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Chapter Text

Shikaku shot up from his bed, eyes snapped open, unable to breathe. Air refused to come in. He could hear himself, wheezing loud breaths, but nothing seemed to be going in. His lungs were on fire, expanding like a bellow gasping but to no avail. He could feel the darkness encroaching on his vision. He was about to pass out,

He stumbled out of his bed, knees hitting the hardwood floor hard, crawling to the desk where a pitcher of water was placed.

Then he heard it. Inoichi's voice inside his head. Composed. Reassuring. Focused.

Breathe in for four. Hold. Breathe out.

Once again Shika.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

He didn't know how much time had passed. He found himself clutching onto the leg of his desk like a lifeline just breathing. Slowly, the darkness began fading away. The rest of the world fell away, his entire being coalesced onto simply breathing.

Only when he regained his senses did he notice something was wrong. Very wrong.

He was in his childhood bedroom with a single desk. His hands were that of a teenager, not a fully grown man. A bandaged wound on his left. An injury from his latest mission, no doubt. 

Shikaku hadn't taken an active mission in years. 

No. 

No, no--this wasn't possible. He stumbled towards the calendar in the main hall. Staring at it. Like if he somehow stared at it long enough, it would morph.

It wasn’t just his room. It was his life—rewound by two decades.

What the hell had happened?

It had been such mundane Tuesday. Shikaku had been drowning under paperwork, he and Yoshino were fighting, and Shikamaru was complaining about all his useless D-ranks.  

And suddenly, he was back twenty years in the past. This had to be an elaborate genjutsu of some sort. It had to be.

His eyes turned to the bowl placed carefully on their dining table. The smell of his mother's soba wafting up his nose. A note taped on it with her handwriting. Rest up.

His very dead mother's handwriting. He stared at it. 

It felt as if someone was squeezing his heart with their hands. His mother was still alive. Shikamaru wasn't born. He didn't have Yoshino by his side. He--he felt lost. What was he supposed to do now? He stared blankly at the note. Unable to process anything. If only to have something to do, he sat fragilely in front of the soba. Hesitant.

Might as well jump into the deep end.

He picked up his chopsticks and quickly shoved the soba into his mouth before he could change his mind. It was a taste he hadn't had in over a decade. He could feel tears prickling in the corner of his eyes. He swallowed down the soba with gusto, and his tears along with it. 

His present and future both ghosts felt all too real, suffocating him. And so he ran. Away from his house. Away from the compound. 

-----

This was Konoha during wartime. Busy, tense and full of activity. Faces too young—faces he knew wouldn’t survive the war. Buildings that were destroyed during the Kyuubi attack. But what really drove home the point was the Uchiha mulling about. Some busy with work, some hanging out at bars and restaurants, talking with other shinobi and civilians alike. Just like any other shinobi. They were alive. All of them.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, that's when he saw him. A very tiny Hatake Kakashi. Wide-eyed, and chubby cheeked. A bag slung over his shoulder, face blank and eyes hollow. Oblivious to the sneers and venom being spewed his way. Trying to make himself invisible. Something inside him shattered.

Shikaku froze mid-step. 

He was so so tiny, the parent in Shikaku let out a thunderous roar. Protect him.

ANBU broke men down to their barest selves. The masks, the missions, the blood—it peeled back every layer of facade until only truth remained. Some rotted into cruelty. Others hardened into indifference. But Kakashi--whose life had been a graveyard of losses, at his core was kind. Not nice. Not gentle. But in a thousand small acts—a mission report edited to spare a rookie’s shame, a wounded enemy given a quicker end—he’d shown Shikaku who he truly was.

Wait. The White Fang. His blood ran cold. Sakumo’s suicide—when had it happened? In the haze of war, he’d lost track. But if the man was still alive. No. This, at least, he could fix.

So he suppressed his chakra and tailed him from a distance. One day, Kakashi would be a powerhouse that would rival the Hokage himself, but for now, he was still a six-year-old. He followed Kakashi through all the little twists and turns he took to avoid attention. Kakashi henge’d into a nondescript child when he bought groceries—of course he had to hide. Shikaku’s jaw clenched as he tightly clamped down on his fury, let out a deep breathe. Let it crystalize. He was no stranger to injustices of the shinobi world. But directed at a six-year-old? Unforgivable.

He shook his head. 

Calm minds prosper

Calm minds prosper

He watched him all the way to the Hatake Compound. This was as far as he could go. Kakashi may not be a shinobi of that calibre yet, but Sakumo certainly was. Any further would only invite trouble. Shikaku extended his senses through the shadows. 

Two chakras. One a dam, the other a candle flame. For now, at least, the White Fang still stood.

