Voices. Low. Unaware. 

A flicker of movement beyond the trees. 

Hisao's breath was slow, measured. His team was outnumbered, but the enemy was complacent. Arrogant. They hadn't noticed the wolves stalking them. 

Hisao's fingers shifted slightly—prepare. His team readied their weapons in silence. Kunai glinted in the dim moonlight. Hisao's gaze flicked toward the makeshift camp ahead, where figures huddled around a dying fire. 

The time for tracking was over. 

Now, they would strike. 

. 

. 

. 

Pain. 

It was the first thing Yasu registered as his mind clawed its way back to consciousness. 

A searing, unbearable agony thrummed through his body, deep and pulsing like molten iron beneath his skin. It wasn't just exhaustion. It was his chakra. It burned inside him, wrong, fractured—like something vital had been severed and left to fester. Every nerve felt like it had been lit aflame. 

He tried to breathe—sharp, wet. Wrong. His chest spasmed, and when he coughed, something warm dribbled past his lips. Blood. 

A sound—footsteps, urgent, closing in fast. 

His blurred vision caught a shape emerging from the dark. A man. No—a shadow, swift and unrelenting, cutting through the night. 

And then—Hisao. 

The moment their eyes met, something cracked. Not in the air, not in the ground, but in Yasu himself. 

Hisao's face was a mask of fury and desperation, his sharp features twisted in a way Yasu had never seen before. His hands trembled as they hovered over Yasu, unsure where to touch, where to begin, as if the mere act of moving him might break him further. 

"Yasu," Hisao breathed, voice tight, hoarse. His hands finally settled on Yasu's face, cradling it like something precious, something fragile. His grip was strong, but not unkind. "I'm here. I've got you." 

Yasu wanted to scoff. Wanted to push him away. But all he could manage was a half-snarl, half-whimper as his body betrayed him, shaking violently beneath Hisao's touch. His breath hitched, and another cough sent fresh pain ripping through his ribs. 

He should've come sooner. 

A bitter, ugly anger surged through Yasu, tangled with the pain. He gritted his teeth, tried to form words, tried to yell, curse, demand why it had taken so long— but all that came out was a ragged whisper. 

"...Took you long enough…" 

It was pathetic. Weak. 

But Hisao flinched like the words had struck him harder than any blade. 

"I know," Hisao whispered, his voice breaking. "I know—I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." 

Yasu's vision swam, and the anger inside him wavered—crumbling, unravelling, giving way to something deeper. 

For the first time in years, he felt it—the unbearable pressure of emotions he had long since buried. A choked, fractured sob ripped from his throat before he could stop it. 

Tears, hot and unrelenting, spilled down his cheeks. 

Hisao made a sound—low, pained—before pulling Yasu into him, holding him like he was afraid to let go. "You're safe," he murmured, voice barely above a breath. "You're safe now." 

But Yasu wasn't sure he believed him. Not yet. 

Not after this. 

. 

. 

. 

For a long time after Hisao spoke, Yasu said nothing. 

He stared at the wooden floor, fingers curling slightly against his knee. Hisao had promised, I won't let it happen again, and somehow that was harder to hear than an excuse would've been. 

Because the truth was—Yasu had already started preparing himself for that possibility. 

"…I thought I was going to die," he murmured at last. 

Hisao's breath hitched, so faint Yasu might not have noticed if he wasn't listening for it. 

"They were talking about it," Yasu continued, voice steady despite the weight of the words. "Not at first. At first, they thought I was useful. But then something changed. They started whispering." He tilted his head slightly, gaze distant, as if seeing something just beyond the room. "I wasn't supposed to hear them, but I did. They weren't sure what to do with me anymore, and keeping me alive was an inconvenience." 

Hisao said nothing. But Yasu could feel the tension in the air, coiling tighter with each word. 

He exhaled, slow and measured. "It was strange. The idea of dying." He gave a small, humourless chuckle. "I always thought I'd be able to face it, if it ever happened. But there's something different about hearing people decide it for you." 

His fingers twitched slightly. "I started thinking about… what I'd do. If they went through with it. If I could fight back. If I could make it hurt for them." His voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper. "But in the end, I didn't know if it would matter." 

A beat of silence. 

Then—softer, almost reluctant: 

"The pain… I could handle it. Or at least, I thought I could." 

