The Hawk faction's training courtyard was unusually crowded.
Several Uchiha children had gathered near the edge of the field, pretending to train while their attention remained fixed on the centre. None of them spoke.
None of them dared to get closer.
At the heart of the courtyard stood Toyoma.
Before him was his personal chūnin squad—three members in total—already positioned, already waiting.
"Again," Toyoma said calmly.
A group of genin at the side hurled the prepared obstacles into the air—large chunks of stone, spinning fast and irregular, meant to test timing rather than strength.
The first boulder descended.
A kunai flashed through the air.
For an instant, Toyoma vanished.
Not speed—not shunshin.
Gone.
In the same breath, Uchiha Kenshin appeared where Toyoma had stood.
His feet crushed into the ground as his fist rose.
"Second Form: Upper Smash."
The boulder exploded mid-air, shattered by raw force.
Before the fragments could scatter, another kunai cut through the chaos.
Toyoma reappeared—this time behind the squad—his expression unchanged, his breathing steady.
Another stone followed.
Flames surged forward, controlled and precise.
Uchiha Masato's fire style did not overwhelm the field; it guided the debris, burning only what needed to burn, forcing the rest into predictable paths.
Predictable paths were all Uchiha Kaede needed.
Her arm moved.
One kunai.
Then another.
Then three more.
Every throw struck true—no hesitation, no correction, no wasted motion.
Even as the debris shifted mid-air, her aim never faltered.
The children watching swallowed unconsciously.
They didn't understand what they were seeing.
They only knew this wasn't normal training.
Toyoma raised a hand.
The courtyard went still.
"This formation fails if your timing slips," he said evenly.
"If one of you hesitates, all of you die."
No anger.
Just a fact.
He turned away, already preparing for the next round.
Behind him, the squad adjusted their positions without a word.
They had done this before.
And they would do it again.
The formation repeated again.
Kunai flashed.
Bodies shifted.
Stone shattered.
To anyone watching, Toyoma appeared focused—calm, precise, fully immersed in training.
But his mind was elsewhere.
It kept returning to the meeting.
At first, he hadn't even cared. Clan territory had been violated before—ANBU entering without permission, elders letting it slide, pretending it was normal.
Toyoma had accepted that reality easily.
Because he knew the future.
He knew what would happen to bloodline clans.
He knew what would be done to their children—experiments justified in the name of protection, progress, or necessity. Officially blamed on Orochimaru.
But reality had always been simpler.
The village allowed it.
That knowledge was why he hadn't controlled himself when the ANBU appeared.
And when he realised it was Shisui… the situation only became more ridiculous.
Idiotic.
Toyoma almost wanted to laugh—at the clan head, at the elders, at the careful lies they wrapped themselves in.
He could have mocked them.
He could have humiliated them.
But then Shisui spoke.
The Will of Fire.
Loyalty.
The same story the Uchiha were always told—that they were wrong, that they needed to understand the village better, that sacrifice was proof of sincerity.
That was when Toyoma lost control.
He hadn't planned a speech.
He hadn't planned rebellion.
He had simply spoken what he had carried—from his past life, from this one, from the moment he was reborn into Konoha as an Uchiha constantly told that people like him could not be trusted.
Why did he need to understand the village?
He already understood enough.
His attention snapped back to the field as another boulder flew—this one hollow, packed with detonating talisman meant to mimic a retreating enemy formation.
Toyoma displaced it instantly.
The explosion thundered harmlessly at the edge of the courtyard.
He didn't even flinch.
At first, he had thought this world was fictional.
A place where he could act freely, experiment, play his role without consequence.
That illusion had shattered the day his parents died on a mission.
This was not a story.
This was his world.
The pain was real.
The people were real.
The emotions were real.
The Uchiha were not a famous clan to him—they were family.
And for that reason alone, he had committed the one mistake he had always sworn not to make.
He had spoken honestly.
In front of the entire clan, he had said he didn't care about the village, the clan's political ambitions, or the Hokage position.
He knew those words would reach the higher-ups.
He knew every action he took from now on would be watched.
At first, he had regretted it.
Now?
He felt nothing.
Whatever came, would come.
He would face it.
Toyoma exhaled sharply, breaking the rhythm of the courtyard.
"Huff… huff. That's enough for today," he said calmly.
The squad stopped immediately.
Training was over—but the consequences had already begun.
At the same time, within the Hokage's office—
Hiruzen Sarutobi studied the two men seated before him.
