Chapter Text
Chapter 23 The Alliance
The first rays of sunlight brushed against Sakura’s face as she stepped out of the Hokage Tower. Her mission report was filed, her spine ached, and she hadn’t had breakfast—but she was upright and focused.
Something tickled her wrist.
Sakura glanced down.
The three golden grains of sand shimmered faintly against her skin, spinning in a tight, lazy spiral just beneath the fabric of her glove.
"Morning, Suni," she murmured under her breath.
The sand pulsed once, as if in response—too coordinated to be random static. It had started the moment she’d woken up, flickering with a kind of cheerful insistence she wasn’t used to.
Sakura squinted at it. “You’re awfully perky today. What, your boss is in town and suddenly you’re doing jazz hands?”
The grains spun faster in a delighted little circle.
She shook her head and pulled her sleeve up, covering the shimmer.
“Don’t get too sentimental,” she muttered to herself—she was starting to talk to sand like it was a pet.
A very clingy, unpredictable pet tied to one of the most powerful—and least chatty—people she’d ever met.
Still, despite herself, she smiled.
She was headed to the arena where the Hokage would officially announce the alliance between Konoha and Suna.
“Aren’t we a little late, Sakura-chan?”
The thumb-sized Katsuyu peeked out from inside Sakura’s collar, her soft voice barely audible over the rustle of wind.
“We totally are,” Sakura admitted.
They had spent the previous evening on Sakura’s balcony, simply talking and getting to know each other. As Katsuyu shared stories from her realm—strange, serene, and ancient—Sakura had hung onto every word, her mind alight with wonder. The slug summon was like a living legend, a creature pulled from the pages of a fantastical book.
Katsuyu, in turn, had been equally fascinated by her summoner, bombarding Sakura with curious, polite questions about the intricacies of human life. It had been odd, comforting, and unexpectedly fun.
The calm from last night faded with each step.
Katsuyu tucked herself deeper into Sakura’s collar.
The arena loomed ahead—massive, sunlit, and silent.
Carved from pale stone, its circular walls rose like cliffs above her, as Sakura entered through one of the lower arches.
She stepped from shadow into light, the warmth of the early sun pressing against her face. Her footsteps echoed faintly on the smooth ground.
And then she stopped.
The arena floor was packed—rows upon rows of shinobi standing in rigid formation. Thousands.
Chūnin and jōnin lined the inner ring, their uniforms sharp and formal, clustered to one side like a living wall. ANBU stood farther out, masked and still, scattered like shadows across the perimeter—not just for ceremony, but for control.
This wasn’t just a political announcement. This was a show of force. A warning.
Sakura scanned the sea of uniforms, posture tightening. She’d expected tension—but not this .
Across the open space, separated by more than just air, stood the Suna shinobi.
Smaller in number but perfectly ordered, they held their formation with quiet discipline. No shifting feet. No muttered comments. Their eyes were ahead, expressions unreadable.
And around the edges of their group, almost invisible until you knew where to look, stood Suna’s ANBU—masked, still, watching.
The gap between the two villages wasn’t just symbolic. It was enforced.
Sakura moved carefully through the rows, blending into the gathering as best she could while observing everything.
That’s when she noticed it.
A Konoha jōnin muttering something under his breath as he passed a Suna kunoichi. Not loud—but loud enough . Another one smirked as he brushed closer than necessary to a Suna shinobi, head tilted, posture casual in that calculated way.
The Suna shinobi didn’t answer. One narrowed his eyes—just a flicker—then stared straight ahead.
One reached toward a weapon pouch, paused, and retracted the motion so smoothly it was almost unnoticeable.
But Sakura noticed.
They didn’t answer back. Not because they couldn’t—but because they wouldn’t.
Not with the Kazekage in the village.
Not with his ANBU standing watch.
That kind of restraint wasn’t about fear. It was about control. It was power. The Kazekage didn’t need to raise his voice to command the situation. He wasn’t even present—and already the field was holding its breath for him.
Sakura’s jaw tensed. Her steps stayed measured, but the edge behind her eyes sharpened. They shouldn’t have to stand there and take it. Not from our jōnin who know better.
And Konoha’s ANBU? They were here. She could feel them. But none of them were moving.
Until one did.
He flickered into being without sound, stepping cleanly between the jōnin and the Suna formation—tall, cloaked, his raccoon mask smooth and marked with black rings around sharp eyes.
“Shut your mouths,” he said.
The voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be. It cut through the morning like a kunai drawn across a throat.
The Konoha jōnin froze.
Two more ANBU appeared beside him: one with jagged white fangs across his mask, the other with the blank black eyes of a bear. Neither spoke.
Raccoon tilted his head slightly. “Step back,” he said—quieter now, almost bored. “Or I’ll pick one of you at random and let the medics sort out what’s left.”
No one spoke.
The offending jōnin stepped back into formation, eyes lowered, lips sealed.
The ANBU disappeared like mist, dissolving into the perimeter with a precision that said this was nothing new.