Hisao's sharp eyes stayed locked on him, unreadable, waiting. 

Yasu swallowed. "It was different from before. I've been hurt, but this—" His hand twitched before he curled it into a fist. "This wasn't the kind of pain that passes. It settled in me, crawled under my skin and made a home there. I got used to it, but it never left." 

His fingers drifted—hesitant, searching—toward the side of his head. The place where his ear should have been. But all that was left was ruined flesh, uneven and raw. 

Yasu's breath faltered. 

"…It's ugly, isn't it?" 

The words came out before he could stop them. Too vulnerable, too real. He almost wanted to take them back. 

Hisao's eyes flickered. 

"I—" Yasu clenched his jaw, dropping his hand. "I wasn't expecting that. To lose something." Not even in my past life did that happen. He forced a weak, bitter smile. "I guess this is new for me." 

Hisao was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady. 

"You survived." 

Yasu let out a quiet scoff, shaking his head. "I know that." 

"No," Hisao said, firmer. "You survived. You endured what they did to you, what they planned for you, and you're here. That's what matters." 

Yasu's throat tightened. 

He wanted to believe that. 

But right now, all he could feel was the absence—the missing piece of himself, the way it had been taken without his say. 

"…I don't know what to do with it," he admitted, voice raw. "I don't know how to feel about it." 

Hisao didn't have an answer for that. 

But after a long moment, he moved—not hesitant, not uncertain. He reached forward and placed a firm hand on Yasu's head, fingers steady where they rested against his hair. It wasn't meant to comfort in the way others might try—it was a grounding touch, an acknowledgment. 

"You don't have to decide that yet," Hisao murmured. "Just don't let it define you." 

Yasu closed his eyes. 

The first time Yasu had looked in the mirror, really looked, had been unsettling. 

He had been younger then, barely old enough to make sense of the world around him. It was in the quiet of an early morning, the house still resting in the hush of dawn. He had climbed onto a stool, staring at his own reflection with an unreadable expression, studying the sharpness of his features, the cold slate of his eyes. 

He had frowned. 

Even then, he had thought about cutting his hair. 

It was always in the way—falling into his face, brushing against his shoulders, a constant reminder of something that never quite belonged. He had wondered, idly, if cutting it would make him feel lighter. Less burdened by a past he could never escape. 

Now… 

Now he was thankful for it. 

His fingers twitched slightly as he reached up, tucking strands of hair over the side of his face. It was long enough to cover, to conceal what he no longer wanted the world to see. The thought of exposing himself—of letting anyone see—made his stomach coil tight, nausea curling beneath his ribs. 

He turned slightly, his gaze flickering over his reflection. The bruises had faded. The pain had dulled. But the memories remained, etched beneath his skin, deeper than any wound. 

Yasu inhaled slowly, pressing his lips into a thin line. 

He had never liked his hair. 

But at least now, it served a purpose. 

. 

. 

. 

The academy halls were the same as always—bustling with students, the faint hum of chatter filling the space. Yasu walked at a steady pace, his hands tucked into his sleeves, eyes focused straight ahead. His left eye was still bruised, the last remnants of his injuries lingering as faint discoloration along his cheekbone. But at least he could see out of it now. 

That was something. 

He had expected to walk into class without fanfare, to slip into his seat unnoticed, as if the past few weeks had been nothing more than an inconvenience. 

He should have known better. 

The moment he stepped through the classroom door, the entire room erupted. 

"Surprise!" 

Yasu blinked. 

For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at the grinning faces of his classmates, at the crude banner strung up near the front—hand-painted, uneven, but unmistakable in its message. 

Welcome back, Yasu! 

Before he could even process what was happening, something—someone—slammed into him. Then another. 

"Yasu!" 

"You're finally back!" 

Ren and Sumire had launched themselves at him, wrapping him in a hug so forceful he nearly stumbled back. Their arms tightened around him, warmth pressing in from both sides, and for a split second, he didn't know what to do. His body locked up, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air, unsure whether to push them away or endure it. 

Sumire pulled back first, grinning up at him. "We missed you!" 

Rena nodded enthusiastically, her hold still firm. "Yeah! It was weird without you here. Even sensei was acting different." 

Yasu exhaled, carefully extracting himself from their grip. "I was only gone for a few weeks." 

