Chapter Text
The metal door slid shut behind him.
The two genin stood exactly where he had expected them to be. Hayate Gekkō looked entirely too pleased with himself for someone who had just been caught ignoring instructions. Beside him, Ibiki Morino at least had the decency to appear mildly embarrassed.
Only mildly.
“…if there was any mission for us to prepare for.” Hayate finished after the door interrupted him. It was such a weak excuse for their eavesdropping Kisaragi felt the urge to sigh.
Instead, he held out the wooden chair.
Hayate blinked.
“…What?”
“Carry this.”
The boy stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because I carried it here.”
Hayate looked between the chair and his teacher before reluctantly accepting the burden. The chair wasn’t particularly heavy, but it was awkward enough to occupy both hands.
Kisaragi immediately resumed walking. Behind him came the unmistakable sound of his students following, Hayate grumbling while adjusting his grip.
“Senseless delegation of labor,” the boy muttered, using big words to sound older than he was.
“It is character building.” Kisaragi corrected all too easily.
“This is just furniture.”
“And now it’s your furniture to deal with.”
Hayate looked personally offended by this development. Ibiki snorted, amused. Kisaragi felt a small measure of satisfaction—teaching was occasionally entertaining like this.
The three continued down the corridor together.
“Now,” Hayate said, shifting the chair under one arm, “about the interrogation—”
“No.”
“I haven’t asked anything yet!”
“You were going to.”
“That’s speculation.”
“It’s pattern analysis.”
Hayate sighed dramatically.
“I feel like my education is being neglected.”
“Your education is proceeding exactly as intended.”
“Then why am I carrying a chair?”
“Because you ignored instructions.”
“Ibiki also ignored instructions.”
“Ibiki had the good sense not to announce himself the moment a reinforced security door was opened.”
That made Ibiki immediately look away. Hayate stared at him, eyes sharp.
“Shut up, Ibiki.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
The corridor stretched ahead in silence for as long as the two behind sent stares at each other. At least they were sensible enough to not start screaming at each other while inside a hospital. Which genin team did he see doing that the other day? Was it the one with the Hatake kid?
The silence lasted for exactly seventeen seconds.
“Well?” Hayate asked.
Kisaragi did not slow down.
“Well what?”
“What happened?”
“You weren’t invited.”
“We know.”
“Then why would I tell you?”
Hayate considered that.
“Hmm… Educational purposes?”
“No.”
“Professional development?”
“No.”
“Personal curiosity?”
“Especially no.”
The answers failed to discourage him. They rarely did. Hayate was the kind of boy who was insistent, whether it was with training, asking questions, or refusing to answer them. He had a good profile to become an interrogator, but the katana he carried everywhere was sign enough that the boy wanted a different path than his teacher.
Well, a future kenjutsu master would be good for the village.
Kisaragi stretched his shoulders as they continued toward the stairwell. His thoughts drifted back to the room they had left behind.
Shiro.
The boy had been exhausted, injured and restrained to a hospital bed. Nonetheless, the reports described someone who should not exist; A foreign shinobi with no clear patriotic loyalty to any hidden village, yet who knew too much about Konoha’s oldest clans and their techniques. A pacifist who repeatedly inserted himself into conflicts without concern for his own safety. A boy whose first question after waking hadn’t been where he was, but who had brought him there.
He had been too calm for a prisoner. Not fearless, that would be impossible. Just… extremely in control of his visible emotions. As though his own captivity concerned him less than the answers he had to give. Personal connections inside Konoha should not have changed his behavior. Friendly faces were not promises of safety.
The picture became stranger each time another piece was added.
“What do you think?” Ibiki asked suddenly.
Kisaragi glanced at the boy. Unlike Hayate, Ibiki rarely spoke unless he genuinely wanted an answer.
“About what?”
“The prisoner.”
It seemed Ibiki was curious about what had made their teacher so pensive. Ahead of them, sunlight spilled through the stairwell exit leading toward the main entrance of the hospital and the village beyond it.
