Days after Konoha released its grand humanitarian statement, movement began to stir across the fractured nations.
At first it was only whispers — talk of border gates and free porridge, of safety and work. Then, the whispers grew legs.
Following nights of quiet debate and internal struggle, some of the poorest refugees finally made their decision.
To stay meant hunger — endless days of emptiness, nights of cold wind, the constant fear of dying unseen and being left for the crows.
To go, however dangerous, meant a faint glimmer of hope.
And so, ragged lines began forming on the dirt roads of the Land of Grass, the Land of Rivers, the Land of Rice Fields, and beyond. The destitute, the displaced, and the desperate all turned their weary faces toward one direction — the Land of Fire.
Konoha, anticipating the surge, opened three checkpoints along its borders. Each checkpoint was manned not by soldiers with weapons drawn, but by uniformed shinobi guiding and organizing arrivals. Temporary tents and wooden reception stations appeared overnight.
The operation was streamed by camera crews to every major broadcasting network.
Across the Land of Fire, screens flickered with the same sight: endless columns of refugees trudging forward in the morning mist, guided by Konoha shinobi toward the newly designated settlement towns. Orderly lines replaced chaos; calm instruction replaced panic.
Then came the image that would captivate the entire world.
Rows of massive iron pots, steam curling skyward. Shinobi in aprons ladled thick, fragrant meat porridge into wooden bowls.
Refugees — skeletal, trembling — received their share. At first they ate cautiously, almost unbelieving, then faster, greedier, tears streaming down cheeks streaked with dust. Some licked their bowls clean, others clutched the empties to their chests as though afraid they might wake and find it gone.
The cameramen focused close on one child's face — wide-eyed, cheeks bulging, smiling.
And through the screen, people across nations saw it.
Hope.
It glimmered in those eyes like sunlight on water — fragile, radiant, contagious.
For the residents of the ninja world watching from their homes, that single frame struck harder than any speech. It was as if, amidst the ruins of a broken continent, a single flower had forced itself through the concrete — a bloom of mercy in a landscape of neglect.
The effect was immediate.
More refugees began to move.
The borders of the Land of Fire became rivers of humanity, flowing endlessly. Entire families left behind burnt villages and collapsed markets, drawn by that irresistible promise: Go there. As long as you reach there, a new life awaits.
…
Land of Rain.
Nagato's face was drawn tight, his expression unreadable.
The broadcast he had ordered blocked now echoed even within his own towers. Screens hidden in taverns and backrooms replayed Konoha's feed. Despite his strict prohibition, many Rain citizens watched in secret.
Konan, standing beside him, read from the latest report. "Nagato, thirteen families have moved today."
He did not answer. His hands rested on the armrests of his chair, knuckles pale.
Both of them knew what "moved" meant. The Rainmaker Jutsu mapped the departures more accurately than any written report. Nagato knew the real number wasn't thirteen. It was closer to fifty.
He stared through the endless drizzle outside the window. 'Should I tell her? Or will it only deepen the wound?'
The rain kept falling — his rain, the one that touched everything in the Land of Rain, that saw everything. Yet even now, there were places it could not reach: hearts turning quietly away from him.
A bitter taste rose in his throat.
The image of that golden-haired Hokage flickered through his thoughts, and hatred surged, cold and bright.
'All because of him.'
Namikaze Mirai — the man who could wage war with grain instead of kunai.
Using rice to win souls.
A god's authority collapsing under the weight of a meal.
What kind of deity could not feed his people? What god lets his believers starve while another village offers salvation in a bowl?
Nagato's fingers trembled once. For a brief moment he felt human — helpless, cornered, mortal.
"Should I kill them?" he muttered, half to himself.
Konan's eyes flickered, startled. "Kill… the defectors?"
He didn't reply. The question hung heavy in the air, like the rain that refused to stop.
He knew the answer. Killing them would halt the exodus briefly, but afterward? It would turn faith into rebellion, belief into fear.
And then the god of the Land of Rain would become just another tyrant.
He closed his eyes. He could still hear the sound of that broadcast. If you are hungry, come to the Land of Fire.
The words gnawed at him more cruelly than any blade.
…
Kusagakure.
The tent stank of damp straw and medicine. The air was heavy, stagnant.
