Every Move Matters| 16

[3896 Words]

The morning was still. The scent of miso soup and grilled fish hung in the air, mixing with the quiet clink of chopsticks against ceramic. Sunlight slipped through the paper screens, tracing pale lines across the wooden table where Yasu and Hisao sat. 

Hisao, ever composed, sipped his tea with deliberate ease. His gaze, however, wasn't entirely absent—his eyes flicked toward Yasu, studying him with an interest that was subtle but present. 

"How was the academy yesterday?" His voice was calm, casual. 

Yasu, halfway through a bite of rice, blinked. He hadn't expected the question. He chewed slowly, swallowing before answering, his tone indifferent. 

"The same as always." 

Hisao raised an eyebrow. "That vague? I expected more from someone so observant." 

Yasu exhaled quietly. He supposed he should offer something—if only because Hisao rarely asked about things without a reason. 

"They introduced a new sparring exercise," he said, poking at his rice with his chopsticks. "Most of the class was too focused on looking good rather than learning anything. It was inefficient." 

A hint of amusement flickered across Hisao's face. "And you? Did you participate?" 

Yasu glanced at him, reading the subtle weight behind the question. Hisao wanted a distraction. 

"I did," he admitted. "It was dull." 

Hisao hummed, setting his cup down. "Dull?" 

"Most of them are predictable," Yasu said, resting his elbow on the table and propping his chin against his palm. "Their movements don't change. They get flustered easily when something doesn't go as expected." His grey eyes flicked to Hisao, assessing. "You already knew that, though." 

Hisao's lips curved faintly, though not in amusement—more like quiet approval. "And what did you do with that knowledge?" 

Yasu shrugged. "Exploited it." 

Hisao gave a single nod, as if that was the only acceptable answer. But just as quickly, the conversation seemed to drift elsewhere. He reached for another piece of fish, his movements slow, thoughtful. 

"Hmph," he muttered suddenly. "At least you weren't wasting your time like some fools." 

Yasu glanced up, catching the subtle shift in his tone. He didn't have to ask who Hisao was referring to—his expression had hardened slightly, his sharp gaze distant but edged with quiet disdain. 

"You mean Kumo," Yasu guessed. 

Hisao smirked, though there was no warmth in it. "You're quick." 

He picked up his tea again, taking a slow sip before speaking. 

"Kumogakure is full of men who believe force alone makes them strong," he said evenly. "They think taking land makes them rulers. That demanding power earns them respect." He set the cup down, his fingers resting lightly against the rim. "It's a flawed way of thinking. And yet, they act as if they are entitled to everything." 

Yasu studied him carefully. "They wanted something from Iwagakure." It wasn't a question. 

Hisao's expression didn't change, but Yasu noticed the slight pause before he spoke. "Recently, yes. A proposal." 

"A bad one." 

Hisao scoffed lightly, shaking his head. "A stupid one." 

Yasu tilted his head slightly. It wasn't often that Hisao outright called something stupid. 

"They wanted Iwagakure's aid in taking land that was not theirs to begin with," Hisao continued, his voice cool but edged with disdain. "They have ambition but lack patience. They wanted us to play the role of the hammer so they could sit back and collect the spoils." 

Yasu frowned. "And the Tsuchikage refused." 

"Of course," Hisao said, as if the answer should have been obvious. He reached for his tea again, swirling it lightly. "Iwagakure may be many things, but we are not fools. We do not spill blood for the dreams of lesser men." 

Yasu watched him carefully. There was something more to Hisao's mood this morning—something lingering beneath the surface. But, as always, Hisao wouldn't say it outright. 

Still, Yasu understood one thing clearly. 

Kumogakure had overplayed their hand. And Hisao had no respect for those who did. 

The conversation faded into quiet again, the sound of distant birds outside filling the space between them. 

Yasu rested his chin on his palm, watching Hisao carefully. The way he spoke about Kumo—his choice of words, his tone—it wasn't just annoyance. It was irritation with something larger, something beyond a single foolish proposal. 

"How did Iwagakure respond?" Yasu finally asked, setting his chopsticks down. 

Hisao glanced at him, as if gauging whether the question was worth answering. Then, after a brief pause, he exhaled softly and leaned back slightly. 

