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

The air inside the Hokage’s Office felt thick enough to wring out.

Dim light filtered through the window, cutting across the tobacco haze in fractured beams. The drifting smoke blurred Hiruzen’s features, turning the Third Hokage into a shadowed figure behind the veil.

Danzo’s voice broke the silence—low, steady, and heavy, like a stone sinking into still water.

”Hiruzen, that injury report, plain as day. A wound that deep, blood loss, organ rupture… by all rights, no one should have survived.”

His finger tapped the hospital report on the desk. Each dull rap of his knuckles against the parchment drove his words deeper.

Hiruzen did not answer. The ember in his pipe flared and dimmed, the only light in his silence.

They both knew. That report described a certain death, a one-way path to the Memorial Stone. Yet Roshi still walked beneath the sun. Like the smoke between them, the unspoken truth lingered—dense, unyielding, impossible to ignore.

Most of the Senju clan’s Jutsu rested in the Forbidden Archive, entrusted by Tobirama Senju himself. The clan might have developed new techniques before its decline, but what had truly allowed Roshi to cheat death… was not hard to imagine. The risk must have been so great that even Momoka only dared act at the last moment.

Hiruzen drew in a long breath from his pipe, the pungent smoke burning down into his lungs. He exhaled slowly, studying Danzo through the haze.

”What are you trying to say?” His tone was calm, unreadable.

”He’s unfit to lead Itachi Uchiha.” Danzo cut straight to the heart, his words sharp as a blade. ”Give Itachi to me.”

His intent was bare, impossible to mistake. Roshi was nothing but a convenient excuse—Danzo’s true prey had always been the Uchiha prodigy.

Hiruzen’s eyes hardened.

”Impossible.” The word fell like a hammer, final and unbending. Even if Itachi were to undergo special training, he would never be delivered into Root’s hands. ”Fugaku would never allow it.”

And with good reason. Root’s members bore cursed seals—life and death bound to Danzo’s will. To entrust the Uchiha clan head’s son, their brightest hope, to that cage of shadows? Even ordinary clansmen recoiled at Root’s name.

”Fugaku doesn’t need to know.” Danzo’s confidence was chilling, his tone disturbingly casual, as if bending wills was second nature. ”I have ways to make Itachi… join willingly.”

The sharp tap of Hiruzen’s pipe against the desk cracked the air, scattering sparks across the wood.

”No.”

”They’re already stirring!” Danzo’s voice suddenly rose, rough with urgency.

Hiruzen inhaled deeply, smoke curling in his lungs, then released it in a heavy sigh. The haze veiled the weariness etched deep in his eyes.

”The Hidden Cloud has sent signals for peace talks,” he said, shifting the discussion. ”That is our priority now.”

Danzo let out a cold, derisive snort but eventually followed Hiruzen’s lead.

”After their last failed operation, Kumogakure has indeed pulled back from the border.”

”The village can’t hold out much longer either.” Hiruzen’s voice was steady, but the weight behind it was clear. His fingers absently traced the warm curve of the pipe.

Three years of deadlock at the border had drained both sides. For the Hidden Cloud, the true danger wasn’t only mounting casualties. The Land of Lightning was a realm of mountains and cliffs, with little flat ground for farming. Its scarce fertile land grew cash crops for profit. With the collapse of trade with Fire Country and Konoha’s allied nations, their grain imports had all but dried up.

On the surface, Konoha was nothing more than a military village—a hired blade. It had no authority to dictate the Land of Fire’s policies, nor to meddle in foreign trade. But reality rarely aligned with appearances.

Danzo’s Root was never bound by the courtesies of diplomacy. They struck like ghosts across every route, not only ambushing merchant caravans bound for the Land of Lightning with surgical precision, but also turning the spoils into supplies—feeding Konoha’s war machine.

With land routes completely paralyzed, the Land of Lightning was forced to rely on sea transport alone. Grain prices soared, basic goods grew scarce, and civilian life collapsed into hardship. The Raikage, harried by mounting complaints, had been summoned repeatedly by the Daimyō.

The Kumogakure raid that wiped out Roshi’s squad had been the last desperate lunge of an exhausted force. Its failure left only silence—a silence that spoke of collapse.

Konoha, by contrast, still had food and supplies, but years of unending conflict weighed like a millstone, grinding down the villagers’ patience and hope. War-weariness spread like wildfire in the unseen corners of the village.

With Kumogakure now extending an olive branch, both sides had finally reached the end of this war of attrition.

”These past few years, the village has been stretched thin,” Hiruzen said, his voice cool and official once more. ”Too many missions have piled up. Rogue ninja run rampant in the Land of Trees and at Deai Port. Order is fraying. Root will investigate first. Stabilize the situation.”

”I will see to it.” Danzo’s reply was flat, drained of inflection.

He rose with the aid of his cane, his wide robes stirring a faint draft. Two masked Root operatives slipped out of the shadows behind him, their presence quiet, suffocating, like still water.

The heavy doors creaked open. Light from the corridor spilled inside, scattering the gloom and smoke for a brief instant. In that sliver of brightness, Danzo came face-to-face with Roshi, who was just about to knock.

”Advisor.” Roshi inclined his head, his tone even.

Danzo did not break stride. His hawk-like gaze, sharp and merciless, cut across Roshi as if to peel back flesh and lay bare every secret within.

At last, he exhaled a faint, dismissive ”hmph,” and swept past. With the two Root shinobi gliding behind him, the three figures bled back into the darkness of the corridor until they were gone.

Only then did Roshi lift his eyes again and push open the Hokage’s door.

The familiar smell of tobacco, heavy and bitter, mingled with the dry scent of parchment. Roshi approached the desk and set down a paper packet—his compiled mission history and personal records from the past years.

”Hokage-sama.” His voice broke the silence.

The solemn weight on Hiruzen’s face seemed to ease, if only slightly. Setting his pipe aside, he regarded Roshi with a softened, almost paternal gaze.

”You’re here. About the recommendation letters…” He slid open a drawer. ”Hayami and Kaji have already sent theirs.” Producing two sealed scrolls, he placed them neatly on the corner of the desk. ”The assessment mission will focus on specialized ninjutsu evaluation. Your mastery of elemental techniques has always been excellent. This should not pose a problem, should it?”

”I’ll be prepared.” Roshi’s response was sharp, disciplined—no wasted words.

”One more thing.” Hiruzen reached into the drawer again, withdrawing a slim file. He passed it across the desk. ”Regarding your squad members. This child… for certain reasons, we haven’t been able to place her on a team. After consideration, I believe joining yours may be the best option.”

Roshi accepted the file, his eyes falling on the photograph clipped inside.

A short girl with untamed, violet hair stared back at him. Her gaze carried a streak of wildness, and the faint curve of her lips hinted at a careless, mocking smile.

Anko Mitarashi.