After Uchiha Izumi escorted Yuhi Kurenai away,
Di Yan did not linger within the suffocating luxury of the grand hall.
He passed through layers of palace corridors, moving deeper into a restricted sector far removed from gold and jade—
A vast, austere training ground.
Gone were the gilded walls and ornamental pillars.
In their place stood hardened earth, cold steel training frames, weapon racks, and the sharp scent of sweat and dust.
The air itself felt different here.
Tense.
Like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.
Across the training field, shadows clashed.
Eight hundred shinobi clad in uniform black combat attire were divided into multiple squads, engaged in relentless combat drills.
The dull thuds of fists striking flesh.
The metallic ring of kunai colliding.
The explosive roar of ninjutsu.
All merged into a deafening storm of violence.
Their movements were swift and merciless—every strike aimed at vital points.
There was no youthful hesitation in their eyes.
Only discipline.
Only focus.
Only obedience.
The eldest among them was barely twenty-two.
The youngest no older than fourteen.
Yet each bore the hardened gaze of someone long acquainted with suffering.
They shared one origin.
Before ascending the throne, Di Yan had gathered them from the impoverished corners of the Land of Fire—orphans abandoned beneath a failing regime.
Under the former Daimyo's indulgent misrule, the aristocracy drowned in excess while commoners starved.
Children without homes wandered like weeds in barren soil.
Di Yan had collected them under the guise of charity.
Or recruitment.
He had personally selected them.
Fed them.
Trained them.
Broken them.
Reforged them.
They were the fangs hidden beneath imperial silk.
Eight hundred deathsworn loyal only to one man—
The Emperor.
Di Yan stood atop a raised platform overlooking the field, hands clasped behind his back.
Not as an observer.
But as a sovereign reviewing his army.
A faint gleam of satisfaction passed through his eyes.
"Eight hundred…"
His voice was barely audible, yet filled with supreme confidence.
"History teaches that decisive force does not require overwhelming numbers."
"Only absolute loyalty."
These eight hundred were his lever.
The force that would pry Konoha from its foundation.
Scattered across the field among them were twenty-four figures, also dressed in black—but their presence carried sharper edges.
They moved like hawks among the ranks.
Correcting posture.
Sharpening technique.
Issuing clipped commands.
At the back of their collars was embroidered a small but unmistakable crest—
The Uchiha fan.
At their head stood a lean young man of eighteen or nineteen.
Uchiha Tekka.
A survivor of the Uchiha massacre.
When Di Yan appeared on the platform—
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
"Stop."
Tekka's voice was low, yet it froze the battlefield.
Eight hundred shinobi halted simultaneously.
Every motion ceased.
All turned as one toward the platform.
Eight hundred pairs of eyes lifted.
There was no ordinary military respect in those gazes.
There was belief.
Fervor.
Submission.
Tekka knelt first.
Behind him, the twenty-three Uchiha instructors followed.
Then—
Like a wave of black steel—
All eight hundred dropped to one knee.
"Your Majesty!"
The unified cry thundered across the field.
The ground itself seemed to tremble.
Di Yan raised a hand calmly.
"Rise."
"Thank you, Your Majesty!"
They stood.
Straight-backed.
Like eight hundred unsheathed blades.
Tekka stepped forward and bowed once more.
"Your Majesty's presence honors us. What are your orders?"
"We stand ready to die for you."
Di Yan's gaze lingered briefly on Tekka's three-tomoe Sharingan.
Behind him, other Uchiha instructors bore one- or two-tomoe eyes.
These were the "embers" salvaged from the massacre.
Through a covert arrangement made on that bloody night, Di Yan had removed those who had not yet fully awakened their Sharingan—those dismissed within the clan as lacking potential.
Spared from deeper purges.
Taken quietly from Konoha.
Then came truth.
Grief.
Hatred.
Under Di Yan's calculated guidance and protection, that hatred matured.
One by one, they awakened their Sharingan.
Tekka and Izumi advanced to three tomoe.
Hatred was fuel.
Di Yan understood that better than most.
Their resentment toward the higher authorities of Konoha—especially toward Danzo Shimura—had been carefully redirected.
Forged.
Sharpened.
Now, those remnants of the Uchiha were both instructors and executioners.
Powerful bloodline holders bound by gratitude and vengeance.
"Tekka. The training is satisfactory."
Di Yan nodded slightly.
"The morale is sufficient."
"All thanks to Your Majesty's benevolence," Tekka replied, voice burning with restrained intensity.
"Continue."
Di Yan's gaze drifted toward the horizon, as though seeing beyond palace walls.
Beyond forests.
Toward Konoha.
"You will soon have your opportunity."
"Let me see how sharp a blade becomes after eight years of tempering."
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
Tekka bowed deeply.
Within his eyes burned war.
Revenge.
For the fallen.
For the clan.
"For Your Majesty, our blades shall cut down all who obstruct your great cause!"
Di Yan said nothing further.
He merely watched as the training resumed.
Eight hundred deathsworn.
Twenty-four Uchiha instructors weaving through them like black phantoms.
The killing intent rising from the field was sharper than before.
More condensed.
More lethal.
The training ground had become the heart of a gathering storm.
"Soon," Di Yan murmured to himself.
"Konoha will become history."
The Hokage.
The shinobi system.
The fractured balance of power.
All would be crushed beneath imperial unification.
And from their ruins—
A single empire would rise.