One year later.
The news of the Third Kazekage's disappearance reached the Hidden Sand Village on an ordinary afternoon.
Nobunaga was organizing documents in the Anbu office.
When the door was burst open, he looked up to see an Anbu member standing at the doorway, face pale as a ghost.
"It's... it's bad."
Nobunaga put down his pen: "Speak."
"The Sandaime... Lord Sandaime has disappeared."
Nobunaga's hand paused for a brief moment.
Then he stood up abruptly.
"Specific details?"
"The escort team was attacked on their way back. Lord Sandaime stayed behind alone to cover the retreat, letting the others leave first. By the time reinforcements arrived, only traces of a battle remained, and Lord Sandaime... was gone."
Nobunaga didn't say a word.
He walked to the window and looked out at the Village.
Chaos had already begun in the streets.
People were running, shouting, or standing in doorways in a daze.
Those sounds drifted in from the distance, muffled and indistinct.
As the strongest Kazekage in history, the Sandaime's disappearance was effectively the final straw for the Hidden Sand Village's already frayed nerves.
Just then, the door was pushed open.
Nobunaga turned around to see Sasori standing at the door. His expression was grim, his face deathly pale.
"It wasn't me," he said.
Nobunaga looked at him: "I know."
Sasori was stunned for a moment. "You... know?"
Nobunaga said: "I know it wasn't you."
Sasori walked in and sat down across from him.
"Then who could it be?"
Nobunaga didn't answer; he just looked out the window.
"Who it was isn't important. What's important is what happens next."
Sasori fell silent.
"Is the White Fang still there?" Sasori asked.
"Yes," Nobunaga said, "He's been at the border all along."
Sasori's hands clenched: "I'm going to kill him."
"Now?"
Sasori didn't speak.
Nobunaga watched him.
"Can you beat him?"
Sasori remained silent.
Nobunaga said: "If you go now, you'll die. The life your parents gave theirs to save will end at his hands. If you die, who will avenge them?"
Sasori lowered his head.
"I've waited for a long time."
He spoke, his voice carrying an indescribable weariness.
Nobunaga said: "Then wait a little longer, until the right time to strike comes."
Sasori stood up and headed for the exit.
At the doorway, he stopped.
"Nobunaga."
"Yeah."
"Those three children... you'd better truly stand before them."
Nobunaga didn't say anything.
Sasori left.
The door closed.
...
War is coming.
Afternoon.
The meeting room was packed.
Nobunaga stood in the corner, watching the people argue.
As an Anbu Jonin, he was qualified to be here, but he chose the least conspicuous spot—against the wall, in the shadows.
"It must have been Konoha! Who else could it be?"
"Konohas White Fang is right at the border! Besides him, who else has that kind of ability?"
"What's the use of saying this now? The key is what to do next!"
"The border is already seeing troop reinforcements! If we don't act now, it'll be too late!"
"Act? Tell me how we act? Even the Sandaime is gone!"
Chiyo sat to one side, her face so grim it looked like it could drip water.
Several elders were slamming the table, faces flushed and necks bulging, each shouting louder than the last.
The Anbu members stood by the wall, silent.
Nobunaga's gaze swept over their faces: angry, fearful, anxious, bewildered.
Every face was speaking; every face was shifting blame.
Then his gaze fell upon Rasa.
He believed there was something in Rasa's heart.
Through years of being together, the impressions Nobunaga had formed from watching the series in his past life had long since been overturned by the Rasa of this timeline.
Rasa sat in the main seat, not saying a word.
He sat very straight.
From the start of the meeting until now, he had remained in that same posture:
Hands on the table, spine erect, gaze fixed on a point in the void.
These arguments blew past his ears, yet he showed no reaction.
Like a stone.
But Nobunaga knew the stone was waiting. Waiting for everyone to finish arguing.
Waiting for everyone to realize that arguing was useless. And then he would step forward.
The arguing continued until evening.
The light outside the window dimmed, and the lamps in the meeting room were lit.
The flames flickered, casting long shadows of everyone onto the walls, swaying back and forth.
Some were still arguing, but their voices had gone hoarse.
Some had stopped, simply sitting there panting.
Some sat with their heads bowed, lost in thought.
Nobunaga looked at Rasa. He was still in that same posture. Motionless.
The flames jumped, and the shadows on the wall swayed.
Someone was still speaking, but their voice had lowered.
Because everyone realized that everything that could be said had been said.
All the arguing that could be done was finished.
Only one question remained: who would carry the burden?
No one said it aloud, but everyone understood.
Chiyo looked up and glanced at Rasa.
The elders also looked toward him.
The Anbu members shifted, their gazes falling on him as well.
Nobunaga's gaze also rested on Rasa.
Then Rasa stood up.
The meeting room fell silent.
In that instant, all sound vanished; not even the sound of breathing could be heard, only the flickering of the oil lamps.
Rasa stood there.
The lamplight fell on his face, clearly illuminating the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Nobunaga suddenly realized that this man had aged.
Not the aging brought by time, but the kind brought by being weighed down by something. That age wasn't on his face, but in his eyes.
In the nights he had endured alone. In the battles he knew he couldn't win, yet still had to fight.
"I will succeed him," he said.
His voice wasn't loud.
But every word fell clearly into everyone's ears.
It wasn't "I want to be," it wasn't "Let me do it," it was "I will succeed him."
Like a stone falling into water. There was no splash, but everyone knew something had sunk deep.
The meeting room was very quiet.
No one stood up to cheer for him. No one clapped, and no one said "Great." There was only silence.
Chiyo looked at him, and then she nodded.
The elders exchanged glances; they didn't speak, but the expressions on their faces relaxed slightly.
The Anbu members returned to being statues, but their shoulders also dropped a fraction.
Some bowed their heads and looked away. Others let out a long breath.
No one spoke.
But Nobunaga suddenly understood one thing: they had all been waiting for these words.
They had argued all afternoon, slammed tables all afternoon, and blamed each other all afternoon.
But everyone was waiting for one person to stand up and say, "I will succeed him."
Because this wasn't power. This was responsibility.
Whoever stood up would have to carry the burden; if they could hold it, it was expected, and if they couldn't, they were a sinner.
No one would thank him. No one would cheer for him.
He would only get more problems, more accusations, and more—times sitting alone in the middle of the night.
That person was Rasa.
Nobunaga stood there, looking at Rasa's back.
That back was very straight. Just as straight as when he was sitting. But he knew that back would grow heavier and heavier.
Not the kind of weight that makes one bend over, but the kind where, even though he's standing straight, you know he's carrying something.
Rasa turned around.
His gaze swept across their faces, finally landing on Nobunaga. It was brief and light.
Then he walked out.
As he passed by Nobunaga, he paused for a moment.
He didn't speak, just paused.
Then he continued walking, out of the meeting room and into the corridor.