Chapter 17

Itachi Uchiha was… surprised. No, that wasn't the word. Surprise implied a capacity for astonishment he no longer possessed. He observed in silence as Hiruzen Sarutobi, stripped of his usual regalia and dressed in plain, unassuming clothes, prepared tea with a quiet focus that seemed entirely at odds with the man's legendary reputation. The Hokage's movements were precise, the kind that spoke to discipline honed over decades, but they were also strangely unguarded.

They were alone. The two of them. No Anbus watching, no sannin in ambush. Just the two of them. The room was still, save for the faint hiss of the kettle. Hiruzen reached for the tea utensils, his hands steady as he wiped a ceramic bowl with care. He measured the bright green powder, tapping it into the bowl with a practiced rhythm, then added water with a pour so controlled it seemed to defy gravity. The whisk followed, its motion fluid, creating a fine foam that clung to the surface of the tea. Itachi's sharp eyes followed every motion, noting the efficiency in the older man's work, the clarity of his intent.

It had been such a long time since he drank proper tea.

If someone had told him two days ago that he would be seated in the Hokage's personal home, watching him perform a traditional tea ceremony, he would not have believed them. Not laughed, of course—he had forgotten how to do that—but disbelief would have been his instinctive reaction. And yet, here he was.

Itachi's thoughts churned as he watched. When Kakashi had appeared, summoning him back to Konoha, Itachi had braced for the worst. Interrogation seemed likely, perhaps imprisonment, the village's suspicion heavy and suffocating. Seeing the Hokage surrounded by ANBU, guarded in his approach? That would have made sense. But this? Alone? In his home, preparing tea as if they were old friends? This was something else entirely, something that made Itachi's sharp mind itch with questions he couldn't yet answer.

And yet, it was not the strangeness of the situation that unsettled him most. It was the trust.

Itachi could feel the familiar chakra signatures surrounding the compound. Just a short distance away, Naruto Uzumaki slept, the Kyubi's jinchuriki, his presence a chaotic storm even in slumber. Further still, Hiruzen's grandson lay safely in the care of the Hokage's civilian daughter-in-law. These were Hiruzen's most precious people, all within his reach. Vulnerable. And the man responsible for their protection now sat across from Itachi, unarmed, alone, and entirely exposed.

Trust. That word twisted in his mind. Trust, in this context, felt like a foreign concept. The Hokage had placed his faith in Itachi, a man who had done the unspeakable, who carried the weight of his sins like a second skin. Itachi wasn't sure if he admired the audacity or felt the crushing weight of its implications.

Hiruzen lifted the kettle again, his movements smooth as he poured the water into a second bowl. He glanced up briefly, his gaze meeting Itachi's without hesitation. Itachi blinked once, almost imperceptibly, as the Hokage's eyes held his. Even his Sharingan, which had once inspired fear and awe in equal measure, seemed to faze the older man not at all. It was a gesture of trust so profound it bordered on reckless.

"How do you prefer your tea, Itachi?" Hiruzen's voice was calm, the question posed without pretense, as if they were discussing the weather.

Itachi hesitated, unsure how to process the warmth in the man's tone. Something stirred in him—something unfamiliar, faint, and almost fragile. He answered after a pause, his voice low but steady. "Plain."

Hiruzen nodded, a small but satisfied expression crossing his face. He finished preparing the tea and set the bowl before Itachi with an ease that belied the tension hanging in the room. Itachi accepted it, his fingers brushing the smooth ceramic, the heat of the tea seeping into his hands.

The Hokage poured a bowl for himself and settled across from him, his posture relaxed, yet his presence unshakable. He took a sip, his eyes never leaving Itachi, and then set the bowl down with a quiet sound that seemed to punctuate the stillness.

"So, Itachi," Hiruzen said finally, his tone shifting slightly, heavier now but not unkind. "We have much to discuss. A great deal." He paused, gesturing faintly to the tea. "But first, let's enjoy this."

Itachi sat in the silence that followed, the warmth of the tea curling in his chest. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to simply be.

Sarutobi Hiruzen stepped into his private laboratory, the door closing softly behind him. The hum of machines and the faint smell of antiseptic greeted him like old colleagues. At the far counter stood two figures who straightened immediately upon his entry, their movements crisp and automatic.

"Nono. Kabuto," Hiruzen greeted, his smile warm but carrying the quiet authority that came with his position.

"Hokage-sama," Kabuto replied, his voice clipped and formal. His glasses caught the light as he adjusted them, his posture betraying none of the tension Hiruzen knew still lingered in the young man. This was the same Kabuto who had once served Orochimaru, the same Kabuto whose life had been a labyrinth of lies and half-truths until the truth of his identity—and the mother he thought lost—had been unearthed.

