Back to Konoha (ll)

"Rin, let's go." His voice carried, just enough to break Rin from her happy chatter and draw her gaze over her shoulder.

Rin paused, realizing the main group of Leaf shinobi—those not assigned to watch duty—were already assembling, packs on their backs, quiet excitement flickering. Some exchanged hopeful glances, others simply adjusted their headbands and fell into line behind the white cloak of the Hokage. Hiruzen's face was unreadable, gaze straight ahead, shoulders set—thoughtful tension still drawing fine lines at the edge of his eyes.

Beside Hiruzen strode Minato, steps measured and confident, each movement sure but gentle, his eyes always scanning for any small trouble among the ranks. His face held a soft smile—a contrast to Hiruzen's tight jaw—but his gaze was sharp, flicking from ninja to ninja, lingering a moment on Radahn.

Then Minato peeled toward the edge of the formation, approaching Radahn, whose massive frame stood silent among the remnants. Radahn's posture was relaxed yet composed, arms slack, chin slightly raised, unmoved by the bustle as if he were a mountain not a man.

Minato stopped at a respectful distance, dipped his head, and spoke—

"Radahn-dono, please come with us, to our home-" his voice even and welcoming.

Radahn's golden eyes met Minato's. For a moment he did not move, expression unreadable, then he gave a single, grave nod.

Rin ran over, her sandals silent on the grass, hair bouncing with every step. She grabbed Radahn's enormous hand in both of hers, gripping his fingers with childish determination. Her arms lifted, tugging with all her strength, grinning up at him—

"Follow me, mister."

Radahn's mouth quirked in a rare, subtle smile; his other hand flexed beside his side, amused and—just for an instant—at ease. Rin's eyes sparkled with delight, her steps light, eager as she coaxed him to his feet.

Behind, Hiruzen glanced over his shoulder more than once, tension clear in the set of his jaw and the way his hand hovered near his staff. His brow furrowed.

'We're bringing a monster comparable to a tailed beast into the heart of the village… Can we really contain such power?'

They started forward. Radahn's footsteps were heavy but precise, careful not to outpace or crowd the smaller figures beside him. Rin led a little ahead, her stride brisk, back straight, almost marching with pride. Kakashi drifted at the edge of their group, unreadable behind his mask, steps loose but eyes always drifting across their surroundings.

At the rear, the prisoners of war moved in subdued silence, eyes down, steps hesitant.

Among them, Onoki's shoulders were hunched, his every shuffle weighted with defeat. Yugito, the ex-jinchūriki, stole a glance at Radahn—her eyes widened, breath quickening before she turned away, spine stiff and fear lingering.

There was a ripple of tension in the line of prisoners each time they caught Radahn's outline among the shinobi ahead.

So, with the Hokage's steps deliberate, Minato at his side—each scanning the horizon—and Radahn's presence casting a long shadow, the company began the slow march toward the Village Hidden in the Leaves.

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It was well past noon when the returning column of shinobi and their extraordinary companion reached the outskirts of the Hidden Leaf Village.

The afternoon sun fell warm and clear through the canopy, setting the world aflame with shimmering gold and deep, languid shadows.

Konoha's vast wall, scorched and repaired countless times over the years, stretched across the landscape like a steadfast sentinel—its gates open wide, guarded by alert Chūnin and broad-shouldered Jōnin with creased foreheads.

After so many days of absence and silence from the front, the sudden appearance of Hiruzen Sarutobi at the head of the returning company sent a shockwave through the defenders.

First, it was a murmur—one incredulous guard catching sight of the white Hokage cloak blowing in the wind.

"Is that Hiruzen-sama… back already?"

"That's him—look, he's with Minato! And… are those prisoners?"

In a matter of moments, word swept through the watch posts and scrambled down the walls. By the time Hiruzen's foot crossed beneath the gate's shadow, nearly every shinobi not on duty had swarmed to the bustling entrance.

The clan banners above the guard towers fluttered in a fitful breeze; civilians pressed forward for a better look, drawn out of quiet homes and shops by rumours of their returning heroes.

As Hiruzen entered, the first Chūnin dropped to one knee and bowed deeply, followed almost instantly by every ninja in sight.

It wasn't just tradition; the speed of their return from the frontlines, barely a whisper of a messenger before the column itself appeared, could only mean one thing to the hopeful: victory. The bows spread like a ripple through the growing crowd until even a few civilians followed suit, hands pressed awkwardly to their sides, eyes wide in awe.

The chorus of voices grew as the first ranks of shinobi swept through the gates.

"The Hokage… he's never come back so quickly."

"Minato-san is with him, too!"

"Did we win? Did they beat the alliance?"

Minato, walking just behind the aged Hokage, wore a gentle, reassuring smile.

His footsteps were fluid and confident; the subtle bow of his head as ninja, and even the eldest villagers, greeted him sent a wave of encouragement through the crowd.

He exchanged small nods, letting his calmness speak for those too anxious to ask outright.

Hiruzen, meanwhile, forced an awkward, thin-lipped smile as wave after wave of shinobi and citizens bowed and pressed close, their faces a mixture of awe and relief. 

The echo of their footsteps was suddenly overlaid by a subtle, unnatural sound—more felt than heard—a deep, steady vibration rising from the earth itself.

The jubilation at the gates stilled. Heads turned, conversation wound down to frayed whispers as the shadow trailing the procession finally stepped within true view.

Radahn.

He was easy to spot—impossible not to.