Sakura didn’t stop walking. But her stomach was tight. Her pulse was high.
She wasn’t afraid. She was angry. That it had taken
that much
to enforce basic respect. That it had gone unnoticed—no,
tolerated
—until someone dangerous enough decided to step in.
She made her way toward the northern side of the arena, slipping between the still-forming ranks of Konoha shinobi. She was scanning for familiar faces when she saw him.
Standing off by himself, posture stiff, arms tucked behind his back, was Sai.
He wasn’t talking to anyone. Wasn’t blending in. Just… there. Still as a statue. Smiling.
Sakura narrowed her eyes. His expression hadn’t moved since she spotted him. That same unsettling, practiced grin stretched across his face—polite, symmetrical, and completely empty.
Dear gods , she thought. He’s smiling like he’s in a hostage photo.
She walked over anyway—he was her team member now after all.
“Hey,” she said dryly.
Sai turned his head with slow precision. “Hello, Sakura,” he said, voice calm and clear.
“You can stop doing that,” she said, jabbing a finger toward his face.
“Doing what?”
“That.” She mimicked the shape of his mouth with her fingers, exaggerated and grotesque. “The serial killer smile.”
“This is what I was taught,” Sai replied serenely. “I read it in a book called ‘Stealth Gardening and the Emotional Impact of Tulips.’ There was a chapter on smiling. I practiced in the mirror for eleven minutes this morning.”
Sakura opened her mouth, then closed it. “Okay. First of all—what? Second—no. Just no.”
Before Sai could respond with something equally horrifying, a loud bark and a familiar voice rang out.
“Sakuraaa! Oi!”
Kiba barreled into view, Akamaru loping beside him with his tongue out. Behind them followed Shino—calm and composed—and Hinata, one step behind, hands clasped nervously.
Sakura brightened a little. “Hey, guys.”
Kiba reached her first and leaned in dramatically, eyes wide.
“Is it true ? You guys fought the Akatsuki?”
Sakura blinked. “I—how do you even know that?”
“We overheard Asuma-sensei and Kurenai-sensei talking. Is it true ?”
The image of exploding puppets, poison gas, Lady Chiyo and the Kazekage’s lifeless body surged unbidden behind her eyes.
She hesitated. “It’s… complicated.”
“Complicated? That’s a yes!” Kiba practically shouted. “Man, and here I am doing border patrol with Akamaru sniffing old tracks while you’re out there throwing punches at criminal legends.”
Akamaru barked in agreement. Sakura leaned down and scratched behind his right ear—his favorite spot—and he thumped his tail gratefully.
Kiba kept going. “No fair. You guys always get the fun ones. I want one mission where we don’t end up babysitting lost merchants.”
“Perhaps,” Shino said calmly, adjusting his collar, “you complain too much for higher-level assignments.”
Kiba clutched his chest like he'd been shot. “Wow. Okay. Just kick me in the soul next time, Shino.”
“You’d last maybe ten seconds against the Akatsuki,” Sai said suddenly.
Everyone turned.
Kiba squinted. “Sorry—who even are you?”
“This is Sai,” Sakura said, already rubbing the space between her eyebrows. “He’s our new teammate.”
There was a beat of silence so complete you could hear Akamaru’s tail stop wagging.
“Wait— whaaaaaat ?” Kiba blinked. “A new member of Team 7?”
Hinata looked startled. Even Shino paused.
Sai stepped forward slightly with his paint-thin smile. “Yes. I am replacing the emotionally compromised member.”
Sakura inhaled sharply. “Please don’t say that out loud.”
“But that is what happened.”
“You can just say I’m with Team 7 now ,” she hissed under her breath.
Sai considered that.
“I see. Less accurate, but socially preferable.”
Then, almost kindly, he added, “You should not be sad. Statistically, teams with a traitorous member have lower survival rates. I am the safer option.”
There was a horrified silence.
Then, Hinata stepped forward with a small, hesitant smile.
“Um… I’m Hinata. It’s nice to meet you…”
Sai turned to her, studying her face with clinical focus.
“Your facial proportions align with what the general population rates as desirable. Congratulations.”
Hinata’s smile faltered. Her pale eyes widened as she took a step back, cheeks blazing red.
Kiba blinked. “What is this guy?”
Sakura sighed, now pinching the bridge of her nose. “Sai.”
He turned to her, still smiling like he’d done something helpful.
“Stop talking,” she said.
Before the conversation could continue, a hush rolled through the arena like a dropped veil.
Laughter died, movements stilled, and every head turned toward the great wooden doors at the far end of the Konoha Coliseum.
A low, anticipatory murmur rippled through the crowd—a sound that didn’t belong to speech but to instinct.
The doors creaked open.
Light poured in, gilding the figures who emerged in stark silhouette. First came familiar faces: Inoichi, Shikaku, Shibi, Chōza, Tsume, Hiashi, Asuma-sensei, and Kakashi-sensei—their expressions carved from stone, unreadable. Then came Baki with his usual military stiffness, trailed by several Suna jōnin, all of them looking equally thrilled to be on foreign soil.
