The outer walls of the capital had become a slaughterhouse.
Minato's forces had struck with terrifying precision.
While the inner city still reeled from the explosion at the festival, elite strike teams had already scaled and breached the great defensive walls in multiple sectors.
The Royal Army guards — the last line of defense — were caught completely off-guard. What should have been an impregnable fortress had become a nightmare of flashing steel, crackling chakra, and dying screams.
The night air was filled with the terrible symphony of battle: the sharp ring of swords clashing, the metallic shing of kunai ricocheting off armor, and the bright, violent flashes of lightning and sparks that erupted every time chakra-enhanced blades met.
Men screamed as they fell from the high parapets, their bodies breaking on the stones below. The smell of blood, ozone from jutsu, and burning flesh mixed with the lingering smoke from the inner city.
Fugaku Uchiha stood at the heart of the chaos on the western wall, his Sharingan spinning with cold crimson light. His clan's elite warriors fought alongside Minato's hand-picked forces, cutting through the defenders like a scythe through wheat.
A guard lunged at him with a desperate roar. Fugaku caught the man's throat in an iron grip, fingers crushing cartilage with a wet crunch.
The guard's eyes bulged.
Without hesitation, Fugaku hurled his sword like a spear at another soldier charging from behind. The blade punched straight through the man's chest with a sickening thunk, pinning him to a wooden barricade. Blood sprayed in an arc.
Fugaku didn't even watch him die. He was already moving.
The guard in his grip tried to stab him with a kunai. Fugaku twisted, drove his knee upward into the man's spine with a sickening crack, and channeled the smallest thread of chakra into the strike.
The guard's body went limp instantly, his backbone shattered. Fugaku dropped the corpse and stepped over it without a second glance.
"Pathetic," he muttered.
Around him, the battle raged. The Royal Guards were elite, but they had been spread thin by the inner-city crisis. Many were still fighting with the fury of men defending their homes, but they were outnumbered and outmaneuvered.
A young guard managed to land a solid hit on one of Fugaku's men, driving a sword deep into his side.
The rebel screamed and collapsed, but two more of Fugaku's warriors immediately overwhelmed the guard, one slashing his throat open while the other drove a kunai into his eye. The guard's death scream was short and wet.
Fugaku's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the wall. The defenders were still putting up resistance in pockets, but the tide had turned. He could feel victory within reach.
Time to break their spirits completely.
He began weaving a rapid sequence of hand signs, his fingers blurring. Chakra surged through his body, wild and fierce. He drew in a deep breath, feeling the wind chakra gather in his lungs.
"Wind Style: Wrath of the Sickle!"
He exhaled sharply.
Dozens of razor-thin, invisible wind blades erupted from his mouth in a deadly fan. They were small — no bigger than kunai — but they moved with terrifying speed and made a high-pitched, shrieking whistle like the screams of the dying. Fugaku's Sharingan tracked every single one. With precise control, he guided them like living things.
Several blades found their marks instantly.
One guard's head was nearly severed, blood fountaining as he dropped. Another took a blade through the throat and collapsed gurgling.
A third tried to block with his sword, but the wind blade curved around the weapon and sliced through his wrist. The man screamed as his hand fell away, only for a second blade to punch through his chest a heartbeat later.
The precision was horrifying. Guards who turned to block the visible threats were immediately struck from unexpected angles. Men who tried to dodge found the blades adjusting mid-flight.
Within seconds, over a dozen defenders on that section of the wall were down — dead or dying in pools of blood.
Fugaku's forces seized the opening. Rebels surged forward with renewed ferocity. Kunai flew. Swords flashed. One of Fugaku's men used a lightning-style jutsu, his blade crackling with electricity as he drove it through a guard's armor. The man convulsed violently before going still.
The wall was turning into a slaughter.
Fugaku allowed himself a rare, satisfied smile as he watched his men push forward. Bodies were piling up along the parapets. The defenders' formation was breaking.
Some tried to fall back toward the inner gates, but Minato's forces were already pouring over the walls in other sectors. The capital's last line of defense was collapsing.
Soon, Fugaku thought, his eyes gleaming with ambition. Soon this entire land will be mine to rule in Minato's name.
He imagined the future stretching before him — vast territories, wealth, power. No longer a minor clan leader in a small corner of the world. He would become a true noble, ruling over a domain nearly the size of a small country.
All he had to do was continue serving Minato faithfully. Report only to him. Execute his will without question.
And it was all thanks to Mikoto.
His beautiful wife had played her part perfectly. She had used her body, her charm, her loyalty to win Minato's favor.
She had never complained, never hesitated. Even now, while Fugaku led this invasion, Mikoto was likely with Minato, serving him in whatever way the strategist desired.
Fugaku felt a surge of gratitude toward her. She had made all of this possible. Their sons would grow up in luxury and power because of her sacrifice.
She is the perfect wife, he thought with pride. Loyal. Devoted. Everything a man could ask for.
If Mikoto could have heard his thoughts at that moment, she would have laughed until her sides hurt.
Because the truth was far crueler.
Mikoto no longer belonged to Fugaku. Not in any way that mattered.
After months of serving Minato — in his bed, in his strategies, in his confidence — she had become completely and utterly his.
Her loyalty to Fugaku had withered and died the moment she realized the true depth of Minato's power and vision.
She obeyed Fugaku on the surface when necessary, but her heart, her body, and her future belonged to the man who was about to reshape the world.
Fugaku was living in a delusion.
And the delusion was about to cost him everything.
A sudden explosion of chakra flared on the eastern section of the wall. More of Minato's forces had broken through.
The remaining Royal Guards were being overwhelmed from two sides now. Screams and the wet sounds of blades meeting flesh filled the night.
Fugaku raised his sword, blood dripping from the edge, and pointed it toward the inner city.
"Push forward!" he roared. "The capital is ours! Minato's will be done!"
His men answered with a savage battle cry.
As the last pockets of resistance on the wall were crushed, Fugaku allowed himself one final, satisfied thought.
The Daimyo was either dead or broken.
The walls had fallen.
And soon… the entire country would kneel.
All that remained was to deliver the final blow — and claim the rewards Minato had promised.
Including the woman who had once belonged to another man.
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