Unknownfate
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Chapter 24 Beneath the Leaf
🕑 Added 2025-06-09 02:00:05 +0000 UTCThe scrolls were gone today.
In their place sat a plain black-bound ledger, unmarked, and far newer than the old scrolls on clan history; this one was new, yet no doubt just as important as the older texts.
Masaru didn’t offer a greeting. He simply waited until I sat across from him, then opened the book to a blank page.
“We’ve covered alliances,” he said. “Today, we begin your education on the village itself. Not its history—its structure.”
He tapped the edge of the page with two fingers. “What do you know of how Konoha is governed?”
I considered my answer carefully. “The Hokage leads. There is a council of elders. Clan heads advise. Civilian representatives… contribute.”
That last word was generous.
Masaru hummed. “A safe answer. And mostly accurate. But politics, Yuki, is far more complicated than that. There’s always more beneath the surface.”
He reached into his sleeve and withdrew a small brass key, turning it over once before sliding open the drawer behind him. From it, he pulled a folded parchment—denser than anything we’d reviewed so far—and laid it flat.
A chart. Names. Lines of authority. Most of which contradicted everything they taught in the academy, according to Hiashi.
Masaru didn’t wait for me to ask.
“The Hokage does lead. But the Hokage does not rule,” he said. “Not alone. He governs by consensus, which he must maintain—among the clans, among the military factions, and within the administration.”
I frowned slightly. “But doesn’t the Hokage have full authority in times of crisis?”
“He does,” Masaru said. “Which is why crises are often declared when authority needs to be… clarified.”
That earned a pause from me.
He pointed to the chart. “Here. This is the Shinobi Council. An informal body, composed primarily of the heads of the major clans, with a few high-ranking Jonin and ANBU. Not legally binding—but nothing of significance happens without their approval.”
“And the Elders?” I asked.
Masaru gave a thin smile. “They exist to advise. But advice, Yuki, becomes command when the advisor grows too powerful.”
He continued, “Now, civilian representatives—merchants, guild leaders, landowners—they represent the will of the non-shinobi population. Their power is soft but persistent. They influence supply chains, academy policy, and public perception.”
“I understand most of it, but academy policy? It is the shinobi academy isn’t it? Shouldn’t that be outside of their reach?” I asked softly.
“A good question, and a difficult one to answer at that.” Masaru said.
He tapped one finger against the civilian branch of the chart.
“The academy was built by the second Hokage, as a means to ensure that there would be more civilian-born shinobi in the future, and he did succeed there. this serves many functions, which we can get into later, but as for why the civilians have a say in it…”
“…as for why the civilians have a say in it,” Masaru continued, “it’s because of what the academy represents, not just what it teaches.”
He folded his hands neatly on the table. “The Second Hokage was not merely a tactician—he was a builder. He understood that if shinobi remained isolated within their clans, their loyalties would always be to their clans over the village. So he pushed for integration.”
He gestured toward the central point on the chart, where multiple lines converged. “The academy is the bridge. Civilian-born children learning alongside clan heirs. Uniform training. Standardized discipline. It makes them loyal to the village, not just their clan.”
I nodded slowly. “I understand that much, Hiashi-Sama has talked at length about the academy, its role as more of a bridge builder than true training, but I still don’t see why the civilians have a say in it, isn’t it meant to make civilians into shinobi?”
Masaru inclined his head. “It is. But that’s precisely why they were given a say.”
He shifted slightly, fingertips resting on the edge of the parchment.
“If the academy were seen purely as a shinobi institution, many parents would be afraid of sending their kids in there, particularly with how many of them risk dying, and how few passed in the first few years before the third Hokage changed things.”
He glanced at me. “He gave them greater control, so they would feel more at ease sending their children there, giving him the cannon fodder he needs, while he only sacrifices little, though it could be a problem in the future, should too many things change to accommodate them.”
To that, I could only nod, I knew what he worried about would happen. The way that Naruto’s generation had such an easy time, the exam was simple beyond compare, and the way that Sakura could pass at the top of her class while being beyond useless.
Compared to what Hiashi told me, it was clear that it would be dumped down, resulting in weaker shinobi, all to please the civilians, allowing their kids to pass and become Genin.
Didn’t they understand that as weak Genin their chances of dying against other villages rose drastically?
But then again, maybe I expected too much from civilians, who seemed to be destined to grow rather powerful following this war.
Or maybe it was the nine-tailed disaster that caused it? Such a thing happened right after a war, would leave the village strapped for cash, meaning it was possible the third Hokage sold off the academy and the next generation in exchange for the money to rebuild the village.
Masaru did not comment on my silence. He never filled silence for the sake of comfort—only for instruction.
Instead, he turned the page.
“What you must understand, Yuki,” he said, “is that despite this being a shinobi village, we aren’t able to just think like a clan, we must now compromise to survive, it’s a sad truth, but it is the world after the first Hokage died, supreme power now lies in cooperation.”
Masaru let that last line hang for a moment, then tapped the ledger again.
“Power, Yuki, is no longer about who has the strongest jutsu. It’s about who can form the broadest consensus without appearing weak.”
He turned to a new diagram, this one branching like the veins of a leaf.