Sakura’s eyes flicked instinctively to her sensei—and then to the man beside him.
Asuma-sensei stood unusually still. No cigarette, no slouch, no half-smile to pretend this was just another day in the field.
His hands hung loose at his sides, his jaw set tight. If you didn’t know him, you might think he was calm.
A stranger might’ve thought so. But Sakura recognized the tension tucked into the corners of his posture. The quiet unease of a man who hated politics more than he hated genin paperwork.
And Kakashi-sensei wasn’t faring any better.
He leaned into his usual slouch, hands deep in his pockets, the picture of indifference—if you didn’t know what to look for.
Sakura did.
That posture wasn’t ease; it was armor. A careful calibration of weight and breath. The way he favored one side. The faint stiffness in his shoulders when he turned. The kind of restraint that said: still not at full capacity, but don’t ask.
He was out of the hospital for this, yes. Presentable. Functional. But she could see it plain as day with her medically trained eyes—he wasn’t done healing. Not really.
Tsunade had probably pulled rank to get him here. Visibility, she would’ve said. Symbolism. He doesn’t need to run laps, just stand upright and behave.
Which he was doing. Barely.
He could likely still take most of the room in a fight.
He just might collapse afterward.
And of course, he’d never admit that—not with a kunai to his throat.
So he stood there, expression unreadable, presence steady, doing what he always did when the village needed the copy ninja to be something solid:
He endured.
She knew he hated this. Being on display. No Icha Icha to pretend to read. No emergency to vanish into. Not even a D-rank anecdote to misdirect with—not that they ever worked.
Just him. Fully clothed. Uncomfortably visible.
Kakashi-sensei didn’t merely dislike attention—he treated it like a poorly set trap: best avoided, preferably dismantled from a safe distance. Praise made him twitchy. Recognition made him quieter. And yet here he was, standing beside the clan heads, the reluctant emblem of a clan no one mentioned—except in hushed tones, or classified files.
The thought made her stomach twist.
The Hatake clan . She barely knew what that even meant. No public records. No scrolls in the archives. Just redacted files and vanished history—whole decades wiped out, like someone had gone through with a censor’s brush and blacked out anything with a heartbeat. It reminded her of the Uchiha records after the massacre.
He’d never spoken of it. Not once. Even after Lady Chiyo had lunged at him in Suna, spitting the name “White Fang” like a crazy woman, he hadn’t offered a word of explanation. Just a calm, dispassionate correction: You’re thinking of my father.
The White Fang . Hero, traitor, ghost—depending on who you asked. The stories had never agreed. Some made him sound like a rogue who answered to no one. Others, like a broken relic of war. Either way, the name was never neutral. Neither was Kakashi-sensei’s.
And yet, her parents had always held the line. When she came home parroting schoolyard rumors, her father had cut them short with quiet certainty: “The White Fang was a hero. But a scarred one. He carried burdens no one should have to carry alone.”
Back then, she hadn’t known what that meant.
Now she was starting to.
When Kakashi-sensei had first been named their team leader, she hadn’t questioned it. She’d been too busy spiraling into her own inadequacies to wonder why
he
had been chosen.
But the village had questioned it. She remembered the whispers now. The side-eyes. Not just at her, but at
him
.
That someone like him—with that name—shouldn’t be trusted with genin.
That a Hatake wasn’t fit to lead.
He’d stood beside them anyway, still and silent, letting the judgment pass over him like weather. No rebuttal. No reaction. Just the hitai-ate slanted over his Sharingan, and that mask of easy boredom she now knew better than to trust.
He never offered explanations. She’d never asked.
And there was still so much she didn’t understand about the people she trusted most. The things they carried and never said. The weight they wore like a shield—visible only to those who knew how to look.
And maybe—just maybe—if the world had tilted a little differently…
Sasuke would’ve been up there, too. Standing beside Kakashi-sensei—not as a missing-nin, but as the Uchiha heir. Not a threat. A shield.
He wouldn’t have liked it, of course. He’d have stood there with that signature scowl, arms crossed, refusing to acknowledge anyone unless absolutely necessary. The silence would’ve been cutting. The glare, effortless.
Just that cold, unreadable presence—annoyed, probably, by the formality of it all.
But he would’ve been there.
And the image stung, because it felt almost possible. Like a dream she hadn’t meant to believe in—but had, anyway.
Now there was only absence. A shape where he should have stood. A silence too loud to ignore.
Her gaze shifted as Jiraiya approached, flanked by two strangers Sakura didn’t recognize.
One was a short, broad-shouldered man with a weathered face, sun-darkened skin, and spiky orange hair flecked with gray. He moved with a limp, leaning on a cane—but there was nothing frail about him. Every step radiated quiet power, the kind that didn’t need to be announced.
