The Tactician: Naruto Fanfiction

[6588 Words]

Yasu walked toward the small shelf against the wall, his bare feet padding softly across the wooden floor. It wasn't much—just a few books stacked haphazardly, some blank scrolls, and a section where brushes and ink were neatly arranged. He reached for a brush, its worn handle smooth beneath his fingertips, before turning toward the low table in the centre of the room. 

His mother sat there waiting for him, her hands resting lightly on the surface. The candle beside her flickered, casting soft shadows across her face, and for the first time in a while, Yasu took a moment to really look at her. 

She looked… tired. 

More than usual. 

There was a heaviness to her features that hadn't been there before. A faint hollowness beneath her blue eyes. The subtle downturn of her lips, the way her shoulders seemed to sink ever so slightly. Was it just a lack of sleep? Probably. But why? 

He never tried to find out. 

It was easier that way. 

"Come, Yasu," she said, offering him the inkstone. "Let's begin." 

Right. Kanji practice. 

It had always just been him and her. 

There were moments, earlier in life, when he had questions—small curiosities that flickered in his mind, the kind children often had. Did she have any family? Grandparents? Siblings? 

She didn't. 

She had been an orphan, raised without the warmth of parents or the bonds of siblings. Yasu had been more surprised back then—she seemed too young not to have anyone left. But she didn't. And so, it was just them. It had always been just them. 

And she struggled with that. 

They weren't rich. Poor—that was the word Yasu would use to describe their situation, though it wasn't as bad as one might imagine. They had a roof over their heads, food on the table, clothes to wear. Nothing luxurious, nothing extra. Just enough. 

Still, it was a far cry from the life he once knew. 

The concept of being 'poor' had never even crossed his mind in his past life. It wasn't something he had to think about. But in this life, it was different. He had been born into it, forced to live it, and though he had no memory of choosing such a fate, it was his, nonetheless. 

Bad luck. 

That's what he called it. 

His mother dipped her brush into the ink, tapping the excess against the rim of the stone dish before setting it to the scroll. With practiced ease, she drew the first stroke, then the next, her movements fluid and deliberate. 

"This one," she said, tilting the scroll toward him, "is 'endure.'" 

Yasu studied the character. The way it curved, the weight of each stroke—it had a sharpness to it, a certain finality. 

"Endure," he murmured, his own brush hovering just above the paper. "I don't think I've seen this one before." 

His mother nodded. "It's more complex than the ones we've practiced, but you're ready." 

She guided his hand over the first stroke, her touch light but steady. She gave a tired smile. "Endurance is often painful." 

Yasu hesitated, then pressed the brush to the paper, carefully tracing the character. His strokes weren't as clean as hers, but they were steady enough. The ink bled slightly at the edges. 

"Good," she said, watching his hand. "Again." 

So, he did. Again and again, the same character filling the page, as if writing it enough times would help him understand something deeper about it. About her. About himself. 

And for the first time in a long while, Yasu found himself wondering— 

What exactly was she enduring? 

His gaze flickered to her face again. The dim candlelight softened her features, but it did nothing to hide the exhaustion in her eyes. It wasn't just tonight. He had been noticing it more and more lately—the way she lingered at the table after dinner, rubbing at her temples, the way her movements carried a sluggishness she tried to mask. 

He wasn't sure why, but tonight, it made his chest feel… tight. 

His fingers tightened slightly around the brush before he spoke. "You've been taking more shifts." 

It wasn't a question, not really, but the moment the words left his mouth, Yasu felt the awkwardness settle in. He wasn't used to asking about these things. He wasn't sure he wanted the answer. 

His mother stilled for a fraction of a second before dipping her brush into the ink again. "Mm," she hummed noncommittally, adding another careful stroke to the page. 

Yasu frowned. "Why?" 

She glanced at him, the corner of her lips twitching upward, but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Because we need the money," she said simply, as if that explanation was enough. 

It wasn't. 

Yasu knew they weren't well off—he wasn't stupid—but they had been managing. Had something changed? Was there something she wasn't telling him? 

He wanted to ask. 

But he didn't. 

Instead, he turned back to his scroll, tracing the character again. "Endure," he muttered under his breath. 

