The kunai had barely left his palm before Tsunade caught it.
They were walking back to camp, the mud of the Rain Country sucking at their boots.
She spun the blade once, thoughtful.
“Ren.” Her voice cut through the drizzle.
“Why the obsession with one random Uzumaki family?
There are hundreds like them.”
He stopped.
The rain traced the lines of his jaw.
“You didn’t look close enough.
That boy’s eyes.
They’re the Rinnegan.”
“The Rinnegan?” Her brow furrowed.
The name surfaced from some deep, dusty corner of clan lore—a myth, a bedtime story about the Sage of Six Paths.
Not something you found in a refugee camp.
“I’ve seen the records,” Ren said.
“Uchiha archives.
Old legends.
It’s them.”
Tsunade watched his face.
No joke hid there.
“The Sage’s eyes.
What do they do?”
His smile was a thin, sharp thing.
“When that boy grows up, he could level Konoha.
One thought.
One gesture.
Gone.” He let the words hang between them, heavy as the wet air.
Tsunade’s breath locked in her throat.
Her hand tightened around the kunai until the leather grip creaked.
“Twenty guards isn’t enough.
I’ll send fifty.
A hundred.
All Jonin.”
Ren’s lip twitched.
“A hundred Jonin marching through the Rain Country?
Every spy from every nation will notice.
We’re not the only ones here.”
She chewed on that, the logic bitter but solid.
“How many?”
He crossed two fingers.
“Ten?”
“Ten.
Small.
Mobile.
Ten Jonin can hold off forty.
No one knows what we’re moving until it’s already moved.” He wiped rainwater from his temple.
“Trust the math.”
Ten Senju Jonin left before dusk.
Nagato, small and earnest, kissed Ren’s cheek before he went.
Ren watched the wagon disappear into the grey, his smile genuine for a moment before the mask settled back.
Three days later, the letter arrived.
Tsunade unfolded it in the borrowed office—the village chief had rented them space after their medicine and repairs.
The paper smelled of Konoha: ink and dry wood and Mito Uzumaki’s particular lavender.
Tsunade, thank you for thinking of your grandmother.
The person has been delivered.
Nagato is a smart, talented child.
Very likable.
I heard from the clansmen you suffered almost zero casualties.
Well done.
Observe more.
Ask more.
Listen to your commander.
Tsunade’s cheeks warmed.
They’d told her.
Of course they’d told her.
Finally, Tsunade, the battlefield is not child’s play.
Be careful in everything.
Discuss things often, especially young Ren’s opinions.
Grandma is waiting for you to return safely.
I will cook you something delicious.
A smile broke through, unguarded.
Ren walked in at that moment, saw it, and froze halfway through the doorway.
“Lady Tsunade?”
Then he noticed the letter in her hand.
“A letter from home.”
He found a chair, sat.
The office was spare—one desk, two maps, the smell of old timber and new rain.
Tsunade stood, handed him the letter.
He took it, legs crossed, and read.
“Look,” she said, her voice lighter than it had been in weeks.
“Grandma praises you.
Says I should listen.
Nagato is safe in Konoha, staying with her.
You can rest now.”
He read each line, his own smile surfacing—a quiet, private thing.
“Lady Mito also praises your judgment.
Without your decision, I’d have no stage.”
“Grandma told you to call her Grandma.
Why do you still say ‘Lady Mito’?” Tsunade snorted.
Ren stood.
He placed a hand on each of her shoulders, pressed her back into her chair.
The contact was brief, firm.
“Lady Mito is a senior. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
The most respected person in Konoha.
This isn’t home.
It’s a command post.”
His palms were warm.
The heat lingered on her shoulders after he withdrew.
She watched him walk to the desk, his back to her, and wondered, for a single tangled second, if he’d meant anything by it.
He didn’t look back.
He studied the map, head bowed.
Orochimaru and Jiraiya’s scouts had come yesterday.
They were to meet today, here.
They should have arrived by now.
The guard pushed the door open, knelt on one knee.
“Lord Ren.
Lady Tsunade.
Lord Orochimaru’s force and Lord Jiraiya’s force wait at the village entrance.”
Tsunade rose.
Ren’s hand shot out, not touching her but blocking her path.
“Wait.”
She stopped.
“We are at peak strength,” he said, low.
“A commander-in-chief will be chosen for this campaign.
The choice will likely be you.
If you go to greet them now, you diminish your position.
You must appear as the commander.
Not the comrade.”
Her lips parted.
She hadn’t considered it—the politics of a doorway, the weight of a first impression.
“For my political capital?
For the safety of the Senju?”
“For both.” His eyes held hers.
“Please.
Sit.” He gestured to the main seat.
“I will greet them.
You wait here.”
Tsunade shook her head.
The motion was sharp, decisive.
“No.
We are of the same sect.
I will not hide from them.”
Ren opened his mouth.
Closed it.
The bond of the Sannin—it was a thing he could calculate but not break.
He sighed, a soft exhale that carried the scent of damp wool and resignation.
He did not persuade her further.
He followed her to the village entrance, his footsteps matching hers in the mud, the question of command hanging between them like a blade yet to fall.