The Hotstushi Clan
The Hotstushi were known for straightforwardness—no nonsense, no deception. Their power came from unrelenting discipline and fierce pride. The two Raikage—father and son—carried the weight of the village and clan on their shoulders, renowned for lightning speed and overwhelming force.
Aya, strong-willed and nearly a match for the old man, embodied this spirit. Her pain was fierce, but her love for this child was fiercer.
The room around Rukon—Kaien—was simple but sturdy, the warmth of the hearth casting long shadows. Outside, war might consume countless lives, but this child was a new beginning, a chance to carve his own path.
--
What this really means is that Rukon's life will be shaped by legacy—both a blessing and a curse.
He is born into expectation, into power, but also into a world on the brink of chaos. His father and grandfather are legends. His sister is fierce. And the war looms.
He will be watched, tested, and likely feared.
But here's the thing he also has space to grow in a way he never had before.
Kumo values strength, but strength tempered by honesty. This will push him to master himself and face challenges head-on.
--
Outside, the cries of newborn Kaien echoed down the corridors of Kumogakure.
The Third Raikage placed his hand on Aya's shoulder and gave a rare, faint smile.
"May he grow to be strong enough to bring peace."
The future fourth Raikage nodded silently, eyes fixed on his nephew.
Inside the quiet room, Kaien let out another cry, a signal that his new life was beginning.
--
Kaien was only a week old, but his mind was anything but infantile.
He couldn't move much. Could barely lift his head. And yet, his mind raced with clarity that belonged to a man not a newborn swaddled in silk. Though he only focused on Muay Thai in his previous life. He was always a Reformist at heart.
Every day was the same. He was held to his mother's chest, fed, cooed over, kissed. Aya, his mother, loved him fiercely. Her chakra always pulsed with warmth. When she laughed, it echoed like a river in the valley, her joy so vast it almost made Kaien forget the shadows in his thoughts.
But he wasn't like other infants. Not even close.
His body was still forming, weak and helpless, but his thoughts? Sharp. His memory? Intact. Reborn? Maybe. Cursed? Possibly. Gifted? Without a doubt.
Kumo—his village, his home—was broken. Or if not broken, then asleep at the wheel.
And Kaien hated inefficiency.
During one of those long quiet hours where Aya napped with him in her arms, Kaien stared at the ceiling beams and thought of war. He remembered fragmented stories from his past life, or maybe inherited memories through chakra—whatever the source, they painted a strange truth.
Kumo had the tools of the Sage of Six Paths. The Treasure Tools. The Kohaku no Jōhei. The Benihisago. The Shichiseiken. Tools that could bend language, seal souls, erase people from existence with a word and a swing. And yet... the tools sat. Gathering dust. Hoarded like sacred relics instead of weapons of deterrence.
How the hell did Kumo even get them?
He remembered vague whispers in ancient texts—battlefield scavenging, betrayal between clans, or some old pact with a wandering monk. The stories differed, but one detail stayed consistent: Kumo didn't forge the tools. They inherited them. And that made all the difference.
A weapon you forge, you understand. A weapon you inherit without knowledge? You fear it. You hesitate. You store it in a vault.
Kaien's breath shuddered in his small chest. He couldn't speak. Couldn't hold a kunai. But his mind built blueprints, broke down battle doctrines.
Kumo's strength lay in its speed. Lightning chakra. Raw aggression. But aggression without clarity was just noise. They trained assassins, not diplomats. Saboteurs, not strategists. They leaned too hard on the Raikage to hold the line alone. And worse, they had no spiritual cohesion. No shared identity beyond "might makes right."
It was a village that had power, but no philosophy. That was its greatest weakness.
--
If Kaien ever got close to those tools, he wouldn't treat them like ceremonial scrolls locked in an underground chamber. He'd experiment. Dissect. Reverse-engineer their chakra patterns and turn them into production models.
Even if he couldn't replicate the divine craftsmanship, he could learn how they responded to spoken word, why names were essential to their sealing process, and maybe even break down to the Benihisago's soul resonance.
He imagined a Kumo Special Ops unit trained in using miniaturized versions of the tools. Lightning-fast linguists and seal masters who could pin a name mid-fight and extract a soul before the enemy knew they were being targeted.
You didn't need an army when you had mythic-level assassins.
Most shinobi villages were obsessed with physical strength. Kumo especially. Strength ruled the hierarchy, but that was short-sighted. Kaien believed Kumo needed a research corps not just for jutsu, but for military doctrine.