“Which brings us,” he said, “to enforcement.”
My attention sharpened.
Masaru’s hand moved to the top of the chart. “The Uchiha Clan handles the village’s internal peace, and each clan has some say in dealing with its own, with our Hyūga Clan having the first and final say in handling branch members, as you well know.”
“But that isn’t the end of it,” he continued. “The Hokage handles making the law, and most times the Uchiha Clan upholds it, unless it's about missions outside the village, then it’s the Hokage who decides, and that brings us to how he does that.”
“The ANBU,” Masaru said, tone flat.
He tapped the chart again, this time on a series of names and numbers mostly blacked out.
“Officially, they are the Hokage’s hand in the dark. They carry out assassinations, surveillance, sensitive retrievals—anything the regular forces cannot be seen doing. They wear masks for a reason, Yuki. Not just to hide who they are, but to strip them of identity.”
He gave me a long look. “Because for the ANBU to function, they must act not as individuals, not even as clan heirs. Only as tools.”
I studied the diagram carefully. “How are they chosen?”
“Talent,” Masaru answered. “Discipline. Mental profile. Loyalty. And above all—willingness to obey without hesitation.”
He folded his hands atop the book. “That means most clans… don’t make the best ANBU, each major clan has a few… but they never really get high ranks, because the Hokage knows that they are loyal to the clan before him, but he simply doesn’t have enough truly loyal shinobi without us.”
“That’s why the best ANBU,” Masaru continued, “are not the strongest. They are the most obedient.”
He turned another page—this one darker. Names omitted. Lines drawn without clear origin. A branching tree beneath the leaf, roots etched deep.
“And when obedience wasn’t enough,” he said, “ Adviser Shimura Danzo created something else.”
I leaned forward slightly. For once, I didn’t have to pretend to be interested.
“Root,” Masaru said quietly. “A subdivision within ANBU. Supposed to be just training of ANBU agents, it is so much more. It's where people are fully brainwashed, where seals are used to force obedience, it’s a place no Hyūga will ever enter.”
“Root was founded to mold shinobi from childhood. To serve the village as a tool, the perfect tool, utterly obedient, willing to die without a second thought, something they do because they stop being people, they can’t leave, can’t have a normal life, they aren’t shinobi, just tools.” He said, his voice grave and filled with distaste.
He tapped the edge of the dark page.
“There are no Hyūga in Root. Not because we are above them, but because we are incompatible. Our eyes see too much. Our clan structure is too rigid. And most importantly—our children are not disposable.”
Masaru looked at me then, not as a teacher evaluating a pupil, but as a man ensuring the next generation understood what must never be allowed.
“Some think we are like Root, that because we use seals on the branch family, we are the same, but it's not. The caged bird is that, a cage for a bird, to both stop the bird from flying off, but also from getting attacked by the cat.” I could hear the meaning in his voice.
Masaru’s voice softened, though it never lost its edge.
“Our seal is cruel, yes. But it is a cruelty of necessity. Root’s cruelty is by design.”
He tapped the chart once more, then closed the ledger entirely.
“We restrain our own. Not to erase them, but to protect them. You understand that, don’t you?” His question was more than just that; it felt like a test.
I met his gaze without hesitation.
“I understand, Masaru-sama,” I said, my voice steady. “The seal is not a punishment. It is a shield. It keeps our family safe, binds us together, and protects our bloodline from those who would exploit it. It ensures our strength remains ours.”
Masaru’s eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest glimmer of approval in his expression.
“Good,” he said, his tone still firm. “Never forget that. The Caged Bird Seal is harsh, but it is not cruelty for its own sake. It is a necessary burden, and it is our duty to wield it wisely.”
He straightened, resting one hand on the closed ledger, as if the very act of sealing it away mirrored the way their clan sealed its secrets.
“Root strips people of their identities, their humanity. It makes them tools. We do not do that. We protect our own, even if it costs us something of our pride.”
I bowed deeply. “Of course, Masaru-sama. I will not forget.”
He watched me for a moment longer, perhaps searching for any trace of hesitation or doubt. When he found none, he gave a small nod.
He continued to explain the politics of the village, how it interacted with the clans, and where each clan was in the grand scheme of things.
Most of the things I knew, such as the Nara clan being close with the Sarutobi clan, and what clans backed the Hokage and which ones didn’t.
But the lesson didn’t awaken some previously unknown desire to engage in politics in me, so I just chose to forget about it as I was dismissed for the day.
After all, before long, I would return to my full power, be it by my own plan or by Zetsu’s hand. So why did I care about politics?
Once I had my power back, I would rule the world with strength alone.
(End of chapter)
Yeah, I lied, I said no more politics, and yet, here they are. What are you gonna do about it? Seal me in the moon for a thousand years? Yeah, I didn’t think to.
But well, there are so many political systems that unless I do this kind of chapter, it just won’t make much sense when I bring them up later. And I do feel that I need to give Yuki some kind of childhood, even if it is just lessons most of it.
Because, if I just send her out to beat every damn ninja out there, that isn’t really what I am going for. Sure, she is that, but she isn’t a weapon, she is a person, and someone with a future planned out for her, one that involves more than fighting.