Beside him walked a striking woman in flowing robes, her movements serene and deliberate—the kind of poise that only came from years of being watched and never blinking. Her long blond hair shimmered in the sunlight, and her brown eyes were calm, discerning.
If Ino ever aged into her final form, Sakura thought, it might look like this woman—elegance sharpened into weaponry.
—Yes, a woman that made every girl in the world doubt herself completely.
They approached the Suna shinobi standing at attention, nodding once. The cane struck the ground with a metallic click that echoed louder than it should have.
Sakura watched as the elders filed onto the platform, led by Danzo himself.
The man’s presence was like a shadow, casting a pall over the proceedings. His one eye—cold, calculating, soulless—swept across the gathered crowd like a hawk looking for weakness.
Her hands curled into fists.
Sai had told them everything. That bastard hadn’t just ordered Sai to kill Sasuke—he’d been quietly trying to seize Konoha from within for years. Pulling strings in the dark. Using his little militarized elite division to push his agenda into the light.
She’d tried to warn Tsunade. But the moment Sakura mentioned his name, her Shishō had cut her off with a sharp look and a warning:
“There are ears everywhere.”
Still, a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth now.
The alliance with Suna—the Kazekage’s presence here, the strength of it—could never have been Danzo’s plan.
No, this display of force wasn’t for the crowd. It wasn’t even for the elders.
It was for him.
Thousands of shinobi, standing in perfect formation. The coordinated silence. The overwhelming unity of two great villages presenting as one. It wasn’t subtle—and it wasn’t meant to be.
Her Shishō and the Kazekage had built this moment like a trap: not with wires or fūinjutsu, but with precision, presence, and power. A warning wrapped in ceremony. You are not the only one who moves in shadows.
She imagined a similar show being prepared for Suna’s side of the alliance. When Ritomi and Jonobu stepped into their version of this arena, it would be just as loud—without a single word spoken.
Let them watch. Let them feel the walls closing in.
—That alone gave her a flicker of satisfaction.
The old bastard is probably bursting at the seams.
That’s when she felt it.
A pulse—gentle, but insistent—from the sand grains coiled around her wrist. Her skin prickled. Her breath caught.
She didn’t need to look to know who was coming next.
Sunlight flared as two more figures stepped through the threshold.
A silence dropped heavier than any jutsu. Even the wind seemed to pause.
The Kazekage walked at Tsunade’s side, a quiet storm in green and white robes. His presence cut through the noise of the world like a blade—calm, cold, and utterly commanding.
His teal eyes, sharp, cold and distant, scanned the arena with the controlled force of someone used to both reverence and war.
Gasps and whispers spread like sparks in dry grass.
The Konoha jōnin who had been out of line earlier? They weren’t smirking now. Some of them stepped back without realizing it. A few lowered their gazes like prey pretending not to be seen.
“He’s terrifying,” someone close to her breathed.
“No—he’s magnificent,” came the reply.
He moved like the desert itself—implacable, ancient, dangerous. The wind teased his unruly red hair, and for a heartbeat, it looked less like hair and more like fire caught mid-motion.
Near Sakura, two kunoichi tried and failed to whisper discreetly.
“Can you believe that’s the same monster boy who attacked us?”
“Well. Monster boy turned into damn god now.”
Sakura’s lips twitched, but her eyes stayed on the young ruler.
They had some nerve, saying that about the Kazekage at an official event. If it had been fear, she could’ve understood.
But this wasn’t fear.
This was something uglier—a warped blend of contempt and want, the kind of fascination that turned people cruel when they didn’t know what to do with their awe. As if reducing him to a punchline made him less untouchable.
Sakura’s jaw tensed.
She didn’t appreciate their gossip—or the way they said it—but she couldn’t deny some truth of it.
He had changed. Visibly. And for the… even better.
The slight gauntness left by his death had faded within a few days. His frame looked stronger, his movements more fluid. Even his features had sharpened further, refined by recovery.
Objectively , she noted, as a medic , he looked… well.
Extremely well.
Tsunade, beside him, was a force of her own. Her white and red robes flared as she strode forward, chin high, eyes fierce. If the Kazekage was a desert storm, she was the mountain it crashed against—unyielding.
The two Kage stopped at the railing and exchanged a look—brief but laden with unspoken meaning. Then Tsunade stepped forward.
“All right, you scruffy lot!” she barked, voice cracking across the arena like a whip. “Eyes up and mouths shut. This isn’t just another day of sparring and paperwork. What’s happening here is bigger than any of you—and it’s time you started acting like it!”
The crowd jolted to attention.
Sakura felt the corner of her mouth twitch. Classic Shishō.
Tsunade’s tone shifted, steady and deliberate. “It is my honor to announce a formal alliance between the Village of the Leaf and the Village of the Sand.”
Gasps and low murmurs rippled through the crowd like the rustling of dry leaves before a storm. Even seasoned jonin straightened in disbelief—this kind of alliance was unheard of.
The two villages had been enemies for most of their history. Cautious allies, maybe. But this ?
