A Few Weeks Later – The March of Thunder
The air in Kumogakure crackled with tension. After weeks of grueling battles and skirmishes with Konoha, the Raikage made a decisive move. He gathered his most trusted advisors, a handful of elite shinobi, and his own son—one of the brightest rising stars of Kumo—and issued his command.
"We're done holding back."
A few squads of experimental jōnin—battle-hardened shinobi enhanced through classified techniques—were dispatched to hunt down and eliminate the Kirigakure operatives who had been sabotaging Kumo's infrastructure from the shadows. Their mission: absolute erasure.
But the Raikage had another objective. One that only he could lead.
He would march personally with a hundred handpicked ninja toward the western front—straight into the domain of Iwagakure. His goal was simple: weaken Iwa's grip and secure Kumo's influence over the minor hidden villages dotting the path. Though a hundred shinobi didn't seem like a large force, it was merely the spearhead—hundreds more had already been deployed across the contested zones with one purpose: destabilize the Stone.
Their first stop was the Village Hidden in the Frost—a place nestled in the unforgiving cold of the northern highlands. The ties between Frost and Kumo were old and strong; their alliance, while not bound by treaty, was maintained through years of mutual respect and discreet support. Passing through was easy, though the bitter wind and biting snow reminded them why so few dared settle there.
Next came the Village of Hot Water. Strategically located between the Land of Lightning and the Land of Fire, it had long claimed neutrality in the wars of the great nations. But neutrality didn't always keep a village safe. The roads bore scars—charred trees, collapsed homes, hidden bloodstains—all signs of the constant border skirmishes between Kumo and Konoha.
The Raikage and his forces advanced carefully. Though distant from the main battlefront, the possibility of ambush still loomed. Yet when scouts spotted movement, any potential attackers vanished like mist. None dared confront a unit of one hundred Kumo shinobi led by the Thunder himself. Mere squads of three or four had no chance.
Their path was undisturbed.
Finally, they crossed into the Land of Waterfalls—a lush country filled with winding rivers, deep caverns, and, more importantly, Iwa sympathizers. Here, they had to be cautious. If Iwa caught wind of their presence, a battle could erupt at any moment.
The Raikage acted swiftly.
He ordered his shinobi to reinforce the hidden outposts they had secretly established within the country. They would serve as fallback points and supply stations. Meanwhile, he led the bulk of the squad to a small trade city near the river delta to gather provisions and prepare for the next phase of their campaign.
As evening fell and the sun dipped behind the mountains, he addressed his men.
"WE'VE BEEN ON THE MOVE FOR DAYS," his voice thundered across the camp, "AND YOU'VE EARNED YOUR REST. ENJOY THIS NIGHT—TOMORROW, WE MOVE BEFORE FIRST LIGHT!"
A chorus of cheers followed. The shinobi scattered, some stretching, others heading into the city to resupply, and a few simply laying down under the open sky. Though they were permitted to relax, orders were strict: no trouble, no drunken brawls, and always gather supplies.
As the night deepened, only the Raikage and his most trusted elite remained in the center of the campfire's glow.
"Alright, team," he said with a rare, calm tone, "we've got one night. Let's make the most of it."
His words were simple, but the effect was clear. The remaining shinobi followed him silently, moving like shadows through the quiet streets of the town. Though the Raikage needed no protection, protocol dictated they stay by his side at all times. Assassins could strike at any moment—especially here, so close to Iwa-controlled territory.
As they walked, they passed other Kumo ninja buying dried meat, local herbs, or small trinkets—gifts for families back home, reminders that even in war, there was life beyond the battlefield.
Then something caught the Raikage's eye.
A small, weathered shop tucked between two buildings. Behind its cracked window glinted the soft amber of bottled alcohol. Like a moth drawn to flame, the Raikage disappeared into the shop before anyone could blink.
The old man behind the counter didn't even flinch.
"What is this alcohol?" the Raikage asked, already stepping inside. His men followed, slowly filling the room.
The old shopkeeper, with a face carved by time and a voice like dry leaves, adjusted his spectacles and replied, "Ah… This is made right here. Locally brewed. No imports, no poison. Just taste. I guarantee it."
The Raikage raised an eyebrow.
"Is that so? Then give me your best bottle. If it's good… I'll take everything."
The old man turned, opened a dusty wooden shelf, and pulled out a medium-sized bottle sealed with wax.
"This one," he said, placing it with care in front of the Raikage, "is my finest. Brewed by my own hands. Aged for eight winters. It will suit your taste for sure."
Without a word, the Raikage uncorked the bottle and drank deeply.
Not a sip.
Not a pause.
He finished the entire bottle in one pull, wiped his mouth, and let out a satisfied exhale that rumbled like distant thunder.
"You weren't lying, old man," he said with a rare grin. "This is worthy of a Kage. Give me everything you've got."
Moments later, the Raikage and his men left the shop carrying over twenty bottles—enough for a feast. Their arms full, they returned to the camp without further exploration.
That night, under the moonlit sky, laughter and toasts echoed across the forest. The Raikage drank more than any other, emptying bottle after bottle with no sign of intoxication. His chakra surged steadily, unhindered. Alcohol, it seemed, feared him more than he feared it.
And so the hours passed. The fire crackled. Bonds were reaffirmed.
Then came the dawn.
As the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon, the Raikage rose, cloak fluttering in the morning wind.
It was time to move again.