The Amamiya compound was silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. When the moment finally broke, Raizen raised a hand, and the clan's shinobi moved wordlessly to carry away the bodies of their fallen comrades.
Outside, more than three hundred coffins stood in grim formation. When the last one — the patriarch's — was brought out, the slow pulse of mourning drums began to echo across the valley.
The entire clan moved together, black-clad and silent, their faces carved by grief. They carried the coffins toward the Amamiya cemetery, where deep pits had already been dug into the earth.
One by one, the coffins descended into the dark.
When the patriarch's was lowered, every clan member knelt in unison — a gesture of farewell and loyalty that bound the living to the dead.
The sobbing began softly, then spread like cracks in a dam. Some clutched the earth; others covered their faces. The sight of the final burial made the truth impossible to ignore: their kin were gone. Not in a story, not in a dream — gone for good.
War had carved the line between life and death deep into their hearts.
Raizen stood still, jaw tight, as he watched the last of the dirt fall over his comrades. If there were no war, he thought bitterly, none of this would have happened.
For all his cynicism, the grief hit like a kunai to the chest. Every name, every face now sealed beneath the soil had once fought beside him.
The funeral stretched on for hours, the air thick with smoke and incense. When it finally ended, silence reclaimed the courtyard — not peace, but exhaustion.
Three days later, life began to move again. The mines resumed work. Scouts returned to their posts. The fires in the forges lit up once more.
But one question still hung in the air like smoke: who would lead the Amamiya now?
The elders called for a clan assembly. Messengers were sent to the outposts in Ichimura and the Matsuyama mines. Every shinobi, from chūnin to elder, was summoned to witness the choosing of a new patriarch.
Rumors began to circulate long before the meeting began — that Amamiya Raizen, the so-called "young demon" of the last war, would be named as successor.
He had led their defense, shattered enemy lines, and survived where veterans hadn't. Strength was currency in the Warring States, and Raizen had plenty of it.
When the day came, the great hall was packed. Lanterns burned low, shadows flickering over rows of kneeling ninja. Raizen walked in under the weight of dozens of eyes — some admiring, some cautious, some just measuring.
He ignored them all and sat.
The host of the meeting was Amamiya Ten, an elder with streaks of gray in his hair but a mind still sharp as steel.
He stood, voice carrying through the room. "Everyone is present. I declare the first clan assembly since the war has begun."
Before the echo faded, another elder, Amamiya Wata, rose to his feet. "We all know why we're here. The patriarch fell in battle, and the clan needs a leader to hold it together. The people need stability." He turned to Raizen. "I nominate Amamiya Raizen to succeed as patriarch."
The hall fell into heavy silence. It wasn't shock that froze them — it was the weight of the moment. The boy being named wasn't even thirteen.
Whispers rippled through the ranks.
A jōnin coughed into his fist and stood. "With respect, the young one is strong — no one doubts that. But leading a clan requires more than power. We need someone experienced, steady. The times are too unstable to hand leadership to a child."
Raizen's eyes flicked to the man, memorizing his face. He said nothing.
Then Amamiya Seiji, one of Raizen's few open supporters, stood up sharply. "He may be young, but he's already done what none of us could — win! On the field, his instincts saved dozens of our lives. I support Amamiya Raizen as the next patriarch!"
Voices began to clash across the hall — caution versus conviction, tradition versus necessity.
Some hesitated because of his age. Others saw no alternative. Power mattered more than years in the Warring States.
Another jōnin rose, his voice cutting through the argument. "Enough. Tell me, who among us could defeat Raizen right now? Anyone?"
No one answered.
One by one, heads began to nod. The room shifted — the momentum was his.
By the time the debates ended, nearly eighty percent of the clan supported Raizen. Ten percent refused. The rest stayed neutral, waiting to see which way the wind would blow.
Raizen stood. "Then let's make this simple." His tone was calm, almost casual. "In this age, strength is law. If anyone disagrees with me becoming patriarch, step forward. Challenge me. One at a time or all at once — if you can defeat me, I'll withdraw."
The hall erupted in murmurs. Some looked away. Others smirked.
But one jōnin's eyes gleamed — pride, or maybe arrogance. He stepped forward, voice ringing loud.
"Then let me test the so-called 'young patriarch's' strength!"
Raizen's mouth twitched, halfway between a smile and something sharper. Finally, he thought. Something worth swinging at.