The hall fell silent after Raizen's words. The air between the clan heads felt like a drawn blade. The Hanabira patriarch's expression froze; he hadn't expected Raizen to be so blunt. For a brief second, he looked relieved. If Raizen was giving them the choice to join or not, then he could refuse politely — keep his clan out of another bloodbath.
He turned toward the Daitō patriarch, silently praying the man would make the same cautious call.
Instead, Daitō's leader rose to his feet, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension.
"The Kaguya Clan took our lands, our people, and our pride! We've swallowed our pain long enough. Now is the time for revenge! Daitō and Amamiya — march together and strike back!"
"Yes, Patriarch!" came the chorus of Daitō shinobi, their voices echoing through the hall.
The Hanabira patriarch stiffened. "You would go to war again? After everything your clan lost?"
Daitō's patriarch said nothing, but his eyes were calm — disturbingly calm. He knew the truth too well. His clan was spent, bleeding from years of conflict. If logic ruled, he should've chosen recovery like the Hanabira. But logic never rebuilt power.
Since aligning with the Amamiya, he had seen something dangerous in Raizen — an ambition sharp enough to reshape the world. This wasn't a man chasing revenge or glory. Raizen was building something. The walls, the alliances, the training grounds — all pieces on a growing board. And when the next wave of clans joined, the smaller players like Daitō and Hanabira would fade into background noise.
So Daitō chose war, not survival. Better to gamble for dominance than fade quietly into irrelevance.
Besides, he wasn't stupid. Everyone knew the truth: Amamiya would bear the brunt of this war. Daitō only had to stand beside them and collect the spoils.
The Hanabira patriarch glared. "You'll regret this, Daitō."
Daitō's patriarch offered a weary smile. "Maybe. But I'd rather regret moving forward than rot standing still."
Raizen watched the exchange in silence, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Good. Then the Amamiya and Daitō Clans will form a coalition — and the Kaguya will learn what it means to pick the wrong enemies."
He dismissed the meeting and immediately began mobilizing his forces.
The Amamiya compound turned into a storm of preparation: supply carts loaded, armor polished, messengers sprinting between divisions. The Daitō followed suit, though their numbers were smaller.
Only the Hanabira remained quiet, their patriarch watching from afar with the dull gaze of a man convincing himself he'd made the "smart" choice. He'd done the math — another loss could destroy his clan for decades. Survival, not valor, guided him.
But Raizen had seen that look before. The kind that chose comfort over conviction. He didn't hate it. He just didn't respect it.
"If they won't bleed for the cause," Raizen murmured to himself, "they won't share in the victory either."
Three days later, reports came in. The Kaguya were falling apart again — infighting, leadership disputes, two elite Jōnin tearing the clan in half over succession. A typical Kaguya mess.
Raizen snorted. "Figures. The same idiots who'll one day try a coup in the Land of Water and wipe themselves out. Some lessons, you just can't fix with genetics."
He rolled out the war map and pointed toward the southern valley.
"Mobilize in three days. We hit them while they're too busy stabbing each other to notice."
When the orders spread, every shinobi in the coalition began preparing for war. Weapons were sharpened, headbands tightened.
Three days later, beneath a gray dawn sky, Raizen and the Daitō patriarch stood before the assembled army — banners snapping, faces grim.
Raizen raised his hand. "The Kaguya Clan has raided our borders for the last time. Today, we march to return the favor. For our fallen comrades — for our future — we fight!"
"The Amamiya Clan will prevail!"
"The Coalition will triumph!"
Thousands of voices roared back, the sound shaking the forest like thunder.
Raizen turned toward the horizon — toward the Kaguya Valley.
Time to teach another relic of the old world that survival wasn't inherited. It was earned.