Kusagakure - Land of Grass - Elemental Nations
The midday sun beat down upon the busy streets of Kusagakure, casting short, sharp shadows against the weathered wooden stalls of the central marketplace. The morning tension that had gripped the village's crowded inns had largely evaporated, giving way to the slow, tedious machinery of a recovering army preparing for the long march home.
Alaric Jonathan Kenway walked through the market, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his dark trousers.
Kusagakure was fine. That was perhaps the problem. It was fine enough to endure, not interesting enough to enjoy, and not familiar enough to relax in. It lacked the towering, chaotic ambition of the Fire Capital, and it possessed none of the familiar, deeply entrenched military warmth of Konoha. Its palette was a muted blend of green and brown, shaped by endless grasslands, damp earth, and the quiet, perpetual struggle of surviving in the geographical crossfire of much larger powers.
The air smelled strongly of dried grassland herbs, river fish curing in the sun, and sweet rice cakes steaming on open grills. Merchants called out prices for cheap, practical tools and basic medicinal bundles, their voices weaving through the legs of running children and the cautious, paired patrols of local Kusa shinobi.
As Alaric moved through the crowds, people stared.
They always did. It was an unavoidable consequence of his existence. He was six feet four inches of heavily muscled anomaly, possessing preternaturally pale features and striking, platinum-blond hair that caught the sunlight like spun gold. He was dressed not in the standard olive-green of the Leaf, but in his sleek, black Vanguard uniform, moving with an unhurried, terrifying confidence that immediately marked him as an apex predator strolling through a civilian park.
A young child pointed a dirty finger at him, only for a panicked mother to instantly snatch the hand down, bowing her head in rapid, fearful apology. A merchant paused mid-sentence, the price of thread dying on his tongue as the towering blonde passed by. A few young women clustered near a tea stall stared a fraction longer than politely intended, whispering behind their hands, while an older, grizzled man studied the immaculate cut of the black uniform, silently wondering what kind of Konoha shinobi dressed like a foreign military aristocrat.
Alaric noticed all of it, but his expression remained perfectly, utterly blank.
He was incredibly used to the stares. He had been scrutinized in the muddy, rain-slicked alleys of Bristol, in the grand, gilded noble halls of London, across the booming ports of Pennmere, and down the wide, pristine avenues of Philadelphia. He had been stared at on battlefields and in throne rooms across multiple dimensions. To him, the whispers and the wide eyes were merely background noise.
He was entirely accustomed to being seen. He was far less accustomed to being stuck.
Alaric took a slow drag from his cigar, turning away from the main commercial artery and wandering down a narrower, shaded side street. As the vibrant noise of the market faded behind him, the illusion of Kusagakure's rustic charm began to fracture, revealing the grim, unpolished reality beneath.
He noticed the poverty.
It wasn't an absolute, cartoonish misery where the entire village was starving in the gutters, but the hardship was stark and impossible to ignore. In the shadow of a crumbling brick wall, three painfully skinny children sat in silence, their eyes tracking a stray dog. A few paces away, an old woman with a deeply lined face stood before a vegetable stall, counting a tragically small handful of copper coins in her palm before shaking her head and walking away empty-handed.
Alaric paused, leaning his shoulder against a wooden post as he observed the quiet desperation. He saw a man with hollow, sunken cheeks hesitantly asking passing merchants for spare ryō. He watched a mother carefully split a single, meager rice cake between two wide-eyed toddlers, ensuring they took the larger halves. He noted the beggars sitting completely motionless near the kitchen stalls, watching the steam rise with the eerie, haunting stillness of people who were entirely used to being ignored.
Kusagakure's poverty felt far more exposed than Konoha's. Konoha was a superpower; its massive clan infrastructure, deep trade routes, and the recent, colossal influx of royal funding provided a baseline stability that masked its internal struggles. Kusagakure felt like exactly what it was: a minor village living in the permanent, suffocating shadow of the Five Great Nations, scraping by on the margins of survival.
It bothered him.
It didn't bother him because he was naive, or because his heart bled easily for strangers. It bothered him because the sight was far too familiar.
Behind the smoke of his cigar, his mind drifted effortlessly across the veil of worlds.
He remembered the sprawling, impoverished slums of Bristol. He remembered utilizing the staggering profits of the Kenway farms to subsidize local taverns, ensuring that hot, nutritious meals became cheap enough that ordinary, forgotten people could actually afford to eat. It hadn't been an act of pure, selfless charity; it had been an application of good agriculture, flawless logistics, fair pricing, and practical economics that simultaneously enriched the people and solidified the Kenway family's reputation.
He remembered the founding of Pennmere. He remembered engineering the land grants, the labor systems, and the royal economic safeguards alongside William Penn. Through their combined vision, Philadelphia had rapidly evolved into a true utopia where hunger and extreme poverty were essentially erased from the map. The common people thrived, the crown prospered, and the Celestial enterprises monopolized a booming, perfectly stabilized economy.
