The words hung in the air like a shard of broken glass; Saki's announcement had sliced through the comfortable, rather uncomfortable, rhythm of the talk between the two Uzumakis were having.
Kushina's reaction was immediate; the casual slouch she had adopted during their conversation evaporated completely. Her blue eyes narrowed with genuine confusion.
"Are you sure?" Kushina's voice carried an edge that demanded absolute certainty; her question wasn't merely seeking confirmation but challenging the very premise of what she had just heard. An emergency Jōnin Council wasn't something the Hokage's office called lightly.
These gatherings were reserved for matters of existential threat; invasions, betrayals, or decisions that would reshape the very fabric of Konoha's military structure. The paperwork alone required to convene such a meeting was legendary among the administrative corps.
Saki nodded, her expression resolute; "I'm certain, Kushina-sama. The summons came directly from the Hokage's office approximately ten minutes ago. The messenger was explicit; Commander Renjiro is required to attend immediately. They specifically emphasised his presence."
Renjiro studied Saki's face for a long moment, his analytical mind cataloguing every micro-expression, every subtle shift in her posture. The young woman had been his aide for a while now, and he had learned to read her with the same precision he applied to enemy formations.
There was no hesitation in her eyes, no flicker of uncertainty. This wasn't a mistake; something genuinely serious had happened, and the machinery of Konoha's military apparatus was beginning to turn without his prior knowledge.
Kushina slowly turned toward him. The question in her eyes was unmistakable; she didn't need to voice it, but she did anyway. "You knew about this?"
Renjiro met her gaze with an expression that conveyed everything words couldn't; the slight raise of his eyebrows, the faint curve of his lips that wasn't quite a smile, the almost imperceptible shake of his head. He let out a small chuckle, not because the situation was funny, but because the sheer absurdity of it was beginning to sink into his consciousness like water seeping through cracks in a dam.
"Kushina," he said, "I am just as surprised as you are." He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle. "And to think one of us is the Jōnin Commander."
The implication landed exactly as he intended; Kushina's expression flickered with recognition, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. He was pointing out the sheer ridiculousness of his position; responsible for the village's Jōnin forces, the tactical mind behind Konoha's military deployments, and apparently one of the last people to know when something major was happening. The irony was so thick it could have been carved into a monument.
Kushina's discomfort was visible in the way her fingers tightened against her thigh, in the slight compression of her lips. Only minutes ago, they had been debating whether Renjiro should simply accept being excluded from the Sora operation, whether his position as Commander automatically entitled him to involvement in every high-level mission. Now another major event had occurred without his knowledge, reinforcing every cynical thought that had been building in his mind over the past several days.
"Kushina-sama," Saki interjected gently, "the messenger also indicated that the council is gathering in the main assembly hall. The timing suggests this is something that requires immediate attention."
While Kushina and Saki exchanged a few more words about the logistics of the summons, Renjiro became quiet. The calm that settled over him was unnatural, almost meditative; it was the kind of stillness that preceded a storm, the quiet before a predator struck. His expression settled into something strangely serene, his eyes losing their focus as he turned his attention inward.
The events of the last several days began to assemble themselves in his mind like pieces of a puzzle he hadn't realised he was solving. Minato had known about Sora; Hiruzen was involved; Kushina knew; she had been arguing about it just moments ago, defending Minato's decision to exclude Renjiro while simultaneously trying to convince him that it wasn't personal. Danzō knew, and Renjiro hadn't known.
The realisation settled into his stomach like a stone, heavy and cold. Hiruzen now distrusted him, that much was clear from their last conversation. And now an emergency Jōnin Council had been called without him knowing why.
Of course, he thought, the words forming slowly in his mind. Why would I expect anyone to tell me anything?
The thought wasn't angry; it was resigned, almost clinical in its acceptance. He began wondering whether there was even a point in maintaining his current position. What was the purpose of being Jōnin Commander if he was systematically excluded from the information flow that made the position meaningful? What was the value of his expertise, his tactical knowledge, his decades of experience, if the village leadership treated him like an afterthought?
The thought that followed surprised him with its intensity; resignation.