His mother let out a quiet chuckle, though there was a sadness to it. "Fitting, isn't it?" 

Yasu didn't answer. He just kept writing. 

Yasu finished the current character with a careful stroke, letting the ink settle before lifting his brush. He had gotten better—his lines were steadier, his hand more precise. Still, his mind lingered elsewhere. 

He glanced at his mother again, slower this time, as if searching for something in the way she watched him. The tiredness in her eyes, the weight she carried—it made something settle uncomfortably in his chest. 

"…When I become a shinobi," he started, his voice quieter than before, "I'll take care of you." 

His mother blinked, her fingers stilling on the table. 

Yasu forced himself to keep going, though the words felt heavier now that he was saying them out loud. "You won't have to work so much. You won't have to worry about money or… anything else." He shifted, feeling a bit awkward, but pressed forward anyway. "I'll save up. Get you a nice house—somewhere quiet. Somewhere you can feel… free." 

The room was silent. 

Then, his mother exhaled sharply, a tremble in her breath. When Yasu met her gaze, he saw something he wasn't used to seeing in her eyes. A deep, raw uncertainty. Emotion she couldn't quite mask. 

A tear slipped down her cheek before she quickly wiped it away, her movements tense. She let out a quiet sigh, frustrated with herself. 

"…You still want to become one?" she murmured at last, her voice barely above a whisper. 

She wasn't looking at him now. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the half-written characters before her, as if they might hold an answer she didn't want to find. 

Yasu set his brush down carefully, watching the way his mother's fingers curled slightly against the table, her knuckles pale under the dim candlelight. 

"I haven't changed my mind," he said, his voice steady. 

His mother closed her eyes briefly, pressing her fingers against her temple before sighing. "I thought… after a year, maybe you would have reconsidered." 

Yasu frowned. "Why would I?" 

She let out a soft, humourless chuckle, shaking her head. "Because it's dangerous, Yasu. Because it's a life of blood and violence. Because I don't want you to go down that path." Her voice wavered slightly, but she quickly steadied it. "I thought maybe, with time, you'd come to want something else." 

But Yasu had never wanted anything else. From the moment he understood what shinobi were, what they could do, it had been clear to him. He wasn't meant for an ordinary life. 

"You think I don't know it's dangerous?" he asked. "I do." He glanced at his hands, ink staining his fingertips. "But what choice do I have?" 

His mother's brows furrowed, her lips parting slightly in protest, but he continued before she could speak. 

"We're not rich," he said, his voice firm. "We don't have connections. I have no name that means anything. So, tell me—what else am I supposed to do? Just accept this life? Struggle every day, barely getting by, never becoming more than what we are?" He shook his head, gripping the brush tighter. "No. I won't live like that." 

His gaze burned with conviction as he looked at her. "I know what I want. I want to become a shinobi—not just any shinobi, but a great one. I want to see how far I can go, how strong I can become. And when I do, I'll make sure you never have to worry again." 

The words hung heavy in the air, filled with something unshakable. 

Because this wasn't just an idea or a passing dream. 

It was a decision. A promise. 

His mother looked at him for a long moment, and Yasu wondered if she was searching for something in his face. Doubt, maybe. Hesitation. 

But there was none. 

She sighed again, rubbing her temple before whispering, "You sound so certain." 

"I am." 

She swallowed, her expression unreadable. "That certainty will be tested, Yasu. More than you know." 

"I can handle it." 

His mother's lips pressed together, her gaze heavy. "…I hope so." 

Silence settled between them, thick and unyielding. Then, finally, she looked away and reached for the brush once more. 

"…Finish your practice," she murmured. 

Yasu picked up his brush without another word, but the air between them felt different now. And somehow, that made it harder to focus. 

Then came the knock. 

Sharp, loud. 

He paused, his brush hovering just above the parchment. Across from him, his mother remained still, eyes cast downward, lost in thought. She hadn't noticed. 

Yasu hesitated before lowering his brush, glancing toward her. "The door," he mumbled. 

No response. 

She didn't move. She didn't even look at him. 

The knock came again, firmer this time. 

Yasu frowned. She was right there, closer to the door than he was, but she didn't so much as stir. The distant look in her eyes unsettled him. 

