"You what??!" Hiruzen Sarutobi's voice echoed through the dimly lit Hokage office, the rare note of genuine disbelief slicing through the usual stoic calm of the room. It caught Renjiro off guard for a moment, and he blinked, surprised. He had never—never—seen the Third Hokage lose composure like that.
Not even when scolding defiant clan heads, not when delivering solemn news, and not when dealing with the endless bureaucracy of running a village during wartime. But now, the weight of Renjiro's words had seemingly thrown the venerable man off balance.
"I fought against three of the Ninja Swordsmen, Lord Third," Renjiro repeated, his tone measured but respectful. There was no arrogance in his voice, only the steady cadence of someone reporting the truth.
Hiruzen's gaze narrowed. Slowly, with a faint creak of his now ageing joints and worn wisdom, he raised a hand and gave a silent signal. From the shadows, two masked ANBU shinobi flickered into visibility. Their porcelain masks gleamed faintly under the amber hue of the lanterns, one shaped like a weasel, the other a monkey. Without a word, they vanished again, leaving the Hokage and Renjiro alone.
With a tired sigh, Hiruzen reached for the pipe on his desk. He hadn't planned to smoke that night. He was trying to quit and had even sworn to himself that he would. But it seemed fate—or perhaps the world—had different plans. The council meeting earlier had drained him. The endless chatter of self-important clan heads had already wrung him dry. And now this.
'Three swordsmen.'
He packed the pipe slowly, deliberately. As though every movement gave him time to process. As if filling it with tobacco would ground him in some reality not entirely dictated by surprise. With a soft clink of flint, the flame danced briefly, and then the pipe lit. The familiar scent of burning leaves mingled with the ancient scent of old paper and ink in the room. He drew in a breath and exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke.
It was a curse of some men, he thought, to find quitting harder than battle. Especially now, with the drums of the Third Shinobi War echoing louder each day. The declarations were already made and every village was making their final preparations so it wouldn't be long before one of them drew the first blood.
"So when you arrived," Hiruzen said at last, his voice low beneath the haze of smoke, "you were challenged by the Ninja Swordsmen?"
Renjiro nodded slowly. "That's right."
Hiruzen leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his desk, hands clasped beneath his chin. His brow was furrowed, but it wasn't concern that darkened his features—it was calculation.
"And you didn't refuse the challenge?"
Renjiro tilted his head, and a faint smirk touched the corner of his mouth. It was brief, brittle, and didn't reach his eyes. "I thought about it. But it was the lesser of two evils."
"The lesser…" Hiruzen's voice trailed off, curiosity narrowing his gaze. "Explain."
"The Six-Tails Jinchūriki was there too. He challenged me first."
That silenced the Hokage completely.
A pause.
A long pause.
The kind of silence that wasn't born of shock, but of the thousand thoughts ricocheting behind a trained mind. Hiruzen didn't speak. Instead, he exhaled another slow ribbon of smoke from his pipe, watching it curl and vanish like fragile illusions.
"You chose to fight the swordsmen," he finally said, each word deliberate, "instead of a Jinchūriki."
Renjiro shrugged, though there was a sharpness behind the motion. A shadow in his eyes. "The Swordsmen were terrifying, no doubt. But a tailed beast? That's something else entirely. One misstep, one failed counter… and it's not just me who dies. It's the terrain, the forest, the mission, the village's secrets—all wiped clean in a surge of chakra."
Hiruzen's fingers tightened imperceptibly on his pipe. He didn't need a lesson in what a Jinchūriki could do. He'd seen it—back when the First Hokage captured them, back when they were seen as living weapons instead of people bound to fate. He remembered the forests scorched by the Two-Tails. The lakes boiled away by the Three-Tails. And the crater left behind by the Nine-Tails... he still dreamed of that, sometimes.
Still, this wasn't just about destruction.
This was about intent.
'Damn that bastard Hiroshi.'
Hiruzen's mind whirred behind his calm exterior.
Sending a Jinchūriki and three of the Seven Ninja Swordsmen to meet a Konoha shinobi on a mission? That wasn't defence. That was an execution attempt—or worse, a test.
They'd wanted to see if the rumours were true. About the one who had walked out of a battlefield where others would've perished.
And now they knew. Or at least suspected.
"They wanted you rattled enough to expose your full capabilities.," Hiruzen muttered, more to himself than to Renjiro.
Renjiro's voice was quiet, but firm. "I didn't give them everything. But I gave enough to walk away."
Shifting in his chair, Hiruzen sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Who did you fight, specifically?"
Renjiro didn't hesitate. "The ones wielding Nuibari, Kiba, and Samehada."
The moment the final name left his lips, Hiruzen's pipe paused halfway to his mouth. The silence that followed wasn't the quiet of reflection—it was tension.
Samehada.
The living blade. The chakra-eater. The sword that could smell fear and taste weakness.
Even Sakumo had once said that fighting Samehada felt like being hunted—not by a shinobi, but by something older and primal, something that wanted not just to kill, but to consume.
"You survived," Hiruzen murmured, a trace of astonishment in his voice. "But at what cost? What did you reveal to them?"
Renjiro's expression was unreadable for a moment. Then he raised an eyebrow, a spark of dry wit in his eyes. "Enough to walk away unharmed. You think I should've declined the whole thing?"
The Hokage didn't reply immediately. He reached for the ashtray, tapped the pipe gently against it, and watched the embers fall like stars. "No. I think you did what you had to do. But I also know the world we live in. Survival is only half the battle. The other half is perception. And now… they know you're more than just a promising shinobi. You're a threat."
"I've always been a threat," Renjiro said quietly. "They just didn't believe it until now."
Hiruzen studied him. The boy spoke not with arrogance, but with the weary certainty of someone who had crossed a line he could never return from.
"Next time," the Hokage said at last, "if there is a next time, avoid unnecessary displays of strength. Let them underestimate you. Let them be unsure."
Renjiro gave a low grunt of acknowledgement. "I understand. But the situation moved too quickly. I didn't get to set the terms. They underestimated me first—and paid for it."
A flicker of approval passed through Hiruzen's tired eyes, but he masked it quickly. "That makes it worse, in a way. Now they won't next time."
Another pause stretched between them, deeper now. The lantern's flame wavered slightly in the breeze, casting dancing shadows along the scroll-covered walls.
"Anything else I should know about the mission?" the Hokage finally asked.
Renjiro was silent for a moment longer than expected wondering whether his entrance was a big deal. Then he shook his head. "Nothing."
"Good," Hiruzen said, though he sounded anything but relieved.
Renjiro inclined his head in a respectful bow. "Then I'll take my leave."
He turned and took two steps toward the door before Hiruzen spoke again.
"I do have one request."
Renjiro paused, half-turning, his expression unreadable. "Yes?"
Hiruzen's gaze sharpened, the weariness momentarily lifting from his voice. "Speak."
Renjiro turned halfway, eyes glinting. "I need chakra metal."
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