-----

Shikaku retreated into the Nara Forests. He needed peace and quiet. He needed to think. Shikaku was not a man prone to extreme reactions. Anger, yes. But he was not reactive. Given what he knew would come to pass, did he want to change anything at all?

Yes.

The answer came without hesitation. 

In the calm of the forest, he could see clearly what his anger-addled brain couldn't. 

Shikaku did not know if he could stop the White Fang's suicide. He would try, certainly. But he was an ANBU Captain during wartime. He was a miracle he could even come home. He would be called back any day now. What then?

Tomorrow. First thing.

Shikaku set that aside neatly, making space.

He had the foreknowledge to change the course of the war entirely. Shorten it by--years. He knew all the crucial supply routes, chokepoints, and targets. He understood the reluctant and begrudging nature of the Kumo-Iwa alliance. It wouldn't be too hard make them turn on each another. Shikaku even knew exactly how he would execute it. But should he?

The more he changed, the less he knew. What if the war ended years earlier and Minato was nowhere near ready to become the Hokage? No one in their right mind would trust a teenager to rebuild the village from ashes of a war. Who else then? He knew the Council would want Danzo, or even perhaps for Sarutobi to continue a few more years.

Both options were equally intolerable.

Sarutobi was objectively a terrible Hokage. During Shikaku's tenure as a Jonin Commander, he used his grandfatherly demeanor to fool or placate a lot of people, but Shikaku was not one of them. He was everything a Hokage should not be.

Indecisive. Cowardly. Sentimental to the point of bringing Konoha to her knees, rigid and close-minded. There were very few people that could evoke a visceral reaction from Shikaku. Sarutobi Hiruzen, was right at the top of the list. Every time the man opened his mouth, all he could hear was Danzo's words, albeit, packaged prettily.

The entire reign as a JC was spent in a strange shadow war with Danzo, wrestling for control. Everyday was a battle, with Danzo trying to replace shinobi loyal to him piece by piece, all the while Sarutobi gave Danzo a free pass to interfere with the administration as he saw fit.

"He only wants what's best for Konoha, Shikaku. Let him take some burden off you."

Which led Sarutobi to make one disastrous decision after another. Most days, he dreaded even getting out of the bed. Everyday he thought about resigning. One thought stayed his hand. 

If not him, then who?

It wasn't a statement borne out of vanity. Behind Shikaku stood three major clans, and even then he was struggling to hold his ground. Who else had that kind of backing?

Once, he downright handed in his resignation to Sandaime. It was that threat that finally made Sarutobi see reason and agree to curb Danzo's influence in the Tower. And finally, Shikaku he could breathe. So he did what little good he could do, protected whom he could, and spent the rest of his time doing damage control. He watched as the economy shrunk, even as his advice was ignored. He watched department after department get their budget slashed. Fewer missions. Lesser pay. Decreased benefits, and no help whatsoever to those that came back permanently injured.

Konoha rotting away in stasis, led by a man stuck in a time capsule.

Shikaku came back to his question. He could change the course of the war, but should he?

Somehow, despite all this. His answer remained unchanged. 

Yes.

Whether Minato ended up with the Hat or not, his answer did not change. He had other options. Orochimaru, for one. Yes, the man could be cruel, egotistical and power-hungry. But those qualities didn't necessarily render him as a bad Hokage. Orochimaru was a Sannin, one that was extremely aware of the injustices of the shinobi world. For all his inadequacies, he was also decisive, practical and smart. Hatake Sakumo, despite The Mission. Hell, he wasn't above throwing Mikoto Uchiha's name into the fray. That would certainly solve a lot of political headaches down the line. 

But that wasn't the point. Shikaku had enough political cunning and power to tilt the table towards someone that wasn't Sarutobi or Danzo.

How many lives would he save by ending the war early? In a couple of years, Choza would get a genin-team. Shikaku had the power to prevent a whole generation of kids from being traumatized. 

Now, came the hard parts. The personal parts. His mother, who had died of stroke in her sleep, when he was deep undercover inside Iwa territory. It took him three days to receive the missive. No chance to say goodbye. No final words. No closure. Could he prevent that?

No.

Sure, he could force her to go to the hospital and get a comprehensive health checkup. But she was stubborn as a mule. Nothing on this earth could convince her to undergo a dangerous surgery that would leave her bedridden for who knows how long. All her life, she had been an independent and capable shinobi. She would rather die than be tied down to a bed helplessly.

He could already predict her response.

“I miss your father…I wouldn’t mind joining him soon. You’re a grown man now, Shikaku. You can carry things from here.”

His chest tightened—he felt her words drip through every defense he’d raise. But the heart of the matter was, she just didn’t want to live anymore.