For years Kisaragi had listened to people lie.
Some lied because they were frightened. Others lied because they believed they were smarter than everyone else in the room. Most, eventually, became predictable because of it.
Shiro wasn’t predictable in the same sense.
That was part of the problem. His answers had felt honest, even when they lacked clarity. There had been little effort to deceive. Little effort to redirect suspicion. The only thing he had truly protected was something—or someone.
He reduced all those thoughts to a simple answer.
“I think he’s hiding something.”
Hayate snorted.
“That’s not exactly surprising from a prisoner.”
Kisaragi heard a slap and the chair hitting the floor behind him. He elected to ignore whatever had just happened and continued toward the exit. Soon, warm afternoon air greeted him outside with the sounds of Konoha following immediately after to wash over him like a calming blanket. Most people took such sounds for granted. Kisaragi spent enough time in soundproof rooms to appreciate them.
The two genin stepped into it a moment later, stopping at Kisaragi’s sides.
“What kind of something?” Ibiki asked.
Kisaragi’s gaze drifted toward the Hokage Monument overlooking the village.
“The dangerous kind.”
Hayate frowned, “Dangerous to who?”
Kisaragi did not answer immediately. That was precisely the problem he himself was stuck at:
Dangerous to Shiro?
Dangerous to Konoha?
Dangerous to whoever had taught him?
Every possibility seemed plausible.
The three continued down the street in silence for several moments. Both teacher and students following a road towards the Hokage tower at a carefree pace.
Then Kisaragi spoke.
“You’ve heard the saying before.”
Hayate immediately looked up.
“Which one?”
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
“Oh! Yeah, that’s a classic. Who hasn’t heard that one?”
Ibiki nodded in agreement to his teammate.
Kisaragi’s eyes remained fixed on the path ahead.
“In our profession, there’s a third part.”
Hayate immediately looked interested despite himself.
“There is?”
“No.” The answer was completely deadpan, “but there should be.”
Ibiki let out a chuckle. Hayate, on the other hand, looked offended for being made a fool. Kisaragi continued walking, smelling something salty from a food stall they passed.
“Curiosity killed the cat. Satisfaction brought it back. Then the truth poisoned the neighborhood.”
The two genin stared at him.
Hayate was the first to recover.
“That is a terrible saying.”
“It’s an accurate one.”
“No, seriously. That’s awful.”
“Most truths are.”
The casual response killed whatever argument Hayate had prepared. It shifted the weight of the conversation, as if the words had been meant for something heavier than a passing remark. It sounded like something worth thinking about, like a lesson.
For a moment the only sounds came from the village around them; Merchants calling from storefronts, villagers chatting on the street, the distant ring of metal striking metal as a nearby forge worked.
Kisaragi’s thoughts kept circling the boy at the hospital. The problem wasn’t that Shiro was hiding something—every shinobi hid something; it was practically part of the curriculum.
The problem was that Kisaragi couldn’t predict whether uncovering it would solve anything at all, which was unusual for him.
“You think their secret is that dangerous?” Ibiki asked quietly.
Kisaragi was silent for several steps before answering.
“I think they believe it is.” That made both boys look at him. “The difference matters.”
Hayate adjusted the chair, passing it to his other arm.
“How?”
“Because people will kill for all sorts of stupid reasons.” The teacher shrugged. “Money. Pride. Revenge. Sometimes because somebody insulted them ten years ago and they’re still upset about it.”
Neither genin argued. They had both met shinobi before, from inside and outside the village.
“But that’s not what concerns me.” His footsteps stopped, making Ibiki and Hayate also stop. A group of children passed in front of them running, playing some sort of game of tag while pretending to be ninja jumping on walls and garbage cans.
“That prisoner never once tried to convince me his secret wasn’t important.” He said after resuming their walk, looking ahead once more.
Ibiki frowned.
“They just refused to talk about it?”