Hiruzen's gaze lingered briefly on the young shinobi. Kabuto was a brilliant mind, no doubt, but one shaped by betrayal and survival. Trust, even now, came with sharp edges for him.

"So, Kabuto," Hiruzen began, stepping closer to the counter, "how have you been adapting?"

"Perfectly, Hokage-sama," Kabuto replied, his voice even, almost mechanical.

Nono snorted softly and reached up to pinch Kabuto's cheek in a motherly gesture, earning a startled twitch from the young man. Her grin was wry, her tone teasing as she said, "Oh, don't let him fool you. He's still scared shitless of you, Hokage-sama. Not that I can blame him. Honestly, I don't know many people who aren't." She let go of Kabuto's cheek and gave him a fond look. "But—he's been eating up your research. Fascinated doesn't even begin to cover it. I just hope I'm not boring him too much when I try to explain the finer points."

Kabuto's face flickered briefly—an almost pout—but before he could retort, the control instilled by his years of ROOT training reasserted itself. His expression smoothed, neutral once again. Still, there was a brief moment of connection, a shared smile between mother and son, before the walls they both knew so well slid back into place.

When Kabuto finally spoke, there was a flicker of something unguarded in his eyes. "Your advances in biology are… remarkable, Hokage-sama," he said, his tone quieter, more genuine. "Truly."

Hiruzen chuckled, a low sound laced with amusement and a tinge of self-awareness. If only they knew. Remarkable? It was undergraduate-level biology from a different dimension. Still, no need to spoil their enthusiasm.

"Good, good," Hiruzen muttered to himself, the faint edge of satisfaction in his voice as he stepped out of the main laboratory. He pushed open the door to the adjacent room, his pace slowing as he entered the cooler, quieter space.

At the center of the room stood a single ornate coffin, its surface etched with glowing seals that pulsed faintly, maintaining the stasis of the man inside. Tobirama Senju, the Second Hokage, rested within, his Edo Tensei body dormant by request. He had asked Hiruzen to "only wake him when necessary," though the tone of his words suggested a certain weariness of life—or perhaps an aversion to his student's demands.

Hiruzen's eyes lingered on the coffin. "I'm sure you were just afraid I'd make you help with the paperwork," he remarked dryly.

His gaze shifted to a nearby clay pot, its surface crisscrossed with intricate seals. Inside churned the chakra of the Nine-Tails, extracted from Sora and bound in this container. Its raw, primal energy radiated a steady hum, tethered to the elaborate constraints Hiruzen had devised. It powered much in this space: the delicate balance sustaining Nono Yakushi and Shin, the stability of Tobirama's slumber. And yet, even those three did not consume half of the energy the pot generated.

The thought lingered in his mind, unbidden. There's still more to use.

His eyes drifted to a nearby table. There, Samehada rested, its organic surface shifting faintly as though breathing. Beside it sat a small vial of blood. Kisame Hoshigaki's blood.

Hiruzen's hand hovered over the vial, his fingers twitching slightly as if testing the weight of the decision. Kisame—the Monster of the Bloody Mist—had been a force of raw destruction, a man who could shift the balance of a battlefield through sheer ferocity. Reviving him through Edo Tensei would add incredible power to Konoha's arsenal. The idea was tempting, undeniably so.

And yet, Hiruzen's hand retreated. The allure of such strength was powerful, but the price was clear to him now. Each summoning, each invocation, demanded more than the resources it consumed. It took from him, fragment by imperceptible fragment, pieces of his being. Only someone as attuned to their own nature as Gabriel—now Hiruzen—would even notice the drain.

No. Kisame wasn't worth it. Not now.

He exhaled softly, glancing toward the tools already at his disposal: Jiraiya, Gai, Yamato, Itachi. They were enough. They weren't just weapons—they were people, each with the capacity to grow, to overcome, to change.

And truthfully, Hiruzen mused, the battles that mattered most wouldn't be won by brute force. They'd be won in the margins, through choices like these. He turned away from the table, leaving the vial untouched, the clay pot undisturbed.

His true enemies weren't made of flesh. They didn't wear masks or wield jutsu. The real threats were far more insidious, woven into the very fabric of this world: the institutionalized violence, the deep-rooted mistrust, the way children were molded into tools of war before they even knew what it meant to live. These were the enemies he had to fight—the rot beneath the surface that devoured innocence and spat out killers.

His thoughts drifted to Itachi, to Kakashi, to countless others whose lives had been bent, then broken, by the system. How many prodigies had been sacrificed to its endless grind? How many lives had been drained dry for the sake of power hoarded in the hands of the few? Even Pain, with all his lofty ideals, had only dressed the same cycle of suffering in a new guise. And Madara? His dreams of peace were as hollow as the world he sought to rule, illusions no stronger than the broken society he scorned.

