The scent of ink and aged parchment thickened the air in the Hokage’s office. Afternoon light filtered through the blinds, casting sharp shadows over the polished desk where the Third Hokage sat, pipe in hand. Hiruzen Sarutobi regarded the boy before him with quiet contemption.

  Danzo’s grip tightened around his cane, his knuckles turning white as he ground the tip into the floor. That damned Senju brat had called the Uchiha Tajima-ossan—so casually, so brazenly. The sheer audacity of it made his teeth clench, but he forced his expression into neutrality. Losing composure, even for a second, was unacceptable. He let his gaze sweep the room, ensuring no one had caught the flicker of rage that had momentarily darkened his features.

  But someone had.

  Standing just behind her son, Tsunade let out a quiet sigh, her arms crossed as she observed the scene with the patience of someone who had long grown accustomed to these power games. She hadn’t needed to look directly at Danzo to notice—her peripheral vision had caught the subtle shift in his posture, the way his breath hitched for just a fraction of a second. He thought himself unreadable, but Tsunade had spent a lifetime around men like him.

  And Ryoji, standing there with that infuriatingly casual stance, knew exactly what he was doing.

  Ryoji opened the concve with a concise yet pointed speech, drawing comparisons between the Forbidden Scroll and other treasured cn heirlooms—the vast Nara forest, the carefully guarded Akimichi medical recipes, and countless other artifacts of heritage. His tone remained measured, but there was no mistaking the underlying sharpness in his words.

  As he continued, he made sure to weave in thinly veiled jabs at the elders, subtly accusing them of theft by inaction—hoarding knowledge not out of wisdom, but out of compcency, or worse, self-interest. Every carefully chosen word carried an implicit challenge, his gaze lingering just long enough on certain council members to make his meaning clear.

  He let a moment of silence settle over the room, letting his words sink in before delivering the final blow. “After all,” he said smoothly, “what good is a legacy if it withers in the shadows? If the cns of Konoha locked away their knowledge rather than passing it down, what would remain of our history? Stagnation is no better than decay.” His lips curled into the faintest of smirks. “Or perhaps… that was the goal all along?”

  Danzo’s fingers tightened around his cane as he stepped forward, his voice calm but ced with disdain. "How very idealistic of you, Senju," he said, his tone carrying the weight of condescension. "Comparing a relic of immense power to the Akimichi's gluttonous indulgences or the Nara’s woodnd sanctuary—how quaint. But then, I suppose I shouldn’t expect wisdom from a child who mistakes recklessness for conviction."

  His gaze swept the room before settling coldly on Ryoji. "You speak of stagnation, yet you fail to grasp the simplest truth: some knowledge is safeguarded not out of greed, but necessity. There are forces in this world, boy, that would tear Konoha apart given the slightest opportunity. To hand over dangerous techniques without discernment is not progress—it is folly. It is the arrogance of youth mistaking the weight of responsibility for chains."

  Danzo took a deliberate step closer, his voice lowering just enough that only those nearest could hear. "But arrogance is a dangerous thing, isn’t it? It makes one bold. Makes one careless. And careless men—especially those so eager to provoke their betters—have a way of meeting unfortunate ends before their so-called ideals can bear fruit."

  He straightened, once again addressing the room. "The true leaders of this vilge understand sacrifice. We do what must be done, even when lesser minds fail to see the necessity. That is why Konoha still stands. And that is why children should know their pce."

  “Sacrifice?” Ryoji echoed, his voice deceptively light, though his eyes burned with accusation. “Ah, yes. Like how you sacrificed our allies—the Uzumaki.” He let the words hang in the air, the weight of history pressing down on the room.

  The reaction was immediate. A few of the elders stiffened, others shifted uncomfortably. Even those who had long since learned to school their expressions couldn’t completely hide the flickers of unease. The massacre of Uzushio was a stain few dared to acknowledge, much less discuss openly.

  Danzo, however, did not flinch. Instead, he turned his gaze on Ryoji with the cold patience of a predator. "You mistake necessity for betrayal," he said evenly. "The Uzumaki were powerful, yes, but power alone does not guarantee survival. Konoha cannot afford to bleed for those too weak to defend themselves."

  Ryoji scoffed. “Weak? The Uzumaki weren’t weak. They were abandoned.” He took a deliberate step forward. “By you. By this council. You call it sacrifice, but we both know the truth. You let them die because their strength made you afraid. Their bloodline was too valuable, too coveted, and rather than risk your precious bance of power, you let the vultures descend.”