“Exactly.” Kisaragi shoved his hands in his pants pockets. “Most prisoners want you to look somewhere else. They offer distractions. Alternative explanations. Anything to try and hide behind.”
Shiro hadn’t done that, he simply drew a line and refused to cross it. No bargaining. No misdirection. No attempt to make the secret appear smaller than it was.
“I don’t know what they are protecting, only that they have already decided it matters more than making our lives easier.” Kisaragi admitted. The words felt strange—interrogators preferred certainty, including himself. So admitting out loud that he didn’t know felt like acknowledging the splinter under his skin.
That answer didn’t seem to satisfy either of his students. Unfortunately, it was the most honest one he could give without revealing classified information.
His left hand drifted unconsciously toward the old scars at his throat. Instinct had kept him alive longer than skill ever had. And his instincts had spent the entire interrogation whispering the same warning.
There were secrets hidden because they were valuable. Others because they were shameful. And every so often, there was a secret hidden because once it escaped, nobody could decide what to do with it.
Kisaragi had the unpleasant suspicion that Shiro belonged to the third category.
The Hokage Tower came into view a few instances later. Unlike most people entering the building, Kisaragi did not head directly to the civilian reception or the upper floors. Instead, he altered course toward the mission assignment desk near the entrance.
The clerk behind it looked up from a stack of paperwork before showing a polite smile.
“Oh! Good afternoon, Kisaragi-senpai.”
“Hey, Tomoko-san.” He returned the greeting without breaking stride. “I need a mission.”
The woman blinked. It was afternoon already, most shinobi came for missions in the morning.
“For yourself?”
“For my genin.”
That earned a glance past him to the two boys behind. Her expression shifted into quiet understanding. This wasn’t the first time she’d processed a request like that.
Hayate immediately looked excited.
Ibiki looked a little confused, or would the word be suspicious?
The clerk shuffled through several folders before producing a small stack.
“D-ranks. Not many left.”
“Perfect.”
Hayate’s expression fell immediately. He knew what to expect from D-rank missions and it wasn’t what he had wanted at all.
“Wait… Uh, sensei?”
Kisaragi accepted the stack and skimmed through it, humming to himself.
Training ground’s cleaning.
Fence repairs.
Inventory counting.
Community assistance.
His eyes settled on one.
“Here.”
The clerk glanced down. “Hyūga clan’s compound street maintenance?”
“That one.”
A mission slip changed hands. Behind Kisaragi came a strangled noise; Hayate had apparently reached the same conclusion as everyone else.
“Sensei.”
Kisaragi ignored him.
“Sensei.”
He closed his eyes, calling for patience.
“SENSEI!”
“What?”
“Why are we gardening?”
Kisaragi glanced over the assignment.
“Because the Hyūga requested assistance.”
Hayate pointed accusingly.
“This is punishment, isn’t it?”
“It is also a mission.”
“That wasn’t a denial!”
Kisaragi folded the paper and gave it to Ibiki.
“No, it wasn’t.”
Ibiki simply sighed, apparently having expected this outcome already. The sound carried all the weariness of someone wisely choosing not to participate in the whining.
“Get Tokara before you leave.”
That made the boy look up.
“But… he isn’t here.”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“Because part of being a team is preventing your teammates from making bad decisions.”
Hayate immediately pointed at Ibiki.
“He failed.”
Ibiki glared back.
“So did you.”
“That’s different.”
“It definitely isn’t.”
Kisaragi left them to that argument and turned toward the staircase. After taking one step, he froze.
Something felt wrong.
He looked back; Hayate was still carrying the chair. The hospital chair. Kisaragi stared at him, feeling both amused and tired.
“Hayate.”
“What?” Came the question in a bite.
“Why are you still carrying that?”
The Genin glanced down as though noticing it for the first time.
“Eh? You said to.”
Years of experience working with Genin prevented Kisaragi from asking the many questions that immediately came to mind.
“That is hospital property.”
Hayate looked mildly alarmed.
“Oh.”
“Return it.”