More recently, he remembered standing in the blighted, famine-struck villages near the Fire Capital, using his Wood Release to cure the sick and force dead soil into permanent, unnatural abundance.
Alaric looked at the underfed boy struggling to carry two wooden water buckets across the dirt path.
His very first, immediate instinct was to fix it. He possessed absolute, unimaginable wealth. He had mountains of grain sealed within his spatial rings, and the logistical mastery required to stabilize the village's local scarcity in a matter of days. He could fund their kitchens, flood their markets with affordable food, and rewrite their economic despair before the weekend was over.
But he didn't move. He simply took another drag of his cigar, the smoke curling around his sharp features.
He was not a saint. He was generous when he explicitly chose to be, but he was also a creature of cold, geopolitical practicality. And the politics of this specific situation were a nightmare.
Kusagakure was not his village. It was not his territory, not his government, and absolutely not his responsibility.
If a notoriously powerful, foreign Konoha shinobi suddenly began funneling massive amounts of wealth and food into Kusagakure's poorest districts, it would not be viewed as an act of grace. It would be interpreted as Konoha aggressively attempting to buy the loyalty of the civilian populace. It would profoundly humiliate Kusagakure's leadership, silently broadcasting to the world that their administration was incapable of feeding its own people. It would be framed by international spies as a soft, economic occupation, and it would inevitably breed deep, festering resentment from the very people he sought to help, simply because charity from a towering outsider often felt like humiliating exposure.
Good intentions, he knew all too well, did absolutely nothing to erase the brutal arithmetic of politics.
Hunger was simple when viewed from the stomach. It became complicated only when men with banners realized food could humiliate as easily as it could save.
Alaric let out a long, heavy sigh, crushing the ember of his cigar against his thumb before sealing the stub away into his forearm tattoo. He genuinely wanted to do something to alleviate the quiet suffering around him, but he accepted that this was simply not the right battlefield.
He pushed himself off the wooden post, turning his back on the side street.
The marketplace had officially begun to grate on his nerves. The relentless, exhausting stares, the visible poverty he was politically forbidden from fixing, and the stifling courtesy of being a guest in a foreign village all compounded into a profound, spiritual annoyance.
'I have had quite enough of this village,' Alaric decided silently, his long strides eating up the distance as he headed directly back toward the inn.
---The Inn - Common Room---
The common room of the inn was significantly calmer than it had been during the frantic breakfast rush, but it was still humming with focused activity.
Dozens of Konoha shinobi were scattered across the tables. Some were quietly eating a late lunch, while others were meticulously checking the edges of their kunai, reviewing travel schedules, or catching up on desperately needed sleep in the shadowed corners.
Near the large hearth at the back of the room, Tsunade, Shikaku Nara, and several senior Jonin commanders were gathered around a sprawling arrangement of maps, medical updates, and lodging lists. They were knee-deep in the slow, agonizingly tedious machinery of moving an entire army home.
Alaric pushed through the sliding doors, ignoring the respectful nods of the soldiers, and walked a direct, unyielding line toward the command table.
Without offering a greeting, or so much as a preambulatory throat-clearing, he stepped up to the edge of the maps.
"I am bored, irritated, and have decided that watching this army crawl home by ordinary means is now offensive to me," Alaric announced, his voice carrying the calm, absolute certainty of a man who had just unilaterally changed the schedule.
Tsunade paused, her pen hovering over a requisition form. She looked up slowly, her amber eyes narrowing as she assessed the incredibly sour, deadpan expression on the anomaly's face.
Shikaku didn't even open his eyes. He let out a long, pre-emptive sigh, his brilliant mind already sensing a monumentally troublesome suggestion barreling toward them.
"What exactly are you proposing, Alaric?" Tsunade asked, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms.
"I will teleport every Konoha shinobi currently residing in Kusagakure directly back to Konoha," Alaric stated casually.
The entire common room seemed to skip a heartbeat. The quiet conversations at the nearby tables died instantly. The Jonin commanders gathered around the map stared at him in sheer, unadulterated disbelief.
Tsunade blinked, processing the logistical magnitude of the statement. "Can you actually do that?"
"How many people do you mean by 'every Konoha shinobi'?" Shikaku asked, finally opening his eyes to fix a sharp, calculating gaze on the blonde man.
"All of them," Alaric answered, as if confirming he had remembered to buy milk.
Tsunade leaned forward, her expression turning deadly serious. "Can you do it safely? We are talking about thousands of personnel, Alaric."
"Yes," Alaric replied smoothly.
He didn't launch into a grand, mystical explanation of space-time physics. He explained the mechanics with the dry efficiency of a quartermaster organizing a warehouse.
