In his previous life, Natsuhiko had heard something interesting.
Aside from his own homeland, where political education was a formal part of the curriculum, most other countries barely touched the subject.
Even the so-called "beacon of freedom" followed an elite education model—ordinary people were never really taught how power worked.
To put it bluntly, political education was a kind of "dragon-slaying art."
And in countries that championed elite rule, what they truly practiced was governance by a select few.
Or, to be even more blunt—
Keeping the masses ignorant.
At first, he hadn't fully believed it.
But after witnessing the… performances of certain crowds before his transmigration, he had come to a rather clear understanding of just how far that ignorance could go.
And now, in this world—
A world of extraordinary power—
He was even more certain that people here received no such education at all.
Setting a goal.
Working toward it.
Especially when it came to something like reviving a clan—or even seizing power—
Those things required process, planning, and a coherent strategy.
Back in his previous life, even students would have grasped that much.
And yet—
This elder of his had controlled the Senju clan for years.
Even if the clan itself had declined to the point of near ruin…
He still held power, influence, and wealth.
But what Natsuhiko hadn't expected—
Was that the man had reached this point relying on little more than passion.
His goals had always been vague.
He had no concrete vision of how to achieve them.
Most of his actions were impulsive—decisions made on the fly.
Take Natsuhiko's entry into ANBU, for example.
On the surface, it seemed like a move to get closer to the Hokage.
But then what?
Even with proper secrecy—what did it accomplish?
Did the old man seriously expect him to assassinate Hiruzen Sarutobi?
At best, ANBU missions only revealed fragments—enough to guess at what the organization was doing.
But what was the real value of that?
At first, Natsuhiko couldn't figure it out. He thought perhaps the elder had some deeper plan.
Later…
He realized the truth was much simpler.
The elder had sent him into ANBU for two reasons.
To observe its movements.
And to prove that a member of the Senju could still shine.
Beyond that—
It was just hope.
Hope that Natsuhiko would keep climbing… and maybe, just maybe, one day take control of ANBU.
Fortunately—or perhaps because of his "cheat"—
Natsuhiko hadn't died on some mission.
Instead, he had climbed step by step, eventually reaching the position of division commander.
In reality, even that position had come through careful exchanges of interests—negotiation, compromise, and calculated trade-offs.
As for the elder?
He likely hadn't thought that far ahead.
After all, the current Hokage was the Fourth.
If Natsuhiko had risen this far, the elder probably believed it was thanks to Minato's support.
Even if he suspected that the Third Hokage still controlled parts of ANBU—
At least, from his perspective, the Fourth had pushed Natsuhiko upward.
As for the truth?
Natsuhiko had no intention of revealing it.
Even when Senju Shōma asked him that night, he had kept everything tightly sealed.
Not just because he didn't want to expose the fact that he was effectively playing all sides—
But also because he didn't want the elder to act recklessly.
That was the problem.
The elder's stance might be firm.
But a firm stance didn't guarantee correct decisions.
At least, not in Natsuhiko's eyes.
That was exactly the kind of man Senju Shōma was.
—
After hearing Natsuhiko's words, Shōma froze for a moment.
Then—
His brows furrowed deeply as he stared at him.
This was probably the first time Natsuhiko had spoken to him in such a tone.
Outwardly, his attitude remained respectful—but there was something undeniably different in his words.
Senju Shōma didn't respond immediately.
Instead, he fell into deep thought.
And the more he thought about it…
The more he realized—
Natsuhiko was right.
He truly didn't have a clear goal.
Not just a vague desire to restore the Senju's former glory—but a concrete objective, a defined path forward.
Even less so a real plan.
As for things like "guiding principles" and structured action, he didn't fully understand the terminology—but he understood one thing clearly:
Natsuhiko didn't see any hope in him.
Even though he disliked hearing that—especially that blunt conclusion—
Shōma had to admit…
The "light" he himself could see wasn't much either.
"…That's not entirely fair to say," Shōma finally spoke after taking a deep breath. "At the very least, you've already stepped onto the right path. You've become a division commander. And the Hokage… is no longer the Third."
"Elder," Natsuhiko shook his head lightly, "sometimes it's best not to make assumptions too easily."
"A centipede may die, but it does not stiffen."
"You taught me that yourself."
"And in the case of the Third Hokage… he's far from a dying centipede."
At that, Natsuhiko stopped.
Some things didn't need to be said outright.
The more he spoke, the more he risked revealing.
That proverb—
It didn't just apply to others.
It applied just as well to the current state of the Senju clan.
And sure enough—
Though Shōma's expression turned unpleasant, he still nodded in the end.
He had no desire to continue this topic.
But through this conversation, he had confirmed something important.
Natsuhiko did care about the Senju.
But at the same time—
He harbored immense ambition.
Even without seeing hope in the current path, he was still moving forward.
Which meant only one thing—
He had his own vision.
His own goals.
His own carefully laid plans.
He intended…
To become his own light.
Taking a deep breath, Shōma turned and prepared to leave. He needed time—time to think about what he should do next.
"Oh, right."
Just before stepping away, he paused and spoke again.
"Change your residence."
"And from now on, your time won't be your own. I'll arrange for someone to take care of your daily needs."
"…Take care of my daily needs?" Natsuhiko let out a small chuckle. "I'm afraid that won't be necessary, Elder. I rarely keep anything important at home—just like before."
"…Do as you wish."
Shōma paused briefly before continuing.
"And don't entertain unnecessary thoughts. We are Senju."
His voice grew firmer.
"You've already become the clan's focal point. Whatever plans you may have, I expect you to contribute to the clan in other ways as well."
"Oh?" Natsuhiko raised a brow. "And what ways would those be?"
Shōma's answer was simple.
"Continue the bloodline of Wood Release."