Ren huffed, crossing her arms. "Exactly!" 

The class was still staring at him, expectant, waiting for… something. Maybe gratitude. Maybe excitement. Maybe some kind of reaction that fit the effort they had put into this. 

Yasu shifted uncomfortably, his fingers twitching at his sides. He didn't like surprises. He didn't like the attention, the way it made his skin prickle, the way it felt like he was being cornered. 

Still, he could recognize the intent behind it. 

So he muttered, "...Thanks." 

It was barely above a whisper, but the class didn't seem to mind. Some of them cheered, others went back to talking amongst themselves, the tension breaking as the moment passed. 

Yasu sighed quietly, rubbing his temple. He supposed it could have been worse. 

At least they weren't throwing a party. 

Yasu had barely taken a step toward his seat when Daichi's voice cut through the lingering chatter. 

"All this over you?" he drawled, arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair. "Seriously, Yasu, the dramatics are a bit much. What's next, a parade?" 

Yasu gave him a flat look, unimpressed. Before he could reply, Daichi smirked. 

"Actually, I think my favourite part was how the endurance trial just—ended—because you decided to get kidnapped." He gestured vaguely. "All that running, climbing, and suffering—for nothing." 

A few students snickered. Others shifted uncomfortably, sneaking glances at Yasu. 

Their sensei sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Daichi." 

Daichi blinked innocently. "What? I'm just saying—" 

"Enough." The sensei's voice was firm, though not harsh. "You should know better than to joke about something like that." 

Daichi muttered something under his breath but didn't push it further. 

Yasu wasn't particularly bothered. If anything, he understood. Daichi's humor was his shield—just like Yasu's silence was his own. 

Still, he let the moment hang for a beat longer before finally speaking. 

"I didn't decide to get kidnapped." His voice was dry, but there was a glint of something—maybe amusement, maybe just resignation. "If I had a choice, I would have let you keep suffering." 

That earned a few chuckles, and even Daichi snorted. "Yeah, yeah. Welcome back, Yasu." 

Yasu exhaled, finally making his way to his seat. He could still feel the weight of his classmates' attention, but it was dulling now, fading back into something more manageable. 

He supposed, in the end, it could have been worse. 

. . . 

. . . 

Yasu stepped through the door, already prepared for the quiet stillness of an empty home. Hisao had been busy—too busy to linger. It wasn't unusual for Yasu to return to an empty house, to settle into his usual routine of scanning through sealing techniques until his vision blurred. 

Which was why he stopped short when he sensed him. 

Hisao sat at the low table, a cup of tea cooling beside him, his presence as steady as ever. He glanced up as Yasu entered, studying him with his usual unreadable expression. 

"You're home earlier than I expected." 

Yasu blinked. "You're home at all." 

Hisao huffed lightly, not quite a chuckle, but close. "I had business to take care of. But today, I'm free." 

Yasu didn't say anything, but his gaze lingered on Hisao a moment longer. It was rare to catch him like this—present. Not in the middle of another obligation, not weighed down by reports or missions. 

Hisao finished his tea, setting the cup down with quiet finality. Then, without preamble, he stood. 

"Come." 

Yasu frowned. "Where?" 

Hisao was already grabbing his coat. "You'll see." 

By the Water's Edge 

The air was crisp, the scent of earth and river thick as they walked through the uneven terrain. The lake stretched before them, its surface still, reflecting the pale sky above. Tall reeds swayed at the edges, the occasional ripple breaking the water's surface where fish stirred beneath. 

Hisao handed Yasu a fishing rod. 

Yasu stared at it. Then at Hisao. 

"You want me to fish?" 

Hisao arched an eyebrow. "Is that a problem?" 

Yasu hesitated. "...I just didn't think you knew how." 

Hisao scoffed, kneeling to check the lines. "I know plenty of things, Yasu." He tied the bait with practiced ease before gesturing for Yasu to do the same. "You've been staring at seals all day, every day. Thought you could use something different." 

Yasu's fingers twitched around the rod, irritation bubbling faintly. "I need to train." 

"You will train," Hisao said smoothly. "But first, you learn patience." 

Yasu exhaled sharply but didn't argue. He copied Hisao's motions, securing the bait with quiet focus before casting his line. The hook plopped into the water, sending ripples outward. 