With a quiet sigh, he set his things down and stood, padding toward the entrance. His fingers wrapped around the wooden handle, and without much thought, he pulled the door open. 

A man stood there. 

Tall. Lean. A bit dishevelled, like he had been traveling for a while. His dark hair was slightly unkempt, strands falling messily across his forehead. His features were sharp—angular jaw, prominent cheekbones, a mouth that pressed into an unreadable line. His clothes were simple, nothing remarkable. 

But none of that mattered. 

Because Yasu had already noticed the one thing that did. 

His eyes. 

A cold grey, the very same colour Yasu saw reflected back at him every time he looked in a mirror. 

The air between them felt thick, heavy with something unspoken. 

For the first time in his life, Yasu was staring at a stranger. 

And somehow, he already knew exactly who he was. 

Yasu's grip on the door tightened, his fingers pressing against the wood as the weight of the moment settled over him. The man's gaze lingered on him, unreadable, piercing in a way that made Yasu's skin prickle. His presence alone felt like an intrusion, like something that didn't belong in the quiet space of their home. 

Then, behind him, movement. 

His mother finally stirred. 

Yasu turned slightly, watching as she finally lifted her head, as if snapping out of whatever daze she had been in. He wasn't sure what he expected to see on her face, but it wasn't this. 

Her expression, usually so composed, had faltered. 

For a split second, something raw flickered across her face—shock, fear, something close to panic. But then it was gone, buried beneath a tight, forced control. 

Yasu's brows furrowed. What had this man done to make her react like that? 

He glanced back at the stranger, studying him more closely now. 

Was this someone dangerous? He didn't look particularly threatening. Just tired. Worn. There was no aggression in his stance, no immediate hostility. But Yasu had learned that danger didn't always come in the form of raised voices or clenched fists. 

His mother's reaction was enough to make him wary. She inhaled, slow and deep, before finally speaking. 

"…Why are you here?" Her voice was sharp, a demand rather than a question. 

The man didn't flinch. He kept his gaze on Yasu for a moment longer before finally shifting his attention to her. "I just want to talk." 

Silence. 

Yasu could feel it pressing against him, thick and tense. He glanced between them, observing the way his mother's lips pressed together, the hesitance in the way her eyes darkened. 

Then, at last, she turned to him. 

"Go outside," she said, her voice gentler now but firm. "Play with your friends for a while." 

Yasu didn't move immediately. He only blinked at her, brows drawing together slightly. "What?" 

His mother exhaled through her nose, her hands settling onto the table's surface as though grounding herself. "Just go, Yasu." 

He didn't move right away. His gut told him something was wrong. 

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the man stepping forward, moving past him without a second glance, as if he wasn't even there. 

Yasu watched him, noting the way he barely acknowledged his presence. No greeting. No curiosity. Just disinterest. 

For some reason, that irritated him more than anything else. His mother straightened as the man approached her, her body rigid. Yasu didn't like it. 

His stomach twisted at the way the air shifted, the unspoken tension between them. And before he could stop himself, the words left his mouth. 

"…Are you my father?" 

His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the silence like a blade. The man halted mid-step. 

Slowly, he turned back toward Yasu, those grey eyes—his eyes—locking onto his again. Then, simply— 

"Yes." 

A sharp breath. His mother's. 

"Yasu, go. Now." Her voice snapped through the room, harsher than before. 

Yasu clenched his jaw, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He gave the man one last glance, trying to find something—anything—in his expression. 

But there was nothing. No warmth. No regret. No recognition. Just the same indifference. 

Yasu exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to step back. He turned, grabbing the door and pulling it shut behind him. 

Even as it clicked into place, his chest still felt tight. 

. 

. 

. 

Red. 

That was all Yasu could see—red that painted the walls, the floor, and his trembling hands. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his chest heaving with a fury that burned hotter than the fire in his veins. The sound of screaming filled the room, high and panicked, but it didn't feel real. Nothing did. 

His fingers tightened around the hilt of the knife, its handle slick with blood. His ears rang, drowning out the man's desperate pleas, the gurgling cries of pain as he writhed beneath him. The knife plunged down again. And again. And again. 

