The night air was cool against Renjiro's face, but he barely felt it. His gaze lingered on the shadows where Kakashi had vanished, the urgency of the young jōnin's words still echoing in his ears.
He turned away and walked, heading to the Hokage's office.
The corridors on the upper levels were different from the bustling halls below. Here, the atmosphere was formal, guarded, almost reverent.
Daimyō guards stood at intervals, their faces impassive. They were not shinobi—their movements were different, more rigid, less fluid—but their presence was no less imposing. They had been trained to protect the ruler of the Land of Fire, and they took that duty seriously.
Renjiro walked past them without meeting their eyes, his steps unhurried, his expression neutral. He had been in this building a hundred times, had stood in these corridors during war councils and strategy briefings. But tonight, everything felt different.
The nomination, the confrontation with Shiori, the revelation of Danzo's involvement—all of it had shifted something fundamental in his relationship to the village.
He reached the waiting chamber outside the Hokage's office. One of the Daimyō's personal guards—a tall man with a particular stillness of someone who had seen combat—stepped forward, blocking Renjiro's path.
"Renjiro-san." The guard's voice was respectful but firm. "Minato-sama is already inside. You must wait until you are called."
Renjiro inclined his head, accepting the instruction without complaint. He moved to the side of the room, settling onto one of the benches, his back straight, his hands resting on his knees.
'This audience is rare political capital,' he thought, his mind already turning to the meeting ahead. 'The Daimyō's recognition matters as much as village rank. Perhaps more. The Hokage is chosen by the village, but he serves at the pleasure of the Daimyō. If I can make a favourable impression—'
He stopped himself. He was getting ahead of the situation. First, he needed to understand what the meeting was about. Then he could plan his approach.
'I must appear useful. Stable. Independent. Difficult to discard.'
The nomination had been a ploy—Danzo's ploy—but it had also put his name in front of the Daimyō. That was not nothing.
'But I must avoid being seen as aligned with any faction. Not the Uchiha. Not the civilian bloc. Not Danzo. Not even Minato, yet. I need to be my own actor, my own agent.'
The sound of feet shuffling echoed.
Fugaku appeared with his expression a mask of calm composure. But Renjiro had known him too long to miss the signs. There was a slight tension in his jaw. The way his eyes seemed to look past everyone, fixed on some distant point. It was the particular stillness of a man who had just suffered a public defeat and was determined not to show it.
The Daimyō's guard repeated the same message. "Fugaku-sama. Minato-sama is inside. You must wait until you are called."
Fugaku's gaze flickered to the guard, then to the door, then to Renjiro. He gave no sign of recognition—no nod, no greeting, no acknowledgement.
He moved to the opposite side of the room and sat on a bench, his posture rigid, his hands folded in his lap.
The silence between them was heavy.
Renjiro could feel it pressing against his skin—the bitterness, the humiliation, the quiet resentment that radiated from Fugaku like heat from a dying fire. He considered addressing it. A word, perhaps, or a gesture. Something to acknowledge the tension, to bridge the gap that had grown between them.
'Fugaku refused to speak to me earlier,' he reminded himself. 'Nothing meaningful would come from talking now. Better to conserve words than waste them on wounded pride.'
He remained silent.
The door opened again.
Jiraiya entered, and the atmosphere in the room shifted immediately.
The Toad Sage moved with the easy confidence of someone who had never needed to prove himself to anyone.
"Well, well," he said, his voice carrying through the quiet room. "Look at this gathering. The three most interesting shinobi in Konoha now, all waiting in the same room." He glanced at the Daimyō's guard. "Am I late?"
The guard's expression did not change. "You will be called when it is your turn, Jiraiya-sama."
Jiraiya shrugged, utterly unbothered, and moved to the centre of the room. His gaze swept over Fugaku and then settled on Renjiro.
"Long day, huh?" he said, dropping onto the bench beside him. "Politics. Always worse than war. At least in war, you know who the enemy is."
