The halls of the Yotsuki compound were colder than expected. Not in temperature—but in presence. Akari sat cross-legged across from the clan head, Lord Ikaru, an older man with sharp eyes and a jawline set in steel. Between them, untouched tea slowly cooled.
"You came as a diplomat," Ikaru said at last, voice low and even. "But your eyes—your posture—betray the truth."
Akari's expression remained neutral. "I came with peace. What you see is resolve."
The Yotsuki were not fools. They had seen what became of the other clans that joined Konoha. Some were elevated, honored. Others… disappeared into the folds of a growing power.
"I will not trade my clan's autonomy for peace soaked in control," Ikaru stated.
"You misunderstand," Akari replied. "We're not asking for submission. We're offering survival. Unity is the only thing that stands between you and the storms that are coming."
A tense silence filled the room. Outside, a sharp gust rattled the paper walls.
Later, as Akari left the compound with no promise of allegiance, he replayed the exchange in his mind. The diplomacy had failed—but it had served its purpose. He had seen the fear behind Ikaru's confidence. Fear of Konoha. Fear of Madara.
By the time he returned to the village, night had fallen. He reported directly to Madara and Hashirama, both of whom awaited him in the inner chamber.
"No change," Akari said simply.
Madara narrowed his eyes. "Then they've made their choice."
Hashirama frowned. "There's still a chance—"
"There was," Akari cut in, not harshly, but firmly. "And it passed."
Hashirama looked between them—Madara's silence, Akari's calm resolve—and seemed older than before.
After the meeting, Akari lingered outside the compound, gazing at the carved faces atop the cliff. Hashirama's visage stood proudly beside Tobirama's, and space was already being cleared for Madara's. The symbolism was powerful—and dangerous.
"Do you believe we're still building something good?" came a familiar voice. It was Itama, now one of the higher-ranking captains under Tobirama.
"I believe we're still trying," Akari answered.
"Trying doesn't always mean succeeding."
"No," Akari agreed. "But I'd rather bleed for a flawed peace than let the world return to chaos."
The two stood in silence for a while, watching as lanterns blinked across Konoha like fireflies. The village was growing, yes—but so was the pressure beneath its foundation.
That night, Akari wrote in his journal—a habit he had picked up in quieter days:
> "The age of blades is not yet over. We wear the mask of peace, but it is war that sharpens our vision. If this is the cost of unity, then we must be sure the price is worth it."
As ink dried on the page, the wind outside shifted—cooler, heavier. The kind of wind that whispered of inevitable change.