The boy shifted the chair awkwardly.
“Now?”
“Unless your long-term plan was theft.”
“I wasn’t stealing it! You said to carry it!”
“I never said to remove it from the hospital grounds and transport it halfway across the village.”
Hayate looked like someone who had just realized he was wrong and intended to argue about it anyway.
“You never said to leave it there!”
“I said it was your furniture to deal with.”
While Hayate threatened to kick the chair back to the hospital, Kisaragi studied his student.
The chair wasn’t particularly heavy. For most genin, carrying it for twenty minutes would have been mildly annoying at worst. Hayate’s shoulders, however, had begun to sag ever so slightly. His grip on it had shifted often during the walk. Small signs that most people wouldn’t notice.
Kisaragi did.
The boy always pushed himself harder than necessary. Always acted more energetic when the bags under his eyes were more prominent. Complained a little louder, as though refusing to give anyone an excuse to look at him differently.
It was an exhausting habit.
“Return the chair,” Kisaragi said a final time. “Then collect Tokara.”
Hayate rolled his eyes.
“Yes, sensei.”
“Then go help the Hyūga pull weeds.”
The sheer annoyance on Hayate’s face almost made Kisaragi’s concern for his student’s health diminish. He watched his two students go, their voices trailing off as they left the building.
It was like silence returned to his ears. The kind that existed after something warm had left the space, leaving a feeling of hollowness in its place.
Mori Kisaragi exhaled once.
Then turned.
The Hokage Tower always felt different when you were summoned by the Hokage. Less like a building and more like a structure that expected something from you. Whether that came from the power it represented or something else, Kisaragi couldn’t say.
He walked forward. The reception did nothing to stop him, only glancing his way before continuing with their paper work.
An ANBU wearing a bear mask appeared in front of him, forcing him to pause.
“The Hokage is waiting.”
The voice carried no trace of emotion. Typical of the elite ANBU operatives.
“I know. I’m here to report to him.”
The ANBU nodded, stepping to the side to allow him to continue, falling in step beside him once Kisaragi resumed his walk and took the stairs.
Each level of the tower grew quieter, as though sound itself understood where it belonged. Conversations faded. Doors closed more softly. By the time he reached the Hokage’s floor, even footsteps seemed like a disturbance.
It reflected the village itself. Outside, Konoha wore the mask of peace with practiced ease. Shops remained open, children still laughed, and life moved forward.
But beneath it all lay the truth every shinobi knew.
They were at war.
The Bear ANBU stopped at the entrance, the porcelain mask as unreadable as ever, and waited for Kisaragi to enter. The doors to the office were already open. He knew what that meant.
The instant he crossed the threshold, the doors closed behind him with quiet finality. Kisaragi resisted the urge to glance back. Accompanied was a generous way of putting it. Escorted was more accurate. Just one more clue as to how eagerly awaited his report was.
Inside, the air was different. Heavy with the scent of tobacco and those present inside.
Sarutobi Hiruzen stood near the window, hands folded behind his back. His eyes had most likely watched Ibiki and Hayate arrive with him, as well as leave.
To the left, Namikaze Minato sat on one of the plush chairs, posture calm but attention extremely sharpened. He was on edge already, as much as he tried not to show.
Yamanaka Inoichi, the other blond to the right, was not sitting at all. He was reading something. Or pretending to finish reading it.
Three pairs of eyes followed his approach. Kisaragi ignored the scrutiny, stopping before the desk and bowing respectfully.
“Mori Kisaragi reporting back, Hokage-sama.”
A brief silence followed before Hiruzen turned fully from the window, his expression calm.
“Please give us your report, Mori.”
The request carried no pressure. Even so, only a fool would mistake it for anything less than a matter of importance. Kisaragi kept his posture steady.
“Lord Hokage,” he began, “the subject is stable. Conscious. Recovering within expected parameters.”
Minato did not react outwardly, but his attention sharpened. Inoichi lowered the file in his hands a few inches.