He'd start a sealed team of thinkers—chakra theorists, tacticians, sealing specialists—whose entire job would be to analyze the next ten years of potential conflict. What was the next Kekkei Genkai likely to emerge? Which clans had hidden bloodlines they hadn't yet awakened? Which countries were stockpiling chakra ore or experimenting with puppetry tech like Suna?
If Kumo wanted to win the long game, they needed foresight. Not just reflexes.
--
Kumo had a bad habit of hoarding strength. The Raikage line. The Hotstushi. The few known Kekkei Genkai were kept close. But Kaien thought like a statesman. If you want real loyalty, you integrate—not dominate.
Why not offer respected branch marriages to the lesser border clans who had unique chakra affinities? Earth-lightning combinations. Wind-lightning. Even water affinity clans were out there, hidden in coastal regions.
A well-placed marriage could bring in an entire clan's worth of techniques, which would not only enrich the bloodline pool, but also create a politically loyal wing to the Raikage's regime.
--
Uzumaki were gone. Sealing was a lost art. Kumo should have hoarded what remained after the war. Kumo had enough scraps of old forbidden scrolls and half-failed experiments to start something fresh.
Kaien would push Kumo to become the new sealing capital—not by copying Uzumaki seals, but by fusing sealing with lightning principles. Think of fast-activating seals. Reactive barriers. Storage scrolls powered by electrical surges rather than chakra pulses.
If Kumo exported scroll tech to neutral clans or minor nations, they could build not just revenue, but soft power. Influence. Information leverage. A village that controls knowledge controls the board.
Aya stirred beside him. Her arms tightened, pulling Kaien against her skin. He felt her chakra flare softly as she shifted, sleepy and humming. For all the cold analysis running through his mind, he felt warmth in her touch. Comfort.
The world didn't deserve her. That was another thought that returned again and again.
If he ever rose to power, he'd make sure people like her never had to bleed on the frontlines again.
--
Konoha had the Will of Fire. Suna had the desert's endurance. Kiri was the bloody mist. Even Iwa had the unyielding rock.
What did Kumo stand for? "Strength"? That was too shallow.
Kaien would build a national myth—The Storm's Mandate. That the storm does not kneel, but it protects. That lightning cuts not for cruelty, but to end conflict before it spreads.
He'd write songs. Poems. Mission oaths. Let children grow up knowing that their strength was meant to defend, not dominate. That kind of spiritual cohesion could change everything.
It will remind people what they are fighting for. Not just for fun.
--
Nobody talked about it, but shinobi villages bled money.
Kaien knew that missions weren't always enough to support a nation-state. That was why shady black-ops work, bounty hunting, or chakra-for-hire gigs became common.
But what if Kumo led the next evolution?
He'd formalize chakra-based industries. Lightning-affinity shinobi could generate power for surrounding towns. Use storm release chakra to irrigate distant rice valleys.
A chakra-powered economy wasn't a fantasy—it just needed vision. And Kumo had the raw chakra output to be the engine.
The sun outside the window cracked through the blinds, lining the wooden floor with gold. Aya stood and stretched, her arms lifting Kaien up with her. He stared into her eyes—deep, brown, lined with quiet fatigue.
"You're too quiet," she said softly, smiling. "Always thinking, aren't you, little Kai?"
He blinked slowly, wishing he could speak.
You have no idea.
--
Kaien didn't believe in isolation.
Kumo needed allies. Not fake allies. Real ones. The kind forged through long trade, cultural exchange, and mutual need.
He'd push for lightning embassies. Miniature summits between minor nations and shinobi clans. Not everyone needed to be absorbed into Kumo, but they could orbit it. Take the Land of Frost. The Land of Hot Water. These were weak states with usable terrain, chakra ore, or manpower. No need to conquer. Just invest. Offer protection. Train a generation of joint shinobi who owed Kumo everything.
That was the real game. Influence without occupation.
Kaien exhaled slowly. Inhale. Exhale. That was all he could do for now.
He was still a newborn. He knew it. But power wasn't always about swinging a sword. Sometimes, power was remembering what everyone else forgot. Seeing what others ignored. Speaking when it counted.
And one day—when he could walk, speak, train—he'd build this future.
Not because he wanted glory.
But because no one else seemed to see how close Kumo was to true greatness. And how absurd it was that no one was reaching for it.
Kaien closed his eyes.
The work would begin soon. But for now, he allowed himself one more moment of warmth in his mother's arms.
Now he just needed time - alot - to build it. He don't know how many would pass.