Tsunade didn’t give them time to react.
“Now, before you all start yapping like a pack of dogs,” she snapped, her gaze razor-sharp, “let me make one thing perfectly clear. We are facing dark times. You think this is about politics? Think again.”
Silence fell again, heavier now.
“The Akatsuki have grown in power. They’ve already hunted and killed multiple Jinchūriki. This is not rumor. This is fact.”
Her voice dropped, hard as stone. “They are not after territory or money. They want the tailed beasts—for reasons we still don’t fully understand. And if they succeed, the consequences will be catastrophic.”
Sakura felt it like a blow to the chest. The image of Naruto flashed through her mind—then the Kazekage.
She scanned the crowd. Team 8. Sai. Kiba’s usual smirk was gone. Everyone was listening now.
“That’s why we’ve forged this alliance,” Tsunade continued, her tone leaving no room for debate. “When the Kazekage was taken, Konoha answered the call. And now, we stand as one.”
Across the platform, the Kazekage inclined his head in subtle acknowledgment. His expression was unreadable, but the gesture was enough. The air between him and the Hokage was not warm—but it was ironclad.
“Now listen, because I’ll only say this once,” Tsunade growled, her voice rising like a coming wave. “We are heading toward war.”
Sakura’s heart lurched. She new about the the alliance but war…?
The word echoed like a dropped kunai in the silence that followed.
All around her, shinobi tensed. The bravado drained from even the loudest squads. No one was laughing now. They were hearing the truth in Tsunade’s voice—and the future crashing toward them like a storm.
“The road ahead will be brutal,” Tsunade said, her voice echoing through the arena. “Some of you will not make it to the other side. That’s the reality. But we don’t have the luxury of hesitation. Akatsuki must be stopped—before they unravel everything we’ve bled to protect.”
She took a step forward.
“Konoha and Suna will train together. You’ll fight together. Trust each other. Because if you don’t, you’ll die alone. And I won’t be burying shinobi who couldn’t get over old grudges fast enough to watch each other’s backs.”
Her eyes scanned the sea of faces, hard and unflinching.
“The Kazekage’s word holds the same weight as mine here in Konoha. Let that sink in. We are united. Our enemies should tremble for ever thinking we would not be.”
A final pause.
“For our villages. For our loved ones. For the future— we will not fail. ”
The arena was still.
No applause. No cheers. Just the cold, sharp silence of shinobi absorbing the truth of what lay ahead.
Both Kage stepped back. Then, with measured purpose, Shikaku Nara stepped forward.
The seasoned jōnin's sharp gaze swept the crowd, his presence quiet but commanding. When he spoke, his voice carried with the weight of someone who had already calculated the cost of failure.
“Listen closely,” he said, his tone like steel drawn from its sheath. “From this moment on, Konoha and Suna are one. Your rivalries, your grudges, your misplaced loyalties—leave them behind.”
His eyes narrowed, and the arena felt smaller beneath the pressure of his stare.
“You will train together. Learn together. Be assigned together. And when the time comes—you will fight together. Any failure to do so will be met with the harshest consequences. This is not negotiable.”
A murmur began to rise, but Shikaku raised one hand—just a simple gesture—and the sound died immediately.
"You will report to the posts stationed around the arena," he commanded, "and there, you will receive personalized scrolls detailing your training schedules, assignments, and duties. These are not mere schedules, but your rules of engagement. You will leave your blood fingerprint to activate and access the information, and you will follow them to the letter."
The silence deepened.
“Your lives depend on this,” he said, voice dropping to a quieter, deadlier register. “This is no longer about individual skill. This is war. And war demands unity. Your pride, your ambition, your excuses—leave them at the gate.”
He let that sink in. No one moved.
“All chūnin-level shinobi and above will undergo ANBU-level training,” he said. “Your regimens will rotate across both villages. You’ll serve clan duties, reconnaissance, sabotage—whatever your scroll demands. Memorize them. Internalize them. Your lives—and the lives of those beside you—may depend on it.”
His gaze swept across the crowd once more. It was not angry. It was cold. Tactical.
“For questions, consult your commanding officers. This operation is our best chance at survival. If we fracture, if we hesitate— we die. Let me be clear: this isn’t a threat. It’s a promise.”
With a final nod, Shikaku turned on his heel, leaving the assembled shinobi to absorb the brutal truth.
The air was heavy. No one spoke. The war had not yet begun—but its shadow had already fallen.
X
Gripping her scroll tightly, Sakura leaned against the cool stone wall of one of the arena’s inner corridors, her breath shallow as she tried to process the weight of Shikaku’s words. After the Kage’s address, the arena had descended into a hushed chaos—murmurs, hurried footsteps, the rustle of scrolls being opened. The gravity of what they had just heard hung over every movement like a storm cloud.
Somewhere in the shuffle, she’d been separated from the others. She didn’t mind. Alone, she could breathe.
