Renjiro stood at the head of the table, a figure of absolute stillness in the centre of the warstorm that Konoha was becoming. The low hum of the ceiling lamp cast an amber circle of light over the long stone table, illuminating the grim faces of ten squad leaders all watching him with varying degrees of scepticism.
Outside the walls of the building, the air in the village was razor-thin with tension. Whispers of mobilizations, rumours of border clashes, and the unmistakable chill of war preparations filled every street.
Civilians hurried through markets with hunched shoulders, and shinobi barracks were filled with the metallic clang of weapons being sharpened. The entire Hidden Leaf felt like a taut bowstring waiting to snap.
Inside, the atmosphere was no different.
Renjiro's eyes swept across the table with the dispassion of a hawk surveying a battlefield. He noted the twitches, the subtle muscle contractions, the veiled glares. Uchiha Fujita sat rigid with his arms crossed, the deep lines on his face pulled tighter in disapproval, clearly struggling with the idea of taking orders from someone nearly half his age.
Uchiha Shoda and Akira, meanwhile, seemed almost entertained. Shoda wore the faintest smirk, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the table, while Akira leaned back with her chair half-tilted, watching everyone else more than the speaker. They'd seen this kind of meeting before—smoke before the fire.
Arata Kamizuki, seated near the back, remained perfectly still. Not unreadable in the way a trained assassin masks their intent, but in the way of a man used to measuring people by their reactions before revealing his own. His fingers were steepled in front of him, his eyes flicking to each person who spoke.
Renjiro finally broke the silence.
"Now," he said, voice even, clear, stripped of emotion. "Let's discuss how you're going to keep your lives during the upcoming great war."
The room reacted like an unstable mixture of oil and flame.
A few sat up straighter. Fujita scoffed audibly, and a ripple of whispers stirred. Arata's eyes didn't shift. Renjiro let them react. He said nothing more for a moment, allowing his blunt opening to settle into the air like dust after a detonation.
Fujita was the first to speak. "Bold words from someone so young." His tone was cool, dismissive.
Renjiro didn't flinch. He had expected that. "Statistically, eight out of ten of you are going to lose at least half your unit," he said calmly. "Age won't change that. Planning might."
One chuckled quietly. "You've got bite, I'll give you that."
"Bite won't keep us alive in the trenches," Fujita said.
"No," Renjiro agreed, finally walking to the centre of the table. "But clarity might."
He tapped a scroll that he had placed on the table. With a flick of chakra, the seal unravelled, revealing several folded maps. The scroll rolled open with a soft fwip, revealing a detailed terrain layout of Kusa and the surrounding borderlands. Another showed the position of known Kumogakure forward operating bases.
"You'll each receive your specific assignments within the hour," Renjiro said, voice sharp as kunai. "However, I want it clear now—this unit functions under a centralized command. That command is mine."
A few murmurs stirred again, some defensive, others confused. One squad leader—a kunoichi with cropped dark hair—leaned forward, narrowing her eyes.
"If you're going to vanish for other duties like a ghost, then what makes you think you deserve command? We're risking our lives out there. You won't even be present."
Renjiro's gaze turned to her. It seems news of his other assignments had already leaked. But he did not mind it at all.
Renjiro didn't blink. Seconds passed. The silence became a vice, squeezing tighter with each breath. She shifted slightly in her chair under the prolonged stare.
"You're free to request reassignment," he said flatly. "But with the current manpower shortages, I doubt any commander will trade for you. That's reality, not disrespect."
Someone else muttered under their breath, "So we're stuck with a ghost commander and backup from a nobody."
Renjiro ignored it for a moment.
"In my absence," he continued, "Arata Kamizuki will serve as the acting squad leader."
The room bristled again.
"Kamizuki?" one of the Uchiha squad leaders snapped. "He's not even clan-affiliated."
Renjiro sighed audibly. "Neither am I."
The same voice scoffed. "But you have the Sharingan. That makes it different."
"No," Renjiro said, his tone sharpening. "What makes it different is performance."
He walked around the table, his sandals clicking against the floor. "I tested all of your squads personally. Kamizuki's squad? The most coordinated under pressure. Adaptive. Clean chakra flow. They bought time. Yours?" He stopped beside the man who spoke. "Crumbled. Your Sharingan didn't help your squad members when they panicked."
The squad leader's mouth tightened.
Another gave a low whistle. "So that was you? The masked figure in the training woods?"
Realization spread like ink in water. Eyes widened. A few of the squad leaders shifted uncomfortably, remembering the masked figure who had tested them without warning.
Kamizuki, for his part, remained silent. The smallest ghost of a smile passed across his lips. 'I guess I was wrong about him,' he thought. 'I might actually like this guy.'
Renjiro turned back to the map. "Now, logistics."
He pointed to the map of the borderlands. "You'll be rotating between three main encampments based on your squad's speciality. Units 1 through 4 will serve as rapid deployment and perimeter enforcement. Units 5 through 7 will reinforce Kusa's choke points with Konoha's support division. 8 through 10 will maintain internal patrols and execute target removals. You'll be working in proximity to Kumo flanks."
A hand raised. "What about supply lines?"
"Thin," Renjiro replied. "We're low on rations and healing tags. Standard-issue field kits will be distributed, but medical support will be limited to three med-nin per ten squads. Do not rely on reinforcements. You'll be operating behind friendly lines, but that status is fragile."
"Orders on prisoners?" Akira asked. "Intel extraction?"
"Capture if feasible," Renjiro said. "Eliminate if they resist. No hostages, no negotiation. Intel's priority goes to seal tags, movement patterns, and summoning contracts. Do not engage Jinchūriki without confirmation. Do not attempt to 'test' your strength, I am sure it is already defined."
Another hand raised—this time from a quiet, wiry shinobi with crow-black hair. "What's the fallback signal?"
Renjiro nodded. "Double-flare. Red followed by white. You'll retreat to Rally Point Three. If that point falls, assume total collapse and rendezvous at the marked cave system here." He tapped the edge of the map. "That's a one-way ticket. Anyone who reaches that point is no longer under offensive command. You're evac only."
The words hung heavy.
"You talk like we're already dead," Fujita said again, his voice low and cold.
Renjiro looked at him. "You are. Statistically. I'm trying to improve those odds."
The bluntness struck like a slap. For a long moment, no one spoke.
Renjiro rolled up the map with slow precision. "I don't care if you like me. I don't need your loyalty. But I do need your cooperation. If sentimentality interferes with decision-making, it will get people killed. I won't allow that."
One of them leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You know, I thought you were just some overhyped prodigy, but now…" He gave a half-smile. "You might actually be the bastard we need."
Renjiro said nothing. He simply nodded once.
As he prepared to close the meeting, his voice dropped slightly in volume but gained a steel-like quality. "Tensions are high. The village is a pressure cooker. People are scared. Some of them are looking for excuses. You don't get that luxury. You're squad leaders. From the moment you step outside this room, you're responsible for the lives beneath you."
He paused at the door, glancing back once, voice calm and cutting.
"Be ready to mobilize at a moment's notice. War doesn't wait for your comfort."
Then, without another word, Renjiro turned on his heel and vanished into the hallway, the heavy wooden door shutting behind him with a final thud—like a sword driven into the earth.
Behind him, the ten leaders sat in silence, the burden of command finally sinking in. War had arrived, and with it, a new kind of leader—one that wouldn't flinch when it mattered most.
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