Perhaps he couldn't change his mother's death. But he would cherish every second he had with her. Be nicer. Be more present, not lost in thought as he often was. 

Yoshino. Sage, they hadn't even begun dating yet. Currently at outpost 9. Grass border. Three weeks left on her rotation. He knew this the way he knew enemy troop movements—instantly, without thought. The information sat in his skull, useless and persistent. His hands shook. 

She was alive. She was safe. She was not his.

(Not yet. Maybe not ever again.)

The Yoshino he remembered would’ve been elbow-deep in supply manifests right now, scowling at some clerk’s incompetence. She’d have stolen his coffee if he left it unattended, replaced it with tea she claimed was “better for his stress levels.” She’d have—

Shikaku exhaled. Pointless. That woman didn’t exist. This Yoshino wouldn’t know his tells at shogi. Wouldn’t recognize the way his shoulders tightened before a migraine. Wouldn’t care. He could request a transfer. Could invent a reason to stand in the same room, breathe the same air.

But it wouldn’t be her. Just a stranger wearing her face.

(And if she looked at him without recognition—if she treated him like just another jounin—could he stomach that?)

The thought lodged behind his ribs like a kunai.

Could he even relate to a teenager anymore, let alone fall in love? He felt so, so alone. He didn't even know who he was without her. She was his north star. His life without her was--unthinkable. Impossible. 

Shikamaru. That was when he finally collapsed. Tears, now falling freely, as the colours around him blurred. His little smart-aleck brat, his entire heart, mind, body and soul. He missed him so much, it shouldn't be humanly possible. Now, Shika only existed in his heart. In his memories. If Yoshino was his north star, Shikamaru was his purpose. His king. The one he fought for. 

Shikaku didn't know how long he sat there. He's never cried like this before. Never cried until his tears ran out. But the hole in his heart only intensified.

-----

"You're up early. I thought you'd be in bed till noon." his mother commented, as he came downstairs, still in his sleep clothes and bed-ruffled hair. She looked exactly as he remembered. Her black hair now streaked with grey pulled into a tight bun. Already dressed in her Jonin blues, and ready to head out. The sun hadn't even risen yet. Such was wartime Konoha.

"Couldn't sleep," he mumbled, replying like a teenager he hadn't been in a long time.

Nightmares. Her dark, intelligent Nara eyes looked at him knowingly.

"What are you planning to do today then?"

Shikaku shrugged slightly. "Sleep. Maybe head out for a bit." She just hummed, accepting his non-answer.

She continued talking about this and that.

"--and I've made Karaage for lunch," he absently nodded, greedily drinking in every inch of his mother's face. Her comforting presence. Trying to be casual about it. He knew she had to go soon.

"Oka-san," a word he hadn't uttered in over a decade, fell strangely from his tongue, "do you know Hatake-san well?" trying to prolong this interaction as much as possible. 

She looked surprised at this non sequitur. 

"Well enough, I suppose. What brought this on?" eyes probing.

Shikaku hesitated, "Do you think he would make a good Hokage?" Now she was staring at him. But it was worth it. He'd always placed a lot of weight on his mother's opinions. And she was right, more often than not.

Looking at him seriously, she considered it.

"He could've been. Considerate, powerful and kind enough to inspire loyalty. Has a son to ground him. Tactician, not a strategist. He lacks political cunning, but maybe its not a requirement if he surrounds himself with the right people. But--" she sighed. "The hat, it changes people Shikaku," as if looking at some distant memory. 

"Anyway, I gotta run." Kissing him on his forehead. "Rest up!" she said and she was out the door. He stared at the door like a fool for a long time, and then at the tamagoyaki neatly placed in front of him, feeling lost.

Forcibly shoving his feelings aside, quickly ate breakfast, cracked his neck and let out a long sigh. Time-travel or not, crying over spilled milk would get him nowhere. Work awaited him.

He dressed in his Jonin blues — mostly habit now — tied his hair back, trimmed his beard, and stepped out into the waking village. Past the clan compounds, the looming Tower, the stalls in the central market just opening its doors. Shikaku did what he did best, he observed. Civilians moved about their tasks with a forced normalcy, but the strain never left their faces, the tension never left their shoulders. Konoha was awake, but uneasy.

Shinobi looked tired as they rushed about in a hurry, haunted by ghosts and helplessness. Everyone had a loved one fighting on the frontlines.

Upkeep of the village had fallen to the wayside. Money was tight, and supplies were scarce. Whatever little remained were saved for necessities only. And it showed. It was as if the village itself felt tired.

By the time he reached the rural edge of the village, the sun was high. The long walk, if nothing else provided him ample time to gather his thoughts. By the time he reached the defaced Hatake gate, he felt--clear. A large looming gate stood before him, meant to intimidate, no doubt, yet now, it stood defaced, slurs painted, garbage thrown. He paused, gathered himself, and knocked.

