The Third Hokage's sudden arrival on the battlefield sent a ripple through the tense air, his presence like the calm eye of a brewing storm. For the Konoha forces, it was a godsend. For the Sand, a moment of reevaluation. Rasa, however, did not falter.
The Fourth Kazekage stood firm atop a ridge of red sand, his golden eyes like burnished metal in the desert sun. He watched the Third Hokage with the composed calculation of a man who had seen too many wars. To others, Hiruzen Sarutobi was a legend—one not to be taken lightly. But Rasa had not risen to the position of Kazekage by fearing legends.
"Even if the Third Hokage personally takes the field," Rasa called out, his voice steady and disdainful, "this is still the Land of Wind. This is our home, our battlefield. You and your Konoha dogs will be buried in the sands."
His words echoed across the dry landscape, heard by both armies. The Sand ninjas raised their weapons and roared in response. Among the Konoha forces, however, unease festered.
They were in enemy territory, where the Sand's jutsu would be more potent, their tactics more refined. If the two Kage canceled each other out in battle, the sheer advantage in terrain and familiarity would still tip the scales toward the Hidden Sand.
But then the Third Hokage smiled. Calm. Confident.
"Kazekage... have you forgotten? I am not the commander of this battlefield. I am only here to support. The commander is my disciple. Orochimaru—step forward."
The name hit like thunder.
From the Konoha ranks emerged a tall figure, pale and serpentine, his golden eyes gleaming with quiet malice. Orochimaru walked to the Third Hokage's side and regarded Rasa with a smirk.
Konoha ninjas straightened with new purpose. How could they have forgotten? Orochimaru, the Snake Sannin, was here. The fear he inspired in enemies was only matched by the hope he kindled in allies. With him and the Hokage together, their chances had doubled.
Shouts of renewed confidence spread through the Konoha forces. Morale surged.
Yet across the sand, the Kazekage remained unfazed. His lips curled into a knowing smile.
"Orochimaru... impressive," Rasa said slowly. "But we did not come unprepared either."
Two figures emerged from behind the Sand ranks. One hunched with age, the other carrying the quiet dignity of experience. Elder Chiyo and Elder Ebizo—Hidden Sand's war-hardened advisors, both Kage-level in their prime.
Rasa gestured toward them. "You remember them, Hokage? Three of us, two of you. Still feeling confident?"
Cheers rose from the Sand ranks. Their three greatest tacticians and warriors stood together now. The tide had turned again.
But Konoha had yet another card.
Another figure stepped forward from the Konoha side. With his vibrant red garb, a toad-emblazoned scroll on his back, and his mane of white hair shining in the desert sun, Jiraiya strode out with his signature grin.
"Sorry I'm late. Had to wrestle with a giant snake on the way."
The desert wind picked up, as though heralding his arrival. It was now three versus three. Balance.
Whispers passed between the Konoha ranks—one of the Sannin, another trusted disciple of the Hokage, was here. They were not outnumbered after all.
The Third Hokage stood resolute. Behind him, Orochimaru and Jiraiya flanked him like twin blades. Though Tsunade was absent, he felt the strength of old times pulsing in this moment.
But Rasa's grin deepened.
"As expected of the Hokage... but you're not the only one who planned contingencies. Pakura."
A flicker in the shadows, then a woman emerged. Her hair was bound in a short tail, her eyes fierce and burning. Pakura of the Scorch Release.
She said nothing. She didn't need to. Her presence was chilling, and every seasoned shinobi on the field knew the stories—how her bloodline limit could desiccate a man in seconds. She brought death in heatwaves.
Four against three. Again, the scales tilted.
Rasa folded his arms. "Now, Hokage... are there any more rabbits you'd like to pull from your hat?"
The Konoha ninjas looked around expectantly. Perhaps the Yellow Flash himself would arrive. Perhaps Lady Tsunade, long unseen, would descend from the cliffs.
But none came.
The Third Hokage's face remained calm, but beneath the surface, his mind churned. They had no more reinforcements. Calling Jiraiya here had already stretched their lines thin across four fronts. To summon Minato or Tsunade as well would risk another battlefield entirely.
Still, he could not show doubt. He stood tall, unmoving, the very image of confidence. Because if he faltered, the whole army behind him would collapse.
Only one man saw through it.
Akira.
