The storm over Amegakure was a living thing—furious, endless, unforgiving. Rain hammered the corroded steel towers in relentless sheets, turning streets into rushing rivers and alleys into black mirrors that reflected nothing but grey despair.
Thunder growled like a wounded beast, and the wind howled through the skeletal frames of half-collapsed buildings, carrying the faint, acrid scent of rust and old poison gas.
Yet through this apocalypse of water walked a man the rain itself obeyed.
Minato Namikaze glided untouched. Not one droplet dared mar the golden fall of his hair or stain the pristine white cloak with its crimson flame embroidery.
His sandals whispered over flooded ground without leaving a trace; the mud parted and sealed behind him as though the earth feared his judgment. In a village that had forgotten the sun, he moved like a shard of daylight—remote, radiant, and utterly merciless.
He had come from Konoha only hours ago, leaving behind a council chamber still echoing with the oaths of newly subdued clan heads. The taste of victory lingered on his tongue, sharp and sweet. Now, the Hidden Rain awaited its own reckoning.
A lone shinobi stood sentinel beneath the overhang of a gutted warehouse, rain cascading from his scratched-through forehead protector. The instant Minato's silhouette emerged from the storm's veil, the guard sank to both knees, head bowed so low his hood pooled water on the ground.
"Lord Minato," he whispered, voice trembling with reverence. "The path is secure."
Minato's acknowledgment was the barest tilt of his head. The guard rose, fumbling only slightly, and led him through a concealed blast door that groaned open on hidden seals.
They descended into the earth—past silent sentries who pressed fists to hearts, past reinforced corridors where the roar of the storm faded to a distant murmur.
At the final barrier—a thick steel slab painted with the faded orange clouds of a dream once declared dead—the guard pressed a blood seal. The door slid aside with a heavy sigh.
Minato entered alone.
The chamber was larger than it had any right to be, carved deep beneath the village's foundations. A single brazier burned in the center, its flames hissing against the damp, casting long shadows that danced like restless spirits. The air was warmer here, thick with the scent of wet paper, gun oil, and strong jasmine tea.
At the far end of the long iron table stood three figures who turned in perfect unison as the door sealed behind him.
Yahiko—vibrant, unbowed, eyes blazing with the fire of a man who had chosen hope over despair.
Nagato—gaunt, red-haired, the faint mechanical hum of his enhancements the only betrayal of his frailty.
Konan—serene and lethal, blue hair framing a face as pale and flawless as fresh origami, amber eyes sharp enough to cut.
The moment the door closed, all three dropped to their knees as one, foreheads touching cold concrete.
"Welcome home, my lord," Yahiko said, voice thick with emotion he no longer tried to hide. "The rain has waited for you."
Nagato's quieter murmur followed. "All paths lead to this moment."
Konan said nothing aloud, but her breath caught—an almost imperceptible hitch that only someone watching closely would notice.
Minato let the silence stretch, savoring it. Then he crossed the room with that effortless, predatory grace, cloak whispering like silk over steel. He settled into the high-backed chair at the head of the table—his chair, kept polished and empty in his absence like a shrine.
"Rise," he said, the single word carrying the weight of law.
They rose.
Yahiko first, unable to contain the fierce grin that split his face. "You're here. It's really happening tonight."
Nagato straightened more slowly, the Rinnegan hidden but its presence felt like gravity in the room. "Every detail is confirmed."
Konan unfolded last, movements fluid and deliberate. When her gaze met Minato's, it lingered—hungry, devoted, dangerous.
A faint flush rose on her cheeks, barely visible in the brazier light. Her fingers brushed the edge of her cloak, then stilled, as if resisting a greater urge.
Minato leaned back, one arm draped over the chair's rest, studying them with those piercing blue eyes. "Report."
Yahiko stepped forward, gesturing to the sprawling map pinned across the table. "Hanzo returns at sunset—four hours from now. Twenty elite guards, Ibuse summoned and ready. The rest of his forces are scattered across three false fronts we ignited along the borders.
They're chasing ghosts in the swamps, exactly as planned."
His voice gained strength with every word. "He'll enter through the eastern gate, arrogant as ever, believing the village too broken to rise against him."
Nagato continued seamlessly, voice low and precise. "The Six Paths are deployed in hidden positions. Deva and Asura will crush the escort. Preta will devour any poison cloud he releases.
Human and Animal will handle reinforcements if they somehow arrive early. Naraka stands by for revival."
Konan spoke last, stepping closer than protocol strictly demanded. Her voice was velvet over razors.
"The people are ready. Our cells have distributed weapons cached for years. The moment Hanzo falls, the old tower bells will ring—the ones he forbade. Civilians will flood the streets. Not in fear this time. In celebration."
She paused, then added softly, almost intimately, "They will chant your name, my lord. The rain will finally have a reason to fall."
Minato's lips curved—just slightly—at the corner. It was the smallest expression, but in the brazier light it was devastating.
Yahiko's shoulders squared with pride. Nagato allowed himself the ghost of a satisfied nod.
Konan's reaction was deeper. Her breath came shallower; her amber eyes darkened with something raw and unspoken.
She moved to adjust a marker on the map, bringing her within arm's reach of Minato. The sleeve of her cloak brushed his knuckles—a contact so light it could have been accident, yet neither of them moved away.
"Hanzo's private escape route beneath the palace," she murmured, leaning in just enough for him to catch the faint scent of jasmine and wet paper that always clung to her.
"I've disabled the poison traps personally. Explosive tags neutralized. You'll have a clear path… if you wish to prolong his despair."
Her voice dropped on the last words, layered with meaning. Her eyes flicked up to his, bold and unashamed.
Minato held her gaze. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand and brushed a stray strand of blue hair from her cheek. His thumb lingered against her skin for the span of a heartbeat—warm, possessive.
"I always appreciate thorough preparation, Konan," he said quietly, the words meant only for her.
The air between them crackled. Yahiko and Nagato, on the far side of the table, suddenly found the northern border map intensely fascinating.
Konan's lips parted, but no sound emerged. The flush on her cheeks deepened. For a moment, the coming war, the tyrant above them, the storm itself—all of it faded.
There was only the man before her, the one who had given broken orphans a god to believe in.
Minato let his hand fall. "Final walk-through in two hours. I want every contingency spoken aloud. Then you will take your positions."
He rose, moving to stand before the largest window—a narrow slit reinforced with steel bars that overlooked an underground reservoir. The water below churned black and restless, reflecting the brazier's glow.
"I will kill Hanzo myself," he said to the reflection, voice calm as winter steel. "Alone. I want him to see my face when he realizes the era he built on fear is over. I want him to understand that even his endless rain bows to me now."
Behind him, the three founders of Akatsuki stood in silent awe.
Yahiko clenched a fist. "We won't fail you."
Nagato inclined his head. "The world turns because you will it."
Konan stepped forward again, stopping just behind Minato's shoulder. Close enough that her breath stirred the fine hairs at his neck.
"Whatever you need tonight," she said, voice barely above a whisper, "it is already yours."
Minato did not turn, but his reflection in the dark water smiled—small, sharp, and utterly certain.
Four hours.
In four hours, Hanzo the Salamander would breathe his last.
And Amegakure would learn what it meant to belong to the man the rain itself refused to touch.
Outside, thunder rolled like distant applause.
Inside, the future waited—patient, inevitable, and absolute.
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