Fugaku Uchiha sat straight-backed, hands resting on his knees, but the tension on his face was impossible to miss. Not anger—worry.
Restrained, carefully hidden.
Beside him, Elder Kohaku remained still.
His expression was calm, almost detached, but his eyes held no warmth.
No respect.
Hiruzen noticed.
What troubled him more, however, was who wasn't here.
Shisui Uchiha had not returned to report.
That was unusual.
Hiruzen cleared his throat.
"Clan Head Fugaku," he began diplomatically, "have you decided when the Uchiha will formally join the war effort? The situation at the borders is becoming increasingly tense."
He exhaled smoke slowly.
"I've received reports of raids by Mist shinobi. The daimyo is pressing the village to respond decisively."
A faint smile followed. "I assured him the Uchiha had agreed to support Konoha. That alone eased his concerns."
Gratitude filled his voice—sincere, practised.
"For that," Hiruzen said, nodding, "the village is truly grateful."
Fugaku's shoulders stiffened.
The words weighed heavier than praise ever should.
"Hokage-sama… some within the Uchiha have already agreed to participate in the war," he said carefully.
"However, the matter of funding and resources has become… difficult."
Hiruzen's smile didn't fade—but it did still.
"Our clan has borne much of the burden," Fugaku continued. "If the village could provide additional support, even modestly, it would ease the strain."
Silence followed.
Gratitude had been offered.
A request had answered it.
Hiruzen was caught off guard.
The village could provide support.
But the decision not to already existed.
Danzo and the elders had argued that granting the Uchiha resources would only strengthen their internal economy.
They already sold over thirty percent of war materials to village.
More support could shift balance.
Or invite rebellion.
Hiruzen had agreed.
It had seemed like the safer choice.
Now, watching Fugaku's restrained expression, uncertainty crept in.
Before he could speak, another voice cut through the silence.
"Clan Head Fugaku," Homura Mitokado said sternly, "the village is already under immense financial strain. And now you ask for more?"
Koharu Utatane followed, calm and unyielding.
"Konoha is fighting on multiple fronts. Sand. Cloud. Now Mist." Her gaze did not soften. "Surely you understand the village's difficulties."
Fugaku hesitated.
"Elders," he said quietly, "the Uchiha are also under strain. Our reserves are not limitless."
A sharp scoff echoed.
"Hmph. Difficulty?" Danzo Shimura said coldly.
"Or opportunism?"
His eye burned with hostility.
"I warned you, Hiruzen. In times of war, chaos creates ambition. The Uchiha seek to strengthen themselves while the village bleeds."
The accusation hung in the air.
Hiruzen remained silent, pipe raised, smoke curling upward as he studied Fugaku's face.
No anger.
No defiance.
Only restraint.
"That's enough, Danzo," Hiruzen said at last.
"I believe Clan Head Fugaku. The Uchiha have borne heavy burdens in previous wars. Their strain is not unreasonable."
The room fell quiet.
No one looked satisfied.
Elder Kohaku had remained silent until now.
He had watched the exchange unfold without interruption—the gratitude, the suspicion, the accusations dressed as concern.
To him, it had never been a discussion.
It was a power play.
Fugaku was still young.
Barely thirty.
Young enough to believe the conversation was about war, resources, or loyalty.
But Kohaku was more than twice his age.
He understood exactly what was happening.
These people were not negotiating with the Uchiha clan head.
They were measuring him—testing how much pressure he would endure before bending.
They believed they could manipulate him.
Kohaku finally spoke.
"Elder Danzo," he said calmly, turning his gaze toward him, "you said the Uchiha seek to strengthen themselves, that this war is merely an opportunity for us."
Danzo met his eyes, lips curling faintly.
"And is that not true?" he replied, smug and certain.
Kohaku nodded once, as if considering the answer.
"Then tell me," he said evenly, "which other clan—besides the Uchiha—has agreed to fight in this war without receiving resources from the village?"
The room went still.
Danzo opened his mouth.
"They are—"
He stopped.
No name came.
His expression tightened as he looked away, then toward the Hokage.
Hiruzen Sarutobi had frozen.
For the first time since the meeting began, he had no immediate response.
Homura and Koharu exchanged glances, their earlier certainty faltering as they turned toward Kohaku.
Silence stretched.
In that moment, Hiruzen understood something he had not considered before.
It would no longer be easy to ask about the rising cost of war resources.
Not after that question had been spoken aloud.
And not after it had gone unanswered.