  Danzo’s grip on his cane tightened just slightly, but his voice remained controlled. “Careful, Senju. You speak as if you know the weight of leadership. But tell me—what would you have done? Risked Konoha’s future for sentimentality? For the illusion of loyalty in a world where alliances crumble the moment they are no longer convenient?” His gaze darkened. “History does not remember idealists kindly.”

  Ryoji’s expression hardened, but he gave a slow, mocking smile. “No, Danzo. History doesn’t remember cowards kindly either.”

  Silence fell, thick with unspoken tension.

  Ryoji let the silence stretch just long enough to let his st words sink in before he tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. Then, with quiet certainty, he spoke again.

  “You’re not a leader, Danzo,” he said, voice sharp as a bde. “You’re a murderer.”

  The word struck like a hammer, rippling through the room. A few council members audibly inhaled, while others remained frozen, unwilling to intervene in what was quickly becoming something far more personal than political.

  Danzo’s jaw tightened, but he did not hesitate. With a sudden, sharp movement, he lifted a hand and struck Ryoji across the face. The sound of the sp cracked through the chamber like a whip.

  For a moment, there was silence.

  Then, with a slow turn of his head, Ryoji looked back at Danzo, his cheek red but his expression eerily calm. And then he moved.

  Wooden tendrils erupted from the floor and walls, surging toward Danzo with crushing speed. In a blink, they wrapped around his body, pinning his arms and smming him against the wall with enough force to make the structure groan. Dust and debris shook loose from the impact.

  A sharp exhale escaped Danzo’s lips, but his gre was unwavering. “You dare—”

  “I dare a great many things,” Ryoji cut in smoothly, stepping forward. The wooden tendrils flexed, tightening their grip around Danzo as if mirroring Ryoji’s own slow, deliberate movements. “But you? You dared to betray our allies. You dared to sacrifice those who trusted this vilge.” His eyes narrowed, and the wood pulsed against Danzo’s frame, subtle but constant. Draining.

  Danzo’s body tensed, his breath hitching just slightly—so slight no one else would notice. But Ryoji did. He felt it. The slight but unmistakable siphoning of chakra, the way Danzo’s reserves, vast but not infinite, were beginning to trickle into the living wood Ryoji controlled.

  He leaned in just enough that only Danzo could hear his next words. “You think history won’t remember me kindly? That idealists don’t survive? Then let me remind you, Danzo…” Ryoji’s smirk was cold, deadly. “Neither do relics of a failed era.”

  Danzo’s gre sharpened, but for the first time in their exchange, he said nothing.

  The room was in chaos. Some elders gasped in shock, others whispered urgently among themselves, but the sentiment was clear—Ryoji had made his point, and Danzo, for all his influence, had been humiliated.

  Then, a firm voice cut through the murmurs.

  “That’s enough.”

  Hiruzen Sarutobi stepped forward, his presence alone commanding silence. His gaze swept the room before nding on Ryoji, unreadable but firm. “Set him down,” he ordered, his tone carrying both authority and expectation.

  Ryoji held Danzo’s gre for a moment longer before exhaling through his nose. With a flick of his fingers, the wooden tendrils unraveled, withdrawing like serpents slithering back into the floor. Danzo dropped to his feet, his posture stiff, his grip tightening on his cane as he steadied himself.

  Hiruzen turned to the gathered cn heads, who, to Danzo’s silent fury, were no longer looking at him for guidance. Instead, they were murmuring their agreement, nodding toward Ryoji.

  “The boy is right,” came a gruff voice from the Akimichi head. “The Forbidden Scroll belongs to the vilge, to its people. Hoarding it serves no one.”

  “The Senju heir has proven himself capable,” added Shingen Nara, his zy tone betraying nothing of his calcuting mind. “Denying him access would be… shortsighted.”

  One by one, the cn leaders gave their agreement.

  Hiruzen took a deep breath before nodding. “Then it is decided. Ryoji Senju will be granted the Forbidden Scroll.”

  Danzo’s expression darkened, but before he could speak, another voice cut in.

  “By the way, Danzo,” Tsunade said, stepping forward at st, arms crossed and expression unreadable. “You might want to be careful in the coming days.”

  Danzo’s eye flicked to her, sharp with suspicion. “And why is that?”

  Tsunade smirked. “Because no medical ninja will be tending to your injuries.” She took a step closer, her voice cool but absolute. “As head of Konoha’s entire medical system, I can make that call. Consider it another sacrifice for the greater good.”

  For the first time, Danzo’s fingers twitched against his cane, his body rigid with barely restrained fury.

  But he said nothing. And in that silence, Ryoji knew. Danzo had lost.