The Land of Iron did not welcome travelers. It endured them.
The air here was not merely cold; it was predatory. It chewed at the lungs and turned breath into a crystalline fog that obscured the heavy, plated armor of the patrolling samurai. For Arahata, however, the blizzard was not an obstacle—it was a symphony of data.
To the naked eye, the snow was a chaotic white blur. To the Jūgan, it was a billion falling variables, each with a weight, a mass, and a destiny.
"Stepping forty-two degrees to the left, Ren-kun," Arahata said, his voice cutting through the howl of the wind. "The next gust carries enough force to trigger a minor cornice collapse on that ridge. If we move now, the sound will mask our footsteps from the sensory outpost ahead."
Ren adjusted his cloak, his eyes narrowed against the biting wind. He didn't have Arahata's eyes, but he had the Byakugan's memory of what sight used to be. "The samurai are different from shinobi. Their chakra is coiled, kept tight within their blades. It's harder to read."
"They are kinetic," Arahata replied, stepping effortlessly over a patch of slick ice. "They are a study in potential energy. They don't dream of magic; they dream of the perfect cut. It makes their probability branches much sharper. More... honest."
Mei walked between them, her cane tapping a steady rhythm against the frozen earth. She was the only one who seemed unaffected by the cold. "They are afraid, Arahata. The atmosphere of the summit is leaking into the mountain air. Can you see it?"
"I see nothing but fear," Arahata said. He stopped abruptly at the edge of a frozen ravine.
In the distance, the jagged spires of the Three Wolves Mountains rose like the teeth of a giant. Deep within those peaks sat the hall where the five most powerful people in the world were currently arguing about the fate of a map.
"Five Kages," Arahata murmured. "One hundred and twelve guards. Three thousand samurai in the surrounding valley. And one Uzumaki Naruto."
He closed his eyes for a second, but it brought no relief. The black stain was now a jagged vine creeping across his jaw, reaching for the temple of his head. Every time he spoke, he felt the vibration of his own death in his teeth.
Sixty-eight hours, nine minutes.
"We are being watched," Ren whispered, his hand instinctively dropping to his weapon pouch.
From the white wall of the blizzard, six figures emerged. They weren't ninjas; they were armored giants, their silhouettes broadened by heavy winter cloaks and steel plating. Their katanas remained in their sheaths, but their thumbs were poised on the guards—ready to flick the steel into the light.
"Halt, travelers," the lead samurai commanded. His voice was muffled by a heavy iron faceplate. "This pass is closed by order of the General. No one approaches the Summit."
Arahata stepped forward. He looked at the samurai, not with the Jūgan's golden rings, but with the tired eyes of a dying man.
"Commander Takeo," Arahata said softly.
The samurai stiffened. "How do you know my name?"
"I know that in three seconds, your left knee will throb from an old injury sustained during the frost-giant hunts," Arahata said. "I know that you are currently wondering if your youngest son's fever has broken back in the capital. And I know that if you draw that blade, you will miss my throat by three centimeters, catch your cape in the wind, and stumble."
Arahata's Jūgan activated. The concentric rings pulsed with a rhythmic, golden light.
"But more importantly," Arahata continued, "I know that the version of you that survives this afternoon is the version that turns around and tells your men that the path was empty. That the wind played a trick on your sensors."
The other samurai looked at their commander, waiting for the order to kill.
Takeo stared into Arahata's eyes. He didn't see a threat. He saw a mirror. He saw every decision he had ever made, laid out in a cold, shimmering line. It was an existential vertigo—the feeling of being completely, utterly known.
The Commander's hand fell away from his sword. His knees shook, not from the cold, but from the sudden, terrifying realization that his "choice" had already been calculated.
"The path..." Takeo rasped, his breath hitching. "The path is empty. It's just the wind."
"Commander?" one of his men asked, confused.
"Move out!" Takeo barked, his voice cracking. "Double-time to the south ridge. We're chasing ghosts."
As the samurai vanished back into the white curtain, Ren let out a breath he had been holding. "You didn't just perceive his future. You... you forced it."
"No," Arahata said, his voice strained. He swayed slightly, and Mei reached out to catch his arm. "I simply made him realize that any other future was too exhausting to pursue. Truth is the ultimate weight, Ren-kun. People will do anything to stop carrying it."
He looked toward the mountains again. A specific golden light was beginning to glow in his perception—a massive, swirling vortex of chakra that felt like a sun trapped in a cage of flesh.
Naruto.
"He's there," Arahata said. "In the central hall. His probability structure is changing. He's listening to the Raikage shout. He's wondering if words are enough."
Arahata turned to Mei. "Mei-chan, I need you to stay close now. The information density in the Summit hall will be... significant. My mind will want to fragment."
"I am your anchor, Arahata," she said simply.
"I'm going to do more than talk to them," Arahata said, his eyes glowing with an intensity that seemed to push back the very storm. "I am going to show the Five Kage what it looks like when a man has no choice but to be right. I'm going to manifest the end of conflict."
Ren looked at the black stain on Arahata's face. It had reached the corner of his left eye. "At what cost?"
Arahata smiled. It was the smile of a ghost.
"At the cost of my 'Could-Be,' Ren-kun. For the world to have a future, I must finally run out of mine."
They began the final ascent, three figures walking into the heart of the world's power. Behind them, the path was indeed empty. Ahead, the probability of the world was a shattered glass, and Arahata was ready to glue it back together with the shards of his own soul.