Kisaragi continued, undisturbed.
“No signs of genjutsu residue. No indication of external coercion during interrogation either.”
The hard part of the meeting was about to begin. His gaze shifted to the recognizable document folder in Inoichi’s hand before he closed his eyes.
“Prior to the interrogation, I reviewed every available record concerning the subject. Afterwards, I reexamined each theory...”
Kisaragi allowed himself a brief pause before looking up again.
“My conclusion remained the same: the pattern does not converge.”
Inoichi’s posture shifted slightly. For most people, the reaction would have meant nothing. For Inoichi, it was practically a declaration of interest.
“Clarify,” the Yamanaka requested.
Kisaragi allowed the bluntness to pass without acknowledgement.
“It does not narrow toward a single explanation,” he said. “It expands.”
Minato spoke quietly. “That is not unusual for wandering shinobi.”
“Yes. Except the reports refuse to support a single conclusion. Every line of inquiry points somewhere different.”
Silence settled over the office as all listeners digested Mori’s words.
Inoichi lowered his gaze to the file. Not to reread it—Kisaragi doubted the Yamanaka needed to. No, he was probably comparing it. Weighing old conclusions against new information and looking for the point where they stopped agreeing like Kisaragi had said.
“The subject doesn’t seem to follow any chain of command,” the veteran carried on with his thoughts. “Nor chase after a consistent objective. There is also no measurable gain from any intervention we have seen the subject make.”
Minato’s expression tightened slightly; “He saved my students.” The reminder was subtle, but no less deliberate for it.
“Yes.” Kisaragi’s tone remained even. “The outcome is not in dispute. The motive is.”
Minato’s expression eased slightly. His bright blue eyes remained fixed on the seasoned T&I interrogator, but the challenge had faded from them. Kisaragi understood the reaction—he had a team of genin under his care as well.
Hiruzen walked to his chair, lifting a hand to cut through the silence before sitting down. “Continue.”
Kisaragi obeyed.
“According to multiple reports, including Namikaze-san’s own, the subject demonstrates familiarity with several advanced taijutsu disciplines: Hyūga Gentle Fist, Uchiha combat patterns, and—according to the medical staff who first treated him—injuries consistent with the Eight Gates Release Formation.”
Inoichi’s attention sharpened at the last detail. The name alone was enough to trigger immediate association. In Konoha, there was only one active practitioner of the Eight Gates—an ‘Eternal Genin’ most shinobi had encountered at least once.
“There is no record of anyone training under any known instructor capable of producing that combination of knowledge. Which leaves attribution unresolved.” Mori explained.
Minato leaned forward slightly.
“What are you suggesting?”
Kisaragi looked at him now. Then at Inoichi. Internally acknowledging that his answer would be judged twice.
“I am not suggesting deception. That explanation no longer fits the evidence.” He began. “I am suggesting that someone must have taught him.”
Minato considered that. It was indeed more plausible than a young teenager acquiring such skills through experience alone. If that had been the case, Konoha should have encountered him years earlier.
“Then he learned it, but we don’t know from whom.”
“That is the working assumption.”
Minato’s fingers tightened slightly.
“Did he… say anything about that?”
Mori watched the man for a moment before answering.
“I did not get a name,” he admitted. The omission remained one of the few parts of the interrogation that had bothered him. “But he behaves as though that name cannot be spoken without consequence.”
Inoichi finally spoke then.
“That is not uncommon in trauma-based memory suppression or conditioned loyalty structures.”
Kisaragi stared at the Yamanaka’s eyes for the first time in that exchange.
“I considered that,” he said. “But it is inconsistent with the rest of his behavior.”
Inoichi held his gaze. Not conceding the point, but not pressing it either.
The Yamanaka had a habit of testing conclusions by refusing to let them rest. Kisaragi respected that more than agreement. It was proof that the new head of the Yamanaka Clan was competent despite his relative inexperience, at least to an outsider like him.
Kisaragi elaborated for the room.
