Mizura's POV (3rd Mizukage)
The smell of sea and imminent slaughter. It's the odor of conquest, and I, Mizura, one of the finest Water Release specialists to ever curse this wretched ocean, am wearing it tonight.
I've been dreaming of this day. Not just dreaming—I've curated the fantasy, polished it like a prized kunai.
Last time, that sneaking kunoichi, Tsunade, got a lucky shot in. I underestimated her immensely. The shame of it still burns hotter than a Fireball Jutsu to the face.
But today is different. Today, I'm not just going to beat Tsunade into the ground; I'm going to make it a family affair. I'll pummel her grandmother, Mito, right alongside her.
Beating the God of Shinobi's wife and granddaughter can also be considered an exploit. I'm going to rearrange the very foundations of shinobi legacy and use their pride as the wrecking ball.
A man must have vision, after all. And a modest appreciation for his own genius. Of course, I'm not so arrogant as to believe the universe will simply hand me victory.
I'm fully prepared to sacrifice many, many things to win.
Mostly, those things are my close subordinates. They're like a collection of expensive, slightly dull tools—tragic to lose, but oh so satisfying to use until they break.
A few shattered lives are a small price to pay for my ascension.
"Speaking of disposable assets," I murmured to the salt-tinged air, "it must be time for our final talk before we reach Uzushiogakure."
Uzushio and Kiri are practically neighbors, if your neighbor's house is four and a half hours away by doom-filled, high-speed warship.
But who's counting? Besides me. I was counting down the seconds.
I swept out of my cabin like a typhoon wearing a flak jacket. The sight that greeted me was… pleasing.
A small armada of high-level warships, cutting through the waves like knives through tomorrow's hopes.
Ninja from various villages stood at attention, looking so orderly I almost felt bad for the chaos I was about to unleash upon them.
Almost.
Right on cue, like the well-trained puppets they are, the other village ninja leaders landed on my deck. No summons, no fuss. It's delightful when a plan comes together, even the simple parts.
I gave them a regal nod. "Everyone, this is our last chat before the main event. The plan remains: we land, we claim the land, we begin the systematic dismantling of a thousand-year-old clan. Any questions? No? Good."
They nodded. Of course they nodded. We'd planned this for so long at headquarters. This meeting was a formality, a theatrical gesture—like asking a condemned man if he'd prefer tea before the execution.
As for how we'll land on their fortified island? Hehe. Let's just say I've prepared a surprise for them. A big, wet, and terribly violent surprise. They'll be talking about it for the five minutes they have left to live.
But oh.
A sudden chill, one that has nothing to do with the sea spray. A tiny, nagging feeling in the back of my brain.
Everything is perfect. The stage is set. The players are in position.
So why do I suddenly feel like I'm the one standing on the trapdoor?
...
...
...
Azula tapped a perfectly manicured finger against her arm, the picture of exquisite boredom.
"So," she drawled, "are they coming, or did they collectively develop a case of common sense? We rolled out the welcome mat and everything."
Beside her, her favorite accomplice in chaos snorted.
"Tell me about it," Tsunade grumbled, cracking her knuckles with a sound like popping gravel. "I thought we were dealing with those with guts. If they wait any longer, they'll be attacking after my afternoon nap, and nobody wants to see me when I'm cranky."
It was a valid, if utterly ridiculous, point.
In the Ninja World, launching a surprise attack before sunrise was less a strategy and more a sacred, unspoken rule. It was as if shinobi were a breed of particularly dramatic vampires who believed sunlight gave them acne.
Mito let out a sigh that carried the weight of a thousand years and two idiot best friends.
"Must you two be so impatient?" she chided, though a wry smile played on her lips.
They truly were the spiritual successors to Madara and Hashirama—one a pyromaniacal perfectionist, the other a brute-force enthusiast, both united in their love for escalating things.
The three of them, along with the other four elites like Tajima, were a sensory network of monstrous proportions.
Kilometers away, a fly couldn't sneeze without them knowing.
While Azula and Tsunade were casually debating the merits of incineration versus blunt-force trauma, the rest were solemn, their faces etched with the grim reality of the coming fight.
Mito, however, was silent for a different reason. It wasn't a lack of confidence. She could tie their enemies' chakra networks into decorative pretzels before breakfast.
No, she was just… tired. She hated killing with a passion that could power a thousand sealing jutsus.
Unless the target was a sub-human stain who specialized in atrocities, she found the entire business messy, uncouth, and deeply, profoundly stupid.
This "war" was a perfect example. The other Kage weren't fooling anyone.
This was a grabby-handed smash-and-grab for Uzumaki bloodlines and fuinjutsu scrolls, wrapped in the flimsy excuse of "maintaining the balance of power" and "for the peace of our villages."
They knew this would ignite a conflict that would burn for years—a world-wide loss of young lives—all to sate their greed.
And for what? So the world could revert to the Warring States Period, but with better branding and village-themed uniforms?
Did the average ninja, the poor schmuck being used as cannon fodder, truly care if Konoha had the biggest stick?