Unlike the others, Akira had been sensing chakra fluctuations throughout. He had detected Jiraiya and the Hokage early. But there were no other Kage-level signatures nearby.
He knew the truth. There were no more trump cards.
And the illusion, however well-crafted, would shatter if no one else stepped up.
Akira sighed, a quiet breath lost in the wind. This wasn't how he wanted things to go. He preferred the shadows, the clean precision of support missions, healing wounds, and finishing enemies without recognition. Fame was a burden he did not want.
But Konoha could not afford a broken line. The plot—the future—depended on this moment holding.
He stepped forward.
Chakra swirled subtly around him, lightning crackling faintly as his Sharingan flared to life. The red tomoe gleamed like embers.
"Lord Hokage," he said, voice calm and resolute, "leave Pakura to me."
The Third Hokage turned. A flicker of surprise, then understanding. He gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Very well, Akira. Show her the strength of Konoha."
Gasps rippled through the Konoha ranks. "Is that... Akira?" some whispered.
"Konoha's Lightning."
"He's going to fight Pakura... alone?"
On the Sand's side, tension rose. Many recognized him—the man who had wiped out entire squads with lightning and precision. His deeds were whispered in dread among their ranks.
Pakura narrowed her eyes. Her fingers twitched. She felt no fear, but the pressure was real.
Akira walked forward alone, yet every step echoed like a drumbeat of war.
It was time.
The Third Hokage breathed a subtle sigh of relief when he saw Akira step forward. Though doubt still lingered in his heart—Pakura was no ordinary foe—he had no other choice. At this moment, he was riding a tiger and couldn't dismount. Someone stepping forward was better than no one at all, so he masked his concerns and responded with the composed confidence of a seasoned leader.
"I'll leave Pakura to you," he said, his voice calm, resolute. "I believe your strength is enough to defeat her."
His natural demeanor didn't raise any suspicions. In fact, it nearly convinced Akira himself that he was the ace up the Third Hokage's sleeve. The Konoha ninjas erupted in cheers as they saw someone step forward. They didn't realize Akira had acted of his own volition to stabilize their morale. To them, it seemed the Hokage had prepared everything in advance.
Though Akira had recently made a name for himself as Konoha's Lightning Bolt, he was still a shade below Pakura in raw strength—and much farther beneath the other top-tier powerhouses. Some Konoha shinobi questioned whether Akira was truly strong enough to stand alongside the Third Hokage, Jiraiya, and Might Guy, but if the Hokage had arranged it, it must be right... right?
Across the field, the Fourth Kazekage, Rasa, furrowed his brow when he saw the figure emerge from the Konoha ranks. Had the Third Hokage actually arranged another fighter? But why send a child?
He'd seen reports on Akira before, had an idea of what the boy looked like, but from this distance, he couldn't see clearly. Moreover, Akira's attire wasn't as flamboyant or iconic as the Hokage's or the other Sannin's, so Rasa didn't immediately recognize him.
Chiyo stepped forward and whispered to him, her voice dry but sharp. "That child is Akira."
She'd been watching Akira closely ever since learning that her carefully engineered poisons had been neutralized. Because of that, she was more familiar with his appearance than the Kazekage and recognized him even from afar.
"Oh? So that's Konoha's Lightning Bolt?" Rasa murmured, eyes narrowing. He was surprised—and admittedly impressed—that such a young shinobi had the courage to stand before monsters like them. Glancing toward Pakura, he said, "Then I'll leave this boy to you. I heard his mother was among your victims. This battle between the two of you—it's fate."
Pakura tilted her head with mild curiosity. "Really? His mother?" Her lips curled into a faint, humorless smile.
She had killed so many over the years, she couldn't remember any one victim. But the name Akira—Konoha's Lightning Bolt—was not unfamiliar. Even she, who had spent time on distant battlefields, had heard of his rapid rise and the devastating losses he had inflicted on Wind Country forces. Still, wasn't he just a child? Six or seven, perhaps? The notion was almost laughable.
She sneered. No matter how talented a child was, how powerful could he truly be? Perhaps the real problem lay in the incompetence of those who had fought him before.
Yet as she fixed her gaze on Akira, her eyes narrowing with curiosity, the Kazekage's warning tempered her scorn.