"The same way you deal with an overeager child," he said. "With patience, and the knowledge that they will eventually overreach and trip over their own feet." 

Yasu's lips twitched faintly, but his gaze remained expectant. Hisao's expression shifted just enough to indicate he understood the silent demand for more. 

"Kumo's request wasn't just foolish—it was dangerous," Hisao continued. "Right now, the Great Villages exist under a so-called peace treaty. A fragile, temporary thing, but one that has kept outright war at bay. Their proposal would have shattered it early." 

Yasu frowned slightly. "And that would be a bad thing?" 

Hisao gave him a sidelong glance, as if weighing how much to explain. 

"It depends," he admitted. "War is inevitable, but timing is everything. The treaty will reach its natural end soon enough—only a few years now. To break it early would mean acting unprepared, without full control over the board. Kumo wanted us to move now, before the pieces were properly set." 

Yasu considered that. If the treaty was already nearing its end, then that meant… 

"Kumo is impatient," Yasu murmured. "They want war early." 

Hisao inclined his head slightly, as if pleased by the conclusion. "They need war early," he corrected. "Their position is not as strong as they pretend. But instead of waiting and preparing, they scramble, hoping to drag others into their schemes." 

His voice remained calm, but there was a quiet sharpness beneath it—a distaste for such recklessness. 

Yasu tapped his fingers lightly against the table. "Then refusing them was the obvious move." 

"Of course," Hisao said simply. "Iwagakure has no reason to play Kumo's game. When the war comes, we will enter on our terms, not theirs." 

Yasu absorbed that, his mind turning over the implications. A few years. That was all. The peace would break, and when it did, every village would move. 

He picked up his tea, taking a slow sip, mirroring Hisao's earlier action. 

Hisao watched him, his expression unreadable. "You're thinking too much." 

Yasu set the cup down. "So are you." 

For the first time that morning, Hisao let out a quiet chuckle. "Fair enough." 

Yasu picked up a piece of fish, but he wasn't really thinking about eating anymore. Hisao's words lingered in his mind. 

A few years. 

How long was a few years? 

When he was ten? Twelve? 

Two years? Three? 

He had only just turned eight. It wasn't long at all. 

The idea of something so massive—war, the end of a peace that barely seemed like peace—coming within such a short window felt strange. He had lived longer in his past life, had seen years slip by with the slow weight of experience. But here? In this life, time felt different. It moved steadily, yet he was only just beginning to understand his place within it. 

A few years. 

Not much time at all. 

But that was how things moved, wasn't it? Quiet, steady, until suddenly they weren't. 

Hisao noticed his silence. "You're thinking again." 

Yasu looked up. Hisao's expression was unreadable, but there was something pointed in his gaze, as if he already knew exactly where Yasu's mind had wandered. 

"You said war is inevitable," Yasu said. "Then shouldn't we always be preparing for it?" 

Hisao's lips curved faintly, but it wasn't quite a smile. "Preparation and movement are not the same thing." 

He reached for his cup, turning it slightly between his fingers. "A battle is lost before it begins if you move at the wrong time. If you strike too early, you fight an uphill war with half-prepared men. If you wait too long, the opportunity passes you by, and your enemy dictates the terms instead." 

He set the cup down with a soft clink. 

"Knowing when to move," he said, voice even, "is what separates those who survive from those who are remembered only in name." 

Yasu absorbed that, his fingers tightening slightly around his chopsticks. 

Hisao picked up his tea again, as if the conversation were nothing more than a passing lesson. "Eat, Yasu. You think better when you're not hungry." 

Yasu took a bite, but his mind didn't quiet. 

. 

. 

. 

The mountain air was sharp and cool, thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Yasu exhaled, watching his breath curl into the cold before it disappeared. He trailed after Hisao, boots scuffing against the uneven path, the only sound in the otherwise quiet expanse. It wasn't far from the village, but it felt like another world—still, undisturbed. Here, there was no distant chatter, no hum of life. Just the wind, the trees, and the soft crunch of their footsteps on stone. 

Yasu had expected another training session, maybe sparring or refining his control over chakra. Instead, Hisao had said nothing, only gesturing for Yasu to follow. There was something deliberate about that silence. A test, in its own way. 