The man's hands shot up, grabbing Yasu's wrists in a feeble attempt to stop him. "S-stop—!" the man stammered, his voice wet and broken, but the words barely registered. Yasu's anger roared louder than anything else. He didn't care about the blood spraying his face, didn't care about the pain in his arms from the force of his strikes. All he knew was the blinding rage, the need to keep going, to silence the monster before him. 

Something hot and wet splashed onto his cheek. A choked gasp escaped the man as he twisted beneath Yasu, his strength faltering. He tried to shove Yasu away, his fingers clawing at the boy's arms, but it was useless. Yasu's grip was iron; his movements relentless. 

The world tilted as footsteps thundered toward him. Shouts echoed, but Yasu didn't turn. He didn't notice the shinobi who burst into the house, their eyes wide with horror at the scene before them. His mind was locked on the man's face—a face twisted in pain, pale and streaked with blood. 

"Enough!" A sharp, commanding voice cut through the haze. Strong hands grabbed Yasu, wrenching him backward with brutal force. The knife slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor with a metallic ring. 

Yasu thrashed wildly, screaming in a guttural, broken voice. "Let me go! He killed her! He killed her!" His body arched against the hold of the shinobi, his nails clawing at the hands restraining him. Tears blurred his vision, but the rage wouldn't let him stop. 

They forced him to the ground, holding him down despite his desperate struggles. His chest heaved as his gaze darted across the blood-soaked room. His eyes locked on her. 

His mother. 

She lay crumpled on the floor, her once warm, kind eyes now staring into nothing. Her face, once so full of life, was frozen in an expression of terror. Blood had soaked through her clothes, pooling beneath her still form. 

"No! No, no, no!" Yasu's voice broke as he screamed, his body bucking harder against the shinobi's grasp. "He killed her! He killed her! I-I…" His words choked off into sobs, his strength faltering as reality crashed down on him. 

The shinobi exchanged glances, their expressions grim as they tightened their hold on the boy. One of them spoke softly, but the words didn't reach Yasu. His eyes remained fixed on her—on the lifeless eyes of the woman who had always tried, who had always wanted more from him. 

She hadn't deserved this. 

Anger surged through him, raw and searing, drowning out the sorrow. She hadn't even been given a proper chance, hadn't been given the time she deserved. His chest heaved with fury, not just at the man who had done this, but at himself—for every moment he'd been too cold, too distant. He cared for her, even if he hadn't known how to show it. He cared in his own way. 

And now she was gone. 

The hands pinning him down felt heavier, suffocating, as his anger burned hotter. This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to be lying there, lifeless and cold, her warmth snuffed out forever. She had tried so hard, and now she was gone. Just like that. 

Yasu's body stilled, his strength spent, but the fire in his eyes didn't dim. He looked at the blood on his hands and the man's body on the floor. His breath shuddered as he clenched his fists. 

This shouldn't have happened. 

... 

The room was small. 

A table sat at the centre, plain and unremarkable, with two chairs placed on opposite sides. One occupied, the other empty. 

The walls were bare save for a single large mirror spanning one side of the room. It didn't take a genius to figure out what it was. One-way glass. Someone was watching. Or perhaps he was just paranoid. 

Yasu sat slouched in his chair, his body heavy with exhaustion. His arms rested limply in his lap, his fingers still faintly stained with blood, dried now, flaking at the edges. They had taken him to the hospital first, checked him over, made sure he wasn't injured. Once they confirmed he was physically fine, they brought him here. Told him to wait. 

So, he waited. 

His eyelids felt heavy, but sleep wasn't an option. His mind was too full—too loud. The same day he had told that woman he would take care of her, she died. Just like that. It felt… odd- aching in a way. He had spent his last moments with her making promises about the future, talking about a life she wouldn't even live to see. Now there was nothing left to take care of. 

It made him wonder—just for a moment—about his past life. 

What had happened after he died? 

His family had wealth, power, influence. But had they mourned him? Had they grieved, or had his death merely been another inconvenience to deal with? 

His mother—he knew the answer where she was concerned. Of course, she would have cared. But not for the right reasons. 

Not because he was her son. Not because she had loved him in any meaningful way. 