“The subject is not withholding information to mislead us. His cooperation, or rather, his lack of hostility during questioning made that much clear. He is withholding it because he believes the consequences of sharing it outweigh any benefit of doing so.”
The room grew quiet.
Hiruzen’s fingers came together beneath his chin, his expression revealing little. The Hokage had not interrupted once since Kisaragi began outlining his conclusions. He simply listened, weighing each possibility against decades of experience.
Minato’s reaction was easier to place.
His expression remained composed, yet his attention never left Kisaragi. The more details the interrogator presented, the less the subject resembled the threat many would have expected him to be.
Blue eyes narrowed in deep thought. Kisaragi had seen that look before—It was the expression of a man trying to force scattered pieces into a coherent whole. The problem was that every conclusion about this subject seemed to create two new questions.
Whatever mystery surrounded Shiro, it was larger than the boy himself.
Inoichi was the first to move on and break the stillness to continue the discussion.
“Your assumption depends on a stable internal identity,” he stated.
Kisaragi felt one eyebrow rise.
Hiruzen did not interrupt. That was permission enough to continue. Inoichi set the report fully down, taking a moment to align it with the edge of the desk—Kisaragi recognized the habit. The Yamanaka was preparing an argument
.
“As far as your report describes, the subject maintains behavioral consistency under stress. He responds coherently. He resists interrogation without fragmentation.” Inoichi’s light-green eyes remained fixed on Kisaragi. “You are drawing conclusions from a consistent individual.”
Kisaragi did not answer, though his right thumb began to work against his fingers to crack the stiff joints.
“That is reasonable,” Inoichi continued. “If we assume the individual you questioned represents the entirety of the subject. But I am not convinced that assumption is justified.”
Kisaragi’s eyebrows furrowed.
“Explain,” the command came automatically. The voice of a senior intelligence gatherer evaluating a theory rather than a colleague.
Inoichi inclined his head once automatically.
“It is possible the subject’s mind is compartmentalized.” Kisaragi’s expression did not change, so he kept going. “Under extreme circumstances, the mind can divide responsibilities between separate behavioral structures.”
He chose his next words carefully.
“Different ways of thinking. Different responses. Different priorities.”
He looked briefly at the others.
“Each internally consistent. Each believing itself genuine. In that scenario, the individual you questioned may have answered honestly without possessing the whole truth.”
Kisaragi’s thumb stopped against his knuckle. His mind immediately returned to the interrogation.
His questions had drawn hesitation and there had been moments when Shiro’s composure had thinned. The behavior of the bed-bound shinobi in that hospital room had not felt incomplete. It had felt guarded—as though the answers existed and the subject had chosen not to reveal them.
“An interesting theory,” he said at last. “But it does not explain the withholding.”
Inoichi remained silent at that.
“The subject behaved as though he possessed information he was unwilling to disclose.”
“Not necessarily.”
Kisaragi’s eyes narrowed slightly at the instant disagreement.
“There is a possibility the personality you questioned did not possess the answer,” Inoichi said. “But knew of the one who did.”
Minato frowned.
“You mean… ?”
Inoichi glanced toward him briefly before returning his attention to Kisaragi.
“You concluded the subject was protecting someone.”
“Yes.”
“I am suggesting that someone may not be external.”
Kisaragi said nothing, Inoichi continued.
“If the mind has been divided, then one identity may possess information another does not. In that case, what appeared to be secrecy may have been a boundary.”
A pause.
“The personality you questioned may have been protecting another part of the subject.” Inoichi spoke more precisely. “You are assuming continuity between knowledge and ownership of that knowledge. But we have not verified if that continuity exists in him.”
“You are suggesting fragmentation.”
“Yes. And that the pattern you described is consistent with cases where a subject maintains two stable narrative structures simultaneously.”
Kisaragi’s gaze did not move away.
“And you believe this applies here.”
Inoichi did not hesitate.
”I believe it is one of the only models that accounts for the contradictions without requiring an external unknown actor.”
