The morning light was pale and thin, filtering through the paper screens of Renjiro's home in soft, diffused bands. Dust motes danced in the golden beams, undisturbed by any breeze, as Renjiro sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by a scattered army of scrolls.
They covered every available surface—unrolled maps of political alliances, lists of jōnin names with annotations beside them, notes on clan histories and inter-clan relationships, diagrams of influence networks that spiderwebbed across the village.
He had been at this for hours. Since before dawn, since the first hint of grey in the eastern sky, his mind had been turning over the problem like a puzzle box with no obvious solution.
"How to help Fugaku win, or at least appear doing so"
He considered every angle, every possibility, every lever of influence he might possess. Personal persuasion of key jōnin—he could do that. His war reputation carried weight; shinobi who had fought alongside him, who had seen him hold lines and break enemy formations, might listen when he spoke.
Leveraging relationships with other clans—the Inuzuka respected him, the Aburame were at least cordial, the Hatake were practically family through Kakashi. Influencing neutral commanders—those jōnin who owed allegiance to no single clan, who voted based on their assessment of the candidates rather than political pressure.
But as he thought deeper, a realisation slowly crystallised.
'My soft power isn't as strong as I assumed.'
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, a wry smile tugging at his lips. 'I could always tell Fugaku to use me as a potential suitor for another clan. Trade me like a bargaining chip in exchange for cooperation. "Vote for Fugaku, and you get Renjiro married into your clan." '
The thought was absurd enough to make him chuckle, but beneath the humour lay a serious point. His value to the clan was, in many ways, transactional. Strength. Reputation. Potential. All things that could be measured, weighed and traded.
He analysed it honestly, forcing himself to see the situation without ego.
Many jōnin respected him from the war. They had seen him fight, had witnessed the impossible things he could do. But respect wasn't the same as political loyalty.
When it came time to cast their votes, most jōnin would follow their clan heads or direct commanders. Their personal opinions of Renjiro might influence their thinking around the edges, but it wouldn't determine their final choice.
'I can sway opinions,' he realised. 'But I can't command decisions.'
The distinction was crucial. He could advocate, persuade, influence—but he could not deliver. Could not guarantee. Could not point to a block of votes and say, 'These are mine.'
That realisation forced him to rethink everything.
He leaned back further, letting his head rest against the tatami mat, staring at the wooden beams of his ceiling. His thoughts drifted, becoming more introspective.
'Why did I really agree to help Fugaku?'
The question was honest, self-critical. He examined his motives the way he might examine an enemy's formation—looking for weaknesses, hidden assumptions, unacknowledged biases.
He was already planning to leave the Uchiha clan. That decision was made, the path chosen, the first steps already taken. Breaking the engagement with Nakada was only the beginning. His relationship with the clan would inevitably weaken, fray, eventually sever.
Helping Fugaku now was a political buffer.
When Fugaku failed—and Renjiro was certain he would fail, because Minato's victory was written in the timeline he remembered—Renjiro could point to his efforts. He had tried. He had supported the clan leadership. He had done everything asked of him.
That would make his eventual departure harder to frame as betrayal. Harder to paint as disloyalty. Harder to use against him.
'Strategic and preemptive damage control,' he thought. 'Nothing more.'
The realisation was cold, but honest. He wasn't helping Fugaku because he believed in him, or because he wanted an Uchiha Hokage, or because he felt any particular loyalty to the clan. He was helping because it served his long-term interests.
He filed that thought away and returned to the scrolls.
"Thinking too hard?"
The voice cut through his concentration like a kunai through paper. Renjiro's head snapped toward the entrance, his body instinctively tensing before recognition flooded in.
Kakashi stood in his doorway, leaning against the frame with that characteristic slouch that somehow managed to be both casual and alert. His visible eye curved in what might have been amusement beneath the mask.
Renjiro raised an eyebrow. "Do you ever knock?"
"Do you ever lock your door?" Kakashi countered, already walking inside and dropping onto a nearby seat with the easy familiarity of someone who had been here many times before.
Renjiro sighed, rolling up one of the scrolls. "What do you want?"