She had cared because she had lost something—a stepping stone to the life she had married into. His existence had secured her, kept her comfortably seated among the elite. Without him, she would have been nothing more than a widow clinging to the remnants of a world she had never truly belonged to. 

And his grandfather? 

That was harder to say. 

They hadn't spoken since the day Yasu—no, whoever he was before—had broken the news. 'I'm joining the army.' 

The old man hadn't taken it well. 

'You're throwing your future away. You're a fool. Do you even understand what you're doing?' 

There had been arguments. Shouted words, slammed doors. But Yasu had been certain back then, convinced that this was the right path, that he didn't need his grandfather's approval. 

And now, he wasn't sure. 

Some part of him wished he could go back—leave things on better terms. Would it have changed anything? Would his grandfather have forgiven him, in the end? Or had he been just another disappointment? 

Not that it mattered. 

His past life was over. Whatever had happened after his death—whether they had wept for him or barely spared him a thought—was beyond him now. 

Because in this life, there was only one person who had ever been family to him. 

And she was fucking dead. 

The only true family he had. 

And now, he had no one. 

Yasu exhaled slowly through his nose. He wasn't sure what he was feeling. There was something gnawing at him, curling tight in his chest, but he couldn't make sense of it. The woman had taken care of him, had been a constant presence in his life. He had grown somewhat attached in his own way; despite the distance he kept. But that was over now. 

His gaze remained fixed on the table, empty and hollow. 

The door clicked open. Footsteps. 

Yasu didn't react. He didn't look up, didn't shift, didn't acknowledge the presence that had entered the room. He just sat there, unmoving, waiting for whatever came next. 

The footsteps were measured, deliberate. The person wasn't in a hurry, nor were they hesitant. Just calm. Purposeful. 

A chair scraped against the floor as they pulled it back, settling into the seat across from him. Yasu still didn't look up. His eyes remained on the table, his fingers idly picking at the dried blood on his hands. 

Silence. 

They didn't speak right away. Just sat there, watching. Assessing. 

He could feel it—the weight of their gaze, the way they were studying him, picking him apart piece by piece. It was familiar. The army in his past life had done the same thing, sitting men down in rooms like this, watching them, waiting to see what they would do under pressure. He knew the game. 

But he wasn't going to play it. 

Not this time. 

"You've been through a lot." 

The voice was smooth, level. A man's voice, older but not aged. He didn't sound particularly harsh, nor did he sound gentle. Just neutral. 

Yasu said nothing. 

Another pause. Then, a shift. The sound of paper being placed on the table. "We know what happened," the man continued. "We just want to hear it from you." 

Yasu finally moved, but only slightly—his fingers curled against his palm before relaxing again. His gaze didn't lift. They wanted to hear it from him? 

Why? 

His throat felt dry. He wasn't sure if he could say it out loud. If he even wanted to. His mother was dead. He had killed her killer. What else was there to say? That he had done it without hesitation? That he would do it again? 

The silence stretched. 

Yasu's fingers scraped against his palm, feeling the uneven texture of dried blood. He swallowed, but his throat still felt rough, dry like he had swallowed sand. 

He could sense the man waiting, but he didn't care. 

There was nothing else. No deeper meaning, no grand revelation. His mother had died, and his father had deserved it. End of story. 

When the silence became too thick, the man sighed. The paper on the table rustled as he adjusted it. "You don't have to talk," he said, his voice still even. "But I need to understand. What happened tonight?" 

Yasu's fingers twitched. 

What happened? 

What happened was that he had come home and found his mother's body crumpled on the floor. That the blood had already pooled beneath her, thick and dark, the life already drained from her eyes. What happened was that something in Yasu had snapped. 

What happened was that he had grabbed the nearest knife and driven it into the man's gut before he could think, before he could stop himself, before he could even feel. Before he could have a single thought of, who was this man? 

What happened was that he had kept going, long after the man had started begging. 

Yasu let out a slow breath, his hands going still. Finally, he lifted his gaze. Not to the man—just past him, to the mirror that stretched across the wall. 

There were people behind it. Watching. Studying him like a caged animal. His voice, when it finally came, was hoarse but steady. 

"You already know what happened." 

His words were flat, empty. 