"Don't underestimate him, Pakura. If the Third Hokage chose him, he's not ordinary. Don't get careless and let this child capsize your boat."
Pakura's expression grew serious. She knew better than anyone how dangerous it was to judge by appearances. The shinobi world birthed monsters in unexpected forms—and perhaps Akira was one of them.
The air thickened as both sides prepared themselves, chakra flaring like rising tides. Eight warriors—titans of their respective villages—refined their chakra, steadying their hearts. Tension crackled in the air. Then, without warning, the two sides launched themselves like arrows loosed from taut strings.
King faced king, general against general:
The Third Hokage clashed with the Fourth Kazekage.
Jiraiya engaged the seasoned Ebizo.
Orochimaru slithered toward Chiyo, a serpentine menace.
And Akira—young and untested—rushed toward Pakura.
The collision of their charges signaled the eruption of a full-scale war. Behind the main battles, thousands of shinobi engaged as if responding to some unspoken command. Fire, water, wind, lightning—ninjutsu of every nature exploded into the air, illuminating the battlefield in kaleidoscopic destruction. The sky above became a war-torn canvas of elemental fury.
Akira had never seen such chaos. In anime, the camera could only capture part of the picture. Now, immersed in it with his own senses, he was stunned. His heart pounded—not with fear, but with a rising, undeniable excitement.
The unwillingness he'd felt earlier about being thrust into this conflict was burned away by the fire of battle.
The seasoned veterans around him—Jiraiya, the Third Hokage, Might Guy—had long since adapted to war. They moved through the chaos like dancers in a storm, never missing a step.
Akira turned back to Pakura.
She stood across from him, watching.
He didn't know her well. In the original series, she had appeared only briefly—her signature move, Scorch Release: Great Steaming Explosion Murder, was the extent of what most fans remembered. She seemed capable in taijutsu, too.
Could it be that someone with a kekkei genkai like hers had only developed a single move? Akira doubted it. This world was deeper than its fiction.
There were no extensive records of battles against Scorch Release users. He'd have to rely on the Sharingan—on instinct and insight.
Scorch Release, he recalled, evaporated moisture in the human body with intense heat. Close-quarters combat was out of the question.
He'd need to keep his distance and use Water Release to cool her techniques. If he could do that consistently, he'd be near untouchable.
But therein lay the problem—Akira's most lethal moves were short-range. Without closing the gap, defeating Pakura would be hard. Still, defeating her wasn't necessary. He just needed to stall.
The Third Hokage and the others would gain the upper hand. Once they had the advantage, the Sand forces would reconsider whether to continue or surrender.
And then, fate would take its course. If the plot resumed its natural trajectory, Pakura would be betrayed by her own village—sacrificed in a backroom deal with the Hidden Mist.
She would die, but not by his hand.
While Akira strategized, Pakura was calculating as well.
She didn't intend to let the boy leave this battlefield.
What stood out most about Akira was his uncanny Lightning Release taijutsu, enabling frightening bursts of speed—and, of course, his genjutsu, enhanced by the three-tomoe Sharingan.
The latter was easier to counter: she just had to avoid direct eye contact. For a veteran like Pakura, that was manageable.
But his speed—that was another issue entirely.
If Akira got close, she might not survive the encounter. Yet if he stayed too far away, her Scorch Release would be ineffective.
With a sharp inhale, she formed seals and muttered under her breath:
"Scorch Release: Great Steaming Explosion Murder."
Several glowing orbs of superheated chakra formed behind her, floating in eerie formation. They weren't for offense, but for defense—warding off Akira should he attempt to close in.
But how to draw him near? Her thoughts turned back to what Rasa had said. His mother had died by her hand, hadn't she?
Maybe that was the key.
A slow, cruel smile curved her lips as she called out:
"I hear your mother died by my hand. I must apologize... I've killed so many Konoha shinobi, I can't quite recall who she was."
Her voice was mocking, detached.
"People who die by my Scorch Release tend to die... poorly. Have you seen her body? Was it still intact? Or was it hideously melted—evaporated into something unrecognizable?"
Her words, designed to wound, were aimed not at the body—but at the heart.
She wasn't just trying to provoke him. She wanted to break his concentration, spark a reckless rush, force him to make a mistake.
But Akira's eyes were already glowing.
And they weren't glowing with grief.
They burned with something far deeper.