Only one chakra signature inside. Kakashi was gone. Training, no doubt.

The gate opened, just slightly ajar. Hatake Sakumo stood there blocking the way, polite but wary, as though the simple act of opening his own door was an invitation to risk.

“Yes?” His tone was measured, his face unreadable.

Shikaku bowed, as low as decorum dictated to a shinobi of Sakumo's calibre, disgraced shinobi or not. 

"Good morning, Hatake-san. I'm Nara Shikaku. Would you, perhaps have the time for a discussion?" Sakumo would be weary of any shinobi approaching his house, Shikaku figured manners were the best way to go about this. 

Sakumo's face revealed nothing, even as he opened the gate further to let Shikaku through. The gate creaked open, like a old bones protesting its movement.

"Would you like some tea?" Sakumo too wielding his manners, clearly unsure where this was headed. 

"Yes, please."

The house itself was old, it predated Konoha itself, by Shikaku's estimate. It was clean, felt lived-in and cared for. Pictures featuring Hatakes through the generations--one picture that caught his eye in particular. A younger, maskless Kakashi, bright, happy and carefree laughing with Sakumo. Something lodged itself in his throat.

What a beautiful sight. 

A few paintings decorated the surrounding walls, tasteful like it was chosen intentionally, like it meant something to someone. A few cherished but broken weapons enclosed in glass boxes, few plants and one singular large Hatake-mon in the main room. Old, simple, and strangely fitting for the small Hatake clan. 

Nothing felt neglected, nothing out of place — save the man himself. The dark circles under his eyes, the unshaven stubble, the hollow cast of someone who hadn’t rested in weeks.

Each shinobi measured the other, weighing, calculating. Sakumo had crow-lines around his eyes, and smile lines around his lips. Once, he must've been a man with an easy smile. Shikaku wondered what Sakumo saw when he looked at him. Did he see the same haunted eyes he saw in the mirror? The quiet stretched, filled only by the hiss of boiling water, and the smell of tea that filled the air. 

When the cups were set between them, Shikaku took a long sip. It was well brewed. 

Jumping straight into the heart of the matter, “Do you regret it?” he asked, looking Sakumo in the eye.

Hatake-san stared at him, eyes flickered with something he couldn't read. The silence stretched, for a beat, then two. Hatake Sakumo exploded into laughter. It was loud, jagged, bitter. The sound scraped against Shikaku’s nerves, silently palming a kunai. Sakumo's eyes flicked to it. 

“Believe it or not, you’re the first to ask me that,” Sakumo said, still smiling without mirth.

Shikaku believed it. Konoha was notoriously quick to judge and slow to forgive.  

“Well, do you?” Was he the man his mother thought he was?

Sakumo’s answer came without hesitation. “No. Even knowing what followed, I would make the same choice.” His mother had been right then. As she almost always was. 

“Then why haven’t you reacted?”

The look of utter confusion in Sakumo’s eyes made Shikaku go still.    
He doesn’t know. He genuinely doesn’t know.

Shikaku pinched the bridge of his nose. Even Kakashi, dense as he could be, wasn’t this blind. Perhaps the White Fang had never been suited for Hokage after all.

“Hatake-san,” he said with a sigh, setting his cup down. “You didn’t find it strange that details of a classified S-rank mission leaked so easily?”

Sakumo froze.

“The mission was designed for you to lose from the get-go. Your teammates were shinobi who mostly ran B-ranks, and suddenly they were thrust into an S-rank. If you’d succeeded and your comrades had died, the story would've been the White Fang was a scum that abandoned his teammates for a mission. If you’d died outright, you’d be off the board anyway. And if you saved your comrades at the mission’s expense--” he shrugged.

"Well, we both know what happened.”

As horrible as it was, even he could admit, it was a brilliant setup.

Sakumo looked at him like he was seeing the world for the first time.

"Anyone with two brain-cells knew this war was long in the brewing. You were just the fall guy," Shikaku continued, as if talking about the weather.

"Curious isn't it? All this occurred right after your name was being floated up as a potential Hokage candidate. It's almost as if someone wanted you off the board, one way or another," sharp, unwilling to mince words. He needed Sakumo to open his damn eyes. 

"I was setup," he muttered to himself with disbelief, running a hand through his hair carelessly. 

Shikaku could almost see it—Sakumo’s mind shifting gears, old memories and choices being reevaluated in a new light.

"I was setup," his glazed eyes now sharp. Anger sharp as a blade's edge, promising blood

His work here was done. 