And then… 

Nothing. 

Minutes passed. The wind whispered through the reeds, the occasional splash echoing in the distance. Yasu stared at the water, waiting, expecting… something. 

Hisao smirked. "You're impatient." 

Yasu scowled. "I'm bored." 

"Same thing." 

Yasu shot him a glare. Hisao only looked back at the lake, unbothered. 

Fishing, as it turned out, was nothing like training. There were no immediate results, no clear steps toward progress. It was just sitting. Waiting. 

But… 

His grip on the rod eased slightly. His breathing slowed. For the first time in days, his mind wasn't clawing at the past, at things he couldn't change. 

Just the quiet. 

And Hisao, watching him with the faintest ghost of approval. 

Yasu exhaled. Maybe this wasn't a complete waste of time. 

Maybe. 

. 

. 

. 

Across the stone table sat Iwagakure's most powerful figures sat in silence. The air was thick with incense and tension—two things that had lingered in this chamber for far too long. 

A man cleared his throat. The sound, sharp and deliberate, cut through the heavy stillness. 

"This cannot continue." The voice belonged to one of the elders, his tone clipped, sharp as flint. "Two prisoners dead. The others silent. Weeks of deliberation, and we are no closer to an answer than we were the day Hayashi's boy was taken." His fingers tapped against the wood, slow and steady, a measured impatience. "We are wasting time." 

A scoff came from across the table. "And what do you suggest?" The speaker was another elder, voice smooth, but eyes cold. "That we storm Kumo's gates based on nothing but suspicion? We have no proof their Raikage sanctioned this." 

The first man's jaw tightened. "That's the problem, isn't it? We don't know if they did. We don't know if they didn't. We know nothing except that our shinobi was taken and the men responsible are either dead or refusing to speak." His gaze darkened, his fingers curling into a fist. "And that our Tsuchikage still has not given the order." 

A heavy silence followed. 

The Tsuchikage sat at the head of the table, unmoving. His hands rested atop the smooth stone, fingers steepled together. His gaze, unreadable, swept across the council. "You speak as if war is the only path forward," he said at last, voice measured, deliberate. 

One of the men leaned forward. "If not war, then what? We cannot ignore this. Hisao is one of ours. If we allow this to pass unanswered, what does that say about Iwagakure? That we allow our children to be taken, tortured, and left to rot while we argue about decorum?" 

"War is not an answer," another cut in, tone weary but firm. "It is a question. One that demands a price before it gives an answer. And I would know the cost before I pay it." His eyes flickered to the Tsuchikage. "Will Kumo deny involvement? Or will they welcome an excuse to strike? We are not the only ones weighing our options." 

The Tsuchikage exhaled slowly. "Precisely." 

Another voice—low, edged with quiet danger—spoke from the far end of the table. "And what if the cost has already been decided? You assume Kumo is waiting for our response. What if they are waiting to see if we have the spine to give one?" The speaker's face remained in shadow, but his presence was undeniable. "Two prisoners are dead. Convenient deaths. Either they were silenced before they could speak, or they chose death over what we would have done to them. Either way, that tells me one thing." 

A pause. 

"They were more afraid of their own leaders than they were of us." 

The words hung in the air like a blade poised over flesh. 

The Tsuchikage said nothing. 

A woman—the only woman in the room—spoke next. Her voice was quiet, but sharp enough to draw blood. "Then we must ask ourselves: is it fear that holds their tongues, or loyalty?" 

The implication was clear. If these men had been acting under Kumo's orders, the Raikage would protect them. If they had acted alone, then their silence was the silence of men abandoned. 

And if it was the latter, then Iwagakure was waiting for nothing. 

The Tsuchikage finally shifted. "Our decision cannot be made on impatience." 

"No," the first elder said, leaning forward, his voice a blade unsheathed. "But it must be made." 

Silence stretched long between them. Outside, the wind howled through the narrow streets of Iwagakure, a reminder that the mountains did not wait for men to find their resolve. 

Neither did war. 

The Tsuchikage let out a slow breath. His gaze drifted to the far wall, where an old map of the Elemental Nations was pinned, corners worn from years of deliberation. 

Then, softly—so softly that the flames barely seemed to flicker at his words—he spoke. 

"Dismissed." 

And just like that, the waiting continued.