The Weight of a Nation

Three more hours crawled by.

The battlefield was no longer marked by jutsu and bloodshed—but by silence.

Tired eyes met tired eyes.

Fatigue clawed at every shinobi, from battle-worn ANBU to the weary troops who had marched without rest.

They were all warriors. They were all comrades.

Yet, in this moment—

They were enemies.

The tension was suffocating.

No one moved.

Because the first to move would be the first to die.

Hiruzen's hand hovered over his kunai pouch, his fingers tense.

Tetsuma's grip on his katana never loosened.

Every heartbeat felt like a countdown to slaughter.

Inside the tent—

The Hokage's ragged breathing was the only thing that cut through the silence.

Was he alive?

Was he dead?

No one outside knew.

But the moment the tent fluttered open—

That answer would decide who lived and who died.

The moment the tent fluttered open, all weapons tensed—

But then they saw the expressions of the ANBU medics.

Exhausted. Pale. Haggard.

Yet beneath all that fatigue, their faces radiated relief.

The tension snapped.

A breath of disbelief swept through the ranks. Some shinobi staggered where they stood, others lowered their blades in stunned silence.

Hiruzen's sharp eyes flickered with emotion, but he held firm.

"Report."

One of the medics, barely able to stand, removed his bloodstained mask.

"The Hokage..." He swallowed, voice hoarse.

"...He lives."

For a second, the entire battlefield froze.

Then—

A roar of relief swept through the Konoha forces. Some shinobi dropped to their knees in exhaustion, others gripped their comrades' shoulders, shaking them in joy.

But amid the relief, Tetsuma did not move.

His steel-green eyes remained locked on Hiruzen.

Because he knew—

The real battle was only just beginning.