The remnants of Kirigakure's forces scattered like startled fish, those too far from the main retreat surging in any direction that wasn't blocked by steel or flame.
But Konoha's net was already closing. Jōnin and chūnin squads moved with ruthless precision, cutting down most before they could vanish into the trees. A few managed to slip away. Fewer still surrendered.
The battle's roar finally dulled to the groans of the wounded and the steady shuffle of boots on blood-soaked earth. Orders snapped through the air. Bodies were laid out, supplies stripped from fallen enemies, crates and scrolls taken from the Mist camp before the flames could touch them.
Kirigakure's retreat had been so hasty they'd left stockpiles untouched; food, medicine, weaponry, a windfall that would ease Konoha's supply strain. Even so, the work dragged into the evening.
By the time the last kunai was packed and the last wounded loaded for transport, mud and smoke clung to every shinobi. At the lakeside, they washed off the day's grime, steam curling into the dusk, then filed back into camp for hot food and a few hours' rest.
Morning brought new orders. Camps were broken down, banners lowered, and the march began driving the Mist further from the Land of Fire.
Even with reinforcements from the rear, Yagura could not match Konoha's momentum. His lines buckled again. This time, the Mist's losses were smaller as their defenses tighter, and their scouts sharper, but the result was unchanged.
Defeat.
Two defeats in a row.
Now Hidden Mist was pinned on the thin peninsula linking the Land of Fire to the Land of Whirlpools. One more step forward and they'd be back in enemy territory; one step back and they'd yield the Fire's borders entirely.
In the war's early stages, this would have been ideal, the initial fighting had been in Whirlpool lands. But now? Every inch of Fire Country taken was gone again. All that blood for nothing.
Frustration burned in Kirigakure's war council. Plans were torn apart, remade, then torn again.
The truth was ugly: Konoha ignored every baited trap, every layered defense. They simply advanced, always striking where the main force lay, always forcing a head-on clash.
Hidden Mist couldn't hold the territory. They couldn't win the field. Keep fighting like this, and they'd bleed out while Konoha grew stronger.
The solution they chose was risky — and desperate.
Break the army apart. No more massive formations. Small, mobile squads would scatter through the Land of Fire, hitting supply lines, striking undefended towns, poisoning wells, burning camps.
If they couldn't win face-to-face, they'd force Konoha to spread thin, drag them into a hundred smaller fights. Turn the war into chaos — a battlefield where ambushes and assassinations could tip the balance.
And if they still couldn't win? They'd buy time. Time for the tailed beast strikes to succeed. Time for Kumogakure, Iwagakure and maybe even Sunagakure, fresh from defeat — to smell blood and descend on Konoha.
Once the great power was weakened, even the minor villages would come, tearing at Fire Country's rich land like wolves. In that chaos, Mist would seize the largest share.
With that dream gleaming before them, they moved fast. Squads slipped in from land and sea both, the latter backed by fleets that only a nation of islands could muster.
Konoha wasn't ready.
Reports flared in from every direction — raids, fires, assassinations. The Land of Fire's daimyō raged as towns burned and tax revenues withered.
Messages shot to the Water Daimyō, heavy with protest and threat. Civilians were not to be targeted in shinobi wars, not by written treaty, but by the unspoken rules that kept the world from collapsing into total ruin.
The Water Daimyō, feeling the weight of Fire Country's shadow, pushed the pressure down the chain to Yagura.
Reluctantly, Yagura agreed: no more town raids. He would even return two-thirds of the stolen spoils.
Two-thirds on paper — barely half in truth.
The Fire Daimyō took what he could, funneled most of it to Konoha, and demanded retribution. The Third Hokage accepted without hesitation; Konoha's war chest was thin, and fresh supplies flowed to the front within days.
The war became a storm without a center. For over a month, skirmishes flared across the east and south of Fire Country. Every road and river crossing seemed to carry the risk of steel in the night.
Sensing the moment, Yagura dispatched two ANBU teams to slip deep into Fire Country, carrying the container that held the Three-Tails. Their mission: find a suitable jinchūriki.
Seventeen operatives moved in shadow — the same number as Konoha's own ANBU divisions. In the Mist, as in every great village, the structure was borrowed from Konoha's design.
From even deeper shadow, Uchiha Madara watched. Black and White Zetsu slithered through the earth, steering the Mist's ANBU along his chosen path.
And Uchiha Gen? He had no time to linger on the grand currents. Like every shinobi on the front, he was in constant motion, from mission to another, from an ally to another; sometimes with his own squad, sometimes with other jōnin, sometimes utterly alone.
This morning, the latest orders had come. A solo mission.
In the chaos, it was the perfect cover for the first steps toward his own, private goals.
Some preparations, after all, were harder to make once the war ended.