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"The same year."
Shinji paused: "The opposition Jonin disappeared en masse."
He pushed forward another piece of paper; it was an Anbu transfer order, and the date of issuance matched the time of disappearance perfectly.
There were seven names on the transfer order, and seven people had gone missing.
"In the eighth year, the Anbu began internal purges."
Another piece of paper, this time an execution list. The names on the list were dense, each followed by a date.
The date they were executed. Some dates were recent, some were far off, but those names were all dead.
"The ninth year." He paused.
The meeting room was quiet enough to hear breathing.
The Elder had opened his eyes at some point, the elders stopped what they were doing, and everyone's gaze fell upon him.
He pushed out the final piece of paper.
The paper was very thin, so thin it seemed like it would shatter at the slightest touch. But as it was pushed out, everyone's gaze followed it.
"Over nine years, seventy percent of the Kekkei Genkai clans in the Hidden Mist Village have disappeared, the Jonin casualty rate has exceeded sixty percent, and the number of civilian Ninja deaths is impossible to calculate."
He stood there, looking at those sitting behind the table. They were all old, having lived in this Village for decades, and had seen too much.
But at this moment, as they looked at the papers and the numbers, the expressions on their faces were as if they were seeing this Village for the first time.
The meeting room was quiet enough to hear breathing.
Sunlight shone in through the window, falling onto the pile of yellowed paper, illuminating the blurred handwriting, the dried water stains, and the cold, unfeeling numbers.
No one spoke.
The high-ranking officials of the Hidden Mist sat on both sides of the long table, staring at the spread-out papers, their complexions growing uglier by the second.
The long table was made of black ebony wood, used for many years, its surface pitted and scarred with the marks left by time.
The yellowed papers were spread over those pits, bleached white by the sunlight.
Someone stared at the words on the paper, their brow furrowed so deeply it could crush a fly.
Someone lowered their head, not daring to look at the numbers.
Someone's face was ashen, their lips pressed into a thin line.
Someone wanted to refute it and opened their mouth, but nothing came out. Because it was all true.
Every piece of paper contained records of the Hidden Mist killing its own. The Yuki clan, the Hōzuki clan, the Kaguya clan. They were too familiar with those names.
Some were signed by their own hands, some were tacitly approved, and some they pretended not to know about.
But the numbers would not lie. Seventeen lives, twenty-three lives, eleven lives.
Behind every number was a face, a name, a person who had once lived in this Village.
"What does this prove?" someone asked, biting the bullet.
It was a gray-haired elder sitting in the middle of the long table, his fingers tapping the table unconsciously.
His voice was a bit dry, as if something was stuck in his throat: "The Fourth Mizukage's policies indeed have problems, but this..."
"This is not a policy issue," Shinji interrupted him.
The voice was firm, carrying unquestionable conviction.
But the interrupted elder looked as if he had been choked by the throat, the second half of his sentence stuck in his throat, his face turning red.
Shinji flipped the last piece of paper over. The movement was slow, so slow it seemed he was intentionally giving everyone time to see it clearly.
The page turned over in his hands, face up, revealing the pattern underneath.
An eye. A Sharingan.
The meeting room was in an uproar. The sound was like a rising tide.
The creaking of moving chairs, the sound of gasping, whispered exclamations, and the chaos of several people speaking at once.
"Impossible!"
"Sharingan? The Sharingan of Konoha?"
"Where is the proof? What proof do you have?"
Those voices overlapped, becoming a mess.
Some stood up, hands pressed on the table. Some slapped the table, their faces flushed red. Some just sat there, their faces pale.
"The evidence is here."
Mei Terumī stood up.
Her voice was not loud. But that voice fell into the meeting room like a basin of cold water poured onto red-hot iron.
The chaotic noises quieted down bit by bit. Everyone's gaze turned to her.
She walked to Shinji's side. Her pace was neither fast nor slow, steady.
Sunlight shone in from the window, falling upon her, plating her whole person with a faint golden edge.
She held a scroll in her hand, walked to Shinji's side and stood still, then placed the scroll on the table.
That scroll was newer than Shinji's papers; the corners were not curled, and the paper still held the crispness of being freshly unsealed.
"This is the record of the Fourth Mizukage's physical condition over the last three years."
She opened the scroll, pointing page by page: "Chakra fluctuations are abnormal. Here, here, and here. Three tests, all three showed violent fluctuations on the same day. Conscious reactions are sluggish.
Here, the records here show that he would suddenly lose focus while listening to briefings, sometimes for as long as half a minute. His decision-making is contradictory.
The reinforcement order signed last March was withdrawn by himself the very next day. The purge list issued last July had an exemption order added three days later."
She looked up, looking at those people. Her eyes were very calm, calm as if she were stating a fact.
"All signs point to the characteristics of long-term Genjutsu."
The meeting room fell silent again.
This time, no one spoke again.
Sunlight shone in from the window, falling on the pile of papers, on the Sharingan pattern, on the spread-out scroll.
Those numbers, those records, those cold, unfeeling pieces of evidence, were just like that, laid out before everyone.
The silence lasted a long time. Long enough for a cloud to drift past the window. Long enough for someone to make a swallowing sound in their throat.
Then someone asked: "So what do we do now?"
The voice was very soft, so soft it was as if they were asking themselves.
Mei Terumī took a deep breath. It was a very deep breath.
She stood there, standing before the long table, standing in the gaze of those high-ranking officials, standing beside Shinji.
"I will explain."
She laid out her plan. The decapitation strike.
The papers on the long table were pushed to the side, clearing a blank space.
Mei Terumī stood there, her finger pointing at the blank tabletop, drawing lines.
Those were the routes of the operation, the positions for the ambush, the escape channels.
Her voice was not loud, but every word fell clearly into everyone's ears.
Someone would disguise themselves as a supporter of the Fourth Mizukage, taking the initiative to approach the manipulator hiding behind the scenes.
Drawing out the attention of those people, letting them think they had a chance to completely control the Hidden Mist. When they made their move, set an ambush and counterattack, revealing the truth in one fell swoop.
"The choice of bait." She paused.
The pause was very short, so short it was almost imperceptible.
But everyone in the meeting room could feel it. Those gazes fell upon her, waiting for her to finish.
"I will do it."
No one objected.
The people sitting on both sides of the long table, some lowered their heads, some looked at her, some were just silent.
But not a single person spoke up to say "No." Because everyone knew this was the best plan.
She was the strongest Kirigakure. Dual Kekkei Genkais, Bloodline Selection, number one in mission completion rate.
She was the one who had gathered Kisame, Zabuza, Ao, Chōjūrō, and a host of followers around her, the one most likely to become the Fifth Mizukage.
Only she was qualified to be this bait. Only she could make the person behind the scenes wary enough that they must make a move.
Meeting adjourned.
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