An offhandedly comment to his mother about pairing up Orochimaru and Sakumo, which he knows will reach the Hokage's ears, something Sarutobi would pounce on with the desperation of a starving man, eager to redeem his student's honor.

Sakumo might still die in battle, such was the life of shinobi after all, but at least he'd drastically reduced the chances of him committing Seppuku. At least he'd opened Sakumo's eyes, gave him food for thought. Shikaku had moved his pieces. All he could do is sit back and watch it play out. 

"Wait, why are you telling me this?" Sakumo called out, just as he was getting up to leave. 

For you son, he couldn't say.

"We have lost enough already. There's no point in throwing away more lives." he said tiredly.

Chapter Text

Just as expected, he was called back the next day. Donning his ANBU Blacks felt -- uncomfortable. He was a vastly different person than he had first been. Grieving the loss of his father, he just wanted to get away. Sink deep into the shadows. Now, settling back behind the ANBU Spider mask felt like wearing someone else's skin. It just didn't fit anymore. 

Instead of spending what little free time he'd had napping, like he really really wanted to, he just hadn't had the time. Shikaku spent a great deal of time reacclimatizing with his body. His growth wasn't complete, so he was shorter than he used to be. His core wasn't where it was. Neither were his skills. Which was just--extremely troublesome. Having to start all over again. 

Not to mention, catching up to all the current events, which just left him with a migraine. So he left for the front, not feeling rested in the slightest. At this point, all he could hope for was to not get himself or his teammates killed.

His team was a specialist reconnaissance team. Himself, Hiro Aburame, Hana Ito and Kai Uchiha. They traveled quickly, with ANBU efficiency. Shikaku had completely forgotten just how much endurance he'd built during his ANBU days, and how much lazier he'd gotten as he rose up in the ranks. Sprinting for even a quarter of this time would've had him kneeling over. 

The second they'd crossed over the Land of Fire, he knew. There was no border, no outpost, no skirmishes. But he knew. As did the rest of the team. Once the reached Kusa, pasted on chakra suppressing seals, adorned civilian clothing and went their separate ways. The whole village was teeming with shinobi. Shikaku had seen every possible head band in the village, walking around like they owned the place, except for Grass themselves. The civilians looked terrified, walking downtrodden with their head down and mouth shut.

Grass shinobi had no control either. Such was fate of smaller nations stuck between countries at war. Collateral damage.

God, he hated war.

Shikaku summoned his spiders and set them to work. Within the short span of three hours, he'd heard a lot. But the problem with any recon was the same. It was difficult to separate wheat from the chaff. How much of it was intelligence, counter-intelligence or just plain gossip. But his was an experienced ANBU team. They had run enough of these missions to tell truth from lies. It was always the body language or chakra that gave them away. It was nigh imperceptible, but if you knew what to look for, it was always there. No matter how skilled, or powerful. 

The best shinobi however, just kept their mouth shut.

Another lesson he'd learnt the hard way was to never underestimate the civilian populace. They didn't have the power of shinobi, so they treasured every piece of information they collected, just to survive. And those with good information with survival instincts to match meant they rarely ever spoke to shinobi. A small crying child however, stuck in a strange country in the middle of war-zone, hungry, there were still a few willing to help.

Shinobi had no shame after all. Shikaku certainly didn't.

After dusk, they regrouped ten kilometers north of Kusa inside Shikaku's shadow-dome, and reported their findings. Contradicting accounts, as it always was. But Shikaku let each of them speak without interrupting.

He closed his eyes, hands curled, fingertips touching. Maps of Kusa and Iwa terrain flashed before him, collating that with the reports. He at least had some idea of what was happening now. 

All three of them had heard reports of an attack on Aomori, a village Konoha used as a base to keep their supplies running, and Shikaku ruled it out automatically. Classic counter-intelligence move, all the more credible when they heard it from multiple independent sources. But it was the phrasing that caught Shikaku's ear. Shikaku had taught his team to memorise the information they received. Down to the exact phrasing and intonation.

The words surrounding it varied, two phrases always remained the same. 

No, Iwa wanted to divert Konoha's attention away from something. But, what? The map flashed in his mind again. The medical bay. Seventy kilometers from Aomori. That was the real target.

"Cheetah, run to outpost twenty-three. Tell them a to prepare for an attack. Send your summons to the village. Ask them for Hatake Sakumo. We need a assault team there. A powerful one." Hana nodded and ran. There wasn't time for questions or explanations. She was smart, she would figure it out for herself soon enough.

Next decision was mostly a coin toss. Team had heard conflicting reports, both equally credible. This was when his future knowledge really came in handy. 