The man across from him didn't react right away. He just watched him, unreadable, before eventually leaning back in his chair. "I want to hear it from you," he repeated. 

Yasu's jaw clenched. He didn't look away from the mirror. 

"She's dead." The words felt foreign in his mouth. "He killed her." His fingers curled. "So, I killed him." 

Another silence. This one heavier. 

He could see the man's reflection in the glass. His expression didn't change. "And why did you kill him?" 

Yasu finally turned his gaze to him, his eyes dull. 

"What else was I supposed to do? He deserved it." 

The man across from him held his gaze, unreadable. He didn't look surprised by Yasu's words. Didn't look particularly disturbed, either. Just… studying. Calculating. 

The man hummed softly, barely a sound, as he tapped his fingers against the paper on the table. "You were in shock," he said, as if testing the words, as if trying to put them in Yasu's mouth. "You acted on instinct." 

Yasu didn't answer, he merely stared as he processed the words the man had spoken. 

Shock? Instinct? 

Maybe. 

Or maybe not. 

The moment he saw his mother on the ground, something in him had snapped clean in two. The moment the killer had turned toward him, blood on his hands, bottle still clutched in his fingers, Yasu had already decided. 

And he hadn't hesitated. 

The knife had gone in once. Then again. Then again. 

He didn't stop until they pulled him off. 

The man shifted slightly. "You understand why we need to ask these questions, don't you?" 

Yasu exhaled through his nose, tilting his head back slightly against the chair. The exhaustion was pressing heavier on him now, like a weight settling into his bones. His limbs felt slow, heavy, like they belonged to someone else. 

"I understand," he murmured, voice flat. 

The man nodded, accepting the answer. "Good." 

Another pause. Another shift of paper. Then— 

"You've killed before." 

The words weren't a question. 

Yasu's eyes flickered, barely perceptible, but he didn't react otherwise. 

The man was watching him carefully, waiting for something—a twitch, a flinch, any sign of reaction. 

But Yasu was too tired for that. 

Instead, he finally lowered his gaze back to the table, his voice quiet but firm. 

"I'm four." 

The words were both an answer and a challenge. A reminder of how absurd the question was. How absurd all of this was. 

The man hummed again, unbothered. "Yes. You are." 

And yet, he didn't take it back. Didn't rephrase. Didn't correct himself. 

Yasu said nothing. 

The man leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. "You didn't hesitate," he noted, voice still calm. "Most children, even in situations like yours, freeze. They panic. They cry. But you… acted." 

Yasu's fingers twitched against his knee. It wasn't a compliment. But it wasn't an accusation, either. Just an observation. A fact. A true fact, he truly had killed before, he knew what it felt like to have blood dripping from his hands, he remembered the feeling of scrubbing his hands clean. He rarely ever showed pity, let alone regret when he killed. 

The silence stretched again. The man didn't push this time. He just sat there, waiting. 

Yasu exhaled slowly, feeling the weight in his chest settle deeper. 

"I did what had to be done." 

It was the only answer he had. The man across from him studied him in silence, his expression unreadable. 

Yasu stared back, unblinking. 

He had given them their answer. That should have been the end of it. But he could feel it—this wasn't just about what happened tonight. They weren't just trying to understand. They were trying to figure out what to do with him. 

Another long pause. Then, finally, the man exhaled softly, leaning back in his chair. "I see." 

His fingers tapped against the table once before he reached for the papers in front of him, flipping through them idly. Yasu didn't bother looking at what was written there. He knew what they contained. His name. His mother's name. Perhaps his father's. A report of the scene, the way they had found him, covered in blood, knife still in his hand. 

A mess. 

The man set the papers down again. "You understand that this complicates things." 

Yasu said nothing. 

His mother was dead. He killed his father. He had no other family. There was nothing complicated about it. 

The man continued, "You live in Iwagakure. That means you are under the village's protection." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "And under its authority." 

Yasu let out a slow breath. He could see where this was going. They wanted to know what to do with him. 

An orphan. 

A child who had killed. 

A child who hadn't hesitated. 

He glanced past the man, back at the mirror. He still couldn't see them, but he knew they were there. Watching. Judging. 

