"When will the patriarch start this plan?"
Amamiya Ten's voice carried a rare spark of excitement. For someone who usually looked like he'd rather nap than talk politics, that was practically a celebration.
Raizen smirked. "If we're going to raise the next generation, we start now. Waiting only breeds weakness."
Ten straightened. "Understood. I'll handle the logistics — building, enrollment, and the academy's launch."
"Good," Raizen said simply. "Get it done."
Ten bowed and left, already shouting orders to his aides. Watching him go, Raizen leaned back in his chair, a small smile tugging at his lips. The Ninja Academy — it sounded simple, but he knew what it meant. A factory for strength. A steady stream of shinobi born from structure, not chaos.
For the first time since his reincarnation, he felt like he wasn't just surviving history — he was rewriting it.
"Patriarch!"
A messenger skidded to his knees before him, breath ragged, holding out two sealed letters. Raizen raised an eyebrow, took them, and cracked both open.
"Requests for aid… from the Daitō and Hua Xing clans?"
He read quickly. The words were drenched in desperation, practically begging the Amamiya to save them. The Kaguya clan had turned their sights on new prey, and both those clans were being crushed under that bloody advance.
Raizen closed the letters, his expression unreadable. "Now they remember we exist."
When Kaguya attacked the Amamiya, those two clans sat back and watched, hoping his people would serve as a distraction. Now the wheel had turned — thirty years east, thirty years west, as the saying went.
Still, Raizen wasn't petty enough to let them die. He was patient. If he wanted to subjugate them completely, they had to break first. Let them bleed, let them crawl. Then, when the Kaguya's pressure had carved humility into them, the Amamiya would arrive like salvation. That kind of rescue built loyalty, not alliances.
So he set the letters aside. "We wait."
For now, there were more immediate matters — the Academy and something even more ambitious.
Six days later, under Ten's management, the first Amamiya Ninja Academy stood ready — a modest set of training grounds and lecture halls, nothing grand. Still, for a clan that used to throw children straight into war, this was revolutionary.
A dozen students enrolled: sons and daughters of clan members, plus a few from allied families. Not much, but it was a start. The younger ones stumbled through chakra control drills and target practice, their laughter and curses echoing through the compound.
Watching them from afar, Raizen muttered, "Barely enough to fill one class. We'll need outsiders soon."
But outsiders meant spies — and in the Warring States, spies were as common as corpses. Before he opened the gates, he needed a shadow to guard the clan's secrets.
That's when the idea struck. "We'll form an internal unit. A hidden force."
He drafted the framework that same night:
Name: Assassination Tactics Special Force
Alias: Anbu.
Purpose: Covert operations, intelligence, counterespionage, and assassination.
Membership: Elite shinobi only. Minimum rank — Chūnin. Unquestionable loyalty required.
Each operative would wear a mask, dressed in black to erase identity. Missions and member information were to be classified — accessible only to the patriarch.
In theory, it was perfect. In practice… well, the Amamiya barely had enough Chūnin to staff a guard shift, let alone a black-ops division. Loyalty was easy to demand, but hard to prove. Skill was rarer still.
Raizen rubbed his face. "Fantastic. I'm trying to build Konoha before Konoha exists."
But he didn't give up. "Every great system starts with one cracked tile. As long as I open this path, others will walk it later."
He summoned all active Chūnin and above to the courtyard. When they gathered — dozens of wary faces under torchlight — Raizen stood before them, arms crossed, expression sharp.
"You're probably wondering why I called you," he began.
The crowd murmured, trading guesses. Some thought it was about the Hua Xing front, others whispered about the academy. None of them came close.
Raizen's voice cut through the noise. "I'm creating a new division — the Assassination Tactics Special Force."
The murmuring stopped. A few exchanged surprised looks, then thoughtful nods. Assassination units weren't uncommon — most major clans had one. For the Amamiya, it was overdue.
"An assassination corps, huh?" someone muttered.
Raizen's lips curved. "Something like that."
He didn't bother explaining that this was more than just another hit squad. Anbu wasn't meant to be a weapon — it was meant to be a shadow government, an intelligence network that would outlast him. But that was a truth best kept quiet.
"Starting today," he said, voice steady, "we'll select candidates for this division. Strength, discipline, and absolute loyalty. No exceptions."
He met their eyes one by one, his tone turning cold. "You'll operate unseen. Protect the clan. Eliminate threats before they surface. Fail once, and you won't get the chance to fail again."
Silence followed — heavy and electric. Then one by one, the ninjas bowed.