Iwa was gathering food supplies to send to the frontlines just behind a chokepoint. It would be under heavy patrol with powerful shinobi guarding it. It was risky move, but he sent Hiro and Kai to blow up the facility. Kai was the best fighter among them. 

"No need to be a hero. Get in. Destroy. Get out."

"And you, captain?" Kai asked.

There was something that was bothering Shikaku immensely. What was not being said. He remembered complete decimation of a Konoha camp, over a hundred shinobi dead in an information base in Takigakure. It took Konoha more than a week to receive that particular communication, precisely because it was an information post. Stone army would be preparing for that attack, and soon. Yet, he hadn't heard a peep. Not from one single mouth.

An information outpost was worth its weight in gold. Shikaku had no intention of letting that happen. But he had to move careful. Whoever was behind this operation was careful, and more troublingly, smart. They knew how to keep their mouth shut.

"We're missing something," he finally admitted. "I don't know what, but something's happening."

Over the years, his team had learnt to trust his gut instincts. It had saved their lives more than a few times. So they nodded, but this vagueness was bothered them, he could tell. Something happening somewhere was not exactly helpful.

"I'm heading to Taki," looking at their expression, he sighed. "You're the one that's headed out on a dangerous mission, not me. Be careful. Stay alive, and check-in with the ANBU outpost once you're done."

With that, they went their separate ways. Shikaku was already making too many changes. He couldn't rely on old information for much longer.

--x--

Shikaku crouched on a high branch on a full moon night. It gave him a bird's eye view of the buzz of activity in the Iwa camp below. It was the Underground Surprise Division. They created entire network of tunnels surrounding their target. Standard MO, catch the enemy by surprise, attack and retreat leaving them none the wiser. Extremely effective for targeted attacks, and providing distractions in some of the larger battles but carrying out such operations was no mean feat. Secrecy and discipline were key. One small slip up, and the enemy could collapse the tunnel on them with no way out. It was a high risk, high reward mission. 

At the center of all of it stood one man, in the eye of the storm. Izuna Suzuki. Shikaku had spent a lifetime around leaders, both around those who demanded it and those who commanded it. He clocked Izuna on the latter category instantly. He was young, only a couple of years older than Shikaku himself, but he commanded his entire unit with ease.

A fellow strategist, Shikaku could see it in his eyes. 

It was a damn shame.

He wouldn't have minded grabbing drinks with him after, if it wasn't for this pesky war. Just as he--

Then he felt it. A tiny pinprick of a severed connection--his tiny white spider, the one he'd sent in to investigate get killed with a senbon, hit him dead center. An extremely sensitive sensor then. He wouldn't be able to track Shikaku, Yin operated by its own rules after all. Still, he’d seen enough.

Enclosing himself in his shadow-dome he meditated.

That was the beauty of being a Yin specialist—especially in ninjutsu. It absorbed everything. No sound, no light, no jutsu—not even air, if he so chose. His breathing slowed. The aches and scrapes, hunger and thirst—all faded, one by one.

Leaving him alone with his thoughts.

His shogi board.

In a strange way, he’d come to view everything through it—situations, relationships, arguments, goals--life itself. The lens of shogi helped organize his mind, helped him prioritize. Which pieces mattered, what he could afford to sacrifice, who his generals were—all while never losing track of the goal.

In a twisted way, Shikaku could now see his opponent’s pieces clearly, while being completely blind to his own.

Images flickered behind his eyes: the layout of the tunnels—a web of intentionally loose and dense points, earthen arteries laced with silent alarms and converging chokepoints. A ten-kilometer net cast from every direction, all leading to the information post.

Every detail was deliberate. Every step calculated.

An engineering masterpiece.

A small number of powerhouses would attack from above, a distraction—while the bulk of the forces would concentrate on collapsing the entire building from underground.

Simplest solution, to just move the information post itself was ruled out instantly. But information posts unlike medical or even supply outposts weren't so easy to move. Shinobi reporting in from the other end wouldn't know if the post was destroyed or compromised. Practically broadcasting their entire operations and support systems to Iwa.

Impractical. He set that aside neatly, freeing up his mind. 

Slowly, a picture began to form. Rough outlines of a plan. It was a fundamental rule beaten into him through failure, at the cost of his comrades lives: hold your strategy tight, but keep your tactics loose. One small crack shouldn't be enough to collapse the entire glass pane.

He first needed to assess the Konoha contingent stationed at the info post. But Shikaku was confident. At the end of the day, he was a Nara. All he ever needed was time to prepare. No matter how daunting the enemy.

And time he had plenty. It would take five to seven days for the attack. 

--x--

Shikaku reached the information post around one o'clock in the morning, dressed in his ANBU blacks, though he forewent his mask. A deliberate choice. ANBU blacks immediately gave him authority, rather than seeing him as just another teenager. He wasn't the Jonin Commander in this time. Shinobi won't follow his orders automatically.