His figure towered above even the bulkiest shinobi, clad in battered yet gleaming golden armor, each plate marked by histories unknown to this world.

Twin swords hung on his back, their hilts rising above his shoulders, blades so long and broad that two grown men couldn't have reached their ends by standing one atop another.

Each slow step he took sent the faintest tremor through the ground; for a moment, some villagers wondered if the clan district rooftops would hold. Every head swivelled, every conversation died to silence.

The shimmering of the afternoon sun danced along Radahn's bronze shoulders and tangled mane of fiery red hair, painting him like a god stepped straight from ancient legend. His gauntlets, wide as bucklers, crushed loose pebbles beneath his boots. The bracing scarlet cloak rippled as he walked, its edges stained with dust and memory.

The crowd's reaction shifted fluidly from excitement to a kind of collective awe— then fear.

Those closest to the approaching giant instinctively drew back, the bravest holding position but visibly tense; one chunin swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. Another ninja lost his composure, falling to one knee as if the sheer pressure in the air was too much for his body to withstand.

In his wake, even seasoned jonin shivered—not from cold, but from the alien force Radahn seemed to carry into the heart of their familiar village.

It was as though gravity had been magnified a hundredfold around him. Mothers drew children close. Market vendors stepped back, the wooden barrows they'd wheeled toward the square forgotten.

It was a silence more powerful than the roar of battle: the hush that descends when the unknown walks openly in broad daylight.

Yet for all that presence, Radahn met every gaze with an even, distant look—watchful, not threatening; but so other that not even affection could soften his arrival.

Even the Hokage, strong and tested by years of conflict, felt a momentary chill, hands tightening around his staff, lungs constricting in the pause.

The hush was absolute. A bird even ceased its song overhead.

And that was when a small, nearly comic miracle occurred.

From the side of the crowd, a young boy—barely six, cheeks pinked, grinning wide—tore across the dusty square, clutching a brilliant blue cone stacked with ice cream.

His laughter sliced through the tension—a vivid, life-affirming noise—and broke the spell. Nobody had a chance to grab him before he darted along, headlong, not watching the growing spectacle before him.

He ran straight into Radahn's towering leg—his momentum sending the Dango spinning from his fingers to splatter across the intricate gold of the giant's armoured boots.

Instantly the cheers and whispers ceased. The crowd seemed to inhale as one; several shinobi winced, children's mothers gasped and pressed hands to their mouths in outright fear.

The small boy looked up, his cheeks suddenly pale, wide dark eyes staring in terror as Radahn's gaze—sharp and ferocious, still tinged with that infernal glow—locked onto him.

The child's lower lip trembled. Around them, the villagers lowered their heads and fell to their knees, uncertain how this giant of myth would respond.

The boy's mother shoved her way to the front, face wet with silent tears, clutching her apron in one hand and stretching out an arm with the other. Her lips quivered, fear clear on every feature.

The boy's eyes filled with tears, and a sharp sob escaped him; the dango's loss quickly joined by the fear that, in the hush and thunder of the moment, he might have caused a disaster none could prevent.

Radahn slowly knelt—one knee to the dust of the square, his massive frame folding down so his face aligned with the sobbing child. The giant's eyes lost their burning, warlike brilliance, cooling to twin orbs of shining gold, softer and warmer than sunlight.

The change was visible to all, shocking in its humanity.

Radahn smiled—a small, patient expression that seemed to lift the pressure in the square.

With immense gentleness he reached out, his massive gauntleted hand coming to rest atop the boy's trembling head. His touch was deliberate and delicate, as if he were laying a blessing.

"Don't cry, little one-" Radahn said, his voice deep but now gentle enough to calm rather than command.

The boy's eyes stayed wide, but the tears faltered in surprise. He sniffed, and after a long, uncertain moment, managed to look up into Radahn's softened gaze.

From somewhere within the depths of his armor—so many eyes could not discern—a small, radiant object emerged between forefinger and thumb: a golden circlet, dazzling in the sunlight. It was exquisite—Romanesque in design, the gold shaped into braided laurel leaves, each tip adorned with flecks of blue enamel and tiny glass stones, fitting for the brow of a young prince. Intricate scrollwork twisted through the metal, its craftsmanship dazzling even the most jaded merchant who glimpsed it.

Radahn held it out, level with the child's eyes.

"Take this. Buy another one, and more if you like." he said, offering the circlet with a haloed smile.

The boy accepted it with both hands, awe overriding fear. He stared at the circlet, then at the gentle colossus, and finally burst into a smile.

Behind him, the mother gasped, dropping to her knees in gratitude, grabbing her boy and bowing deeply.

"Thank you…thank you so much…"

The boy's sniffling faltered; as his mother stood, he pressed the circlet to his chest.

He said, voice still thick with tears but now hopeful:

"Arigatou, Ni-san!"

Radahn waved in gentle acknowledgment, his lips curling faintly upward. For a long, suspended moment, the entire village watched this tableau, a collective tension held and then—miraculously—released. Even Minato stared, wide-eyed and smiling in delighted shock.

Radahn looked up and around, meeting the crowd's gaze. They all stared, every last villager, shinobi, and leader, wonder and disbelief mingled in every face.

Radahn arched a brow and blurted out, his deep voice filling the square—

"What?"

Rin giggled, unable to hold back, her laughter echoed moments before by Minato's own sheepish smile. Hiruzen, finally relaxing, let go of the breath he had been holding and laughed—a high, awkward chuckle that drew a ripple through the warriors and villagers alike.

The crowd burst into cheers again.