Raizen turned away, hiding a faint smirk. "Good. The future's built in the dark."
"When will the Patriarch put this plan into action?"
Amamiya Kiyomasa's voice carried a restrained excitement as he looked toward Raizen.
Raizen smirked faintly. "If you want to raise the next generation of shinobi, then the sooner we start, the better. You don't grow strong by waiting around for miracles."
Gen, seated behind the low table, nodded slowly. "Then I'll leave it to you, Raizen. Build the school first, recruit our clan's youth, and make sure this idea actually takes root."
"Yes, Patriarch!" Kiyomasa bowed and left to make arrangements.
Raizen watched him go, a small grin tugging at his lips. The idea of a Ninja Academy—something that could train and discipline new generations systematically—wasn't just innovation. It was survival. Once it was built, the Amamiya wouldn't have to rely on luck or borrowed talent. They'd forge their own strength.
He leaned back, satisfied. "One day, even the Senju and Uchiha will look our way."
But the daydream shattered as a shinobi rushed in, panting. "Patriarch!"
Raizen turned. The ninja knelt and presented two sealed letters. "Urgent dispatches."
Raizen broke the seals, scanning the contents. His eyes narrowed. "Help requests—from the Daitō Clan and the Hanabira Clan?"
The messenger nodded grimly.
The letters spoke of desperation. The Kaguya Clan had turned their fury on both neighboring families after their defeat against Amamiya. Despite fierce resistance, the Daitō and Hanabira forces were collapsing, retreating deeper toward their home territories. With nowhere left to turn, they were begging for aid.
Raizen exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. "So now they remember us."
When the Kaguya attacked his clan, those same families watched from afar, hoping Amamiya would draw the fire and burn instead. Now, the tables had turned.
Thirty years east, thirty years west—time has a sense of humor.
Still, he couldn't just let them die. Not if he wanted to absorb them later. If the Amamiya swooped in too early, those clans would just treat them as equals. But if they suffered a bit longer—until they were desperate enough to kneel—then the rescue would taste like salvation.
He folded the letters and tucked them away. "Let them stew. Desperation makes fine diplomacy."
The following week, Raizen focused on more immediate matters—the founding of the Amamiya Ninja Academy.
Reactions were mixed. Some called it pointless; others whispered it was genius. But nobody dared challenge Raizen openly. The idea of a centralized academy to train even children from outside the clan was unheard of.
Construction took six days. It was crude but solid: an open field, a few classrooms, and a dojo lined with splintered practice logs. The first class barely filled a room—just a dozen students, mostly children of retainers.
Raizen clicked his tongue as he watched them spar. "Not much of a generation to rebuild an era with."
Still, it was a start.
He wanted to expand recruitment beyond the clan, but paranoia held him back. Too many spies in wartime. Instead, he decided to form a covert countermeasure.
A hidden force.
He called it Anbu—short for Ansatsu Senjutsu Tokushu Butai (Assassination Tactics Special Force).
Masks, black uniforms, anonymity. Their missions would remain known only to the Patriarch: assassinations, infiltration, protection, intelligence.
For now, it was an idea, not a force. A clan as small as Amamiya had few shinobi strong enough to qualify. Each Anbu operative had to be at least Chūnin-level, utterly loyal, and trained in stealth, reconnaissance, and silent killing.
Finding even five such people was harder than finding peace in the Warring States.
Raizen, however, wasn't discouraged. "You start small. Then you make the world regret underestimating you."
He summoned every ninja ranked Chūnin and above. The courtyard filled with uneasy faces, whispers passing through the ranks.
"What's he planning now?"
"Another academy speech?"
"Maybe something about the Hanabira situation?"
Raizen stood before them, hands behind his back, his voice calm but sharp. "You're wondering why I called you here."
The murmurs stopped.
"This clan is founding a new unit," he said. "A division that will operate unseen—the Assassination Tactics Special Force."
The words hung heavy.
"An assassination unit?" one ninja repeated, startled.
Some nodded slowly. In this age, assassination squads weren't rare. Every major clan had one. But the Amamiya had never been strong enough—or ruthless enough—to maintain one of their own.
Raizen watched their reactions, eyes unreadable. They thought it was just another kill squad. Let them. The less they understood, the better.
He smirked. "You'll hear the details later. For now, I only want to know one thing—who among you is willing to work in the shadows for the clan's future?"
Silence. Then one hand rose. Then another.
Raizen's smile widened. "Good. The sun gets all the glory. But remember—it's the shadows that shape the battlefield."
And with that, the Amamiya Clan took its first step toward building what would one day become its most feared legacy.