The man's voice was calm, steady. "Do you regret it?" 

Yasu blinked. A slow, deliberate movement. He thought about his mother's body on the floor. Thought about the blood on his hands. The grip he had on the knife. 

The question should have been difficult. 

But it wasn't. 

"No." 

The man nodded slightly, as if that answer had been expected. He tapped the edge of the paper once before clasping his hands together. "Then we'll have to decide what happens next." 

Yasu's jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't speak. 

The man stood, pushing his chair back with a quiet scrape of wood against stone. "Stay here." 

As if he had a choice. Yasu didn't watch him leave. Didn't look up as the door clicked shut behind him. 

He just sat there, staring at his hands, waiting for whatever came next. 

. 

. 

. 

The office was quiet. 

Not in the peaceful way, but in the heavy way, the kind that sat in the air like an unspoken tension, thick and unmoving. 

The Tsuchikage's office, nestled high in the administrative building, was spacious but not extravagant. The walls were lined with maps and scrolls, reports stacked neatly on the wide desk at the center. A large window stretched across the far side of the room, offering a view of Iwagakure—the stone paths, the towering cliffs, the ever-present mountains in the distance. 

Hisao stood by that window, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the village below. 

He had been silent for most of the conversation, watching, listening. Thinking. 

The Second Tsuchikage, Mū, sat behind his desk, shrouded in his usual attire—his body wrapped in dark bandages, his features hidden save for his piercing violet eyes and the sharp bridge of his nose. His presence was unsettling, even to those who knew him well. He was a man of calculated precision, of silence that demanded more attention than shouting ever could. 

Across from him, standing with his arms crossed, was Hideo Asano. 

An older shinobi, his presence was marked by experience—his hair, once black, was streaked with grey, tied back in a simple knot. He wore the flak jacket of an Iwa veteran, his broad frame carrying the weight of years spent on battlefields. He had survived the First Shinobi War. And he had no illusions about the world. 

And right now, he was interested in the boy. 

"This situation… is a rare opportunity," Hideo said, arms crossed, his tone firm but controlled. "We lost too many in the war. We are still recovering. We don't have the luxury of waiting for talent to present itself in the usual way." He leaned forward slightly. "The boy is strong. You saw it yourself." 

Mū exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. "He's four." 

"And he killed a grown man." 

Hisao didn't turn from the window, but his jaw tensed. 

Hideo continued, undeterred. "Who knows when the next war will begin? It could be five years from now, ten, or even sooner. And when that time comes, we will need soldiers. We will need children like him." 

Mū's gaze remained steady. "Children?" 

Hideo's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Don't pretend we haven't done worse, Tsuchikage-sama. The Hidden Villages were built on child soldiers." 

The words lingered, blunt and undeniable. 

Mū sighed, rubbing his temple, but he did not disagree. 

Hisao finally spoke. "There's something wrong with him." 

Both men turned their attention to him. 

He did not look at them. His eyes remained on the village, on the people moving about below—oblivious to the conversation happening here, to the decisions being made above them. 

"What do you mean?" Mū asked. 

Hisao was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. Then: 

"He didn't seem bothered that he killed someone." 

Hideo exhaled sharply, already preparing his counterargument, but Hisao continued before he could speak. 

"A child his age should have been hysterical. Shaking. Screaming. Something. Instead, he sat there—calm, composed. He didn't even blink when we brought up what he did." Hisao's gaze lowered slightly. "That's not normal." 

Hideo frowned. "He was in shock." 

"No." Hisao finally turned to face them. "I know what shock looks like. That wasn't it. That boy sat across from us with the awareness of someone far older than his years. And when they asked him why he did it?" His expression darkened. "'Because he deserved it,' he said. Without hesitation." 

Mū was silent. 

Hideo studied Hisao carefully. "And that concerns you?" 

Hisao's lips pressed into a thin line. "If you put a weapon in his hands, he will use it. Without question. That kind of mind—at that age—can be dangerous." 

For the first time in the conversation, the room settled into a thoughtful quiet. 

It was the truth. 

What Yasu had done could be explained—grief, rage, a moment of loss and retribution—but what was concerning was how easily he had accepted it. 

Mū tapped his fingers against his desk. "A child like that needs stability." 

