The final clash between the two great alliances gripped every clan in the Warring States like a tightening noose. Even families far from the front lines watched with bated breath. Whichever side emerged alive would decide not just the war—but the shape of the next era.
By late January of the new year, the two armies had begun their cautious testing. Small skirmishes, probing maneuvers, and the occasional night raid—the kind of "quiet" that only happens right before something truly catastrophic.
By February, both alliances had measured each other's strength. The Sarutobi Alliance, drained and cornered, dug in behind defensive lines. The Konoha Alliance, under Amamiya Raizen's command, pressed forward with organized fury.
When defense meets offense in this era, it never stays small. By mid-February, the final battle had begun in full—a month-long bloodletting that turned the southern plains into a graveyard of banners.
March brought no pause, only escalation. The Konoha Alliance surged ahead, driven by Raizen's relentless tactics and the Hyūga clan's hold over Qishui Gorge. The Hyūga had sealed off every road across the south and central regions, forcing the Sarutobi Alliance to take a sixteen-mile detour just to move reinforcements. By the time help arrived, the battle was already lost.
A month of continuous assault left the Sarutobi forces shattered. It wasn't just the dead that broke them—it was hunger. After a year of nonstop fighting, their food stores were gone, their morale gutted. What once was an alliance of proud families now looked like a starving mob with headbands.
Sensing weakness, Raizen sent out a new offer through neutral scouts: surrender and join the Konoha Alliance. Lay down your arms, and no clan will be harmed.
The message spread like wildfire. Within hours, the Sarutobi camps buzzed with rumor and anger. Even among their upper ranks, people whispered that maybe—just maybe—this was their only way out.
To them, the war had become unwinnable. Their victories were fleeting, their losses endless. Worse, Raizen's promise wasn't empty. Dozens of captured clans had already surrendered and were being treated as guests under surveillance rather than prisoners. He had kept his word. And that made the idea of surrender far more dangerous—it sounded reasonable.
Sarutobi Sanbei, the patriarch himself, could see the fear in his men's eyes. It wasn't cowardice—it was exhaustion. He could feel his command unraveling, thread by thread.
Inside his tent, the oil lamp flickered over maps darkened by spilled ink and fatigue. His son, Sarutobi Sasuke, watched him in silence before finally speaking.
"Father… are you still clinging to this fight?"
"Our troops have no food, no morale. If nothing changes, we'll be crushed."
Sanbei's brows tightened. He looked older than he had a week ago.
"Then tell me, Sasuke," he said quietly, "should the Sarutobi surrender?"
"Amamiya Raizen promised mercy," Sasuke said, almost pleading. "He offered us a place in the Konoha Alliance. It's no longer like before—joining them could save us. It's not shame, it's survival."
Sanbei's expression hardened.
"Other families may yield. The Sarutobi will not."
His tone cut the air like steel drawn too long from its sheath. But after a moment, his eyes softened with grim understanding.
"Even if surrender comes… it will not begin with us. The Sarutobi will be the last to fall."
Sasuke bowed his head. He understood his father's pride—and his despair.
The alliance, once seven thousand strong, had fractured. Families were hoarding supplies, avoiding patrol rotations, and secretly negotiating their own surrender terms with Konoha scouts. What once was an army now resembled a collapsing trade deal—every clan for itself.
In the Warring States, surrender wasn't shameful. It was survival. Unlike the great villages that would exist centuries later, clans fought only for the right to live. When survival meant kneeling, even the proudest learned how to bow.
The Uchiha had crushed entire coalitions into submission this way. The Ino–Shika–Chō had surrendered for the same reason—better a living clan than a dead legacy.
Sanbei understood all of it. And yet, that knowledge changed nothing.
If he surrendered now, the Sarutobi name would forever carry the stain of cowardice.
If he fought, he risked extinction.
So he made his choice the only way a man like him could.
He would gamble everything on one last battle.
"Send word," he ordered the guard outside his tent. "Gather all clan heads and commanders. We convene now."
The guard hesitated just long enough to feel the weight of the order. He didn't need to ask what kind of meeting this would be. The kind where no one left untouched—by blood, by decision, or by death.