He had an extensive, highly advanced network of Hiraishin markers deeply embedded throughout Konoha. Unlike the Yondaime Hokage, who was heavily reliant on throwing marked kunai to establish his anchors, Alaric's mastery of the technique was absolute. He could effortlessly place complex spatial markers through direct, physical contact. He could literally stand in a designated zone, pulse his chakra down through the soles of his boots, and imprint a permanent receiving matrix into the earth.
He could coordinate the entire operation through a network of shadow clones. He could teleport the army in meticulously organized waves. The heavy supplies could be sealed into scrolls and transported separately. The wounded could be moved with extreme care in smaller, controlled batches. He could establish specific arrival zones so he didn't accidentally dump a heavily armed battalion into the middle of a busy civilian marketplace, and he could send a clone ahead first to notify Konoha's gate security, the hospital, and the barracks commanders of the incoming influx.
The commanders listened in stunned silence. Even in a world governed by magic, demons, and teleportation, the concept of instantaneously moving an entire, standing army across a continent was utterly absurd.
"Can the critically wounded be moved without destabilizing their injuries through the spatial jump?" a medical commander asked, his voice tight with professional anxiety.
"Yes. The Hiraishin displacement is instantaneous and functionally frictionless," Alaric assured him. "I'll take the critical cases in smaller batches, directly to the triage zones outside the Konoha hospital."
"What about the heavy crates, sealed supplies, and sensitive command documents?" a logistics officer pressed, gesturing toward the stacked boxes near the wall.
"Supplies are significantly easier to move than people," Alaric replied effortlessly. "They don't complain about the sudden change in altitude."
A senior Jonin commander standing near Shikaku let out a loud, incredulous laugh, dragging a hand down his tired face. "Kenway-dono, I genuinely wish you had offered this miraculous solution before we marched all the way here to Kusagakure."
"I was less bored yesterday," Alaric replied dryly.
A ripple of tired, genuinely amused laughter echoed through the command group.
But then, Alaric's expression flattened, the faint humor vanishing entirely.
"However," Alaric stated, leaning his hands against the edge of the map table. "I want something in exchange for acting as your personal, intercontinental transit system."
Tsunade's amusement evaporated instantly, replaced by the sharp, suspicious glare of the Hokage.
"Troublesome," Shikaku muttered, shaking his head. "Here it comes."
"I want two weeks of leave," Alaric demanded, holding up two fingers. "Two uninterrupted weeks. No missions. No classified briefings unless the village is literally burning to the ground. No diplomatic escort work. No emergency politics. And absolutely no being summoned to your office just because someone used the word 'impossible' near your desk."
He looked directly at Tsunade. "Fourteen days of total, unbothered freedom."
Tsunade stared at him, utterly dumbfounded by the sheer, magnificent audacity of the request.
"You are actively bargaining for vacation time with the Hokage in the dead middle of a military withdrawal," Tsunade pointed out, her tone hovering dangerously between outrage and grudging respect.
"Correct," Alaric nodded, entirely unrepentant.
"At least he knows exactly what he is doing," Shikaku mumbled, picking up his pen.
"I think I've earned it," Alaric continued, seamlessly listing his resume to justify the extortion. "In the past week alone, I have personally handled the Pein situation in Amegakure. I did the reports about Obito Uchiha stealing Nagato's Rinnegan. I maneuvered around the Akatsuki's extraction ritual. I helped end the war by confronting Ōnoki and ensuring his surrender. I warned everyone about the true threat of Madara. I spent the entire night watching a dead battlefield for invisible spies. I guarded this camp. I got the entire army drunk to restore morale, helped them pack the next morning, marched with them through the mud, and politely tolerated the political stagnation of Kusagakure."
He lowered his hand, his blue eyes unyielding. "I have officially reached my limit. I want two weeks."
Shikaku finally looked up from his notes, his dark eyes sharp with the undeniable, terrifying reality of the geopolitical board.
"Are you truly not worried about the broader implications, Alaric-san?" Shikaku asked, voicing the critical, looming dread. "Obito possesses the stolen Rinnegan now. The Akatsuki is wounded, but desperate. And Madara Uchiha's shadow is hanging over everything. Is this really the time to go off the grid?"
Alaric didn't dismiss the threat completely. He knew the stakes were apocalyptic. But he was still Alaric, and he operated on a timeline defined by his own power.
"It is two weeks, Shikaku," Alaric replied evenly. "Surely the world can survive without needing my direct intervention for fourteen days. If Obito or Madara actually makes a move in that tiny window, my clones, my Hiraishin tags, and Konoha's sensory network will notify me instantly. I can return before the first wall falls."
Shikaku gave him a long, incredibly heavy look.