Kakashi got straight to the point. "You promised to train me. Remember?"
The tone was casual, but beneath it lay determination. Kakashi hadn't forgotten the humiliation of being caught off guard, of being too slow to activate his Sharingan, of waking up in his boxers with a condescending note.
Renjiro's lips curved into a slight smirk. "I remember offering it up, not promising you."
"Same thing." Kakashi crossed his arms. "When do we start?"
Before Renjiro could answer, Kakashi continued, his tone shifting to something more serious.
"The elders sent a formal notice. Village council meeting in two weeks."
Renjiro's attention sharpened immediately. Two weeks. That was longer than expected.
"That meeting will likely be the official start of Hokage deliberations," he said, half to himself, half to Kakashi.
Kakashi nodded.
Renjiro frowned, thinking out loud. "Two weeks is a long time. Would the Daimyo stay in Konoha that long?"
He glanced at Kakashi. "The Hokage selection requires his approval. His presence matters politically."
Kakashi said nothing.
Renjiro's eyes narrowed slightly. That silence was suspicious. He knew Kakashi well enough by now to recognise when the man was hiding something.
"You're being quiet," Renjiro observed, his voice calm but probing.
Kakashi remained silent.
That confirmed it.
Renjiro slowly stood up from his seated position. The movement was unhurried, deliberate—the kind of casual grace that predators used when they didn't want to spook their prey too soon.
He began walking toward Kakashi.
Kakashi noticed immediately. His visible eye widened slightly, and he shifted back in his seat—just a fraction, just enough to show discomfort.
"Don't."
Renjiro kept walking.
"Don't even think about it."
Renjiro tilted his head, still approaching.
Kakashi's voice became more urgent, losing its casual edge entirely. "Don't use another genjutsu on me!"
The words came out in a rush, and Renjiro stopped a few steps away. He could see the memory playing behind Kakashi's eye—the last time, the forced information extraction, the embarrassment of waking up disoriented and half-dressed.
Renjiro sighed, almost disappointed.
"I wasn't going to."
A pause.
"…yet."
Kakashi stared at him, his expression a mixture of irritation and wariness. "Not funny."
"A little funny."
"Not."
Renjiro let the silence stretch, watching Kakashi's discomfort with quiet amusement. Then he returned to his seat, gesturing for Kakashi to continue.
With a frustrated sigh, Kakashi finally talked.
"The Daimyo will remain in the village longer than usual. He wants to personally observe the candidates and the village leadership before approving the next Hokage."
Renjiro's mind immediately seized on the implications. Longer observation meant more scrutiny. More opportunities for candidates to prove themselves—or fail. More time for political manoeuvring, for alliances to form and shift, for public perception to crystallise.
"This changes things," he murmured.
Kakashi nodded. "The process will be longer. More public. More political."
Renjiro smiled slightly. 'Interesting. Very interesting.'
A public political contest meant candidates like Minato, beloved by civilians and jōnin alike, would have the advantage. But it also meant Fugaku had time to build support, to demonstrate leadership, to show the village that an Uchiha could be trusted with power.
'This makes things much more interesting.'
He looked back at Kakashi, who was watching him with that single visible eye.
"See?" Kakashi said, crossing his arms. "I told you."
Renjiro nodded. "Yes. You did."
His eyes flashed.
The genjutsu was instant—a ripple of chakra, a brief distortion of reality, and Kakashi's body went limp. He slumped forward, unconscious before he could even register what was happening.
Renjiro caught him before he hit the ground, easing him down onto the floor with surprising gentleness.
"Sorry."
He paused, looking down at his unconscious friend.
"But I still needed to check if you were lying."
The genjutsu would confirm the truth of Kakashi's words, ensuring the information was reliable. In politics, deception was the norm. Trust was a luxury Renjiro couldn't afford.
He lowered Kakashi the rest of the way, arranging him in a comfortable position on the floor. Then he stood, looking down at the unconscious jōnin, his mind already racing with new calculations.
"If the Daimyo really is staying that long…"
He turned back to his scrolls, the pieces of the puzzle rearranging themselves in his mind. The game had just become more complex. More interesting.
And far more dangerous.
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