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The 300-strong elite force that took the forward position was handpicked. Many were veterans of border skirmishes with Iwa and Kiri. They understood the need for immediate readiness. Even tired from the march, they moved with discipline—fortifying the captured Konoha base, securing the perimeter, and stationing watch teams in concealed high-ground positions.
The second front, with its 500 shinobi, felt different. This was the rest zone, the fallback. Fires burned in neat rows of dugout hearths, tents were pitched in staggered patterns to break the wind, and medics circulated with warming salves and chakra replenishment pills. The exhausted shinobi who had just arrived collapsed onto sleeping mats without shame.
Even here, sentries patrolled the edges. The Raikage's orders were blunt—rest didn't mean vulnerability.
--
Three days had been enough for the two legends to return to full strength. Ay's Lightning Armor flared bright again without flicker. B's eight tails were whole, the burnt scent of their regeneration long gone. Gyūki was quieter, content to let B move without constant commentary.
Ay wasted no time. The 100 chakra ore containers taken from Konoha had already been sealed and sent back to Kumo under heavy guard. They would be under Raikage's personal oversight until the council decided how to distribute them whether for weapon crafting, seal reinforcement, or direct chakra storage.
--
"Thirty of you," Ay barked, pointing to a mix of chūnin and jōnin in the forward camp. "Scour the battlefield. Take anything of use—scrolls, weapons, rations. If they wore it or carried it, and it's worth something, we keep it."
The spoils of war were more than trophies. Konoha steel was high quality. Their ration packs could feed Kumo squads for weeks. Scrolls might carry coded intel worth entire campaigns.
The collection teams moved out in squads of three, careful to watch for traps. Even in death, Konoha shinobi were dangerous—sealing tags could be hidden in armor, chakra-triggered kunai could be lodged in corpses. Everybody was searched with methodical precision.
By midday, the piles began to grow. Weapons, pouches, unbroken armor plates. Sealed scroll tubes that would go straight to Kumo's cryptanalysis unit. Even the enemy's winter gear was stripped—Kumo's logistics officers knew there was no reason to waste supply lines on items already lying on the field.
--
The shinobi who had marched for three days straight looked like they'd aged a year in that time. Walking into the second camp, they dropped their packs with dull thuds, hands stiff from the cold. The medics moved among them immediately—checking feet for frostbite, handing out hot broth, kneading warmth into cramped muscles.
Some fell asleep sitting upright. Others stared into the fire, eyes unfocused. One young chūnin laughed too loud at something trivial—a common sign of nerves finally breaking after days of constant readiness.
In Raikage's scrolls, there was a line about war of attrition:
A tired shinobi is a dead shinobi. Rotate, rest, and return stronger.
The second front was proof of that principle. Here, they could recover without leaving the war entirely.
--
Back in Kumo, Kaien sat in Aya's lap on the wide veranda, watching the winter sun glint off the mountain snow. In front of him was a rough map carved into the wooden floor with chalk lines. Two circles for the two fronts. A rectangle far back for the supply camp.
In Kaien's mind, the circles were like toy drums—one beating while the other rested. When the first drum grew tired, the second would take its place. Supplies were the toy chest—always behind him, never near the other drums where they might get stolen.
His little hand tapped the front circle twice, then slid a carved soldier piece back to the second circle. Aya thought he was just playing again.
But if anyone had been watching closely, they would have realized:The boy wasn't just moving pieces. He was running a simulation.
--
With Ay, B, and the 300 elites securing it, the chakra ore mine began operation again within a day.
Kumo miners—civilian specialists guarded by shinobi—moved in. Their work was slow and meticulous. Chakra ore couldn't just be ripped from the ground; it had to be drawn out in stable fragments to prevent unstable discharge. Each shard was sealed into reinforced crates, marked for transport.
The mining tunnels still bore the marks of Konoha's labor. Timber supports, pulley systems, and even a small water channel for moving heavier loads. Ay ordered none of it destroyed—it all served Kumo now.
--
By the second night, the first rotation began. A squad from the forward camp, eyes heavy from long watch shifts, marched back to the second front along with that day's chakra ore contianers. Fresh shinobi from the rear took their place.
The change was immediate. Alert eyes replaced the tired ones on the walls. Rested chakra reserves stood ready where drained ones had been.
B watched it happen with a grin. "Little man's idea's workin'," he said to Ay.
Ay didn't answer. But his gaze lingered on the horizon, where the Konoha border lay quiet—for now.
--
The Land of Frost was calm in those days after the strike. Too calm. Everyone knew it wouldn't last. Somewhere in the south, Konoha was regrouping, deciding whether to strike back here or divert their strength to another front.
In the meantime, Kumo held the mine, the spoils, and two fronts of rested, rotating shinobi.
And in Kumo's mountains, a child barely able to walk kept rearranging his carved soldiers on the veranda floor already thinking three moves ahead.