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Curse These Old Bones - Chapter 56
🕑 Added 2025-10-04 07:00:04 +0000 UTCChapter 56 -
The salon was arranged with careful intent, though to the untrained eye, it was merely a space of quiet luxury. The Daimyo sat in a high-backed chair, posture relaxed but poised, his robes a cascade of fine silk draped with purpose. Across from him, Hiruzen Sarutobi, the Third Hokage, sat in a position of equal comfort—too comfortable, in fact.
The room had been chosen precisely for its intimacy. A personal audience with the leader of the Hidden Leaf, just the two of them, a demonstration of trust. His vassals would speak of it in hushed tones—how their Daimyo entertained the Hokage like an old friend, how the balance between Grass and Leaf was one of mutual respect.
And yet, the man before him would see through it in an instant.
Hiruzen Sarutobi had not ruled one of the strongest villages on the continent by being naive. He would recognize the intent, understand the layers beneath, and—most importantly—dismiss them entirely. This was a show, but not for him.
The Daimyo knew it, and he knew that the Hokage knew it.
And yet the show must be played.
“Your genin team is in good hands,” the Daimyo said, his voice like the first notes of a flute—light, pleasant, masking the deeper tones beneath. “My men will ensure they see all that is worth seeing.”
The grandfatherly expression on Sarutobi’s face, that oh-so-genuine amusement, had never fooled him. A man did not lead an empire of assassins and spies while carrying the heart of a kindly elder. The Kage had brought a Jinchūriki into his lands. Without warning.
That was not an oversight. It was a message.
Kusagakure existed only because Fire and Stone needed a buffer between them, a land that was neither theirs nor truly its own. The moment one of them gained control over it, the other would have no choice but to retaliate. A war that neither side wanted, but would have to fight. The Daimyo had lived his entire reign threading the needle of survival, ensuring that Grass remained precisely where it needed to be—just important enough to be left alone, never important enough to be worth the trouble of conquest. And the man dared to bring a Jinchuriki here ?
The Daimyo turned, lifting a hand slightly. “You may leave us,” he instructed his guards. As expected, the performance began.
“My lord, it is unwise—”
“The Hokage is an honored guest,” the Daimyo interrupted smoothly, casting them a glance of measured patience, as if indulging the concerns of loyal but overly cautious subordinates. “Surely, you trust him?”
The words were carefully chosen. Surely they did. And if they resisted further, it would suggest otherwise. The hesitation was just long enough to be noticed. A perfect touch of reluctance. The illusion was set: his men, dedicated but reasonable, reluctantly stepping away out of respect for the Hokage’s stature. A well-played lie.
They left, movements steady, their obedience never in question. A silent message to Sarutobi: See? I trust you. A message that neither of them believed for a moment.
The door slid shut.
A quiet smirk played at Sarutobi’s lips. “I am honored,” he said, voice rich with amusement, “to be trusted so deeply.”
The Daimyo returned the expression, his own mask settling comfortably into place. “A ruler must trust the strong, must he not?”
And they both knew: the guards were irrelevant. The Daimyo could have ordered a hundred of them to stay, and it would not have mattered. Sarutobi’s ANBU lurked unseen in the walls, watching, waiting. If the Hokage wished him dead, the conversation would have ended before the tea had even been poured.
The servant entered, silent as a drifting leaf, setting the tray between them.
The Daimyo lifted his cup, watching the steam curl from the surface. “Tea from the Grasslands is a strange thing,” he murmured, as if lost in thought. “It does not carry the sharp bitterness of Fire’s leaves, nor the richness of Earth’s brews. A weak drink, some might call it.”
He took a slow sip, letting the warmth rest on his tongue.
“And yet,” he continued, setting the cup down with a quiet clink, “it survives. It bends but does not break. A wise tea, if such a thing could exist.”
His gaze flickered to Sarutobi’s face.
Nothing.
The old man was a fortress, a wall without cracks. No irritation, no amusement, not even the indulgent nod of one tolerating a lesser’s musings. Tch. It would be one of those conversations. The kind that would stretch for hours, where nothing would be said outright, where every word was a veiled probe, a test, an attempt to catch a reaction. Meanwhile, the real game would unfold elsewhere. Like it always did with diplomacy and ninjas.
The Daimyo’s mind ticked through the possibilities. The ANBU? Perhaps. But the genin team—that was what unsettled him. A Jinchūriki did not travel without purpose. Sarutobi had chosen to bring that child here, to Grass, at a time when stability was everything. What was the mission? And why was he wasting his time here, speaking in riddles, when the real battle was being waged in shadows?
And then—
Sarutobi did something unexpected.
He cut through the game.
“You exist,” the Hokage said, his voice even, his eyes like the weight of mountains, “because I allow you to exist.”
The Daimyo froze. His mind screamed at him to respond, to keep the rhythm, to not let him control the pacing of this conversation. But…what was the Kage doing ? A pause, too brief to be noticed by any but the most trained observer, before he answered, “A curious way to phrase it, Hokage-sama.”