She exhaled slowly, forcing herself into stillness, then unrolled the thick, crimson-edged scroll in her hands. At first, the parchment remained blank. Then, with a quiet shimmer of chakra, ink began to bloom across its surface—black, crisp, and precise.
Her eyes scanned the schedule as it took form.
Today alone was a storm: training rotations, tactical briefings, medical triage prep. Her brow furrowed as she took in the layering of duties. Exhaustion already ghosted in her bones.
Then her gaze caught on a particular line slotted for tomorrow.
She gaped.
“Seduction training?” she murmured, barely audible.
Her stomach twisted—not with fear, exactly, but something sharper. Seriously?
She had faced monsters and poisoned puppets. She’d learned to heal crushed bones and torn arteries while fighting. But now they expected her to flirt with murderers?
Is this how we’re supposed to fight Akatsuki now? By batting our eyelashes?
Her brain helpfully conjured an image: her, winking awkwardly at some S-rank psychopath, maybe blowing a kiss.
Absolutely not.
There is no universe where that works.
I’m going to die.
She shook her head, lips pressing into a dry line. This wasn’t a joke. It was strategy. She knew that. Still—it felt absurd.
And, if she was honest, a little terrifying.
The harsh tick of a nearby clock snapped her attention forward.
Her eyes darted to the time and back to the scroll.
Intelligence Headquarters. “Classified.” Start time: twenty minutes.
Sakura rolled the scroll tight and straightened from the wall.
Her heart was still pounding, but her steps were already moving forward.
There would be time to question things later.
Right now, she had a war to prepare for.
X
As she approached the imposing, featureless structure, memories surfaced—faint and sunlit. She and Ino used to stop by here before they were even Academy students, trailing behind Inoichi like ducklings. Back then, the shinobi at the gates had always greeted them with smiles and soft amusement, and Inoichi-san would sometimes treat them to ice cream after his shift, proud and indulgent.
They’d always treated Sakura kindly—partly because she was polite, but mostly because she and Ino were inseparable back then. Being the best friend of the Yamanaka clan’s bright young protégé had its advantages, and Sakura had basked in that reflected warmth without really thinking about it.
That warmth was long gone…
The shinobi who once waved them in were nowhere to be seen, replaced now by a trio of stone-faced sentries who eyed Sakura with clinical detachment. No smiles. No recognition. Just protocol.
A chill threaded down her spine as she was silently ushered through a maze of sterile corridors. The air inside was unnaturally cold, like the whole building was exhaling frost.
Doors buzzed faintly behind their frames, hints of muffled activity within—but the silence in the halls was suffocating.
The only sound was the dull echo of their footsteps.
Eventually, her escort stopped in front of a door exactly as nondescript as the last dozen.
"This is it," the shinobi said flatly, nodding once. "They’re expecting you."
Sakura exhaled, squared her shoulders, and reached for the handle. The door swung open with smooth, silent efficiency.
"FOREHEAD!!!"
Sakura barely had time to brace herself before a whirlwind of blond satin hair and designer perfume slammed into her, the force of the impact nearly knocking her off her feet.
"Hi, Pig," she managed to wheeze, awkwardly patting Ino's back as the other girl squeezed the life out of her.
"Where have you been ? Avoiding me?" she demanded, lower lip jutted out in full dramatic pout.
Sakura gave her a flat look. "Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve been on missions. Remember those? You know, the job ?"
"Ugh," Ino sighed, flipping her hair. "Yes, yes, you’re a very important kunoichi with top secret assignments. But some of us worry, you know?"
Sakura snorted. “Some of us just want gossip.”
Ino grinned. “Both can be true.”
Sakura rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth softened. Ino hadn’t changed a bit—loud, dramatic, relentless. Familiar in a way that made something in Sakura’s chest unclench.
"Still," Ino added, nudging her with an elbow, "you disappear for weeks, and I get nothing? No scroll, no coded message, not even a cryptic flower arrangement?"
Sakura huffed a laugh. "Sorry. My life’s just been... complicated."
"Oh, please," Ino scoffed, bumping her shoulder again. “As if that’s a valid excuse to ignore your best friend . Honestly, Forehead, I’m starting to think you’ve replaced me with some hot, mysterious, exotic shinobi from a far-off land.”
Sakura’s treacherous brain chose that moment to offer the memory of the Kazekage, soaked and half-dressed, pressing her against the wall of his mansion’s corridor—cold stone at her back, his breath a quiet weight against her skin.
She winced internally. Absolutely not.
If Ino ever caught wind of that scene, she’d twist it into something it wasn’t—something unspeakable—and have it circulating around Konoha by sundown. There would be fanfiction. Probably not written kindly about her.
The Kazekage’s reputation—and hers—would never recover.
“Well… yeah, kinda,” Sakura deadpanned, barely dodging Ino’s retaliatory swat.
After Ino had finally released her from the death hug, Sakura took a breath and surveyed the room.