Eventually, they reached a plateau, a clearing nestled between jagged rock formations. A small, worn stone slab stood at the centre, untouched by time. Hisao sat down beside it, crossing his legs, and gestured for Yasu to do the same. 

Yasu eyed him warily but obeyed. Hisao's gaze wasn't sharp today—it was assessing, thoughtful. Whatever this was, it wasn't about brute strength. 

Hisao reached into his pouch and pulled out a handful of stones, setting them on the slab between them. Some were small, round, and smooth, while others were jagged and uneven. He placed them in a loose arrangement, almost like pieces on a shogi board. 

Yasu narrowed his eyes. "Shogi?" 

Hisao smirked. "Not quite. Just an example." He tapped one of the larger stones, then one of the smallest. "Tell me, which of these is the most important?" 

Yasu frowned, glancing at the arrangement. "That depends." 

"On what?" 

"The game. The goal," Yasu said, shifting his gaze to Hisao. "If this was shogi, the king is the most important. But if it's a real battle, then it could be anything. The strongest piece, the weakest one, even something no one is paying attention to." 

Hisao nodded approvingly. "Good. So tell me—" he gestured at the stones, "—who holds the real power here?" 

Yasu stared at the board, his mind ticking through possibilities. If this were a direct fight, the larger stone had the advantage. If it were about movement, the smaller ones could overwhelm it. But this wasn't a game. There were no written rules. 

"The one who controls the board," Yasu answered finally. 

Hisao's lips curved slightly. "And how do they do that?" 

Yasu hesitated. He knew the answer instinctively, but putting it into words was harder. He traced a finger along the stone slab, thinking. "By… knowing what matters. What to sacrifice, what to protect. When to move and when to wait." 

Hisao leaned back, watching Yasu with an unreadable expression. "Good. But you're still thinking like a soldier." 

Yasu frowned at that. "How else am I supposed to think?" 

"Like a leader." 

The words made Yasu still. Hisao didn't say them lightly. 

"A soldier does what they're told," Hisao continued. "They move where they're ordered, fight when commanded. A leader moves the pieces. A leader sees the full board—not just where the enemy is, but where they will be. Not just their own forces, but how others perceive them." Hisao picked up a small stone and set it down deliberately. "Power isn't just about force, Yasu. It's about control." 

Yasu exhaled slowly, absorbing the words. It wasn't new to him—not exactly. But hearing it from Hisao, the man who had taught him everything, made it feel different. More real. 

"You're sharp," Hisao said after a pause, studying him. "Smarter than most. You already think beyond the immediate. That's why I wonder…" He placed his hands on his knees, his voice turning thoughtful. "Maybe one day, you could be Tsuchikage." 

Yasu blinked, completely thrown. 

He stared at Hisao, searching for some sign that it was a joke. There was none. The older man wasn't smiling. He wasn't even watching Yasu anymore, just gazing toward the horizon, as if considering something far off. 

Yasu scoffed. "That's ridiculous." 

"Is it?" Hisao hummed, tilting his head slightly. "You're already thinking about strategy, control. You don't just react, you calculate. Those are the makings of a leader." 

Yasu's frown deepened. He didn't like the way the words sat in his chest—heavy, unfamiliar. He had never thought about something like that. Not once. He didn't care for power like that, didn't want to be the face of anything. 

He shook his head. "I don't want that. I just want to do what you do." 

Hisao finally turned to look at him, his dark eyes unreadable. "And what is it you think I do?" 

Yasu hesitated. Hisao was strong, intelligent. He wasn't just a fighter, he was someone who moved unseen, who understood things beyond what most people noticed. Yasu had never been able to put it into words before, but he knew, deep down, that was what he wanted to be. 

"You see everything," Yasu said at last. "You're not just strong. You know how people work, how to read them. You don't need to be in charge to have control." 

Hisao was quiet for a moment, then let out a low chuckle. "You really are sharp." 

Yasu huffed. "So stop saying stupid things like me being Tsuchikage." 

Hisao didn't argue. He only smiled, leaning back on his hands. "Alright, alright. But remember this conversation." 

Yasu rolled his eyes. "Why?" 