A chuunin guard on duty flushed a deep red upon seeing him, looking flustered before quickly ushering him inside.

It badly needed a security upgrade, he mentally jotted down. 

It was one of the larger, and most crucial outpost near Takigakure. Despite the hour, a good number of them were still hard at work. An information outpost never slept afterall. The man in-charge was a middle-aged Hyuuga who had clearly been woken from sleep, and visibly unhappy about it. This Hyuuga he wasn't one he was particularly familiar with. 

He died along with the rest of them, his mind unhelpfully supplied.

He shoved the thought aside. No time for that. There somehow never was. 

Shikaku filled Hyuuga Yosuke the basic gist of what they were up against, keeping it brief. He desperately needed sleep as well, after staying up too many nights in a row with little to no rest. His cognitive reserves completely depleted, he collapsed onto a paper-thin mattress on an empty bunk and was asleep before his head hit the pillow. 

When he woke up the next day, finally feeling like a person again, he quickly went through his morning motions, and headed out into the commander's tent. Hyuuga Yosuke hadn't been idle while he slept. He and another Hyuuga—a young girl in her early teens—had scoped out the entire web underneath with their Byakugan, and were currently in the process of preparing maps.

"The tunnels are intricate, and elaborate. Several chokepoints and escape routes," Yosuke said as a morning greeting. It would take at least two days of continuous Byakugan use to map out the entire system. Time they didn't have. For now, Shikaku would have to settle for the exact maps of their immediate vicinity.

The information post roughly consisted of about eighty shinobi. Mostly chuunin and a few shinobi from the genin corps. Which was to say, they were nowhere near prepared to handle an attack of this magnitude. Throughout all this, Hyuuga Yosuke remained surprisingly calm. As if he'd made peace with his death already.

Almost no medics were present, there was no need. Information outposts were not expected to face any danger and the medical corps were in high-demand everywhere else. That was going to be a problem. Another problem, a complete lack of frontliners aside from one, Maito Dai who was somehow still a genin after repeatedly turning down promotions.

Immediately, Shikaku informed the ANBU outpost, requesting backup. Team Ni, an assault team consisting of six members were the nearest, but it would still take them four days to get here. That was a chance Shikaku had to take. When he called into the medical bay, their response was far more reluctant. Skeptical that an info post would need medical backup. 

"We can only spare two medics. Take it or leave it." the woman on the other end said. Shikaku took it. He did not doubt for a single second, those two medics would be barely trained newbies, thrust into a war they weren't prepared for. 

The rest of the force stationed there looked far more promising that Shikaku had anticipated. The two Hyuuga he'd initially met for surveillance, three Aburame, a couple of Uchiha, trapping specialists, poison specialists, kenjutsu, sensors, sealers, and the list went on. All of them chuunin, but each of them useful in their own way. 

A resource was a resource. Shikaku couldn't care less about rank.

The next few days passed in a haze of preparation. Days started far too early and didn't end until late at night. Shikaku had drilled it into their heads until they could recite the plan in their sleep. Everyone knew their roles. When and where they were supposed to be. Trapping specialists and sealers were particularly hard at work. While Shikaku helped out the sealers when and where he could, he was genuinely taken aback at the creativity of the trappers. 

It was spectacular, both in its simplicity and efficiency. 

Pay attention to trappers. Another mental note he made to himself. They had been completely overlooked and under-utilized, both during the war and in the future. 

As expected, two small girls arrived. Medics, twelve or thirteen and they were genuinely taken aback with the amount of activity going on in the base. They looked slightly terrified, one clutching her medical kit closer. Good.

"Sink or swim kids," he said, tone wry, exhaling a puff from his cigarette.

ANBU Team Ni arrived a day later, and Shikaku was glad they were able to get a full night's rest. It would be tomorrow. 

--x--

Just as he predicted, the attack started with Iwa's above ground powerhouse assault teams, meant to intimidate. A tactic that would've instigated panic if Shikaku hadn't prepared them for this exact scenario. But Team Ni and Maito Dai met them head on. Izuna would not have accounted for an ANBU team's presence. 

Then came the real attack. It was typical Iwa tactics, where they lacked in quality, they made up for in quantity. Wave after wave of Iwa shinobi were sent. Shikaku's plan was simple. Don't let the kenjutsu users near the outpost. 

Where Shikaku operated in fluid long-term gains, Izuna operated with an unbelievable level of creativity. The attacks Izuna planned came from such strange and completely unpredictable places that it made no logical sense. A sudden, localized hail of acorns—imbued with explosive tags—pelted the eastern flank. It was a childish nuisance, not a real threat, but it forced a squad to shift their positioning. This created a crucial, three-second gap in the overlapping fields of fire that left the western seal masters exposed.

