The Three Tails finally stopped roaring. Its single, massive eye fixed on Raizen, confusion and a trace of something like… recognition flickering inside it.
It didn't understand. How could this mortal know its name? How did he know about the Sage of Six Paths?
But Raizen didn't give it time to ask. His form twisted, space warped—and he was gone, leaving nothing but ripples across the lake.
"Amamiya Raizen… I'll remember you!"
The Three Tails' growl rumbled like thunder across the water before it sank back beneath the surface, vanishing into the depths once more.
Raizen reappeared within the Amamiya compound through Kamui, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Around him, the clan was busy—children and shinobi alike practicing the new sealing and barrier arts under Amamiya Ten's supervision.
Good. The basics were being laid down.
But as Raizen watched, a sharp unease twisted in his chest. Progress was slow—too slow. The Konoha Alliance had to operate as a cooperative between clans, which meant endless council meetings, voting, compromise. Everything he wanted to implement had to crawl its way through bureaucracy.
In a time where death came faster than paperwork, that was a problem.
He looked toward the horizon, where storm clouds bled over the land. Senju Hashirama is seventeen now… that means I've got maybe seven years left.
Seven years before Hashirama and Madara founded Konoha. Seven years before peace was bought with blood.
Between now and then, the Senju and Uchiha would clash again—one last war, longer and crueler than all before it.
That war would tear the world apart, and in its ashes, Konoha would rise.
Raizen knew what that meant: he had five, maybe six years to turn the fragile "Konoha Alliance" into something real—something that could survive the chaos when gods went to war.
Because when Madara awakened his Mangekyō and Hashirama's body fully harmonized with Asura's will, they'd become forces of nature. Mountains would shatter. Armies would vanish.
And if Raizen wasn't ready by then, he'd be dust beneath their feet.
He clenched his fists. "Then we build faster."
If Konoha was to stand, it needed structure—departments, roles, a system that could keep a village alive when he wasn't there to pull the strings.
He began outlining them one by one in his head:
Anbu – the hidden blade of the Hokage. Espionage, assassinations, infiltration. The shadows that protected the light.
Ministry of Administration (Siyi Division) – bureaucrats and tacticians; the engine room of the village. Diplomacy, finance, mission management, communications—all under one banner.
Medical Department – emergency response and battlefield treatment. Corps recovery, veterinary care, hospital systems. Konoha's pulse.
Ministry of Education – the shinobi school and its record system. Training, exams, assignment, promotion. A place to mold children into soldiers.
Interrogation and Security Department – seals, barriers, intelligence, torture, counter-espionage. The nerve center of internal defense.
Konoha Police Force – law and order, gatekeeping, civil control. The face of authority within the walls.
Those six would be the skeleton of Konoha.
Right now, the Alliance had the first three half-built: Education, Administration, and Police. The Interrogation unit was forming thanks to the Uzumaki's sealing arts. Anbu was in early planning.
That left two pillars missing—the Medical Department and the fully operational Interrogation Division.
The second could be done with training. The first… was a nightmare.
Medicine in the Warring States was primitive—bandages, chakra stitching, prayers. Even after Konoha's founding, no one took medical ninjutsu seriously until Tsunade's era. Most clans wanted fighters, not healers.
He'd wanted to change that years ago, but couldn't. No teachers, no manuals, no techniques. The Warring States' version of Healing Jutsu was a joke compared to what he remembered from the future.
Even the system didn't cough up any shortcuts. No "Medical Ninjutsu Skill Tree Unlocked" prompt. No instant healing jutsu pack. Nothing.
It annoyed him more than the wars did.
Still, if he didn't build the Medical Corps now, Konoha would bleed itself dry before it even started breathing.
Raizen rubbed his temples. "Five or six years… that's all the time I've got to build a village out of corpses and paperwork."
He looked around at the shinobi training under the banner of Amamiya. Kids with tired eyes. Adults missing fingers. No miracles—just effort.
"That's fine. I'll make the framework first. Details can come later."
A shinobi school. A medical corps. A real interrogation unit. He'd shove them into existence if he had to.
If the clans didn't like it? Tough luck.
He'd find talent for medical work himself, and when the time was right, he'd force the alliance's elders to approve the creation of a Konoha Hospital.
They'd curse him for it at first. But once they saw the results—once lives were actually saved—they'd forget the anger and start calling it genius.
"Humans are predictable like that," Raizen muttered, a tired smirk tugging at his lips. "Complain first, praise later."
He looked toward the mist-covered horizon. Seven years until Konoha.
Seven years until gods started bleeding again.
This time, he'd be ready.