"Because one day, you might see the board differently." 

Yasu froze. The words sank deep, latching onto something buried in his mind. He swore he had heard them before, or something eerily close. A distant echo from another life. His grandfather's voice—cold, firm, unwavering. 

He had been told the same thing once. He hadn't listened then either. 

And in the end, he had died exactly as his grandfather had warned. 

His fingers curled slightly against his knee. His breath was steady, but the weight in his chest pressed heavier. Slowly, he looked back at Hisao, his voice quieter now. "What is it that Kages even do?" His expression was unreadable, but there was something reluctant in his tone. "Isn't it mostly just politics?" 

Hisao raised an eyebrow. "That's part of it. But leadership isn't just words. It's knowing how to manoeuvre, how to wield power without lifting a blade. The strongest shinobi in the village doesn't always make the best Kage." 

Yasu frowned, sceptical. "I doubt I'd be good at politics." 

Hisao smirked. "Maybe not now. But understanding people is more important than any speech. And you're already learning that." 

Yasu let out a quiet breath and shook his head. "Still don't want it." 

Hisao didn't push. He only watched, the same knowing look in his eyes, as if he had already seen the pieces moving into place. 

. 

. 

. 

The academy was the same as always—loud, filled with the usual mix of excitement and boredom that came with another day of training. Yasu barely paid attention as he stepped into the classroom, his thoughts still lingering on Hisao's words from the day before. 

Maybe one day, you could be Tsuchikage. 

Tch. What a ridiculous thing to say. He shook his head, pushing the thought aside as he made his way to his usual seat. The moment he sat down, he caught the tail end of an argument a few rows over. 

"I'm just saying, if we had gone with my plan, we wouldn't have lost so fast!" one of the boys—Riku—complained, his arms crossed. "We need someone to actually lead, not just let everyone do whatever they want." 

"Oh yeah? And who put you in charge?" another student shot back. "Your plan got us surrounded in under a minute!" 

Yasu sighed, rubbing his temple. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence—group exercises had a way of turning into pointless bickering. He had no intention of getting involved, but as he turned his head, he realized something that made his brow twitch. 

They were looking at him. 

Not directly—some were glancing his way, others waiting, as if expecting him to say something. It wasn't the first time, either. It happened often enough that Yasu had started noticing it—how people hesitated until he spoke, how they watched him before making decisions. He had no idea why. He never asked for it. 

He exhaled sharply through his nose. "If you're going to argue about it all morning, at least argue about something useful." 

Riku immediately latched onto the response, turning toward him. "Then what would you have done?" 

Yasu stared at him, unimpressed. "Not rushed in like an idiot." 

A few students snickered, and Riku scowled. "Oh, so you always know the right answer, huh?" 

Before Yasu could respond, Daichi—who had been listening with an amused smirk—decided to jump in. "Of course he does. Yasu always acts like he knows everything." 

The words were said with teasing exaggeration, but there was something sharp underneath them. And the worst part? No one disagreed. 

Yasu narrowed his eyes. "I don't 'act' like anything." 

Daichi shrugged. "Oh, right, my bad. You don't act—you just somehow end up telling everyone what to do anyway." 

Yasu opened his mouth to argue, but Sumire cut in before he could. "That's not really true." Then, after a pause, she added, "Well… maybe a little." 

Yasu shot her a glare, but she only offered a sheepish smile in return. 

"It's not like I try to lead anything," he muttered, crossing his arms. 

"Then why does it keep happening?" Daichi pressed, raising an eyebrow. 

There was no good answer to that. Yasu knew he wasn't the loudest, nor the strongest in the class. He didn't make speeches, didn't boss people around. But for some reason, when things went wrong, people still looked at him. It made no sense. 

Riku, still annoyed from earlier, scoffed. "See? This is what I mean. Leadership isn't just knowing things, it's taking charge. If I were in command, we'd—" 

"That's not leadership." Yasu cut him off before he could finish. "That's authority. They're not the same thing." 

Riku frowned. "And what's the difference?" 

Yasu leaned back, his fingers tapping idly against his desk. "Authority is when people follow you because they have to. Control is when they follow you because they trust you know what you're doing." He glanced at Riku. "Which do you think actually wins battles?" 