Sarutobi did not blink.
“Kusagakure exists because neither Fire nor Stone can afford to let the other have it. Yet.”
The Daimyo swallowed. “Surely you would not—”
Sarutobi’s expression did not change. His voice did not rise. But somehow, it lowered, like the drop of a guillotine.
“You exist,” he said, “only because the alternative would be inconvenient for me.”
Silence.
The air thinned, turned sharp. And then—
Sarutobi lifted his cup. Took a sip. Set it down. And without a shred of hesitation, he spoke again:
“You exist only as long as it is more of an inconvenience for the Leaf to take over this pitiful excuse for a land. And I am under the impression that your ninja are dangerously close to changing the structure of costs and benefits in your disfavour.”
The Daimyo did not move. What…What did he mean ? What was he referring to ? Every nerve in his body ordered him to react, to counter, to push back. But he knew—he knew—that was exactly what Sarutobi was waiting for.
He forced his grip to remain loose. His expression, untouched. His lips, relaxed as they curled into a knowing smile. He would not be shaken.
“The tea,” he murmured, reaching for his cup once more, “is getting cold, Lord Hokage.”
— — —
The rain was relentless, soaking through Sasuke’s clothes and running in rivulets down his skin, but he paid it no mind. His focus was fixed on the trail ahead, on the almost-invisible signs that told him Raiga had passed through here. The earth was too disturbed, too uneven beneath the layers of wet leaves. A branch hung lower than it should, the weight of water gathering at its tip unnatural, its balance thrown off by something—or someone—who had brushed against it not too long ago. He was close. Closer than he had been in days. His fingers twitched at his side, eager for the confrontation, but he forced himself to remain steady. Patience. This wasn’t just about finding Raiga. It was about hunting him.
“You’re watching, aren’t you?” he murmured, not stopping, his voice barely louder than the rain. He didn’t expect an answer. Dove never answered. But he knew his…kin was there, somewhere within the shifting veil of the downpour. Unseen but present, just as he always was. Sasuke could feel him—a whisper of awareness at the edges of his senses, too faint to pinpoint, too deliberate to be coincidence. “Still testing me? Seeing if I’ll slip up?” He scoffed, shifting his weight as he moved forward again.
No response. No movement.
"Am I…on the good track?"
Not even the faintest disturbance in the rhythm of the rain. Whatever. If he was wrong, he would know soon enough. If he was right, then Raiga was within reach and the true test would begin.
— — —
Hiruzen Sarutobi regarded the Daimyo with the quiet, measured patience of a man who had played this game far too long to be easily moved. The ruler of Grass was no fool—far from it. If anything, Hiruzen found himself begrudgingly admiring the man’s skill. He was sharper than the aristocrats in Fire Country, less bloated by inherited privilege and more attuned to the precarious reality of his nation’s existence. Had history played out differently, Hiruzen might have even preferred this man sitting in the court of the Fire Daimyo instead of the preening nobles he usually had to endure.
It had to be exhausting, the act of keeping a country like Grass afloat. To govern without true sovereignty, to exist in the shadow of Fire and Stone, and to do so while wrangling a trio of ambitious, self-serving jōnin who resented not being the Kage. Hiruzen did not envy him. The political maneuvering required to keep the village from devouring itself was one thing; ensuring it did not become a convenient excuse for a war between its neighbors was another. And yet, despite all that, the man sat before him as if he held all the cards, as if this was simply a pleasant meeting between two equal statesmen.
Hiruzen did not bother to call him on the pretense. Instead, he reached for his cup and took a measured sip.
“Yes,” he said, as if he had been giving the tea careful consideration all along. “It is indeed good. Quite good.”
The Daimyo’s expression barely flickered, but it was there—just a fraction of a second, a hairline crack in the mask of control. Surprise. Hiruzen knew why.He had been expecting Hiruzen to keep threatening him. But that was the point. He was here to make a move. And his plan was already in motion.
His memory of the manga was not perfect but he clearly remembered something about Karin Uzumaki and her mother being here in Kusagakure, held against their will. Not openly, of course. That would have been too brazen. But hidden away, forced to serve as medical chakra batteries for Grass’ wounded, their bloodline too valuable to be left to their own agency. And Kushina… well. She was a sensor. She would find them. She would free them. Of course she would free them, and rush to do so before consulting him — as a jonin was supposed to do.
That part was easy.
There would be an incident. A commotion. The Anbu would arrive at his side and inform him, with all the appropriate urgency, that there had been a clash between his shinobi and those of Kusa. He would express his concern, demand answers, and when he arrived at the scene, he would find, to his great dismay, that two Uzumakis—practically Konoha’s kin—had been held captive.
That was where the true game began.
His outrage would be loud, undeniable, because it would not need to be feigned. Holding Uzumakis against their will? An offense akin to detaining a Hyūga or an Uchiha. An insult to Konoha, to its history, to its bonds. To the memory of Uzushio — and to him, who was reputed for "thinking of his Ninjas as his kin". It would be impossible for the Daimyo to ignore. And, conveniently, there were Iwa spies in this village, always watching, always reporting back to Ōnoki. They would see Hiruzen’s reaction, hear his demands, and they would carry their own interpretations back to their Tsuchikage. Ōnoki would not see it as a move against Iwa. He would see it for what it was—a move of an angry man, weak because he had feelings, against Grass.