"You understand exactly how dangerously arrogant that sentence sounds, yes?" Shikaku asked dryly.
Alaric smirked, pulling his cigar back out. "I said surely. That makes it optimistic, not irresponsible."
Tsunade violently rubbed her forehead, fighting off a fresh migraine. The banter was infuriating, but the tactical benefits of his offer were simply too overwhelmingly good to reject. Teleporting everyone home avoided days of exhausting travel, drastically reduced their exposure to ambushes, got the wounded to proper facilities instantly, and evacuated the army from Kusagakure before local resentment could fester over strained resources.
"Fine," Tsunade relented, slamming her hand flat on the table. "I accept the two weeks of leave, but with strict, non-negotiable conditions."
She glared at him, ticking the stipulations off on her fingers. "If Konoha is physically attacked, your leave ends instantly. If Obito appears, leave ends. If Madara appears, leave ends. If the Akatsuki makes any major, confirmed move, your leave ends. If I call you through the emergency Hiraishin channel or trigger the agreed signal, you answer immediately. You must remain reachable. You do not disappear into another world, another continent, or some impossible private project without telling me where you are. And you will still provide a proper, detailed report before you vanish into your vacation."
Alaric considered the terms for a fraction of a second, finding them entirely reasonable given the state of the world.
"Fine," Alaric agreed with a sharp nod. "Two weeks of leave, unless the world actively catches fire."
"Or starts smoking," Tsunade added pointedly, shooting a dark look at the cigar in his hand.
Alaric glanced down at the tobacco, raising a brow. "That wording feels aggressively targeted."
With the negotiation settled, Shikaku seamlessly took over, his brilliant mind instantly structuring the chaotic prospect of mass teleportation into a flawless military logistics plan.
"We need a strict, organized order of operations to prevent mass panic and logistical bottlenecks in Konoha," Shikaku declared, pulling a fresh sheet of parchment toward him.
He rapidly outlined the waves. "First: Alaric will send a clone ahead to warn Konoha gate security, alert the hospital staff to prep the wards, and notify the barracks and logistics divisions of the incoming influx. Second: Move the critically wounded directly to the triage zones outside the hospital. Third: Move the medical staff and the specialized supplies needed to treat them. Fourth: Secure and transport all command documents, sealed reports, and sensitive intelligence materials. Fifth: Move the main combat units in staggered waves to designated, open training grounds. Sixth: Support personnel. Seventh: Bulk supplies and heavy camp equipment. Eighth: The rear guard. And finally, ninth: A complete sweep of the Kusagakure inns, warehouses, and temporary lodgings to ensure not a single Konoha shinobi is left behind."
Alaric listened to the flawless, nine-step operational flowchart generated in less than thirty seconds, a genuine smile of profound appreciation touching his lips.
"See?" Alaric remarked, looking at the strategist. "This is exactly why I tolerate your face, Shikaku."
"Your praise is exhausting," Shikaku muttered, not looking up from his writing.
The command table dissolved into organized, frantic action. The commanders, still reeling from the absurdity of the plan, immediately began shouting orders. Medical staff rushed from the tables to frantically prepare the wounded transport lists. Logistics officers scrambled to double-check the integrity of their supply seals. Jonin commanders sprinted out of the inn to gather their scattered units from across the village.
The sleepy, recovering atmosphere of the inn violently shifted into a sudden, highly energized chaos.
Konoha shinobi throughout the marketplace and the lodging areas began hearing the impossible news spreading like wildfire. They were going home. Not tomorrow. Not after another grueling, three-day march through the mud.
Today.
Some cheered loudly, hugging their comrades. Some simply stared at their squad leaders in absolute disbelief. A few panicked, asking if they even had time to pack their gear, only to be screamed at by their commanders that they should have already been packed.
Standing amidst the swirling, organized chaos of the common room, Alaric looked remarkably pleased with himself. The tedious waiting was finally over, and he had successfully purchased his freedom with unparalleled convenience.
He stepped back slightly, channeling a pulse of chakra through his heavy black boot, seamlessly planting a highly advanced, invisible Hiraishin marker directly into the floorboards beneath him. With a subtle flex of his will, a perfect Wood Clone grew seamlessly from his shoulder, stepping off his back and immediately flashing away in a burst of golden light, tearing across the continent to deliver the warning to Konoha's gates.
"Two weeks," Alaric said softly, crossing his arms as he watched Tsunade aggressively assign deployment zones to a panicked Chunin. "Surely nothing world-ending can happen in two weeks."
Shikaku, pausing his furious writing for a single second, looked up at the towering blonde anomaly. He stared at Alaric with the deeply exhausted, profound disappointment of a man who had just heard fate itself being personally, arrogantly invited to make a devastating point.
"Troublesome," Shikaku muttered, turning his eyes back to the paperwork.
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