Hideo scoffed slightly. "A child like that needs to be shaped into something useful." 

Hisao exhaled, rolling his shoulders slightly before adding, "There's something else." 

Mū raised a brow. 

Hisao crossed his arms. "I've been aware of the boy for a year now. When he was three, he started hanging around this tower. Following me." 

Hideo's expression shifted slightly—mild intrigue, tempered by skepticism. "Following you?" 

"Yes. No one else noticed because I wasn't making my presence obvious. I wasn't hiding strongly, just enough so civilians wouldn't take notice." His expression darkened. "But the boy did." 

Mū's fingers stopped tapping. 

"It didn't take me long to realize what it meant. At first, I thought it was a coincidence—children are curious. But then, I noticed he was tracking me." Hisao's eyes sharpened. "He wasn't looking for me. He was feeling me. Sensing me." 

The realization landed. 

Hideo's eyes flickered with something new—interest. 

Hisao gave a begrudging sigh. "It became clear when I started sending shinobi to observe him. He knew they were there. I watched it happen—little moments, small glances in their direction when they thought they were unseen. That's what confirmed it." 

His gaze shifted to Mū, who already looked like he was thinking ten steps ahead. 

"The boy is a sensor," Hisao said flatly. 

For a second, neither man spoke. 

Then, Hideo chuckled. 

"There are barely any sensors in Iwa," he said, his tone edged with amusement. "And now we have one? A natural-born one?" His smirk widened slightly. "I'd say that makes him even more valuable." 

Hisao ignored his tone, turning to the Tsuchikage. "He needs training," he said. "Proper training." He exhaled, clearly reluctant. "Which is why you're going to assign him to me." 

Mū's gaze didn't waver. "Because you're a sensor too." 

"Yes." 

Mū leaned back, thoughtful. Then, after a long pause: 

"Very well." 

The decision was made. 

Hideo's smirk hadn't faded. If anything, it had only grown. 

"There's another option we should consider," he said, voice edged with anticipation. 

Hisao glanced at him, already wary. "…Go on." 

Hideo leaned forward slightly. "Early enrollment." 

Hisao's brow furrowed. "He's four." 

"The usual age is six," Hideo acknowledged. "But the boy is far from usual. What's the point of waiting? He's already ahead of his peers—in intelligence, in awareness, in sheer capability. We should capitalize on that." 

Mū was silent, watching. Considering. 

Hisao exhaled slowly, crossing his arms. "Even if he enters the Academy now, he'll be the youngest ever to enroll." His tone wasn't dismissive, just weighing the facts. "Every other student will be at least two years older." 

"And?" Hideo challenged. "If he struggles to keep up, then fine. He can stay an extra two years and end up graduating with his agemates. But what if he doesn't?" His smirk returned. "What if he proves himself even more?" 

Hisao sighed. He had been expecting this argument, and yet… 

He turned his gaze back to the window. The idea wasn't without merit. 

"…He is smart," Hisao admitted, reluctant but honest. "A prodigy, if I had to say. He thinks far beyond his years." His fingers tapped lightly against his arm. "Letting him build connections early wouldn't be a bad thing. It could, in some way… help him." 

Hideo arched a brow. "You think he needs help?" 

Hisao gave him a look. "You saw the boy. You saw the way he sat there, the way he spoke. Whatever's going on in his head—whatever he's hiding—it's not the kind of thing that just… disappears." He exhaled. "But maybe… if he's surrounded by others, if he's given something to focus on, it could heal whatever wounds he isn't showing." 

Hideo tilted his head slightly, considering. Then, after a moment, he gave a satisfied nod. 

"I agree." 

Hisao pinched the bridge of his nose. "Of course, you do." 

Mū finally spoke. 

"Do you believe he will adapt?" 

Hisao turned, standing straight again repeating what Hideo had said. "If he doesn't, then we adjust. If needed, we let him stay an extra two years, and he will graduate with his peers." He met Mū's unreadable gaze. "But I doubt it will come to that." 

Mū sat still for a long moment. Then, at last, he gave the faintest of nods. 

"Make the arrangements." 

The decision was made. 

Yasu would be enrolled. 

The youngest ever.