And that was precisely what Hiruzen wanted. He would demand reparations. He would make a show of his fury, of his protectiveness over his people. There would be consequences. Perhaps executions—public, decisive, the heads of those responsible rolling to show that Kusa had erred gravely. And the Daimyo, eager to prove that he was not complicit, that it was a few ninjas who did it alone, that he had no knowledge of such crimes, would bend. He would offer compensation. He would concede.
And that was when Hiruzen would truly take what he wanted.
The contracts. Not land—not yet—but influence. Economic footholds. Infrastructure. Railways, roads, factories, all built with Kusa coin and under Konoha’s oversight. His true objective — the development of the continent.
Bunkers, perhaps, to ‘protect’ the civilians, but in truth, they would be hidden outposts, ready for when war inevitably came. He had not forgotten Ōnoki. He had not forgotten Kaguya. And after what would happen at the exams…
Yes, this would serve many purposes.
The added benefit, of course, was the pressure it would put on Kushina. She had refused to tell Naruto the truth about her identity. It was her right. But she had also decided not tell him about his lineage, his clan, his father, and the fox. Hiruzen had not forced her hand; it was her choice, though he found it… inefficient. But Naruto was a child, and children were shaped by what they saw, what they experienced. If he saw these Uzumakis—if he heard their name, saw their faces—if he heard Hiruzen himself, in his righteous anger, call them Uzumaki… well. He would ask questions. He would be elated to find kin. He would start to attach that word—Uzumaki—to something real, something tangible. And then Kushina would have no choice but to tell him.
And lastly, with Karin and her mother returning to Konoha, grateful to him and his village for their rescue, the future of the Uzumaki bloodline would be secured within his walls. Alongside Kushina and Naruto, they would be enough to rekindle the embers of a once-mighty clan, to reestablish their name not as remnants scattered across the continent, but as a force reborn under the protection of the Leaf. A new clan, a new voice—one that would bolster his allies within the advisory council, a council that, while officially dissolved, remained a tool of influence, a stage where the voices he allowed to persist still played their roles. And with the Uzumakis back under Konoha’s banner, the village’s reputation would only rise. The legend of their sealing prowess, their fearsome chakra, had not faded with time—if anything, it had grown. They had once been feared. Now, they would be revered. And above all, they would serve his Konoha. His vision.
Peace.
It was a perfect play.
That, at least, was how it should have happened.
Later, when Hiruzen would look back at this moment, he would recognize the two very small mistakes he had made.
The first was his own failing memory and critical thinking; the small, but crucial gaps in his recollection of what exactly had transpired in the manga. He had assumed. Assumed that things were as he had believed them to be, that the Uzumakis were merely prisoners. That they were held in a state that would justify his anger, but not a cruel one. Naruto was a shonen, after all—but this was not a world of shonen fantasy. This was the harsh and unforgiving reality of the ninja world. He had placed too much trust in the manga.
The second was forgetting that outside of Konoha, not all shinobi were rational. It was not kindness that made Konoha different—it was pragmatism. Had people akin to the Uzumakis been captured in Konoha, they would have been treated well. It would have been the logical approach. Better to keep them alive, keep them healthy, integrate them into the village, encourage them to stay, to build, to have children. A long-term investment for the good of the Leaf.
But the shinobi of Kusa were not so… disciplined.
Zōsui, the member of the triumvirate who had taken possession of the Uzumakis, was a brutal man. Frustrated, bitter at his lack of absolute power, forced to share rule where he desired to command. And he did not treat his captives well.
Hiruzen had not anticipated that.
He had not accounted for what Kushina would find.
He had not accounted for the moment her control would snap, for the corpses that would pile up as her wrath unleashed itself upon her enemies.
He had not accounted for the desperate, ill-conceived tactics of Kusa’s shinobi, for the moment one of them would yell, in earshot of Naruto—“Take the Uzumaki bitch healer slut hostage!”—in a last-ditch effort to stop the massacre.
And he had not accounted for Naruto’s reaction.
For his shock as he processed what he had just heard.
For the moment he saw, with his own eyes, one of his own—the first flesh-and-blood relative he had ever laid eyes on—stabbed in the stomach by a panicked chūnin who was trying to survive Kushina's assault.
“Ah, yes, the tea is indeed—”
Hiruzen never finished the sentence.
Because that was when he felt it.
A presence seeped into the air, thick and acrid, corroding everything unseen yet undeniable—an infection that did not spread, but awakened, as if it had always been there, festering beneath the surface. It did not strike like killing intent, nor did it pulse like chakra. It was something deeper, something wrong. A wound too old to heal, torn open anew, oozing into the world with the slow, merciless inevitability of decay.
An aura he knew all too well.
The Kyubi.
