Chapter 56: The Village Head
Namikaze Minato stood seething, a tempest of grief and fury warring within him. He had no rebuttal. Kagenori's logic was a cage of cold, hard facts. In this hellscape, a grievous wound was a death sentence. And in the end, Daigo had made his own choice.
But the anger remained, a white-hot coal in his chest. Had Daigo fallen to an enemy blade, Minato would have mourned. It was the nature of war. But he could not accept that Daigo's end had come from a tag handed to him by a comrade. That Kagenori had been the one to suggest it, to facilitate it.
"Are you truly so heartless, Kagenori?" Minato spat, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion. "If you were the one dying in the mud, wouldn't you hope for a comrade to reach out a hand?"
Kagenori's answering sneer was like a splash of ice water. "Heartless? Call it what you will. If I find myself in such a situation, my death will be my own failure. It would be no one else's burden to bear."
He took a step closer, his Sharingan spinning slowly, dispassionately. "And I must remind you, the battle is not over. Every second you waste here, questioning me, is a second another comrade might die. Their blood, Namikaze, would be on your hands."
With that final, cutting remark, Kagenori vanished in a Body Flicker, leaving Minato alone with his rage and his guilt.
Frustration boiled over. He channeled it outward, into the enemy. He stopped hunting just commanders and threw himself into the fray with renewed, almost reckless, ferocity, becoming a whirlwind of wind-enhanced kunai and precise strikes. The enemy shinobi fell before his bottled-up anguish.
Kagenori, too, found his targets changing. The enemy commanders, having identified the two hunter-killers in their midst, had grown cautious, hiding their presence and issuing orders from the shadows. The primary burden of the assault now fell squarely on the Sannin.
Orochimaru and Jiraiya were drenched in gore, their movements still fluid and deadly but showing the first signs of strain. Manda and Gamabunta were no longer clearing swathes of infantry; they were now locked in combat with summoned beasts brought forth by the Kumo and Yugakure forces. The two boss summons were forced to fight defensively, trading ground as they were pelted with coordinated ninjutsu from below.
It was then that Kagenori's sharp eyes found a new target. A man, older, with the weary bearing of someone who had seen decades of conflict, yet who moved with a authority that set him apart. He wore the forehead protector of Yugakure, but his power was on a different level from the common village ninja.
Kagenori snatched a fleeing Yugakure shinobi, his grip like iron. "That man. Who is he? You have three seconds."
The terrified ninja stammered immediately. "H-he's our Village Head!"
Kagenori ended him without a second thought, his gaze narrowing on the older man. There.
Their objective was not conquest. With their current numbers, wiping out the Kumo-nin or forcibly expelling them was impossible. The key to driving Kumo from Yugakure, to making the village cease its cooperation, lay with its leader.
The plan Kagenori and Orochimaru had devised was subtle. They couldn't force Kumo out. They had to make Yugakure choose to expel them. They had to demonstrate, in the most visceral way possible, that aligning with a major village in a war between titans was a suicide pact for a minor village. Once Yugakure understood this, Konoha could magnanimously "forgive" them, declaring they held no grudge against the village for returning to neutrality. Kumo, having caused this devastation, could not reasonably punish Yugakure for stepping back. It was a political and psychological play, with blood as the currency.
Kagenori summoned a small snake, whispering a quick message for Orochimaru: The Yugakure Village Head has entered the fray.
Across the battlefield, the Village Head fought with a heart full of grief and regret. He had allowed the Kumo-nin in, believing their presence would be a shield, a guarantee of his village's survival in the coming storm. The Cloud had promised protection.
This was not protection. This was a slaughterhouse, and his people were the livestock. The Kumo-nin fought for themselves, with no regard for the Yugakure shinobi or civilians caught in the crossfire. He watched his people die, and each death was a lash of guilt. He had remained aloof until now, hoping to maintain a veneer of neutrality, to avoid Konoha's lasting wrath. But seeing the streets run red with the blood of his villagers, he could no longer stand by.
He joined the battle, his powerful Water Release techniques slamming into Konoha lines, a desperate, angry attempt to drive the invaders out.
The snake soon returned, coiling around Kagenori's arm. "Lord Orochimaru is currently engaged. He orders you to monitor the Yugakure leader."
Monitor. Kagenori's lips curved into a thin smile. The Village Head was strong, perhaps a low-level Kage or elite jounin by Konoha's standards, but his movements were seasoned, his experience evident. Engaging him could certainly be considered a form of... active monitoring.
Kagenori's hands flew through seals. He took a deep, expanding breath.
"Fire Release: Dragon Flame Projectile!"
Four roaring dragons of fire erupted from his mouth, streaking toward the Village Head from different angles.
The older ninja reacted with the speed of hard-won experience. Seeing he couldn't dodge all four, he didn't try.
"Water Release: Water Formation Wall!"
A vertical wall of water surged from the ground, blocking two of the fire dragons in a hissing cloud of steam.
"Water Release: Water Dragon Bullet Technique!"
He molded the ambient moisture into a massive, coiling water dragon, and with a surge of chakra, he guided it forward, meeting the remaining two fire dragons head-on. The elements clashed in a violent explosion of scalding vapor.
Through the dissipating steam, the Village Head's eyes locked onto Kagenori. He had noticed the boy during the battle—a flicker of lightning and death, cutting down his people with terrifying efficiency. A fresh wave of hatred, pure and personal, burned in his gaze. This boy was the embodiment of the nightmare that had befallen his village.