The stench of blood hung over the valley like a rotten curtain. Bodies from the Tōjū Alliance lay in heaps, their screams fading into wet silence as Konoha's blades finished the work. Even the young Konoha shinobi had eyes like iced steel. Misery didn't slow anyone down. It couldn't. Not in this era.
One last cry tore itself free, then vanished into the cold air.
And just like that, three thousand lives were over.
Hyūga Tennin exhaled, a sharp, controlled breath. His Byakugan faded to normal, and whatever anger had been burning behind his eyes dimmed until only exhaustion remained.
"Bury them on the spot," he ordered.
The Earth Release shinobi stepped forward without emotion. Hands slapped earth. Chakra surged. The ground cracked open like a massive throat. Bodies slid into the darkness in rigid silence. Another seal. Another rumble. The valley flattened again, calm and blank, as if the massacre had never happened at all.
Only the smell remained. Iron and mud.
Tennin stared at the restored earth for a moment, then nodded to himself.
"It's done. The north is Konoha's."
I watched from a shadowed ridge, arms crossed, cloak pulled tight against the winter wind.
This wasn't the plan I wanted at first.
But this was the Warring States. Wanting kinder answers was like wishing for ramen during a famine: pointless self-torture.
I'm Amamiya Raizen, proud reincarnator, trapped in a world where "diplomacy" usually involves kunai. A guy can dream, right?
Still, this wasn't cruelty. It was math.
If the weakest region of the Fire Country could field thousands of shinobi to resist us… what about the central clans? The west? And the south?
Senju.
Uchiha.
Monsters wrapped in human skin.
To take the country, Konoha needs the same thing any terrified animal needs: a reputation sharp enough to bite back.
A family that resists meets the fate of the Tōjū Alliance.
A family that bows becomes an ally.
Simple. Ugly. Necessary.
If we didn't show what happens to rebels, every clan would join forces just to carve Konoha into bite-sized pieces. I wasn't risking that. Not for idealism. Not for naïve dreams.
Blood now meant fewer bodies later.
"In order to end this cursed era faster… someone had to be the wolf."
My Mangekyō spun once, twisting the air around me, and I vanished from the ridge.
Tennin never knew I had been watching.
He led the army deeper north, taking clan land after clan land with barely any resistance. Word of the massacre spread like wildfire, and surrender followed close behind it.
Within a month, the entire northern region belonged to Konoha.
But the real shockwave came in December.
Konoha had already formed.
Then the treaty with the Fire Daimyō.
Then our Northern Expedition.
People expected a mountain of battles.
Instead, they got my little midnight performance.
Rumor said the Leader of Konoha, Amamiya Raizen, razed every clan compound belonging to the Tōjū Alliance in a single night. No survivors. No rubble left standing.
A few witnesses swore the land itself looked afraid afterward.
And then the second revelation hit:
The three thousand Tōjū shinobi who surrendered—believing they would be spared—had been executed immediately after.
Suddenly, every clan in the Fire Country had a new nightmare:
Me.
Some whispered demon.
Some called me the wolf of Konoha.
Some, the dramatic ones, whispered God of the Warring States.
Ridiculous.
If gods existed, I wouldn't be stuck living in a world where twelve-year-olds duel with exploding tags.
Konoha ignored the praises and swallowed the fear.
We controlled the central and northern Fire Country now.
Only the south remained unclaimed, and with Senju and Uchiha locked in endless collision, they didn't bother to notice our rise.
Their mistake.
Whispers spread across the western and eastern frontiers.
Clans fortified.
Scouts panicked.
Everyone waited for Konoha's next move.
Inside Konoha?
We finally rested.
Winter demanded it, and rebuilding required months of quieter work. Digest the north. Absorb territory. Prepare.
And me?
I stared at the map of the Fire Country in the council tent, my finger hovering over one untouched region.
The east.
"So that's next," I muttered.
Another battlefield.
Another gamble.
Another bloody step toward the future none of us were supposed to live long enough to see.
The Warring States never ends on its own.
Someone has to break it.