Kaguya, should she return, would be a trial—a storm to endure, a battle to win. But even her defeat would be no more than a brief reprieve. Banish her, and the world would still stagger under the same poisoned weight, the same glorification of violence. The cycle would grind on, indifferent to gods and heroes, birthing new wars from old wounds. A world that couldn't transcend its own brutality could never know peace.

"No," Hiruzen whispered, the word a quiet declaration, heavy as iron. The stillness of the room seemed to shudder under its weight. He straightened, his shoulders bearing the years of failure and regret that had forged him into something harder, sharper. That weight wouldn't crush him; it had tempered him. And now, it was time to wield that edge.

If this was the world he'd been handed, he would not accept it. He would not pass it down unchanged, like some cursed heirloom. He would break it, piece by piece, and build something better from its ruins. Not with fleeting victories or grand battles, but with roots planted deep, with change that could not be undone.

He turned to the door, the fire of purpose burning in his chest. This was no longer about gods or tyrants. It was about the soul of the world itself. Others had tried to change it and failed, their dreams faltering against the weight of tradition, the inertia of a broken system. But he would not.

Hiruzen Sarutobi would not settle for fleeting peace or hollow victories. He would reshape the foundations, dismantle the cruelties that turned children into killers and lives into currency. He would leave behind a legacy more enduring than stone, more meaningful than monuments. It would be a world worth living in. A future worth fighting for.

"Please, teach me, Hokage-sama!", implored Sasuke.

Again.

But, this time, politely.

"No", answered Sarutobi.

Again.

Shikamaru sat cross-legged on his tatami mat, gnawing at his thumbnail as the seconds dragged like hours. The clock on the wall ticked in steady defiance of his fraying nerves. Iruka was late. Too late.

It could only mean one thing.

The Scarecrow was back.

His breath hitched as his mind conjured the specter of Kakashi Hatake, the man who thought crocodile pits were an educational tool. Shikamaru had barely escaped that nightmare with a substitution jutsu, and the memory of snapping jaws and icy water still haunted him. Kakashi didn't teach lessons—he inflicted ordeals.

He shook his head, muttering, "He's probably waiting outside the window with a pack of wolves."

As if summoned by his dread, a voice cut through the quiet like a kunai.

"Yo."

Shikamaru flailed, his legs tangling in the futon as he tumbled backward with a strangled yell. His heart raced as his eyes darted around the room, and there, sitting smugly on the floor, was The Pug.

"AAAAAH!" Shikamaru shot upright, panting, his hands gripping the edges of his blanket. The Pug blinked at him, its expression betraying neither malice nor amusement. Just indifference.

And the Pug smiled, with a too wide mouth, filled of too many teeth. "I wanT tO bE ScrAtcHeD, SHiKamARu", It asked.

Shikamaru jolted awake for real this time, his breath ragged as he stared into the darkness of his room. The pug was gone. Just a dream. He wiped a hand down his face, muttering a single, heartfelt, "Fuck."

The rain tapping against the window drew his attention. He stood, grabbing his jacket as he stepped outside, the cool air hitting him like a splash of water.

The rain fell steadily, soaking him immediately, but Shikamaru welcomed it. It was better than the crocodile lake. Anything was better than that. Without hesitation, he dropped to the ground and started doing push-ups. The repetitive motion and the familiar ache in his muscles dulled the edges of his thoughts.

One. Two. Three. Four.

The rain mixed with the mud beneath his hands, but he didn't care. The burn in his shoulders was grounding. The rhythm was calming. He pushed harder, each movement a small act of defiance against the chaos in his mind.

Inside the Nara household, Shikaku stood by the window, holding a cup of tea. His sharp eyes narrowed as he watched the scene outside. His son, his lazy son, was voluntarily exercising in the rain. At night.

"What's he doing?" Shikaku muttered to himself, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Yoshino appeared behind him, her arms slipping around his waist as she leaned against him. She held another cup of tea, passing it to him wordlessly before following his gaze. They stood in silence for a moment, the patter of rain and Shikamaru's determined motions the only sounds between them.

Finally, Yoshino let out a soft laugh. "Make sure you give Kakashi a raise when he's a regular jonin."

Shikaku scowled, taking a sip of his tea as his expression darkened. "That man's a menace to all Naras," he grumbled. "And somehow, he's lazier than me while doing it. It's not natural."

Yoshino chuckled, giving her husband a light squeeze as they watched Shikamaru push through another set.

"And maybe I could even ask him if he is willing to be your personal trainer?"

"Troublesome…"

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