Everyone could sense it: this war would be unlike any before. It would be a clash of unprecedented intensity.
The highest level of mobilization had been declared, drafting every man and woman capable of wielding a kunai into the combat sequence. In the past, Konoha would never have acted so drastically; they always left a significant force behind to guard the hearth. But now, perhaps the scale of the threat demanded everything they had. There was no need to fear a hollow rear when the enemy was entirely focused on the front lines.
Hiruko stared at the shinobi registry, letting out a long, weary sigh. "Twelve thousand? Has Konoha truly dwindled this much, yet they're still forcing a mass conscription?"
He rubbed his temples, his gaze lingering on the scroll Minato had handed him. "The Third War was too brutal. It gutted our manpower."
Konoha followed a one-person, one-number system. Naruto's future registration number would be 012607, indicating that up to that point in history, the total number of shinobi ever produced by the village was barely over ten thousand. While the great clans held unrecorded reserves, the actual standing army of Konoha was likely just around ten thousand strong.
This was why, outside of the major clans, mission squads often consisted of a few elites dragging along a majority of mediocre talent. In this volatile era, every soul in Konoha knew the road ahead was paved with fire, yet they stood tall to protect their home.
Hiruko pondered the future. The reason the Academy becomes so 'elite-focused' later on is simply a lack of resources. They have to dump everything into a few seeds with 'Main Character' potential just to keep the gears turning.
Out of a dozen students, only nine might be hand-picked by Jonin for specialized training. A commoner, no matter how hard they worked, would likely hit a ceiling at Chunin. Only those like the "Konoha 12" possessed the innate quality to reach the top. Neji, despite his early end, was Jonin-tier. The root of this awkwardness? A lack of funding.
Twelve years from now, the economy might improve, but it would never be enough to maintain a massive standing army. Twelve years ago—now—the treasury was bone-dry.
Fortunately, Hiruko was here. His recent "business ventures" had secured ample war funds.
Minato Namikaze began the final confirmation of war materiel. Having survived multiple high-intensity conflicts, Konoha had a ready-made template for logistics. However, Hiruko had tweaked that template, adding his own inventions: new liquid fuels, advanced healing serums, and high-yield grenades and explosive tags.
Shinobi prided themselves on simplicity and endurance, but Hiruko didn't care for that aesthetic. He needed these people alive. They were his future "employees." Without a workforce, how could he ever drive the "Capitalist Revolution" in the Shinobi World? He needed enough survivors to maintain Konoha's infrastructure so his long-term plans could take root.
Money, after all, was meant to be circulated. Thus, both Hiruko and Minato agreed to arm the expeditionary force to the teeth.
After a moment's hesitation, Hiruko went a step further. He added three "novelties" to the mandatory supply list: Ice-cold Cola, Ice Cream, and Chocolate.
His reasoning? He was looking at the logistical standards of the US military. Imagine the blow to enemy morale when they scavenge a Konoha camp and find luxury treats while they're eating dirt. Plus, Hiruko had a small ulterior motive: he planned to make a tidy profit on the backend by supplying these goods.
Minato hesitated when he saw the list but eventually nodded. They had taken a massive loan from the Land of Fire's Daimyo; buying a few "morale boosters" wouldn't break the bank. Hiruko provided them at near-cost, knowing that a soldier with a chocolate bar and a cold soda is a soldier with high spirits.
In the Uchiha District, the atmosphere was a stark contrast.
They were feasting on a high-end banquet ordered from Hiruko's finest hotel. It was an Uchiha tradition: on the eve of a great battle, the clan gathered to eat, drink, and talk.
But today, the air was suffocatingly heavy. Young Itachi Uchiha felt as though he could barely breathe.
Mikoto Uchiha sat there, cradling the infant Sasuke. Dressed in somber black, she carried the aura of a "War Widow," her face a mask of grief as she looked at her clansmen. How many of these faces will I see again? she wondered.
Itachi had attended many Uchiha funerals, seeing his kin in black, solemn and grave. But today was different. He wanted to scream, to stop them from marching toward a battlefield where the odds were stacked against them. But he was powerless. He was merely the son of Fugaku Uchiha, a small cog in a massive, cruel machine.
He sat silently beside his father, maintaining the same mask of steadfast support as the rest of the family. No one complained about Konoha; they saw the village as their home. When foreign powers dared to invade, they had to stand and fight.
"May your martial fortune be long-lasting!!!"
No more words were needed. After the feast, everyone returned home for one last night with their families. They would deploy at dawn. Tonight would be a sleepless night for the village.
Once the crowd dispersed, Fugaku Uchiha led Itachi to his private study. The room was dim, lit only by a single, flickering lamp.
"Itachi, if I fall, the leadership of the clan falls to you."
Itachi's heart tightened at his father's words. He understood that he could no more defy his father's will than his father could defy the cruel rules of the world. He knelt, his gaze firm. "Father, you will return safely. I will take care of Mother and my brother until then."
"Perhaps," Fugaku sighed. He didn't want platitudes. He had a deeper, heavier worry. "Itachi, you seem lost."
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