Or did they just want to go home to their families, eat a decent meal, and not die in a puddle of their own blood over some old man's avarice?
This first wave alone was nearly ten thousand souls. Some of those ten thousand people would probably rather be anywhere else, now forced to participate in the world's deadliest, most poorly planned field trip.
And she, to protect her home, had to mow them down. It was enough to make you sick.
"Mito."
The world shifted. In her mindscape sat the massive Kurama. The Nine-Tails was trying to look serious, but the tip of one tail was twitching with unrestrained glee, and his eyes held the manic glint of a child on Christmas morning.
"They're here," he rumbled, the words dripping with bloodthirsty anticipation like a baby who just wants to cough.
Mito's consciousness snapped back to the real world. Sure enough, her senses now screamed with the approach of a fleet—a veritable armada of poor life choices.
Thousands of flickering chakra signatures, like a swarm of angry, lost fireflies, were heading straight for them.
For those present, the silence from Mito was louder than any declaration because from their point of view she didn't speak—she simply… paused.
Her eyelids slid shut for a moment, as if tasting the air, and when they snapped open, her expression had shifted from serious to the kind of solemn focus usually reserved for preparing to launch a bomb.
Azula didn't need an explanation. Of course Kurama had sensed them first. Her sensory range was absurd, probably hearing the enemy leader's bad breakfast decisions from here. It wasn't quite at the level of Kurama—that grumpy, furry landlord of chakra—but it was damn close.
With a thought that was equal parts tactical and theatrical, Azula erupted.
Her Kasai no Tsubasa (Conflagration Wings) burst into being, a brilliant inferno of controlled chaos that launched her into the sky like a firework with a grudge.
She shot up to a height where the air was thin and only fellow sensory freaks could feel her smug presence.
And there it was. The fleet. A sprawling, ugly stain on the beautiful blue canvas of the ocean. A weird, nostalgic pang hit her—it felt strangely familiar, the feeling she once had as the princess of the Fire Nation.
The plan, meanwhile, was a masterpiece of brutality. Simple, clean, and utterly deranged.
Step one: let the fleet get within a kilometer.
Step two: Mito would politely greet them with a few Tailed Beast Balls. Not as a warning, but as an opening statement.
Step three: Azula and the cleanup crew would mop up whatever—or whoever—was left painting the waves.
It was perfect. It was foolproof. It was, Azula admitted with a sigh, profoundly boring for someone of her talents.
Oh, how she craved that Madara-level high—the sheer, unadulterated thrill of being one against ten thousand! It had been four long years since she'd danced on the razor's edge of a fight where the outcome wasn't a foregone conclusion.
Her fingers itched. Her inner pyromaniac was doing cartwheels.
But alas, she was (unfortunately) a mature and responsible adult now.
With a dramatic internal sigh that could power a small village, she teleported in a flash of space-time ninjutsu, reappearing beside Tsunade via the Flying Raijin kunai the latter perpetually carried—like a very sharp, very deadly security blanket.
"They're here," Azula announced, her voice the picture of cool reportage. "The numbers are exactly as predicted."
Tajima gave a slight, pleased nod. His daughter hadn't done anything… outrageous. Like charging the fleet solo while cackling maniacally.
A true parenting win in the shinobi world.
Yet, as the moment of carnage drew near, a supernatural calm settled over him. His trump card, his Mangekyo Sharingan, felt good.
He treated it like a fine, aged wine he was saving for a special occasion—because after all these years, he probably only had a few good gulps left before the bottle was empty and he was blind as a bat.
Fortunately, he had a cheat code—his daughter. The girl who treated inventing S-Rank ninjutsu like others might treat a weekend knitting hobby.
He'd never quite mastered her Lightning Chakra Mode (the manual was, frankly, exhausting), but she had gifted him the Chidori—a jutsu so perfectly matched to the Sharingan it was like giving a master sculptor a power chisel.
That alone, combined with his base Sharingan, had cemented him as a solid Kage-level threat.
But she didn't stop there. She'd also taught him Kirin—the dragon-shaped lightning blast that turned the sky itself into a weapon.
He knew, with the certainty of a man who has seen things vaporized, that used correctly, it could give a Tailed Beast Ball a run for its money.
He, a war-weary veteran, had been solemn and stoic all yesterday. But now? Now he had to actively fight the manic grin trying to break through his carefully composed façade. A small, philosophical war raged within.
'Oh, Sage of the Six Paths, bear witness,' he pleaded internally. 'I am not a bloodthirsty man! I enjoy quiet evenings and a good cup of tea. So why is my blood singing a song of violent glee? Is this just a standard Uchiha bloodline default?'
A glance at his daughter, who was subtly vibrating with restrained excitement, confirmed his fears. It wasn't just him. It was in the blood. They were all, every last one of them, utterly and magnificently doomed to find their bliss in the beautiful, chaotic art of war.
At this, a certain Mizukage who was coming closer and closer felt even more chilled.
(END OF THE CHAPTER)
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