—
While Natsuhiko was enjoying his rare period of rest in Konoha, the events he had set in motion within Sunagakure were already spreading uncontrollably through the intelligence networks of the shinobi world.
Among all the villages, Iwagakure had the most direct stake in Sunagakure—aside from Konoha.
The two had even begun a direct confrontation in the Land of Bears.
And now…
With this new information in circulation—
The balance was bound to shift.
Even though no real battle had broken out yet, the tension in the air was palpable. It felt like a powder keg waiting for a single spark—and even both Kage were ready to take the field.
Inside the Iwagakure office, Ōnoki stared down at the report in his hands, his expression strangely conflicted. There was a trace of satisfaction, but beneath it lay a heavy weight, as if a dark premonition lingered.
The two emotions warred within him, creating a look of intense contradiction. After a long moment, he finally exhaled deeply.
"Konoha's Nightingale… another Minato Namikaze… or perhaps… Senju Tobirama?"
Ōnoki's heart twisted with conflicting thoughts. Part of him was genuinely pleased—pleased that Sunagakure, a village with direct interests opposing his own, had taken a serious hit.
Sunagakure, already strapped for resources, had chosen the elite route for survival. And now? They'd lost an entire unit of border guards in a single blow, along with nearly half of their ANBU. The losses were catastrophic—beyond measure.
Don't be fooled by Sunagakure's tens of thousands of ninjas. Out of those numbers, how many truly possessed combat capability? That was the real question.
Sure, academy students counted as ninja, as did freshly graduated genin, research specialists in various institutions, administrative ninjas, and other academy trainees. But in actual combat power, most of them were negligible.
And as for the other large-scale forces? Mobilizing them wasn't a simple matter.
The geography of the Land of Wind meant Sunagakure had to contend with just two major ninja villages. And the relationship between those two villages? Not exactly friendly—one was Konoha, the other Iwagakure.
But the problem was, both villages had tense relations with Sunagakure as well. Sunagakure and Iwagakure clashed over interests in the border regions of the Land of Bears, while their conflict with Konoha revolved around the Land of Rivers.
Even though Sunagakure and Konoha had officially signed an alliance, their struggles had never truly ceased. The Third Great Ninja War had begun because Sunagakure had attacked the Land of Fire. Even after signing the agreement, skirmishes and strategic conflicts continued relentlessly—otherwise, situations like this could never have arisen.
Every location required careful ninja deployment. The number of ninjas needed to maintain proper defensive lines was enormous.
And yet… one "Nightingale" from Konoha had single-handedly wiped out over a hundred of their operatives.
This wasn't just a blow to Sunagakure's ninja manpower.
It was a devastating strike against the very direction and strategy of their ninja system.
Among the casualties were nearly half of their ANBU operatives, including two division commanders who had fallen by his hand.
The impact on Sunagakure's overall morale? Immeasurable.
And with Iwagakure's looming pressure still a constant threat, the consequences were even more unimaginable.
The benefits this brought to Iwagakure were beyond measure.
Sure, there was a slight chance that Sunagakure might rally—"learning from shame" or some other nonsense—but more likely, the sheer scale of their losses would crush them. Their shinobi would be demoralized, their fighting spirit shattered.
In other words, if war really broke out, Iwagakure would suffer far fewer losses and reap a much greater reward.
But what made Ōnoki furrow his brow in worry was not the losses themselves. It was Konoha's Nightingale. The sheer strength of this one individual had already made him uneasy—bordering on fear.
And it wasn't fear of losing to him. Ōnoki could fly, and with his Earth Release abilities, his defenses weren't weak.
No—the terror came from the sheer destructive potential of a single shinobi capable of accomplishing all this alone.
During the Third Great Ninja War, Iwagakure had chosen to halt their campaign—not just because Kumogakure had withdrawn, apparently gathering for a counterstrike—but also because a critical supply bridge had been destroyed. Thousands of Iwa shinobi were suddenly stranded, cut off from reinforcements and logistics.
Combine that with Minato Namikaze's ghostlike efficiency—fifty shinobi eliminated single-handedly—and the Iwa forces had collapsed.
What Minato had done back then? It was unimaginable.
Every shinobi fights with a desire to survive. Every combatant carries belief in themselves, in their comrades.
But no one wants to die for no reason, and no one wants a phantom to appear beside them at any moment, ready to strike.
The psychological toll alone was unbearable—not just for the troops, but for Ōnoki as well. It had decimated morale.
Add to that the disrupted supply lines and the looming threat of Kumogakure, and Ōnoki had no choice but to surrender, focusing instead on that more pressing danger.
And now Konoha had produced someone even deadlier than Minato had been.
This one man had infiltrated deep behind enemy lines—and accomplished all of this alone.
If this shinobi had appeared in Iwagakure during wartime… the devastation would have been unimaginable.
"Even outside of wartime, if a mission-level shinobi were to encounter him… they'd be as good as dead."
The combination was terrifying: the elusive Flying Thunder God Technique, executed with even more precision than Minato, paired with enormous summoned lizards and formidable jutsu.
Everything together made Ōnoki's head ache.
If such a shinobi appeared in his rear lines during war—or even during a mission where he encountered Iwagakure shinobi—the consequences would be catastrophic.
"This guy… he'll have to be handled cautiously. Meeting him head-on is like facing Minato all over again. Looks like the ninja manuals need an update."
Ōnoki stood, shaking his head with a mix of frustration and resignation. The situation was bittersweet, maddeningly contradictory.
And there was little he could do. This was an ANBU operative—not a high-profile target like Minato.
He knew that even if he added notes to the ninja manuals, it would serve only as a warning. No one could predict when they might actually run into him.
"Why, heavens… why must you always favor Konoha so much?"