The day after the attempted assassinations, the Iron Capital remained tense—its people whispering behind closed doors, and the high lords deliberating in increasingly divided chambers. Daimyō was dead, Renga was poisoned but alive, and the entire court had seen the explosive talents of both Mifune and Jiren.
Takama Gin stood by a window in his private quarters, hands behind his back, his sword unbuckled and set to rest near a lacquered stand. The flickering light of the brazier cast deep shadows across his face as Hinata stepped quietly into the room.
"You wished to speak with me, Father?" she asked, her voice composed but careful.
He turned to face her, giving her a slight nod. "Yes. I wanted to know what you think of Mifune's proposition."
Hinata blinked. "To form a neutral council and avoid choosing between Tenshō and Renga?"
"Exactly."
She hesitated, then sat across from him, her hands folded in her lap. "If you ask from the heart, I would choose the path farthest from Tenshō."
Takama let out a long, measured breath. "That's honest—and understandable. But there's more to consider."
He paced slowly toward the brazier. "Renga has legitimacy. The bloodline, the legacy. He's stronger in technique and is respected by the more traditional samurai. But Tenshō is... charismatic. Clever. Dangerous. And now, with Jiren at his side, far more than just a rogue heir."
Hinata frowned. "Then why not support Renga outright?"
Takama paused. "Because war between the two will tear the country apart. No matter who wins, the cost will be decades of recovery. Bloodshed that invites our enemies to strike. Mifune's plan weakens both without fully destroying either—giving time for the nation to breathe. Furthermore, since I am Renga's father's cousin, allying myself with him would make others think that I am trying to influence him for my own means. In this way, being neutral, I can help him in the shadows and allow young Renga to find his own rhythm. Only then will he be able to fill the void left by his father."
She looked down, her eyes narrowing. "So, you're saying... it's better to let the war loom, to bleed both wolves until one limps forward enough to lead?"
He met her gaze. "It's cruel. But it might be the only way to preserve the Iron Will of this land."
They sat in silence for a moment.
"I don't like it," Hinata admitted.
"Neither do I. But Mifune understands something we often forget—leadership isn't just about victory. It's about inheritance. If either brother wins by obliterating the other, what is left for them to rule?"
He moved to the table and unrolled a map. "I plan to side with Mifune. I want you to understand what that means."
Hinata studied the map. Markers had already been placed—blue for Renga's loyalists, red for Tenshō's growing faction. Takama's markers sat between them, not yet committed.
"There will be pressure. From outside and within."
Orochimaru's symbol rested on the southern edge of the map. "Oto will likely back whoever I support. Their alliance is not based on idealism, but opportunity."
Near the northeastern border, the seal of Takigakure pulsed ominously.
"Taki has already begun to support Tenshō publicly," Takama continued. "And with Jiren operating from within their fold, we can assume more games are already in motion."
Hinata tensed. "Jiren..."
Takama raised an eyebrow. "You felt it too?"
She nodded. "He moved like he was waiting. Not reacting. And he kept watching me. Like... like he knew something."
"He knows what he's doing," Takama said grimly. "And I suspect he has part of the body-forging technique—what I gave to my son before his death. But after the private duel I had with Mifune... the comment Mifune made at the end must have caught the attention of those who were observing from the shadows. I'm certain Jiren suspects I didn't give Aiko everything. That means he'll want more. And if he moves again, it won't be reckless. It will be calculated. We'll have to move carefully too."
Hinata's voice dropped to a whisper. "And what if he finds out about the Silver World?"
Takama's silence was enough.
<<<< o >>>>
Outside, the city bells tolled. In various corners of the country, the heirs began to move.
Renga gathered in the ancestral estate of one of his family's longest allies. The hall was filled with retainers, battle-scarred commanders, and elder samurai—those loyal to tradition and bloodline. A fresh report had arrived: Naoji had been found dead, an apparent ritual suicide. A letter was discovered near his body, claiming responsibility for the assassination attempt on Renga. Renga, grim-faced, read it aloud to his council.
"He confesses to acting alone," he said, setting the parchment down. "But I do not believe this for a moment."
Whispers spread. One of his advisers muttered, "There are rumors you funded the attempt on Tenshō."
Renga stood. "I swear by my sword and my honor, I had no part in such cowardice. This stinks of manipulation—Tenshō's, perhaps. But with Naoji's death, I fear his clan will now turn against us."
<<<< o >>>>
Tenshō, meanwhile, had retreated to a fortified manor near the northern highlands. With him were envoys from Takigakure, and several ambitious samurai, including Norikami, the sharp-eyed tactician he had courted weeks prior. Also present was the elder patriarch of the Naoji family, rage burning in his eyes, demanding justice for his lost heir.
Tenshō listened, calm and charismatic as ever, weaving tales of betrayal and promises of reformation. "Your son died with honor—but not justice. That will be corrected in the new order," he said smoothly. The patriarch nodded slowly.
Thus, the lines began to harden.
<<<< o >>>>
And far away, in a darker hall, Jiren stood before a list of names, eyes narrowed.
"That girl... Hinata, Takama Gin's new daughter..." he murmured. "My instincts... they point to her. She wears this strange tattoo on her forehead, it's not very well known, but is related to the Hyuga clan of Konoha, and the detail that some samurai under Takama also use it, drawn ribbons on their arms, on their belts. Revered by them like a saint."
He tapped one name.
"I'll start with the weak ones. The ones wearing that mark on their belts."
He smiled faintly.
"Even gods leave footprints."