A month later, the village carried an air of unease that no words could hide.

Civilians who once strolled with casual chatter now kept their voices low, their steps hurried.

Shopkeepers closed earlier than usual, and the market square no longer had the same cheerful buzz.

Shinobi were moving quickly across rooftops and alleys, some barking clipped orders, others visibly tense, carrying supply scrolls or crates from storehouses to staging grounds.

At the gates, new layers of security had been added: sharp-eyed patrols, reinforced barriers, and more Hyūga side branch members positioned outside the village in wider nets.

Inside the walls, the Uchiha Police force had doubled their rotations.

High above it all, the Hokage Building loomed, its halls buzzing with quiet urgency.

Within one of its upper wings, in a chamber adjoining the Hokage’s office, four figures sat around a long, polished table on an open terrace that overlooked Konoha’s rooftops.

They were the so-called ‘Konoha Council’.

But, not as open and democratic as many people would have approved in Ryusei’s old world.

The air was heavy, not from the crisp autumn wind that carried the faint smell of smoke from distant training fields, but from the weight of what was left unsaid.

“So, it truly can’t be postponed anymore…” Koharu broke the silence, her voice low, eyes scanning the scrolls spread across the table.

She let out a weary sigh, the sound of someone who had seen too many wars begin in just such a way.

The table was set in a square pattern, but everyone knew where the center of gravity lay. Hiruzen Sarutobi sat at the head, his robes neat, his expression carved from years of duty.

On his right was Danzo Shimura, leaning slightly forward with his cane angled against the floor.

On Hiruzen’s left sat Homura and Koharu, their postures more relaxed, though the lines of strain at the corners of their mouths betrayed the tension.

Ever since the shadow faction of Kusagakure struck at Konoha’s border outposts in the Grass Country a month ago, the four in this room had known the war could begin at any moment.

The attack had been brutal, and its intent clear enough, but the picture was never simple.

They had investigated, and while the signs pointed toward Iwagakure’s heavy hand behind the assault, the enemy had kept just enough distance.

The plot was encouraged, even supplied, but not openly claimed.

With no official ties, Iwa could hide behind layers of denial, leaving Konoha with nothing solid to leverage and no grounds to claim any moral high ground.

Danzo’s voice cut through the silence first. “They bled us, but they never showed their face. Iwa’s fingerprints are there, yet too faint to hold up in the public opinion’s court. All we gained was suspicion, not proof.”

Koharu exhaled sharply. “Perhaps. But the resolution of the incident was a rare stroke of fortune. Our main outpost held. Reinforcements arrived in time. And when Kusa realized their so-called commander had been moving without the blessing of their village head, the tide turned.”

Hiruzen’s eyes narrowed as smoke curled from his pipe. “Tenzo’s scheme would have ended with the Kusagakure leader’s head on the floor. Instead, he was exposed, and our agents made certain the truth reached the right ears. Kusa’s leader now knows who saved him from betrayal.”

“In the end,” Hiruzen continued, “Iwagakure failed to fracture us. Grass not only abandoned them, but they grew closer to us over the last month. Their leadership’s trust in Konoha has been renewed, perhaps stronger than before. Anti-Konoha faction effectively purged, and the current leader has only us to rely on.”

“A total loss for Iwa,” Koharu said, almost savoring the words.

“A rare pre-war victory for Konoha,” Homura added, though his voice carried no triumph.

“The kind we will need more of, if we’re to endure what’s coming.”

The four of them let the weight of that thought linger. A fleeting win, precious but fragile, like a spark struggling against the wind.

Yet it was at this point that the mood shifted.

What had begun as sober reflection suddenly grew darker, more sour.

All four of them were remembering the same thing once again, and no matter how many times it had happened lately, they still couldn’t adapt.

The shinobi who had gained the most merit from the Grass Country affair was… of a special identity. The one person they would have least wanted to see in such a spotlight, not to mention wielding the kind of strength it took to achieve such results.

The victory had been undeniable: Grass reconciled, Kusagakure’s leader grateful, Iwagakure the one humiliated slightly, while Konoha saved face and secured a rare pre-war momentum.

On paper, it was a triumph. In reality, the four sitting at the table could barely stand the taste of it because the name attached to the success was Ryusei Nishida—no, Senju.

They never spoke that surname aloud.

It had long been indirectly treated as a forbidden word within Konoha, pushed out of memory through deliberate silence, so that the villagers would not ask questions about how the first clan of the village had vanished.

Even Tsunade gradually stopped using it more and more subconsciously. 

But for Homura and Koharu, the shock of learning his true heritage only weeks ago still lingered.

When Hiruzen had finally told them the full truth, they could hardly believe it.

Neither of them had kept track of the boy; Hiruzen himself had never mentioned him in their regular councils, deeming him too insignificant, whereas Danzo wasn’t the one to mention anything to them either on his own initiative.

Only in some half-forgotten corner of memory did they recall the stories—World War Two, the Senju revivalist faction, Masamune Senju, the Senju Great Elder, and their senior, the one most vocal against assimilation, dead of old age before the war ended.

And his son, Takeshi Senju, who had been a great thorn in their side through much of that war, at some point eventually eliminated with difficulty.

For his bloodline to still exist, alive in a boy who had survived multiple attempts on his life done by Hiruzen and Danzo, and not only that, but to emerge strong enough to orchestrate Tenzo’s downfall… it was almost unthinkable stuff they couldn’t imagine in their worst nightmares.

They were too preoccupied with ‘winning’ and gaining a deeper and deeper hold of this village.

Thirteen years old, yet already showing strength on the level of a high jōnin, only a step beneath elite.

Perhaps the most gifted shinobi since Konoha was founded.

The thought alone was enough to sour the air of the terrace.

None of them needed to speak aloud the obvious complications: the revivalist heir of the Senju, alive, gaining renown, proving himself against enemies that Konoha’s leadership would have preferred swallowed him whole, having the potential to become a great threat to their grip over the village in the future.

The stronger he became, the harder it would be to remove him.

And if his existence ever drew the public’s attention to what had been done to his clan, especially the part that refused to assimilate, he was originating from… the risk was intolerable.

Homura finally broke the silence, his voice edged. “You should have definitely told us and reminded us sooner, Hiruzen. At the very least, we might have helped you be prepared for the… variable he represents.”

Koharu’s lips pressed into a thin line. “A child like that, carrying such a legacy… to leave him ‘unattended’ until now was extremely careless. Even you must see that.”

Her tone was sharp, unusually so, and for once it carried the faintest trace of blame aimed directly at Hiruzen.

Hiruzen did not argue. He sat still, eyes lowered toward the table, pipe smoldering between his fingers.

After a long pause, he sighed. “You’re right. I should have listened to Danzo from the start. He warned me more than once.”

His words came heavy, and in admitting them, he lowered himself in a way none of them had ever seen before.

Even in front of Koharu and Homura, he placed Danzo above himself.

A ‘mistake’, politically, but spoken with a kind of weary sincerity that made it clear his regret was genuine, and made the two a bit better about him instantly.

Danzo, however, remained silent the entire time.

He didn’t savor the moment, didn’t gloat, didn’t even nod.

He simply sat there with his cane resting at his side.

Only his hand betrayed him, the knuckles white from how tightly he gripped it.

The silence that followed was long and cold.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep