Mizura, of course, had no clue about the symphony of chaos unfolding in Azula's mind. But he knew a good stalling tactic when he saw one.
"Indulge my curiosity," he began, voice dripping with false camaraderie. "From your… particular glare, you don't strike me as the 'taking orders' type. You are your father's pride, the entire Uchiha treasury in your hands, the God of Shinobi's wife backing you, and his granddaughter—your supposed rival—following you around like a good friend."
He took a deliberately slow breath, feeling a trickle of chakra return. "More to the point, you could fight that hypocrite Hiruzen and win it. So why isn't his hat collecting dust on your head yet?"
The question was partly genuine, but mostly a delicious time-waster. Every second spent chatting was a second his stamina inched back from the 'catastrophic' toward the 'merely disastrous.'
'Let him talk,' Azula's voice sliced into the minds of Tajima, Shinki, and the others with the subtlety of a mental kunai. He's wasting time, and as experienced ninjas, they can see it at a glance.
Out loud, she gave a lazy, dismissive wave. "The Hokage seat? How quaint. It's not a matter of 'taking' it. It's a matter of it being professionally dry-cleaned and delivered to me when the time is convenient. Why scramble for a throne when the entire castle is already drafting my fan mail?"
She shrugged, a smirk playing on her lips. "Hiruzen is… keeping the seat warm. Let the man have his twilight days. I'm generous like that."
She had, however, momentarily forgotten the wild card. The one person whose logic followed the rhythm of a bar fight.
Tsunade.
Normally, Tsunade's claim to the Hokage title was about as serious as her gambling debt. But one thing trumped even her apathy for power: her blistering, all-consuming need to one-up Azula.
She cracked her knuckles, the sound like snapping timber.
'Generous, my ass. You're just lazy.' Inside, though, she was cheering Mizura's recovery on. 'Faster, you bastard.'
Their last fight had been weeks ago, and she'd spent every waking moment since then training with the fury of someone promised a world-altering secret.
Azula had sworn to spill it once Tsunade could consistently hit Kage-level in her base form. A rematch with a fully powered Mizura was the perfect pop quiz.
Oblivious to the women's internal betting pool on his survival, Mizura happily kept digging his verbal trench.
"You think it's that simple?" he chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "A village like Konoha doesn't allow a ruler. It elects a figurehead. Your clan is too rich, too strong, and frankly, too damn petty. You've been stepping on the Council's interests since you were in the academy."
"They'd sell their own children to other villages before they let an Uchiha—especially you—sit in that office. They know if you got it, your first decree may be to rename the village 'The Hidden Red Eyes Village,' and your second would be to tax their stupid hats."
His brain was firing on all cylinders, weaving lies and truths into a tapestry of distraction. Just a little more time. Maybe he would really be able to take one of them with him. Make his death a heroic recommendation for future generations of heroic ninjas.
The guy wasn't completely blowing hot air, and Azula knew it. There was a stubborn kernel of truth in his rambling, one that even she couldn't just shrug off.
Thinking about it, becoming Hokage wasn't just about being the baddest shinobi on the block.
It was a whole political theater—a popularity contest wrapped in a power struggle, dipped in tradition, and sprinkled with distrust. You could bench-press a mountain and still get passed over if the "right people" weren't nodding in your direction.
Take the whole village origin story, for instance. Hashirama and Madara founded the place together. Hashirama wished for Madara to become the leader, but when it came time to pick one, these people chose the smiling tree-hugger instead of the broody eyes-of-doom guy.
Surprise, surprise—a rift was born. Then Tobirama slid into the role largely because he was the strongest left standing after his brother.
Straightforward enough.
Hiruzen's case? That was special—a whole cocktail of timing, drama, and circumstance. And if a Fourth were to pop up, he'd have to be chosen too. Sure, there were whispers about Minato—how maybe old Hiruzen just passed him the hat over a cozy chat with his advisors and the Daimyo.
But that wasn't how things were playing out this time.
So if not a handpick, then what? An election. And Azula could already see how that would go. Flashback to the founding: villagers side-eyeing the Uchiha, picking the Senju.
Some things never change.
Sure, thanks to her… creative leadership, the Uchiha weren't exactly lurking in the shadows anymore. Their reputation was shiny, their coffers overflowing, their ranks packed, and their secret arsenal would make an intelligence division weep.
Honestly, at this point, adding her and Tajima, they could probably take on a major village solo and still have time for tea afterward.
And that was exactly the problem.
The other clans weren't blind. They saw a powerhouse rising—one that reminded them a little too much of a certain legendary troublemaker. Azula was strong. Too strong.
People whispered she could be the next Madara. Meanwhile, Tsunade—though plenty formidable—had never radiated that world-shaking, Hashirama-level dominance that could make another Madara think twice.
