October. The air in the council chamber felt heavier than smoke from a battlefield.
For the first time since Konoha's founding, Amamiya Raizen called a war council. Eighteen elders filled the long wooden hall — clan heads, veterans, men and women who'd buried too many friends for one lifetime.
"What's so urgent, Raizen-sama?"
Hyūga Tennin spoke first, calm but wary. His pale eyes flicked around the room, reading every chakra pulse like a lie detector.
Raizen sat at the head, eyes closed for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his tone was quiet enough to make everyone lean in.
"Konoha signed a treaty with the Land of Fire. That means we're now responsible for cleansing the nation — stabilizing it, if you prefer softer words."
Silence.
Then disbelief.
"Clean up the Land of Fire?!"
Half the elders stiffened. They'd seen this coming but hoped Raizen would take his time.
Ever since Konoha's alliance with the daimyō, everyone knew it was only a matter of time before the scattered ninja clans were forced to submit or die.
Nobody said it aloud.
Even those with powerful families behind them stayed quiet.
Konoha now numbered over a hundred thousand souls — civilians, refugees, shinobi — and had already absorbed several great clans. But compared to the Land of Fire as a whole, it was still small.
And beyond their walls, monsters still prowled — the Uchiha, the Senju, the ancient Pig–Deer–Butterfly Alliance, and others who refused to bend the knee.
Raizen opened his eyes and said flatly:
"We're obligated by treaty to restore order to the Fire Nation. Konoha is strong enough to do it. The question is—where do we start?"
The room buzzed instantly. Maps unrolled, hands gestured, arguments sparked.
The strongest region was still the south — Uchiha, Senju, and their countless vassals. The west bordered the Wind Country, harsh and sparsely settled. The east was crowded, cautious, full of conservative clans who still clung to their own walls.
That left the north.
"The northern Fire Country," said Sarutobi Keigo, voice steady. "It's fractured. The Yuyi Clan once ruled it, but their fall left chaos behind. The new overlords — the Tōjū Clan — were crushed by us years ago. Their numbers have thinned. If we strike now, the north will fall easily."
Raizen listened without moving, his mind already running the math. The north had twelve clans in total, one mid-tier power and a scattering of small fry. Ten thousand shinobi at most.
A perfect testing ground.
"Fine," he said at last. "The first campaign begins in the north."
The words dropped like stones into water.
Hyūga Tennin rose immediately, bowing low.
"My lord, allow me to command this operation. The Hyūga name has been dragged through the mud long enough. Let me restore it in battle."
Raizen's gaze flicked toward him, unreadable.
For all his restraint, Tennin still burned with that Hyūga pride — desperate to prove himself after the clan's earlier surrender.
"Any objections?"
No one spoke.
Heads bowed, some in agreement, others in silent relief that it wasn't their responsibility.
"Then it's yours, Tennin. Don't waste it."
Raizen leaned back, fingers drumming on the armrest.
"We'll need numbers. The north may be weak, but even a cornered dog bites."
Sarutobi Keigo nodded.
"Twelve clans, one major, four mid-level, the rest minor. Their total manpower won't exceed ten thousand. Six thousand from Konoha should be enough."
Raizen smirked faintly.
"Six thousand, then. We'll call it an inspection tour. Make sure the daimyō's new province behaves."
Laughter rippled, thin and uneasy.
Inside, Raizen was already elsewhere — seeing the supply lines, the chokepoints, the blood that would be spilled.
The northern campaign wouldn't just be about conquest. It would be Konoha's first public test as a legitimate army.
And if they failed, everything — the treaty, the dream of unity, the fragile peace — would collapse before winter.
He rose from his seat, voice carrying through the hall.
"Prepare the banners. By the time the frost falls, I want the northern border painted with Konoha's emblem."
And just like that, the First War Council ended — quietly, efficiently, like the beginning of a storm no one could stop.