Uzumaki Kana pressed her thin body against the rotted wall, one eye peeking through a thumb-sized tear in the canvas. Through it, the flicker of a television from the next tent illuminated her gaunt face.
The broadcast was replaying again — refugees entering Konoha's reception towns, steam curling from pots, laughter echoing faintly.
'They're really letting them in… giving them food…'
Her heart thudded painfully. That tiny hole was her window into another world.
"Mom… what are you doing?"
The small voice behind her made her flinch. She turned quickly.
Her daughter stood there — Uzumaki Karin. A little girl, all bones and red hair, her skin pale from malnutrition.
Kana knelt, brushing a hand over her cheek. 'No… never again. I won't let her end up like me.'
Every day, Kusagakure shinobi came to draw her blood. The unique vitality of her Uzumaki lineage was their stolen medicine. They kept her alive because they needed her. Like livestock.
She swallowed hard, gaze hardening.
That night, as the village settled into silence, Kana waited.
When the patrol lamps dimmed, she wrapped a small bundle — two canteens of water, a few crumbs of dry bread, and a faded blanket. She took Karin's hand.
"Be quiet." she whispered, voice barely a breath. "Don't make a sound."
Karin nodded quickly, covering her mouth.
They slipped out of the tent like shadows.
Kana knew every alley, every patrol pattern. She led her daughter through the narrow back roads where the torchlight never reached. Every step was agony — not from exhaustion, but from terror.
Each time a twig cracked underfoot, they froze. Each gust of wind through the grass made them hold their breath.
At last, the gate appeared — the crude wooden arch that marked the edge of Grass territory.
For a moment, Kana allowed herself to hope.
'Just a few more steps… a new life waits beyond that line…'
"Damn it! Bitch! Where do you think you're going?!"
The shout ripped through the night.
Her blood turned to ice.
Torches flared behind them. Karin's hand tightened in hers as they broke into a desperate run.
The darkness swallowed their screams.
…
The Next Morning — Konoha.
In the Hokage's office, sunlight spilled through the window onto neat stacks of reports. Namikaze Mirai had just begun his morning routine when a masked scout appeared kneeling on one knee, scroll in hand.
"Hokage-sama, urgent intelligence from the Land of Grass."
Mirai unrolled it silently, his eyes scanning the neat script.
The report detailed a border incident: a woman had attempted to flee the Grass Village with a child during the previous night. Caught near the outer wall at roughly 11:30 PM. Identified — Uzumaki bloodline.
His fingers stilled.
'Uzumaki…?'
His sister-in-law, Kushina, was Uzumaki. His nephew, Naruto, bore that name with pride. The clan that had once been vibrant enough to frighten nations — reduced now to scattered survivors in hiding.
He read further. The woman, an Uzumaki, was being held captive by the Kusagakure for her unique regenerative blood. She attempted escape with a young daughter but was intercepted.
The room seemed to grow colder.
Mirai's gaze darkened, and though a smile touched his lips, it carried no warmth — only the glint of a blade hidden in velvet.
"The Uzumaki clan… has fallen so low that even Kusagakure dares to imprison them?" he murmured.
He closed the scroll slowly. "My sister-in-law dreamed her clan would be reunited one day. And now… this is how the world treats her kin."
Those who knew him would have recognized the shift in his tone.
That calm smile — it was the warning sign.
It meant the Fifth Hokage was angry.
"Someone!"
An Anbu appeared instantly.
"Summon Uchiha Shisui."
"Yes, Hokage-sama!"
As the operative vanished, Mirai turned toward the window. His reflection looked back at him — serene, distant, yet heavy with purpose.
"Since the Kusagakure dares to chain the Uzumaki," he said quietly, "then let them taste the justice of the Peacekeeping Force."
*****
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✓ Killed For 100 Years in Hueco Mundo, Aizen Invited Me To Soul Society!
✓ Naruto: Senmei Asahi
✓ Naruto: Uchiha's Intelligence Dealer
✓ Naruto: The Fifth Hokage Is Naruto's Uncle
✓ Naruto: Who Made Him a Ninja?
✓ Bleach: In My Second Reincarnation, I Became The Ninth Kenpachi
✓ To Love-Ru: Spoiler Route [R-18]
✓ Naruto: The Accidental Incubus [R-18]
✓ The Academy's Saint Is Too Popular, But He's Not the Protagonist [R-18]