Chapter 2: The Fire Beneath the Mist
The doors to the Mizukage's Tower swung open with a crash loud enough to rattle the stone walls.
The guards stationed at the entrance moved instinctively, weapons drawn, but they froze the moment their eyes fell upon the intruder.
Yamamoto stood tall, his broad frame outlined against the swirling mist. His haori billowed with every step, and the ancient sword strapped across his back radiated a heat so fierce that even seasoned killers backed away, sweat beading their brows despite the chill air.
At the end of the grand hall, seated upon a raised platform, was the man known as the Third Mizukage.
A hard-eyed veteran with scars across his face, the Mizukage was no fool. He had led Kirigakure through brutal wars, crushed rebellions, and made the world fear the Bloody Mist. He was not easily cowed.
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "You tread dangerous ground, old man. Speak quickly."
Yamamoto's footsteps echoed across the hall as he approached, slow and deliberate.
Each step seemed to make the mist thinner, as if even the very air dared not come near him.
"I am Yamamoto," he said, his voice like a rolling thunderhead. "I seek no permission, only acknowledgment. From this day forward, this land will be under my command."
A silence followed, heavy and suffocating.
Then the Mizukage barked a short laugh — humorless, sharp. "Arrogant fool. You think you can walk into Kirigakure and declare yourself ruler?"
Yamamoto's eyes did not waver. "There is no need for declarations," he said. "Only demonstrations."
The Mizukage rose from his throne, chakra flaring around him in violent, crashing waves. Water gathered at his feet, swirling into sharp-edged spears.
"You will not leave here alive."
The words had barely left his mouth when Yamamoto moved.
No flashy techniques. No wasted movement.
Just pure, overwhelming force.
In the blink of an eye, Yamamoto appeared before the Mizukage. His hand, rough as mountain stone, caught the nearest water spear mid-flight — and shattered it with a simple clench.
The Third Mizukage's eyes widened, but years of combat drilled instinct into his bones. He formed hand seals in a blur, water exploding outward in a massive torrent, enough to sweep away a small army.
Yamamoto planted his foot.
And the water evaporated.
Steam roared through the chamber, hissing and blinding, but Yamamoto strode through it untouched, his presence parting the mist and vapor alike.
He grabbed the Mizukage by the throat with a single hand and lifted him into the air, casual as lifting a child.
"You mistake your strength for significance," Yamamoto said, voice steady. "Let me correct you."
With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the Mizukage across the hall.
The stone walls cracked from the impact.
The Mizukage slumped to the floor, coughing, dazed.
The assembled elders, guards, and onlookers watched in stunned horror. None dared to move. None dared to speak.
Yamamoto turned to face them.
"I have no interest in your politics, your traditions, or your grudges," he said, voice rising like a storm. "I will forge a new Kirigakure. One that bows to no one. One that fears no one."
He drew his sword slightly, the first few inches of Ryūjin Jakka's ancient steel gleaming with hungry fire.
"Those who wish to resist… may come forward now."
The silence stretched on.
Not one moved.
Not one breathed.
Yamamoto sheathed his sword again with a quiet click.
"Good."
He turned his back on them without fear, walking calmly toward the grand balcony overlooking the Hidden Mist.
Outside, the mist thickened and swirled, but Yamamoto saw only opportunity.
This land was fierce, its people born of blood and survival.
He would sharpen them. Temper them.
And the world would tremble at the name Kirigakure once more.
The old general smiled faintly, the first sign of emotion since his awakening.
The fire had come to the mist.
And it would never die.