Kurama Nagatsune's eyes narrowed, disbelief cutting through his usual calm. A full sensory-severing genjutsu was the pride of the Kurama Clan, a bloodline rare even in the Warring States. Few ever awakened it, but those who did became legends whose illusions could strip an enemy's five senses clean.
Rumor said even an Uchiha's Mangekyō struggled to counter it.
He clearly expected Raizen to crumble.
"Surprised?" Raizen's voice carried that lazy sarcasm he used whenever he was about to do something reckless. His right eye bled into a vivid crimson, tomoe spinning like a sawblade. The room warped. The wooden walls dissolved into a red wasteland, and a blood-moon swelled overhead like a dying god's lantern.
Nagatsune found himself bound to a cross, surrounded by shadows that whispered with no mouths.
"For the next twenty-four hours," Raizen said, tone flattening into something colder than steel, "you'll feel every kind of pain that makes people beg for an ending."
Tsukuyomi folded around Nagatsune like a vice.
He pushed back immediately. Kurama illusion arts hammered against Raizen's genjutsu, the way they had dominated enemies for generations. But this time, nothing buckled. His senses tore open under the strain. Knives split through muscle, bone, nerves. Pain washed him in waves so sharp they scraped thought away.
Nagatsune screamed into the void.
The world shattered.
He hit his knees in the real room, breath broken, vision swimming. Tsukuyomi gouged deep, but Kurama Nagatsune was still a monster in his field; he hadn't climbed to patriarch by folding over one illusion.
"Amamiya Raizen… what are you doing?" His voice rasped, but his glare stayed steady.
Kurama shinobi burst into the room, circling their patriarch with drawn weapons. The air thickened with killing intent.
Raizen didn't flinch. "What I want," he said, "is for the Kurama Clan to join Konoha. With us, your people won't have to live in the shadow of the Yuezhi anymore."
The room erupted in whispers. Nagatsune's face twisted—anger, then calculation, then something unreadable.
Then, unexpectedly:
"Stand down."
His clan froze. Confusion shot through their ranks, but a single look from Nagatsune sent them retreating out the door. A final gesture sealed the corridor with strict silence orders.
Only when the last footstep faded did he speak again.
"Patriarch Amamiya," Nagatsune said slowly, "did you truly come here only to persuade us to join Konoha?"
Raizen nodded. "Konoha needs an illusion clan. And if you stand with us, you won't have to bleed against the Yuezhi every other season. We'll handle them."
That struck deep. The Yuezhi Clan had been Kurama's ancient counterpart, locked in centuries of inconclusive war. Nagatsune's eyes glimmered with old bitterness.
He rose, walked to a lacquered box, and quietly lit a stick of incense. A clean, refreshing scent drifted outward. Then he brewed tea with precise, slow movements, pouring one cup for Raizen and one for himself.
"Tell me," he said, "exactly how you intend to deal with the Yuezhi."
Raizen drank, then spoke plainly—strategy, politics, battlefield choke points, alliances, and how Konoha's growing momentum could crush the stalemate.
Nagatsune listened in silence. At the end, a faint smile flickered across his face.
"Patriarch Amamiya," he said, almost amused, "do you know why I offered incense and good tea? Didn't you find it strange?"
Raizen kept his expression neutral. "Elaborate."
A glint of confidence lit Nagatsune's eyes. "The Kurama bloodline manipulates the five senses, as you know. Sight, sound, touch, taste, smell. Our illusions depend on establishing direct sensory contact. Even just now, when you looked at me, I could have caught your senses in a heartbeat."
He paused, watching Raizen's face for a reaction.
"And incense… tea… both are direct pathways to the senses. Perfect for establishing a connection."
Nagatsune leaned forward slightly.
"In other words, Patriarch Amamiya, I just ensured your five senses are open to me."
...
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