A low steady stream of water, not meant to attack but turn the soil in Konoha's territory into a mud slide. Each action was a minor inconvenience, but put together was enough to disrupt entire battalions. Enough to gain precious seconds in a battlefield.

It was as if Izuna's mind had somehow unlearned conventional societal norms and ways of thinking, leaving him as unencumbered as a child, and equally wild, silly and unpredictable. In short, Shikaku's worst nightmare. 

Who in their right mind would use acorns? The answer was Izuna Suzuki, apparently.

It caught Shikaku himself completely unprepared. Losses were inevitable in a battle as big as this, but it didn't make it sting any less.

Shikaku's own attacks began in earnest. Stealth attackers waited for Yosuke's signal, making sure the Iwa shinobi were completely inside the tunnel before collapsing the earth on either side, boxing them in. His Aburame came into next, flooding the tunnels with nasty, kikaichu and kochu wreaking havoc inside. Then came his poison until, filling the tunnels with poisonous gas choking them, forcing them to retreat revealing the hidden exits.

Shikaku himself was protecting the entire foundation of the building from all sides using his Yin sheath. He continuously altered the sheath's shape and structure, not just reacting to but actively predicting and absorbing the impact of the relentless barrage of ninjutsu attacks. The Yin sheath would hold as long as there was no high-powered jutsu that could break it or any kenjutsu user to tear it away. Above ground structure was protected with two layers of seals. A lattice structured seal that Shikaku crafted, soft and capable of absorbing the blows, like a pillow, and another layer inside, thick and hard as glass created and maintained by the seal masters. 

No to mention directing the entire battle in real time, while constantly fluctuating his Yin sheath. The larger battle itself had transformed into a game of cat and mouse with Izuna. Attack and react. Attack and react. The battle dragged on. Losses were mounting on both sides, but Shikaku could feel the tides turning. So could his shinobi. The Iwa shinobi that started out with a fighting force of hundred-and-fifty shinobi had lost over half their strength. They were getting desperate, their morale was dropping while Konoha's was rising.

As a final hail mary, Izuna himself entered the fray, thrust himself into the front lines and began attacking with such speed and ferocity, it almost reminded Shikaku of Minato. The skill too was unbelievable. 

Who the hell was this guy? How did Shikaku not know about him the first time around?

A kenjutsu user through and through, he shrugged off the attacking chuunin with ease, a mere nuisance, and then proceeded to take on Maito Dai and three ANBU at once and somehow managed to put them on the defensive. In a blur of motion, he gutted one of the ANBU, ripping through the man's defense and then ripping a hole though the outer 'pillow' seal of the outpost before Maito Dai, with an extremely powerful kick to the abdomen, flung him all the way back to Iwa territory.

That was a last ditch effort by Izuna to change the tides of the battle and it failed. 

Shikaku watched Izuna stumble onto his feet with extreme effort, and blow the whistle. Retreat. It was over. Cheers rang out all around from Konoha, while the remaining Iwa shinobi were retreated, heads down and shoulders slouched. But Shikaku didn't react. He stood still, staring at Izuna, who stared back, nodded slightly before joining his shinobi.

In a strange way, he was glad Izuna wasn't killed, even with all the headaches it would cause down the line. 

The information outpost would live to see another dawn and hopefully many more after that.

--x--

The cheers faded, the dust settled. All that remained was a scarred battleground and the unseeing eyes of shinobi. If the medics had been bright-eyed and bushy-tailed earlier, Shikaku saw no trace of that now. Just two focused children, their uniforms stained with blood, moving swiftly between makeshift cots. The tent flaps never stopped rustling—another stretcher, another shinobi, screaming, sobbing, blood soaking through make-shift bandages. Stretcher after stretcher was brought in, no hope of stopping the incoming tide. Medics helplessly behind, moving on autopilot, flitting from one patient to another. There was only so much two small hands could handle.

Shikaku was no medic, but he could do something. Anything. So he rolled up his sleeves, knelt down and helped where he could. He diligently followed the orders of a twelve year old yelling instructions at him from across the tent. This--this was what war did to people.

The victory didn't feel like one at all.

All he saw were haunted faces, blood and gore. Shinobi held together by tape and sheer willpower.

A hush fell over when the dead were brought in, it only became heavier with each body bag. Shikaku was unable--unwilling to look away. Memorizing their faces. This night would not leave him for a long time to come.

When the night finally settled, Shikaku sat alone, perched on a rooftop and stared at the moon. Mind empty, soul hollowed out, clutching onto his cigarette.