Not just a fleeting consideration, but a genuine contemplation of walking away from everything he had built. He was already a fully certified Kage-level shinobi; the sheer volume of power he had accumulated over years of training and bloodshed. He had mastered Hiraishin, he possessed the Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan, and had enough combat experience, enough sheer pragmatic brutality, to confidently believe he could defeat some of the current Kage in single combat.
Why am I even doing this?
The question echoed through his mind, demanding an answer he didn't have.
I don't need this position. I don't need their approval. I certainly don't need to spend every waking hour buried underneath paperwork just to be treated like the last person in the room who deserves to know what's happening.
The thought of simply walking away grew sharper, more defined. Become a rogue shinobi. Travel the world, see the places he had only seen in his past life and live according to his own rules. The irony was almost painful; Konoha had effectively given him enough power to survive independently, had trained him, equipped him, molded him into a weapon capable of standing alone. Yet the village still expected him to behave like an ordinary subordinate, to accept being kept in the dark, to smile and nod while others made decisions that affected his life, his responsibilities, his very purpose.
His thoughts spiralled further into absurdity, the frustration building like pressure in a sealed vessel.
Maybe I should start my own hidden village, he thought, and immediately recognised how ridiculous the idea sounded.
He considered it seriously for a few seconds anyway, his strategic mind automatically assessing the viability. He had power; that was unquestionable. He had knowledge of barriers and sealing, techniques that could create the kind of defensive fortifications a hidden village required. He understood how a village functioned; he had spent years observing, analysing, learning the intricacies of military administration.
Hell, he thought, the word carrying a dark humour that revealed just how mentally exhausted he had become; Apparently, that's what powerful shinobi do when they get tired of everyone else's politics. The thought of Orochimaru surfaced unbidden; the Snake Sannin had done exactly that, had created his own hidden village in the shadows, had built a power base independent of Konoha's influence. Well, eventually. The comparison was both absurd and strangely apt; Renjiro had always viewed himself as fundamentally different from Orochimaru, but in this moment of spiralling frustration, the parallels were uncomfortable.
He immediately recognised how insane the thought was. He didn't actually intend to do it. At least, not right now.
Yeah, he concluded, I'm definitely overthinking this. A brief pause followed, then another thought surfaced, carrying a note of dark humour. …But I could probably pull it off. Because how hard could it be?
The seriousness of the summons finally overrode their previous conversation. Kushina stood, her chair scraping against the wooden floor with a sound that cut through Renjiro's internal reverie. Her expression remained concerned, the furrow between her brows deepening as she looked at him, but the emergency had clearly changed her priorities. Whatever personal issues they needed to resolve, whatever arguments they still needed to have, they would have to wait.
"We'll have to continue this conversation later," she said, her voice carrying a note of apology that she probably didn't intend.
Renjiro looked at her, his response deliberately sarcastic. "I can't wait."
Kushina gave him a look, one that carried years of shared history, shared pain, shared understanding. She knew exactly what he meant; the sarcasm was defensive, a shield he threw up to protect himself from the vulnerability he was feeling.
Despite everything, neither of them actually wanted their relationship damaged. Kushina still cared deeply about him; her presence in his office today was proof of that, the way she had sought him out to discuss the whole matter, to try to bridge the gap that had formed between them. And Renjiro's sarcasm, sharp as it was, was fundamentally defensive rather than genuinely hostile. He was hurting, and the hurt was manifesting in the only way he knew how.
Renjiro remained seated for a long moment, staring at the closed door. His office surrounded him. Scrolls everywhere, stacked in haphazard piles that only he could navigate. Administrative reports that needed reviewing, mission debriefings that required his signature, personnel evaluations that demanded his attention. The mountain of work he had been using to distract himself from his growing disillusionment.
Well, he thought, so much for avoiding my problems with paperwork.
He stood; the shift in his demeanour was almost visible; the personal frustrations, the bitterness, the spiralling thoughts of resignation and absurdity; all of it was pushed aside, compartmentalised, locked away in a corner of his mind where it wouldn't interfere with his professional responsibilities. The Jōnin Commander inside him took over.
He left his office, his footsteps echoing through the empty corridors of the administrative building. The weight of his position settled back onto his shoulders, familiar and unwelcome, but he carried it with practised ease. Whatever personal frustrations he had, whatever doubts plagued his mind, his duties came first. They always had.
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