The usual suspects were all there: the Konoha 11 scattered across the space like they were avoiding assigned seats, Jiraiya was already deep in conversation with Shino, Iruka-sensei and Neji—some animated story involving toads, battle formations, and what sounded suspiciously like unsolicited life advice.
Iruka-sensei looked like he desperately wished he wasn’t invited, Guy was practically vibrating with energy, and Kurenai was locked in a heated debate with a surprisingly animated Asuma.
Only Kakashi-sensei, Yamato- taichou and Naruto were missing.
"You should cut her some slack, Ino," Kiba called from across the room, grinning like he’d just poked a bear. “After all, she only went and killed an Akatsuki-memer. No big deal.”
Ino blinked. Once. Twice. Her jaw dropped.
She resembled a stunned goldfish—an angry, stylish goldfish.
“She… she did what ?!”
Sakura flushed. Around her, a few gasps rang out like popcorn kernels going off.
“Well, it wasn’t just me, per se…” she mumbled, suddenly finding the scuffed tile floor very interesting.
Then the door behind her opened.
Every head turned.
Sai entered with his signature unnerving grace, his expression fixed in that perfectly wrong fake smile. “Hi,” he said, eyes immediately settling on Sakura.
“Hey, Sai,” she replied with a weak smile, acutely aware of the entire room watching them like hawks.
Right on cue, Ino squealed in her ear like an excited mosquito.
“Yo! Forehead, who is this hottie?!”
Of course…
Might as well get it over with.
Sakura turned. “Everyone, this is Sai. He’s been assigned to our team. Sai, meet the gang.”
A beat of awkward silence followed. Then a scatter of nods and muttered greetings—though Ino’s voice, predictably, cut through it all.
“ Whaaaaat?! Why do you get all the good-looking guys?”
“Thanks, Ino,” Shikamaru muttered, not even looking up.
Chōji chuckled, already digging into a bag of chips. “Ino, you’re more interested in the guys than the actual mission.”
That earned him a glare so sharp it could have qualified as a jutsu.
“Another troublemaker on the team,” Shikamaru sighed, lounging against the wall like he’d already given up. “Just what we needed.”
Sai responded with a blank stare. The smile remained plastered on his face, but his eyes—sharp, detached—betrayed a quiet vigilance. He was already sizing up the room, taking mental inventory of every expression, every posture, every unspoken thread of loyalty that wove the group together.
"Good to meet you all," he said at last. Flat. Polite. Completely devoid of feeling.
Before anyone could respond, the door slammed open with a deafening BANG . Several people flinched instinctively, hands twitching toward their weapons out of habit.
Tsunade swept into the room, all command and purpose, with Ibiki Morino a silent storm at her side. The shift in atmosphere was immediate.
Tsunade’s gaze swept over the assembled shinobi like a blade. Evaluating. Measuring. No one spoke.
Something serious was about to begin.
Tsunade’s piercing gaze swept the room. “Sit down. All of you,” she said—no room for protest, no soft edge in her tone.
Chairs scraped. Conversations died. Within seconds, everyone was seated, the weight of her presence anchoring them in place.
“You are the people closest to Naruto—Konoha’s jinchūriki,” she began, voice firm. “That is why I’ve called you here today.”
She paused, letting the words settle like a stone in still water.
“The Akatsuki will come for him—and for the Nine-Tails. If they succeed in extracting the beast, Naruto will die. And once they hold the power of all the Bijū... they’ll be able to wipe any village off the map- Without warning. Without mercy.”
Sakura felt her heart clench, a tight ache blooming in her chest. The image of Naruto laughing, carefree and full of life, flashed in her mind—and then the vision twisted, turned hollow.
Tsunade’s voice cut through the tension. “That is why I have chosen you to form a new unit.”
The silence in the room shifted—no longer heavy, but alert.
“Your mission is to protect Naruto from the Akatsuki and any other threat that emerges. This will be a top-tier assignment. The most rigorous training. The most dangerous missions.”
Her eyes narrowed, voice sharpening like a blade.
“At least one of you will always be assigned to guard duty when Naruto leaves the village. The rest of you will rotate through ANBU-level training—specialized, brutal, and unforgiving.”
She scanned the room slowly, letting the next words land with weight.
“And be warned: this training is not symbolic. It is not a gesture. If you fail, you fail out of the program. There is no do-over, no fallback. Too much is riding on this unit to accommodate weakness.”
Sakura felt the pressure in the room shift—an invisible weight descending on them all.
“You will obey. You will perform. You will endure. You will execute every order without hesitation. Because this isn’t about rank or pride—it’s about survival. Naruto’s. Konoha’s. Yours. ”
Tsunade’s voice dropped slightly, but it was no less commanding.
“Those of you who succeed will climb the ranks. You’ll gain access to deeper levels of intelligence, combat techniques, and tools meant only for shinobi trusted to guard a living weapon. You will be shaped into his last line of defense. And there can be no weak link.”
