Naruto: Being a Shinobi with no System But...

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Roshi picked up a tissue and wiped the corner of his mouth.

”Probably not,” he replied calmly.

Then he shifted the topic.

”By the way—how’s Anbu been lately?”

”It’s been chaos,” Anko muttered, still staring resentfully at the slice of chili-drenched beef in her bowl. ”Our main job these days is hunting down the Root members Danzo hid all over the village.”

After a long internal struggle, she squeezed her eyes shut and stuffed the meat into her mouth.

Three seconds later—

She was gasping.

”Itachi—water! soda! Anything!”

Itachi silently handed her a drink. Anko grabbed it like a drowning woman clutching driftwood.

”The original Root members couldn’t be deployed, so all the cleanup fell to regular Anbu squads,” she continued between breaths, fanning her mouth dramatically. ”We had to secure the Chūnin Exam venues and sweep for Root remnants at the same time. Double workload.”

She pointed accusingly at Roshi.

”My sacrifice tonight has been enormous.”

”Yes, yes,” Roshi replied without sincerity.

”In short,” Anko went on, finally recovering, ”once Danzo died, most of the hidden Root members surrendered. The die-hards were eliminated on the spot.”

She frowned slightly, recalling details.

”Three of them were particularly troublesome. Skilled. Kakashi had to step in personally and present the Hokage’s written order before they lowered their weapons.”

She counted on her fingers.

”One named Terai. One from the Yamanaka Clan. And another from the Aburame Clan. They’re probably still in the interrogation division.”

Fu Yamanaka. Torune Aburame.

Even those two had been unearthed.

Root’s foundation had been dug up almost entirely.

The remaining fragments could be monitored quietly by a small unit. No need for noise.

The hotpot continued to simmer, the heavy talk gradually dissolving into lighter conversation.

—

After dinner, Anko sprawled inelegantly across the tatami, rubbing her stomach with satisfaction.

Roshi stood to clear the table. As he passed her, he nudged her lightly with his toe.

”Lying down immediately after eating increases the probability of becoming spherical.”

”Eh… Anbu training burns enough calories,” Anko grumbled—but she still got up.

”Oh, right,” she added casually, ”I heard something interesting from the exam venue supervisors. After every match lately, someone’s been crying outside the arena.”

Itachi, stacking dishes neatly, spoke without looking up.

”Not the examinees, Anko-senpai.”

”Oh? You guessed it immediately.”

Roshi placed the cleaned bowls into the cabinet.

”Examinees who truly care about winning and losing are usually on stretchers by then,” he said evenly. ”The ones still energetic enough to wail can only be gamblers.”

”Bingo!” Anko snapped her fingers. ”Because of Tenzo’s sudden rise last year, a bunch of self-proclaimed ’insightful’ spectators bet heavily on unknown candidates. Lost everything.”

They had noticed the pattern, then.

Unfortunately for them, Konoha’s inserted candidates weren’t so easy to read.

”Though,” Anko added, lowering her voice slightly, ”I’ve heard some people are secretly cooperating with the bookmakers.”

Roshi dried his hands.

He wasn’t surprised.

There would always be those who chose the most profitable path for themselves.

Later, they would simply need to screen the bookmakers more thoroughly. Some things could not be allowed to fester unchecked.

—

After tidying up, Roshi and Itachi saw Anko off. One returned home. The other returned to the Hokage building.

Tsunade had clearly recovered from her earlier slump. The moment Roshi entered, she crossed her arms.

”Oh? Lord Roshi remembers how to come back?”

”Logically speaking,” he replied calmly, ”my most reasonable location at this hour would be the Senju compound. Not here, esteemed Fifth Hokage.”

”For this period—at least until the end of the year—your home is this office,” Tsunade shot back.

Then her expression shifted. The teasing faded.

”Iwagakure sent word.”

Roshi paused.

”They want talks.”

”About the Chūnin Exams,” Tsunade said, fingers tapping lightly on the desk, ”and the so-called ’exchange activities.’”

The room grew quieter.

Outside, Konoha’s festival lights were still blazing for the exams.

Inside, another negotiation was about to begin.

Sunagakure would have to lie low for a long time.

The moment news of Rasa’s death reached Ōnoki, he saw the future with unsettling clarity. When word followed that Chiyo would serve as interim Kazekage, it only confirmed his judgment.

Hidden Sand was no longer a blade.

It was a variable.

And variables were more useful alive than destroyed.

When Sunagakure was strong, pressure could drive it to gamble—forcing it to pursue wars with high returns and high risk.

When it was weak, pressure could bind it—pushing it to cling to whichever power promised stability and grain.

Right now, that power was Konoha.

With Kumogakure already standing close to Konoha, Ōnoki had no desire to watch the last ”swing village” fall entirely into their orbit.

But the board had shifted.

If Iwagakure continued acting alone, the consequences would grow heavier with each passing month.

Before October, Iwagakure had at least been a cold, neutral rival to Konoha—ceasefire on paper, tension in practice.

After October, they had nearly crossed into open war.

Now the configuration was obvious:

Konoha at the center.

Kumogakure beside it.

Sunagakure drifting steadily into alignment.

Which meant Iwagakure stood alone.

Even if neither Hidden Sand nor Hidden Cloud would openly declare war, the diplomatic weight of isolation would intensify daily. And for the next few years—while Sunagakure licked its wounds—it would have no choice but to follow Konoha’s rhythm more closely.

