Hatake Gintama had followed Raizen's orders to the letter.
In the weeks that followed, he quietly helped the ninja faction tighten its grip on the clan, striking at the samurai loyalists with surgical precision.
Hatake Resuke, the aging patriarch, saw everything… and did nothing.
He watched as his clan tore itself apart, allowing samurai and shinobi to clash freely.
Without his support, the samurai faction lost ground fast. Their morale crumbled, and one by one, proud swordsmen threw away their blades to join the ninja ranks.
By the end of the month, the Hatake clan's balance of power had completely shifted—the shinobi now ruled its future.
From the shadows, Amamiya Raizen watched it all unfold.
The experiment was working exactly as he'd predicted.
Hatake Gintama had become the face of the new era—clever, decisive, the man who could bridge blade and chakra. His popularity among the shinobi soared.
Under his quiet guidance, the ninja faction solidified its dominance, and the samurai faction… vanished into silence.
That night, the upper ranks of the ninja faction gathered to celebrate their rise.
"This month's success," one elder declared, raising his cup, "is all thanks to Gintama!"
Laughter and murmurs filled the air. For once, no one disagreed. Gintama had done what decades of blood couldn't—he'd unified the shinobi under one banner.
Then, the third elder stood, voice cutting through the noise like a drawn blade.
"The clan has reached its turning point. After much discussion, we've decided—three nights from now, we'll request that the patriarch abdicate and let Gintama take his place as the new head of the Hatake clan!"
The room froze.
"Three days…?" Gintama repeated, blinking.
He hadn't expected the coup to move this fast. Apparently, the elders had planned this long before he'd been included.
"Yes," the third elder said smoothly, lips curving into a faint smile. "In three days, you'll be the new patriarch."
Then his tone shifted, casual but sharp enough to draw blood.
"Ah, and during this time, your son—Hoshino-kun—should stay with us. For his own safety, of course."
The room went silent again. The words were polite, but the meaning was clear: hostage.
Gintama bowed his head, masking the storm behind his eyes. "Understood."
The elder's grin widened. "Good. Then we'll soon lead the Hatake clan to its rightful peak!"
The room erupted in hollow laughter. Some smiled out of ambition, others out of fear. The meeting ended, leaving Gintama alone in the chill of night.
When he reached home, Hoshino was already asleep. Gintama brushed a hand through his son's hair, guilt flickering across his face.
He'd left the boy alone for most of his childhood. Now, his son was being used as leverage in a game he couldn't control.
He sighed, whispering to no one, "How the hell do I fix this…?"
"Don't worry. Hoshino will be fine."
The voice came from nowhere—and everywhere. The air in front of him twisted, and Raizen stepped out of the distortion, calm and unhurried, as if space itself was just another door.
"Patriarch!" Gintama dropped to one knee.
Raizen waved him off. "Spare me the formality. Focus on the plan. Leave Hoshino's safety to me."
The reassurance hit like sunlight through storm clouds. Gintama's spine straightened. "Yes, sir."
Raizen's expression softened for a moment, almost human. "For now, act obedient. Play your role. Once the stage is ready, we'll end this."
Then, with a subtle twist in the air, he was gone.
Gintama exhaled slowly. Just seeing that power—the way Raizen bent time and space like paper—was enough to rekindle his resolve.
The next morning, under the suspicious gaze of the third elder, Gintama personally brought Hoshino to him.
The old man smirked, pleased by his "loyalty," and accepted the boy without hesitation.
Three days later.
Night fell on the Hatake compound like a black shroud.
Then—screams.
Shadows exploded into motion as shinobi stormed through the courtyards, attacking the last of the samurai loyalists. Blades clashed, jutsu flared, and the air filled with smoke and blood.
The common folk barred their doors, trembling as the clan devoured itself.
At the center of it all, the third elder raised his voice above the chaos.
"Tonight decides the Hatake's future! With me—storm the patriarch's residence!"
His followers roared, surging forward. But the patriarch's guards—samurai to the bone—blocked the path, steel gleaming under the moonlight.
"Traitors," one of them spat, drawing his sword. "You dare raise your hands against your own blood?"
The elder sneered. "Resuke allowed our clan to rot! Under his watch, Hatake blood was wasted! He's no longer fit to lead." His eyes flashed cold. "For the clan's future, we'll remove him ourselves."
"Shameless dog!" the samurai roared, charging.
The elder's expression twisted. "Kill them. All who resist—cut them down!"
"Yes, sir!"
The shinobi surged forward, kunai gleaming, chakra crackling in their veins. The night erupted into chaos as steel met chakra, and the clan once bound by blood drowned itself in its own.
The Hatake's age of swords had ended.
Its age of shadows had begun.