The Mizukage Building, conference room.
The corridor was deathly quiet.
Only the occasional sound of footsteps could be heard from somewhere far away.
This building was the heart of Kirigakure’s power, but at this moment, it felt more like a tomb.
Silent, cold, and reeking of decay.
The doors to the conference room were tightly shut.
Beyond them, the light was dim.
Only a few wall lamps above the long table were lit, their dull yellow glow barely illuminating the faces gathered around it.
Some of those faces were old.
Some were covered in wrinkles.
Some had cloudy eyes.
Yet without exception, they all wore the same expression.
Anxiety.
“Recently, those young brats in the reform faction have been acting more and more brazenly.
They don’t put us in their eyes at all!” A gray-haired elder slammed his palm against the table.
The sound echoed through the empty conference room, making the wall lamps tremble slightly.
His face was full of resentment.
“Ever since Lord Third Mizukage’s era, the Bloody Mist policy has lasted for decades and produced countless elites for Kirigakure!
That is the foundation of our village’s strength!
“How dare those juniors run their mouths and deny the decisions of their predecessors?
Utterly foolish!” Another middle-aged man immediately agreed.
“Exactly!
Do they really think they’re wiser than the previous Mizukage?
Their so-called reform is nothing but reckless meddling!” “Especially that brat Shiina Sora!” The elder who had spoken first suddenly raised his voice.
His wrinkled face flushed red with anger.
“Has he forgotten who promoted him?!
If we had known this would happen, we should never have handed Hiramekarei to him and made him one of the new Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist!” “That ungrateful bastard probably no longer has any respect for us elders!” “And that man has even deceived the ignorant villagers!” Someone beside him immediately picked up the thread, his tone full of indignation.
“He led the villagers into publicly opposing Mizukage-sama’s wise leadership.
Those people are no ordinary rebels anymore!
We must strike them down with force!” “Give the order, Mizukage-sama!” “As long as you personally take action, you can easily wipe out that rabble completely!
Kirigakure will become the Village of the Bloody Mist once again!” “That’s right!
Give the order, Mizukage-sama!” Everyone echoed him at once.
Their voices overlapped, twisting into a wave of sound that rolled again and again through the conference room.
At the center of the room, a young boy sat in a chair.
He was small, with a young face, looking no older than twelve or thirteen.
But no one dared look down on the “boy” before them because of his youthful appearance.
Yagura Karatachi, the Fourth Mizukage of Kirigakure, the current jinchūriki of the Three-Tails, and the only pillar left for the increasingly weakened conservative faction of the Mist.
‘How ugly…’ Beside Yagura, a tall man with a shark-like appearance watched the self-important “important figures” in front of him with mocking little eyes.
His skin was dark blue, and gill-like markings lined his face.
He looked like a monster that had crawled out of the deep sea.
Kisame Hoshigaki, one of the Seven Ninja Swordsmen, wielder of the great blade Samehada, and currently the Mizukage’s guard as well as the head of ANBU.
He stood quietly at Yagura’s side, but his small eyes gleamed with undisguised contempt.
‘Because Sora-sama’s reforms in Kirigakure have harmed their interests, they’re desperate to lure Mizukage-sama into making the first move.’ ‘The reform faction is powerful now.
If all-out conflict begins, it will only plunge Kirigakure into chaos unlike anything before.
‘They must understand that very well.’ ‘Or maybe… that is exactly what they want.
‘They want Mizukage-sama and the reform faction to destroy each other, while they sit back and take the spoils at the end.’ ‘…Disgusting.
A pack of hypocrites.’ Kisame suppressed the revulsion in his heart, his cold little eyes sweeping across the old men who were still chattering endlessly.
Yagura stared blankly at the people before him.
There was no focus in his eyes, no emotion, none of the light that a living person should have.
He simply sat there like a statue placed upon an altar, listening to the faithful offer their prayers.
Those “sincere” pieces of advice, those “righteous” cries, those performances of “worrying for the village,” all played out before him one by one.
After a long while, he finally spoke.
