The air in the Kiri encampment tasted of salt, damp moss, and the iron-sharp tang of blood that no amount of sea wind could fully scour away. Nestled in a craggy cove where the Land of Water met the sea, the camp was a testament to brutal pragmatism. Structures were fashioned from jagged, dark rock and salvaged ship timber, lashed together with thick rope and seaweed cordage. Mist, both natural and chakra-enhanced, curled through the narrow pathways between tents and fortifications, limiting visibility and muffling sound into a perpetual, damp hush. It was the hour before dawn, that liminal space where night clung stubbornly to the world and the sky was a deep, bruised purple.
In the heart of the camp, within a command tent fashioned from the treated hide of a massive, scaled sea creature, the Third Mizukage, Hiroshi, stood over a map weighted down by shuriken and polished river stones. He was a man carved from the same granite as his village, with a stern, impassive face and eyes the colour of a winter sea. His counterpart was Commander Shinji, a veteran with a network of scars across his bald head and a reputation for unshakable calm.
"The supply lines from the archipelago are holding," Shinji reported, his voice a low, steady rumble. He traced a route on the map with a calloused finger. "But the Konoha counter-offensives near the Whirlpool ruins are becoming more coordinated. They've adapted to our mist-based tactics."
Hiroshi grunted, his gaze never leaving the map. "Shift the Hunter-nin squads from the southern flank. Have them harass their communication runners. I want their orders delayed, their intelligence muddied."
"Understood," Shinji nodded, making a mental note. "And the drills for a full-scale assault? The scouts report a buildup of chakra signatures on the western ridge. It could be a feint, or it could be the prelude to Hiruzen's main push."
"Double the patrols. Maintain the genjutsu mist at its maximum density. If it is Hiruzen, he will come with fire and wind, seeking to burn away our advantage. Our response must be swift and absolute. The moment the mist thins, the long-range corps is to unleash a volley of Water Dragon projectiles. No hesitation."
The discussion continued, a crisp, efficient exchange of logistics, strategies, and lethal contingencies. It was the grim work of war, the endless calculus of life and death. Finally, Hiroshi straightened up, his broad shoulders blocking the flickering light of the single whale-oil lamp. He turned from the map to address the other occupants of the tent—the Kiri Central Command. These were the best and brightest of the village's military minds, their faces etched with the strain of prolonged conflict.
"Commanders," Hiroshi's voice, though not loud, carried an authority that silenced the faint rustle of parchment and the shifting of feet. "I depart now to join the front. The time for observation is over. The Hokage has taken the field, and Kiri must answer in kind."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. Then, he gestured to Shinji. "In my absence, and in the event that I do not return from this engagement, Commander Shinji will assume full leadership of our forces. He speaks with my voice. His command is my command. His word is law."
The silence in the tent became absolute, a vacuum of sound that was more deafening than any explosion. The implications of this declaration settled over the commanders like a physical weight. This was not a temporary delegation. This was the Mizukage preparing for his own demise.
It was an admission that he was walking into a battle he might not win, a battle against an opponent of such legendary power that it warranted the formal transfer of ultimate authority. It spoke of a fight that could break the back of their entire war effort. The respect they held for Hiroshi warred with a cold, creeping dread. If their Kage, a man who wielded the terrifying power of the Boil Release, was not confident of victory, what hope did they have?
Without another word, Hiroshi's form blurred. There was no grand gesture, no puff of smoke—just a subtle shunshin that displaced the air with a soft whump, and he was gone. The space where he had stood felt suddenly, terrifyingly empty.
For a long moment, no one moved. Then, Shinji stepped forward, placing his hands on the map where the Mizukage's had been. His face was a mask of grim resolve.
"The war is not over," he stated, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. "It has merely reached its climax. The Mizukage goes to fight for our future. Our duty is to ensure that his sacrifice, if it comes to that, is not in vain. We will not falter. We will not break. Kirigakure will come out on top of this. Now, return to your units. Execute the discussed protocols. Dismissed."
The commanders filed out, their expressions a mixture of fear and hardened determination. Shinji remained for a time, staring at the map, memorising the lines of conflict as if they were the lines on his own palms.
As the first weak rays of dawn began to bleed into the purple sky, painting the perpetual mist in hues of rose and gold, Shinji finally left the command tent. He moved with purpose, not towards the bustling centre of the camp, but away from it, towards the secluded, rocky shoreline where the waves crashed against the dark stone with a rhythmic, booming sigh. The salt spray kissed his face as he reached a small, hidden alcove, shielded from view by a jagged outcrop.
He knelt, his movements furtive. From a hidden pouch inside his flak jacket, he produced a small, bizarre object. It was a piece of wood, but it was unnaturally pale, almost bone-white, and twisted into a shape that seemed to defy natural growth, like a gnarled, miniature root system pulsing with a faint, sickly energy. His eyes darted around once more, ensuring absolute solitude, before he placed the strange artifact on the damp ground.
The moment it made contact with the earth, it did not rest there. It sank, as if the soil had turned to water. There was no sound, only a subtle, unsettling displacement. The ground where the wood had been seemed to writhe for a second, bulging upwards. Then, with a soft, wet, tearing sound, a figure emerged.
It was a being of pure nightmare. Its body was a stark, corpse-white, and it seemed to be half-plant, half-man. Its upper body was humanoid, but its lower half was still fused with the earth, as if it had grown from the very ground. Its face was split by a grotesque, rictus grin, and its yellow, spiral-patterned eyes held a malevolent, alien intelligence.
This was a White Zetsu.
"What is it?" the creature chirped, its voice a bizarre, high-pitched mimicry of human speech, laced with a mocking tone. "You are not supposed to contact us this early. It's risky."
Shinji, the stalwart commander, allowed a tight, conspiratorial smile to touch his lips. "Hiroshi has left the camp. He's gone to the front to face Hiruzen."
The Zetsu's grin widened impossibly, a horrifying sight. Its body quivered with delight. "So Hiroshi has gone to join Hiruzen…" it crooned, savouring the words.
"The stage is set. The pieces are moving."
"He did more than that," Shinji added, his smile growing colder, more triumphant. "Before he left, he formally named me interim Mizukage. I have full command."
The Zetsu's yellow eyes widened in theatrical surprise. "Ooh, really??" it squealed, its voice dripping with false glee.
In that exact instant, as the word "really" still hung in the air, a sharp, wooden spike erupted from the ground directly beneath Shinji's chin. It was faster than thought, a blur of pale, hardened flesh-wood.
"THWIP-SQUELCH."
The spike punched up through his jaw, through his palate, and into his brain. Shinji's eyes bulged, his triumphant smile frozen into a grotesque mask of shock and agony. A single, choked gurgle escaped his lips. He was dead before his body had even registered the impact, his life extinguished in less than a heartbeat.
The White Zetsu let out a low, gurgling laugh, a sound like mud bubbling. "Silly, greedy man. Did you think you were a partner? You were just a placeholder."
As it laughed, its form began to shift and melt. Its white, plant-like flesh rippled and flowed like liquid clay. It contorted, shrinking and reshaping itself, its features smoothing out, its body taking on the dimensions and scars of the slain commander. In moments, the nightmare creature was gone. In its place stood the perfect double of Commander Shinji, down to the last detail of his uniform and the grim set of his jaw. The doppelgänger brushed a speck of imaginary dirt from its—his—flak jacket.
The new, false Shinji looked down at the corpse of the old one, a cold, alien intelligence gleaming in its now-familiar eyes. Then, he turned and began to walk back towards the Kiri camp, the newly risen sun glinting off the perfect replica of a Konoha headband. The real war, it seemed, was just beginning.
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