“And I understand,” she added, “that many of you are heirs or prodigies of your clans. I know your families may expect you to step into leadership roles, to uphold ancient responsibilities. But let me be clear—this unit’s duty will, at times, take precedence over those expectations. If your clan obligations conflict with this mission, I will not guarantee your absence. Naruto’s safety will always come first.”
She let that settle before continuing, her tone calm but firm.
“I will never act out of spite toward any clan—Hyūga, Aburame, Nara, Yamanaka, Akimichi, or any other. My decisions will be based solely on Naruto’s security and on careful strategic judgment. I expect each of you——to respect that.”
Sakura glanced around.
Determination was etched across every face—no one here was taking this lightly.
Tsunade let out a slow breath. “I won’t sugar-coat this. The path ahead will push you beyond exhaustion. But the fate of our village—and the peace we’ve fought to maintain—rests on Naruto’s survival. And that means it rests on you .”
She paused. “The Kazekage has already pledged his support to this unit. So have Temari and Kankurō. Kakashi as well. They understand the stakes. They’ve already begun preparing.”
Tsunade continued, voice turning cold again.
“This unit is classified. No one outside this room is to know of its existence— especially not Naruto . Your discretion is paramount. If you cannot commit to this, now is the time to speak. I will not hold it against you.”
Silence.
Not a word. Not a breath.
Sakura let her gaze sweep the room, taking in the familiar faces that surrounded her—friends, teammates, and some of the most gifted clan heirs in the village. Each one born into legacy, expectations, and bloodlines that came with pre-written futures. Techniques passed down like heirlooms. Access. Influence. Training from the moment they could stand. All the invisible privileges that shaped a shinobi before they ever entered the Academy.
And the quiet pressure of centuries pressing on their shoulders.
She didn’t pretend to fully understand what that felt like. She hadn’t been raised under a clan’s banner. No inherited jutsu. No compound or crest. Just her parents, her textbooks, and the raw need to prove she could stand beside people like them.
But she understood enough to know what it cost.
Neji sat with his back perfectly straight, every inch the Hyūga elite—precise, disciplined, impossible to shake. But Sakura’s eyes shifted to Hinata, seated a few spots down.
Quiet. Composed. So often overlooked.
But not here. Not now. Not by anyone in this room.
Hinata was no longer just the shy heiress with a soft voice. She had carved her place through endurance, not entitlement. Grit, not just blood. And if her ever-serene, borderline robotic father noticed, he showed all the warmth of a chalkboard.
Hiashi Hyūga had the emotional depth of a boulder. If Hinata cracked the moon in half, he’d probably just nod and critique her stance.
And still—somehow—Hinata had always carried her feelings for Naruto openly. Not loudly, but honestly. As clear as daylight to anyone who looked beyond her quiet exterior.
Sakura had seen it for years. The way Hinata froze when Naruto’s voice got too close. The blushes that made her look like she might combust. And even now—stronger, steadier—that feeling was still there. Undimmed. Undeniable.
She sat tall now, hands folded neatly in her lap, pale eyes lit with quiet resolve. The same shy girl, yes—but sharpened by years of work no one had noticed until it was too late to ignore.
Sakura respected that.
Shino gave away nothing, as usual—but his posture had shifted. A subtle, deliberate adjustment. No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just silent, unwavering commitment.
Even Shikamaru—who treated most things as an irritating obligation—was leaning forward now, elbows braced on his knees. He looked tired, like always. But beneath the slouch and sighs lived a mind like a steel trap. And right now, it was locked on the mission. Focused. Calculating. Dangerous, in that quiet way only a Nara could be.
Ino, usually the loudest person in any room, sat perfectly still. Her face calm, composed. No visible cracks. But there was a weight to her silence—like a thread pulled taut, not brittle but tightly held.
Chōji sat beside her, fingers laced tightly in his lap. Steady. Grounded. He wasn’t searching for reassurance. He was simply waiting. Ready.
And Kiba—loud, reactive, always the first to challenge Naruto and the first to defend him—looked like he was preparing for a fight. Jaw set. Shoulders squared. There was nothing playful in his eyes now—only a fierce, unshakable loyalty.
They were all clan heirs. Leaders in the making. Some already walking that path.
And alongside them were others—no famous names, no inherited jutsu—but every bit as skilled, as willing, as chosen.
And not one of them had hesitated. No one asked for clarification. No one needed to.
They chose this. Freely. Fully. Whatever it meant for them, their families—they’d deal with the fallout later.
Tsunade gave a single, sharp nod. And for the briefest moment, a flicker of pride crossed her face—gone as quickly as it came.
“Very well. Naruto is currently in the hospital, discussing his next training phase with Kakashi and Yamato,” she said. “Yamato has officially joined Team Seven as a permanent member. He’ll act as your field captain on designated missions.”
Sakura felt the weight of several glances shift in her direction. Brief. Inquisitive. They didn’t ask—but they would later.
She could already hear Ino’s voice in her head: When exactly were you planning to mention that, forehead?
Tsunade continued, her tone all business. “The rest of you will begin your specialized training immediately. That’s all for now.”