Chapter 84: News
"Those kids… they've really gone mad."
The head of the Saito Clan let out a long sigh, watching the relentless rain pouring outside. He took a sip of steaming tea, but the warmth did little to ease the unease in his chest.
Aizen Sosuke was dead.
To be fair, not a single clan leader had truly wished for that man's death. Though Aizen had caused tension and friction within the council, those were considered internal affairs—nothing that warranted bloodshed.
Even when Aizen had cornered them during meetings, pointing fingers and shouting accusations, none of the clan leaders had retaliated beyond words. They understood it was all part of the political dance—an exchange of power, pressure, and performance.
After all, the clans of Konoha had long learned the unspoken rules of survival. Ever since the Warring States era, the game had remained the same: don't push too far. Debate fiercely, yes, but always leave room for compromise.
It was politics, not war.
Every clan had its secrets—the Uzumaki with their sealing arts, the Uchiha with their Fire Style and Sharingan, and countless others with their hidden techniques. But these techniques existed because of mutual benefit and trade. Nobody gained without giving something in return.
The Uchiha were ostracized not because of their power, but because of their temperament. They spoke bluntly, acted rashly, and made poor diplomats. Easier to treat them as a threat than as equals.
Aizen, however, had been different. He understood these dynamics better than anyone. He knew when to push and when to retreat. But before the final results of the Moon Dream analysis were revealed, the clans thought it was still part of the usual game—a negotiation. So they kept bargaining.
Then came the news about the Moon Dream pandemic.
When reports reached the clan heads, every one of them realized that this was no time to play politics. Aizen had given them a final deadline and presented what he called a "secret weapon"—the complete data on Moon Dream. For a brief moment, everyone had been satisfied.
And that was where everything went wrong.
These dealings were supposed to remain tacit. Everyone knew the rules: adults understood each other without spelling things out. As long as no one broke the illusion, the balance held.
But the younger generation—the Mutual Aid Association—didn't understand such subtleties. To them, politics was betrayal, and compromise was cowardice.
Still, none of the clan heads had foreseen this outcome.
Aizen's death was not only shocking—it was grotesque.
He was found impaled through the chest by a long sword, nailed to the Hokage Rock. His chakra had been sealed, leaving him unable to move or cry out. He had died from blood loss—slowly, silently.
What made it worse was how ordinary the hours before his death had seemed. Witnesses swore Aizen had been working in his office until late at night. He had even extinguished the lights himself. According to the autopsy, he must have been killed immediately afterward—and somehow, dragged and mounted upon the Hokage Rock without anyone noticing.
The clans were left speechless.
Even the most seasoned schemers could not rationalize such a clean, brutal assassination.
After all, the beauty of a tacit agreement lay in its silence. Nothing written, nothing proven. And now, with Aizen's corpse hanging above the village, every unspoken deal suddenly looked like guilt.
How could the youth understand that their "conflicts" with Aizen had been part of diplomacy? That their arguments had been performances meant to maintain balance, not destroy it?
But try explaining that to those who had lost their leader.
The Mutual Aid Association saw no nuance, no compromise—only betrayal and blood.
Meanwhile, the Uchiha had turned their grief into barely restrained fury. Their eyes, once red from their bloodline, now burned with vengeance. If not for their last thread of reason, the entire village would have already gone up in flames.
And who could blame them?
Aizen had been the only one who treated them fairly. The only one who sought to understand their curse.
Could anyone, at this point, stand up and admit that Aizen had actually been their ally? That all of this—Moon Dream, the sealed documents, the final deadline—had simply been politics as usual?
They would be torn apart by the mob. The Mutual Aid Association wouldn't just curse them—they would flay them alive and hang them from the rooftops.
So now, the only strategy left was silence.
Say nothing. Do nothing. Pretend to be dead.
Speaking too much would condemn them; saying too little might still incriminate them. Better to simply endure, to let the storm pass.
The Third Hokage had retreated into seclusion, his body weakened and his will fading. The clans followed suit. If everyone was broken, then no one stood out.
All that was left was to wait.
Time heals everything—wars, grudges, even assassinations. Eventually, those filled with hatred would either die or forget.
That was the wisdom passed down from the Warring States era: if you can't solve the problem, outlive it.
But sometimes… time refuses to cooperate..