His voice was flat, without the slightest rise or fall.
“If this is all you have to say, then this meeting ends here.” The moment those words fell, the heated atmosphere instantly froze.
The entire conference room sank into silence.
The elders’ mouths were still open, their expressions frozen in the outrage of the previous second, but their voices had vanished.
It was as if someone had pressed pause.
One by one, they stiffened in place, only their eyes moving uneasily.
One elder spoke with some unwillingness.
“But, Mizukage-sama…” “Pfft!” His words came to an abrupt end.
In a single instant, his entire head and half his body were torn apart.
Blood burst from the wound, splattering across the conference table and onto everyone around him.
No one present made a sound.
They only stared in terror at Kisame, who had appeared behind the corpse at some unknown point, and at the massive Samehada in his hand, its bandages now soaked with blood.
The bandages on the blade trembled slightly, as if savoring the taste of blood.
The barbs along the sword had opened, still dripping crimson onto the floor.
In the dead-silent conference room, the sound was chillingly clear.
Kisame’s face held no expression.
He stood there, his small eyes coldly sweeping over everyone present.
Yagura remained seated in his chair, his gaze empty, his face expressionless.
His voice rang out again, still mechanical and devoid of fluctuation.
“What I decide to do is not for you to dictate.” “Remember.
I am the Mizukage of Kirigakure.” He slightly lifted his chin, his hollow eyes passing over the trembling elders.
“If you understand that, then get out.” As soon as he finished speaking, those “important figures” who had been so righteous a moment ago fled the conference room in a panic, as if running for their lives.
The room fell quiet.
Blood still flowed from the now-empty chair, dripping onto the polished floor with faint, steady sounds.
The thick smell of blood filled the air.
In the entire conference room, only Yagura remained seated, along with Kisame, whose body was spattered with blood.
Kisame stood there, his gaze fixed in the direction where the fleeing elders had vanished.
His small eyes were filled with open disgust.
“Tsk, tsk.” A casual voice slowly sounded from the corner of the conference room.
“A perfectly good meeting room turned into this.
All I can say is, that really is Kirigakure’s style.” The voice paused, gaining a bit of teasing amusement.
“If only that old man in Konoha had learned a thing or two from this.
Then maybe I wouldn’t have had to defect.” Kisame’s pupils contracted slightly.
He turned sharply toward the source of the voice.
In the shadowed corner of the conference room, at some unknown point, another person had appeared.
He was a tall young man with black hair tied into a short ponytail.
A few loose strands fell across his forehead, giving his handsome face a somewhat unruly, roguish air.
He wore the uniform of the Akatsuki, but at the moment, it hung loosely on him, as if he had just thrown it on without much care.
Kurō sat with one leg crossed over the other, his feet casually propped on the conference table in front of him.
On that handsome face was a faint smile that was not quite a smile.
He ignored Yagura, the Fourth Mizukage seated at the center like a silent machine, and looked toward Kisame with a teasing expression.
Uchiha Kurō had already dispelled his Transformation Jutsu, revealing his original appearance.
That face was completely different from “Shiina Sora,” the man who had stirred Kirigakure’s storms.
Without the gentle disguise, without the illusion of modesty, there was only the calm confidence and sharp edge of someone powerful enough not to hide it.
Kisame looked at Kurō before him, surprise flashing through his small eyes.
‘What incredible concealment…’ A trace of respect flickered in his eyes, and his mouth pulled into a somewhat stiff, friendly smile.
On that shark-like face, the smile looked strange, but the respect in his eyes was absolutely genuine.
“Ah, Sora-sama…” “No.
I should call you Kurō-sama now.” He slowly put away Samehada and bowed slightly in Kurō’s direction, his posture humble and solemn.
“My apologies.
You had to see something embarrassing.” Kurō shook his head and waved it off with a smile.
“Don’t worry about it.” He stretched out one hand, the lazy look in his black eyes fading slightly.
“We can save the pleasantries for later.
Let’s talk business first.” “The thing Madara wanted to leave to me…” “It’s with you now, isn’t it?”