Riku faltered, his mouth opening slightly before snapping shut. 

Daichi let out a low whistle. "Damn. That sounded like something Hiroshi-sensei would say." 

Yasu exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head in exasperation. He leaned back in his seat, tilting his head toward the ceiling as if contemplating the universe's great injustices. Then, with a long, drawn-out sigh, he placed a hand over his chest in mock suffering. 

"Oh no," he deadpanned, voice dripping with dramatic sorrow. "You've all seen through my master plan. The grand conspiracy of making mildly intelligent decisions and somehow ending up responsible for other people's messes. Truly, I am the villain here." 

A few students laughed, the tension in the room easing slightly. Even Sumire, who had just betrayed him with her hesitant agreement, covered her mouth to suppress a chuckle. 

Daichi smirked, leaning back with his arms crossed. "See? You're even admitting it now." 

"I'm admitting that you're all delusional," Yasu corrected smoothly, his gaze flicking back to Riku, who was still scowling. "Anyway, if you really want to argue about leadership, you should start by figuring out why no one actually listens to you." 

Riku bristled. "And what's that supposed to mean?" 

Yasu tilted his head, his expression one of exaggerated thoughtfulness. "I mean, if you have to keep telling people you should be in charge, maybe you're not the right person for the job." 

The class erupted into laughter, and Riku's face burned red. He opened his mouth to retort but quickly shut it, realizing anything he said would just dig his grave deeper. 

Daichi let out a low whistle. "Damn, he got you good." 

Riku huffed, muttering something under his breath before slumping in his seat, clearly deciding this battle wasn't worth fighting. 

Yasu rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to his desk, tapping his fingers idly against the wood. It wasn't like he cared about this nonsense. Whether they listened to him or not was their problem. He wasn't some wannabe leader—he was just someone who happened to know what he was doing most of the time. If they wanted to misinterpret that, then fine. Not his issue. 

Still, he caught Daichi giving him a sideways glance, an amused smirk playing at his lips. "You really don't get it, do you?" 

Yasu arched a brow. "Get what?" 

Daichi snickered. "Doesn't matter. You'll figure it out." 

Yasu narrowed his eyes, but before he could pry, their instructor walked in, cutting the conversation short. With a final, dramatic sigh, he sat up straight, ready to get through another mind-numbing lesson. 

At least arguing with Daichi was mildly entertaining. 

As the lesson began, Yasu immediately sensed something was off. It wasn't obvious—not enough for the other students to notice—but to him, it was there, subtle yet undeniable. Their instructor, Hiroshi-sensei, carried himself the same way as always, his expression impassive, his movements precise. And yet, something about the way he scanned the room lingered for a fraction too long. He wasn't just watching them—he was evaluating them. 

"Today, we'll be revisiting combat tactics," Hiroshi-sensei announced, setting down a scroll on his desk. That was the first red flag. They had been scheduled for theory—historical case studies, not direct combat applications. A small shift in curriculum wasn't unheard of, but the way Hiroshi-sensei framed it—revisiting—felt deliberate, as if there were a specific reason for the change. 

A murmur of surprise rippled through the class, but Hiroshi-sensei gave no room for protest. "We'll start with battlefield awareness. When facing an opponent, understanding your environment can be just as critical as understanding your enemy." 

Yasu's fingers tapped idly against the desk. Battlefield awareness. Not simply strategy or formation drills, but survival instincts. The wording was careful, neutral, but Yasu knew better. This wasn't just an impromptu lesson shift. This was preparation. 

His gaze flickered toward Daichi, who seemed mildly intrigued but not particularly concerned. None of them were. They were too young to see the patterns, the subtlety of change. But Yasu had been trained—twice over—to read between the lines. The instructors had been given new directives, that much was clear. The village was shifting its priorities. 

Was it just precaution, or was something coming? 

Yasu glanced at Hiroshi-sensei, studying the set of his shoulders, the way his hands remained too still after gesturing toward the board. Whatever was happening, even their teachers weren't immune to it. 

Yasu exhaled through his nose and straightened in his seat. Fine. If they wanted to test their awareness, he'd play along. But he wouldn't just follow their lesson. 

He'd analyse it.