Clan leader Saito had just taken two sips of tea when a clan ninja suddenly appeared beside him, sweat trickling down his forehead.
"The Uchiha from the Mutual Aid Association have arrived at the gate, Captain," he said, his voice trembling. "They demand entry to search the family's ancestral grounds, claiming they have sufficient cause for investigation."
"Didn't I teach you to pretend you didn't see anything?"
Saito took another slow sip of tea, disappointment flickering in his eyes as he looked at his nervous subordinate.
"How long can a bunch of angry youths really keep this up? They have no structure, no leader—just emotion. It'll burn out soon enough. Close the gate. Let them shout if they want. They can't actually force their way in, can they?"
"...Right, Captain. What can they really do? They just want to check if the clan heads are hiding anything."
"?"
Before Saito could reply, his expression froze.
A shadow had appeared inside his courtyard—a young Uchiha with three magatama spinning coldly in his Sharingan.
"Why did you come straight into my yard?" Saito muttered, his tone dropping.
Though he was the patriarch of his clan, Saito's strength was modest, and the Saito family wasn't among Konoha's major houses. Seeing the Uchiha's smirk, his temper flared, but he forced himself to calm down. Picking a fight here would be foolish.
He offered a strained smile, the kind that only a seasoned elder could muster.
"Young Uchiha, do you have a search warrant from the Hokage? Without one, the ancestral grounds cannot be opened so casually."
"Please allow us to proceed," the Uchiha replied evenly. "We won't take anything. Once we confirm there's no evidence tied to Lord Aizen's assassination, we hope your family will cooperate with us. Otherwise, we can't guarantee what might happen."
"So the warrant—"
"Forget it. Just let us in."
Before Saito could protest again, the Uchiha raised his hand, signaling his squad to advance. In an instant, several white haired shinobi in white haori stormed into the compound.
Saito barely had time to stand when his gaze met the Uchiha's spinning Sharingan. The world slowed—his thoughts dulled—and before he could even blink, a shuriken pierced through his palm, pinning it to the porch.
The expensive Blut Vene armor he had bought was useless under the Uchiha's genjutsu. His body refused to move. Pain shot through his hand as blood spilled freely.
His scream split the air.
"Ahhhh! Help!"
The other Saito shinobi scrambled to respond, but before they could form seals or draw weapons, they were knocked to the ground by the white clad attackers.
Those who resisted were struck mercilessly—impaled, disarmed, or subdued—until cries of agony filled the courtyard.
"What are you doing?! Stop!" "That's our ancestral land! You can't just—!"
"The Saito clan attempted resistance," one of the Uchiha said coldly, jotting down notes on a small scroll. "Whether or not they're tied to Aizen-sama's assassination is unclear. Their opposition will be treated as cooperation with the culprit. Arrest them all."
The young Uchiha's face remained indifferent as he recorded every detail of the assault. From all corners of the compound, more screams echoed—then faded into rain.
This wasn't an isolated attack.
Throughout Konoha, the white haori of the Mutual Aid Association appeared in the courtyards of smaller clans, storming their homes and overpowering anyone who resisted.
Fueled by grief and rage, these young shinobi tore through storerooms and archives, searching for traces of Aizen's existence. Some used chakra sensors and sealing instruments; others simply smashed through walls and drawers.
Families that had once hidden their techniques behind secret seals were forced to reveal everything—dragged into illusions until they confessed their arts and storage scrolls.
Within the hour, word spread to every major clan.
The elders listened in grim silence as reports came in: the Mutual Aid Association was conducting raids across Konoha. And with the help of Uchiha illusions, no one could resist.
But what truly unsettled them was what came next.
According to spies within the Association, Aizen Sosuke could not be revived through the Impure World Reincarnation. His soul was missing—neither in the Pure Land nor among the dead.
That raised a question no one could answer.
Aizen died atop Hokage Rock. His chakra had been sealed. His body was accounted for. There were no traces of teleportation jutsu, no distortion of space time anywhere in Konoha.
So where had his soul gone?
And who—if anyone—had truly killed him?
The clan heads exchanged uneasy glances, the same dread mirrored in each pair of eyes.
And from the shadows behind them, a low, amused voice broke the silence.
"The Impure World Reincarnation has no soul…"
The serpentine eyes of Orochimaru narrowed, a strange glint of intrigue flashing within them.
"How fascinating."
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