So of course the other clans were sweating. Letting the Uchiha take the Hokage's seat? That wasn't just giving them the keys to the village—it was handing them the blueprints, the deed, and the security codes.
In an election?
Every wary Jonin would be quietly guided to vote for not Azula. And even with all the Uchiha loyalists and every grateful commoner in the village, they still couldn't outnumber the combined Jonin of every other ninja clan.
And oh, Hiruzen was still in charge. The man could, hypothetically speaking, promote a bunch of "moderately competent" loyalists to Jonin right before stepping down. Just to… balance the votes.
Purely procedural, of course.
Azula didn't even want the hat, if she was being honest. Her ambitions stretched far beyond Konoha's walls.
But controlling the village? That came with benefits—resources, influence, a solid launchpad for real power. It wasn't the end goal, but it was one hell of a stepping stone.
Her silence now was being wildly misinterpreted. Tajima watched her, probably thinking his brilliantly cunning daughter was already ten moves ahead, scheming to break the system.
Even Tsunade—not usually the most politically tuned in—looked vaguely guilty, as if realizing she'd accidentally walked onto the wrong side of a future showdown.
Then, cutting through the tension like a kunai through rice paper—
"Hehe."
Mito, still shrouded in that faint, fiery aura of Kyubi chakra, let out a soft, knowing chuckle. Her eyes glinted with something between amusement and pity.
"You're all so worried about Konoha's future," she said, her voice light and almost grandmotherly. "Perhaps you should be more concerned about whether Kiri will have a future, Mizukage."
If this had been literally anyone else running their mouth, Mizura's fist would already be introducing itself to their face.
But this was a glowing Mito-hybrid situation, and frankly, the thought of throwing hands felt about as appealing as wrestling a volcano.
Discussion, he decided, was the vastly superior—and far less incinerating—path. Why was she being so serious about all this, anyway?
"Perhaps," Mizura began, adopting a tone of weary, almost diplomatic resignation, "you genuinely possess the capability to reduce Kirigakure to a memory. But you would never exercise it. Such an act is beyond even the God of Shinobi."
"Do that, and you wouldn't just be an enemy; you'd become the shared bedtime horror story for the entire Ninja World, a unifying terror that would have everyone else comparing notes on how to bury you."
Azula blinked, visibly caught off guard, before a rich, rolling laugh escaped her. "Don't tell me you're under the impression that the Shodai Hokage refrained from painting the continent with his enemies' blood simply because he feared becoming public enemy number one?"
Mizura offered a slow, knowing shake of his head. "Of course not. I stood in the presence of the First Hokage myself, as part of the First Mizukage's guard. The historical records I've read all said a single truth: to defeat him would have required a combination of every living Kage and ninety percent of each village's forces. He didn't attack out of benevolence, true."
"But I've also always believed it was because he was wise enough to know that sheer power has its limits. He couldn't be everywhere at once. Push the world too far, cross that final line, and even the strongest man finds that his enemies will gladly sacrifice themselves to destroy everything he holds dear—his brother, his clan, his precious village."
Of course, this was all a spectacular stream of high-grade, diplomatic nonsense. Mizura's primary goal was to run the clock after all.
Internally, he was a little optimistic; his chakra reserves had quietly refilled to the brim. The gaping hole in his side, however, was a much ruder guest, refusing to leave without some serious medical intervention.
Azula, sharp, had clearly taken attendance and noticed his replenished energy.
She cut through the philosophical fog with a razor-sharp smile. "Alright, enough entertaining prattle. I see you've topped off your chakra reserve. That should make you worthy of a… decent scrap, shouldn't it?"
She was, of course, setting very specific ground rules—the kind where she wouldn't flick on her various chakra modes or deploy what Mizura mentally categorized as "cheaty-jutsu." That route would end things faster than a sneeze, and where was the fun in that?
Unfortunately for Azula, the response to her challenge wasn't Mizura's shocked gasp at his plan being exposed, nor was it a fighting stance. It was a sudden, golden-haired blur shooting past her like a furious comet.
The blond girl—previously silent, now very much the center of attention—launched herself at Mizura with a wordless yell, her fist aimed squarely at his chest.
The Mizukage, reacting on pure instinct, threw himself backward in a graceless but effective dodge. Azula noted, with some amusement, that Tsunade hadn't even used her full speed to attack.
The girl's punch didn't connect with flesh, but with the surface of the water where Mizura had been standing a microsecond before.
KABOOM!
The water didn't splash. It didn't spray. It exploded upward in a spectacular geyser of force, as if a depth charge had just detonated beneath it.
Droplets rained down like a sudden, violent storm, leaving Mizura momentarily staring at the newly formed, steaming crater in the aquatic platform.
So much for a philosophical debate.
(END OF THE CHAPTER)
Certainly not good, but I'm back, and sumimasen.