The moment that Jōnin opened his mouth, Raizen already knew what kind of man he was — the type who smiles during peace talks but counts corpses during war. The kind who hides ambition behind "concern."
Raizen exhaled slowly. "Fine. Let's go," he said, rising to his feet.
The clan members exchanged uneasy looks as they followed him out. No one dared object. A duel would settle everything more cleanly than a thousand arguments — if Raizen won, he'd earn the right to lead. If he lost, well… the dead don't make good patriarchs anyway.
By the time they reached the training grounds, word had already spread through the settlement. Curious eyes gathered at the perimeter, whispering as Raizen and the older Jōnin, Amamiya Kei, faced each other beneath the gray sky.
Amamiya Wata, the acting elder, raised his hand. "This is a spar for succession," he announced. "No killing."
Raizen smirked. "Use everything you've got," he said to Kei. "Otherwise, you won't even get the chance to swing."
Kei bristled, hands flashing through seals. "Don't underestimate me, young patriarch!" he barked, inhaling deeply.
"Fire Release: Great Fireball Technique!"
A roaring sphere of flame burst toward Raizen, bathing the field in orange light.
Raizen didn't move. His gaze carried the kind of boredom one might reserve for a slow-loading game screen. "Too weak."
Golden chakra surged from him like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. His pupils shifted, his skin marked faintly with the Sage transformation, and a titanic golden statue shimmered into being behind him — a manifestation of Senju-style Sage Art, radiant and terrible.
The golden Buddha's fist dropped like a meteor. Kei's fire vanished in an instant, snuffed out by sheer pressure.
The Jōnin froze, wide-eyed. "Wh-what is that—?"
"Sage Art: Welcome Thousand-Arm Strike," Raizen muttered. His tone was casual, but the ground trembled.
He looked toward the gathering crowd, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "If anyone else refuses to accept me as clan head, step forward now. Together."
Seven men did — veterans, proud and unwilling to kneel to a twelve-year-old. Then four more. Twelve in total.
Raizen cracked his neck. "Twelve's a decent number." His hands formed the same seal again. "Let's finish this."
The sky turned gold. A thousand fists rained down like divine punishment, shaking the field. The challengers scattered, shouting, but the onslaught followed relentlessly. When the light faded, twelve bodies lay groaning in the dirt, beaten but alive.
Raizen looked down at them. "That was disappointing," he said flatly. "I told you — strength decides everything in this era."
The golden chakra dissipated as he let the defeated ninja drop back to the ground. Dust hung in the air.
"Anyone else?" His gaze swept the crowd.
No one moved. Silence stretched — then a single young voice shouted, trembling with awe:
"Patriarch!"
It spread like wildfire.
"Patriarch!"
"Patriarch!"
The chant thundered through the compound, echoing against the mountains. The entire Amamiya clan knelt before the boy who'd just proven himself with overwhelming force.
From that day, Amamiya Raizen was no longer just the reincarnated outcast. He was the patriarch of the Amamiya Clan — its blade and its shield.
Three days later, the succession ceremony took place in the ancestral hall. Raizen stood beneath the carved effigies of fallen leaders, clad in black, his eyes reflecting the torches around him.
He raised his voice before the clan.
"Today, I, Amamiya Raizen, inherit the title of Patriarch of the Amamiya Clan. I swear to protect our people with my own hands — to carve a path toward our future."
The hall erupted.
"Long live the Amamiya Clan! Long live!"
Raizen felt the weight settle on his shoulders — responsibility, not regret. For once, the gamer inside him didn't feel like he was watching from behind a screen.
"My first step in this world," he thought, eyes narrowing. "The Warring States won't last forever. Someday, someone will end it."
He tilted his head toward the horizon, where the distant fires of other clans burned.
"Hashirama. Madara. Guess I'm not the only one making moves."
The age of children and war had begun.