If conflict erupted now, the best Iwagakure could hope for would be to barely hold its existing front lines.

A purely military path was no longer realistic.

Better to enter the system than be slowly edged out of it.

After all, there had been no formal war this year. The ceasefire agreement still stood—nominally.

Ōnoki exhaled through his nose.

”Send a proposal.”

”It’s time to talk.”

—

Inside the Hokage Office, the air smelled faintly of tobacco.

Hiruzen tapped the ash from his pipe into a ceramic dish with deliberate calm. Across from him sat Koharu and Homura, posture rigid, expressions restrained.

On the low table between them lay the scroll bearing Iwagakure’s request for a meeting.

It had already been read several times.

Koharu spoke first.

”That Ōnoki… has he finally bent?”

Homura adjusted his glasses.

”This is the third year. In previous years, persuading Sunagakure to participate in the joint exams required considerable incentives. Starting next year, maintaining the current structure will no longer require additional resource input.”

He paused.

”Ōnoki likely sees that. If he waits any longer, the balance solidifies without him.”

Koharu’s tone remained measured.

”In that case, shelving his request might not be a bad option.”

Let him stew. Let him feel the pressure.

Hiruzen said nothing at first.

He picked up the scroll again, rereading it slowly—every word, every implication. His weathered eyes lingered not on what was written, but on what was not.

Then he lowered the parchment.

His gaze shifted past his two old companions to the younger man seated behind another desk, documents stacked like a small mountain before him.

”Roshi.”

His tone was mild but sharp beneath the surface.

”What do you think?”

For a brief moment, every gaze in the Hokage office converged on one person—including Tsunade’s, though she remained silent in the main seat.

Roshi did not rush to speak.

”I believe we should accept Iwagakure’s request for a meeting.”

A faint glint flashed across Homura’s glasses as he looked up, clearly waiting for more.

”Advisor Mitokado’s assessment is accurate,” Roshi continued evenly. ”Ōnoki understands that the longer this situation persists, the less room he will have to maneuver. That’s precisely why Iwagakure took the initiative.”

Koharu folded her hands in her lap, listening.

”But,” Roshi went on, ”if we choose to delay and simply apply pressure, we risk pushing Iwagakure to invest even more resources into breaking the stalemate—or worse, gambling on reigniting conflict.”

His tone remained calm, analytical.

”If Ōnoki redirects excessive military power toward that objective, it creates unnecessary volatility. That would not benefit Konoha. It would introduce variables we do not control.”

A brief silence followed.

Roshi’s voice did not quicken.

”The current operational framework of the Ninja World favors us. As long as we retain initiative, allowing this system to continue functioning is in Konoha’s greatest immediate interest.”

He lifted his gaze.

”If Iwagakure joins this framework, the balance of the Five Great Villages enters a new phase. We are not afraid of development. In fact, in a peaceful competitive environment, Konoha benefits more than anyone.”

He paused deliberately.

”More importantly—”

His eyes swept across everyone present.

”Bringing Iwagakure in sends a clear signal to Sunagakure.”

That made Tsunade shift slightly.

”It tells them that the fundamental direction of the Ninja World will not reverse overnight. Stability is the long-term trend.”

”And if that perception takes root,” Roshi said, ”their likelihood of accepting the ’Reconstruction of the Land of Wind’ proposal increases significantly.”

A flicker of understanding crossed Koharu’s expression.

”Once that plan begins—even on a small scale—if Sunagakure sees tangible improvement within its own borders, its appetite for external military ventures will steadily decline.”

”They will become increasingly dependent on the mission economy and legitimate resource channels.”

”Rather than resorting to desperate measures like this year.”

He concluded without flourish:

”Regardless of what Ōnoki intends to discuss, agreeing to meet allows Konoha to seize new strategic initiative.”

”It compresses the decision space of every potential rival.”

”This is a deal worth making.”

Silence settled over the room.

Then Tsunade leaned back slightly.

”Sounds reasonable.”

She looked toward Hiruzen.

”Old Man? Advisor Utatane? Advisor Mitokado?”

Hiruzen slipped his pipe back between his lips and exhaled slowly.

”Hmm… it makes sense.”

Koharu and Homura exchanged a glance, then nodded in turn.

Tsunade tapped the desk once.

”Very well. Send a reply. Konoha agrees to the meeting.”

Decision made.

The Third Hokage and the two advisors departed, the door sliding shut behind them.

Tsunade stared at it for a moment, then leaned back in her chair.

”I never imagined that even Ōnoki—that stubborn old rock—would one day bow first.”

She turned her chair toward the window. Beyond the glass, the stone faces of past Hokage watched over the village in silent permanence.

”Who knows what the Ninja World will look like from here on.”

Roshi had already returned to his documents.

”Conflict will not disappear,” he said calmly. ”It will simply change form.”

Tsunade whipped her chair back around.

”Can’t you be less of a wet blanket for once?” She flicked a document at him like a fan.

Then her brows drew together.

”Speaking of which… Kirigakure has been far too quiet this year. They didn’t even bother to fabricate a proper excuse when declining the Chunin exams.”

Roshi straightened a stack of files without looking up.

”For Kirigakure,” he replied, scanning a report, ”silence is the norm.”

He set the document down.

”They likely have internal matters to resolve.”

And if the Hidden Mist was silent—It only meant the waters beneath were anything but still.

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