Renjiro's lips twitched. "In war, the enemy tries to kill you. In politics, they try to make you kill yourself."
Jiraiya laughed—a genuine, rumbling sound that filled the room.
The toad sage turned to Fugaku, making an effort to include him in the conversation.
"Fugaku. You holding up alright?"
Fugaku's response was clipped, restrained. "I am fine, Jiraiya-san."
"Lost an election. That's never fine." Jiraiya leaned back, his arms crossed. "But Minato's a good man. You could have lost to worse."
"I am aware."
The words were polite, but the tone was not. Jiraiya seemed to sense it—the wall that Fugaku had erected, the refusal to engage. He did not push. Instead, he turned back to Renjiro, his expression shifting to something more playful.
"So, the civilian faction nominated you. That must have been a surprise."
"It was."
"And you withdrew."
"I did."
"Why?"
Renjiro met his eyes. "Because I'm not ready. And because I didn't ask for it."
Jiraiya studied him for a long moment, then he nodded, as if he had found the answer he was looking for.
"Smart," he said. "Hokage is a burden, not a prize. Too many people don't understand that."
Renjiro knew what Jiraiya was doing, and he was thankful. They had already talked about what had happened, but he wanted Fugaku to know Renjiro's position without the young boy saying it.
Jiraiya glanced at Fugaku, then back at Renjiro, and let the conversation drift into lighter territory—comments about the celebration, about the food, about the peculiarities of the Daimyō's guards. Renjiro responded dryly, playing along, but his attention was only half on the words. The rest of his mind was still turning over the meeting to come, the strategies he would need, the impression he needed to make.
Fugaku remained silent, a dark presence at the edge of the room.
The door to the Hokage's office opened.
Minato, his expression calm, his posture relaxed. He looked different somehow—not taller, not broader, but heavier, as if the weight of the office had already begun to settle onto his shoulders.
"Fugaku-san." He inclined his head, formal but respectful. "Thank you for waiting."
Fugaku rose from his seat, returning the gesture with measured courtesy. "Minato-sama."
Minato's attention shifted to Jiraiya, and his expression warmed. "Sensei. They're ready for you."
"Finally." Jiraiya clapped him on the shoulder. "Congratulations, by the way. You'll do well."
"I hope so."
Minato's gaze found Renjiro.
"Renjiro."
"Minato-sama."
Minato nodded once, then turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Jiraiya watched him go, then shook his head. "That kid. Always so serious." He glanced at the guard.
"Alright, alright. I'm going."
He ambled toward the office door, his posture casual, his expression unconcerned. The guard opened the door for him, and he disappeared inside.
The waiting resumed.
Renjiro sat in silence, his thoughts drifting. He wondered what was happening in that room—what Jiraiya was saying, what the Daimyō was asking, what deals were being made. The Toad Sage was not a politician, not really. He was a warrior, a wanderer, a man who had spent his life avoiding responsibility. But he was also a Sannin, a legend, a figure whose endorsement could shape the future of the village.
'Is this about Minato's transition? Did Hiruzen ask him to stay in the village?'
The questions multiplied, but there were no answers. Only the quiet ticking of the clock and the distant murmur of voices behind the closed door.
The minutes passed.
Then, unexpectedly, the door opened again.
Jiraiya emerged, and his expression had changed. He was smiling—not the casual, amused smile he had worn earlier, but something broader, more genuine. He was almost humming, a low, tuneless sound that spoke of satisfaction.
"Your turn, kid," he said to Renjiro, clapping him on the shoulder. "Don't screw it up."
He walked past, heading toward the exit, and Renjiro rose from his seat.
'What happened in there?' he wondered. 'What made him so happy?'
He did not have time to speculate. One of the guards stepped forward, gesturing toward the door.
"Renjiro-san. The Daimyō will see you now."
Renjiro glanced once at Fugaku—still seated, still waiting, his expression unreadable—then turned and walked toward the office.
The guard opened the door.
Renjiro stepped inside.