Xiaoguang,
If this finds you well, know that I miss you.
I understand the situation. Do not intervene—I have my own plan. Watch and wait.
How are your eyes? How long can you hold out? Tell me the truth; I'm working on a solution.
Also—if you can do so without endangering yourself—probe into "Jigen" and the organization called "Kara."
Be careful. If exposed, prioritize your own safety above all.
Sogetsu paused, folded the letter, sealed it with red wax, then laid a simple seal over the fold. He set it by the table leg, where a patient ninja cat had been waiting.
"Thanks, Rikimaru." He scratched the cat under the chin and flicked the letter lightly. "For the girl."
Mrrrow.
Rikimaru took the letter and vanished in a flicker.
"Sudden quiet. Can't say I'm used to it."
Sogetsu sipped tea and let the rare stillness carry his thoughts forward.
By his count, his layout for the coming Third Shinobi World War was about halfway set. The power he'd pooled could already tilt a local front. It was still a little green—but the war was three to four years out.
Time enough. No need to rush.
"Next: Danzo and the Uchiha."
Both were sensitive nests. If he started spamming suggestions and soft trances, eyes would turn. Better to stay low for now; getting burned this early would warp the rest of the plan.
Which left the core problem—the ritual.
Among the twenty-two divine Paths, promotion from Rank V to Rank IV brought a true molting—the first step onto the road of godhood. Rank IVs were "demigods," high-Rank Beyonders whose life and mind crossed human limits, who touched nascent divinity and could open mythic forms.
From Rank V upward, promotion required not only the potion but also a matching ritual. You could brute-force it—but losing control was far too likely.
Sogetsu wasn't an "ultra-luck" merchant. He'd ruled that out from the start.
For the Spectator path, the ritual to Rank IV was: ingest the potion amid the surging emotional resonance of at least ten thousand people, gathered in a specific venue.
"Not many chances fit that bill…"
His eyes narrowed, mind whirring. "Which leaves two optimal windows for Rank IV."
He dipped a fingertip in tea and marked two points on the table—a habit from his previous life: write it down, sort it out.
Konoha Year 49 and Konoha Year 51.
Two major events.
First: KY 49. The Third Shinobi World War breaks open. Iwa-nin assemble ten thousand to encircle the Third Raikage, who fights three days and nights before falling.
The upside: the headcount meets spec perfectly. The snag: how to conduct ten thousand Iwa-nin's emotions? He had ideas—tailed beasts, directed battles—but the next few years of prep would slant toward Hidden Stone and that theater. Short-term fine; long-term, a poor investment.
Second: KY 51—the one he favored. Obito Uchiha's betrayal. The Nine-Tails rampage timed to Kushina Uzumaki's labor. Minato and Kushina's deaths.
A calamity inside Konoha. The numbers solved themselves, the emotions even more so. The only downside: two years later than plan.
Fast has merits. So does slow.
On paper, neither path was wrong—for now.
"Focus on Konoha. Build a fallback in Iwa."
Decision made, Sogetsu split his effort—mainline Leaf, shadowline Stone.
Knock, knock.
Someone at the door broke the flow. Sogetsu dabbed the table dry, stood, and slid the door aside.
"Uchiha Sogetsu. Someone's here for you."
It was a clansman, tone sour, disdain barely hidden in his eyes.
"Understood."
"Tch. Traitor."
He shot Sogetsu a glare and stalked off.
Sogetsu watched him go, expression placid. No wonder Fugaku failed. From the start, the Uchiha were never going to become Hokage.
His name inside the clan had nearly reached "pre-redemption Naruto" levels. Not quite pariah—close enough.
Cause? He was one of the clan's young standouts who'd refused a slot in the Police Force and instead aligned with the Hokage faction. That alone wouldn't have made him a villain. But with rumors swirling that he'd be a chief proctor for the Chūnin Exams?
Overnight, he became famous in the worst way.
Don't ask why. Call it what it is—envy.
Everyone knew the Uchiha had eyed the Hokage's chair for decades. The clan slogan might as well have been: hold second, push for third, charge for fourth—eyes on five, six, seven.
And the result?
Decades later, the sword-arm was more tired than sharp.
Not only had they never touched the Hokage's cloak, they couldn't even get near the doorknob of anything tied to it.
History would prove it again: unless you gender-bent the Second Son, an Uchiha would never get a turn.
"But that's fine." Sogetsu's mouth quirked; he nudged his frames up the bridge of his nose. "I'll grant that wish—in my own way. Just… don't blame me for the ending."
He stepped out under a chorus of side-eye and found a man waiting by the gate.
"Shikaku?"
Shikaku Nara, heir of his clan and Hiruzen's trusted right hand, stood with his signature spike of a ponytail, calm as a lake. "Sogetsu, I'm here at the Hokage's request to coordinate Chūnin Exam matters. Do you have time now?"
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