Silence returned.
He added, after a beat:
“The alternative is that we are missing an entire source of information that leaves no trace, no pattern, and no collateral structure to teach an outsider like one of our own. In my experience, that is statistically less likely than internal partitioning in subjects exposed to repeated high-stress ethical conflict.”
A faint exhale from Minato was heard, the kind that preceded a migraine.
Kisaragi finally spoke again after twenty seconds.
“Then the ‘teacher’ does not exist outside him, is that what you are getting at?”
Inoichi held Mori’s gaze with utmost determination.
“I’m suggesting the possibility cannot be dismissed.”
Kisaragi’s crossed his arms then.
“On what basis?”
“On the same basis as a theory previously discussed in the folder’s transcripts.” Understanding flickered across Minato’s face. Inoichi noticed it and continued. “The possibility that an individual could survive permanent separation from their original body through one of my clan’s techniques.”
Silence settled over the office.
Kisaragi’s expression remained controlled, but Inoichi could practically see the implications unfolding behind his eyes.
“You believe the second conscious structure may not belong to the subject at all.” Mori summarized.
“I believe the evidence you brought today no longer allows us to dismiss that possibility.”
Kisaragi’s expression remained controlled, but his thoughts did not. He reviewed his chain of reasoning again—then viewed it through Inoichi’s framework. All the pieces aligned in ways he found deeply uncomfortable.
Because it explained too much.
If a second structure truly existed within the subject—something more substantial than a fractured personality—then the problem was no longer what the boy knew. Knowledge could be taught. Skills could be learned.
Memories were another matter.
The subject’s familiarity with advanced taijutsu disciplines, combat patterns, and techniques exceeded what should have been possible through observation alone. Such things could be imitated to a limited degree. They could even be studied. But genuine familiarity carried a different quality. It reflected experience.
And experience could not be taught.
If those memories belonged to someone else, then the question ceased to be how the boy had acquired them.
It became how another mind—and perhaps another soul—had come to reside within him.
Kisaragi stared at Inoichi. The Yamanaka Clan guarded its techniques with a level of paranoia rivaled only by the Hyūga and the Uchiha.
Knowledge capable of transferring a consciousness from one body to another should not exist outside those heavily protected records. Yet here they were discussing the possibility as though it had already happened.
His jaw tightened slightly.
If the theory proved true, then someone, somewhere, had managed to infiltrate the Yamanaka Clam long enough to learn one of their techniques before attempting it on a teenager. And that implication concerned him far more than the boy lying in Konoha’s Hospital.
Hiruzen slowly exhales.
“If what you propose is true, Inoichi…” he said, eyes half-lidded, “…then we are no longer dealing with an interrogation subject. We are dealing with a potential intelligence compromise and a security breach affecting the village as a whole, not merely the Yamanaka Clan.”
Minato’s posture tightens immediately at that phrasing. The Hokage isn’t wrong, not at all. But the words reduced Shiro to a problem to be solved, a threat to be assessed. Something clinical enough to be dissected and categorized.
He clearly didn’t like it.
Inoichi bowed slightly at being directly addressed by his Kage.
“That is correct, Lord Hokage. With that acknowledged, I request permission to perform a deep mind walk.”
That phrase should have landed heavier than it does. And it did—but only on Minato. He stood up swiftly from the chair, as if ready to take action.
“Inoichi,” he spoke, voice controlled but edged in a way few had heard the man be, “he’s still recovering. His body is barely stabilized. A full Yamanaka intrusion—”
“I would not proceed recklessly,” Inoichi cuts in, not dismissive, just factual. “But waiting introduces its own risks. If there is an intruder, delay may allow it to further entrench itself or destabilize the host.”
Kisaragi watches Minato at that, noting something important: Minato isn’t arguing the logic. He’s arguing the possible cost, which was Shiro’s health.
Hiruzen finally opens his eyes fully under the Hokage hat.
“And what do you expect to find, Inoichi?”
The blonde hesitates only a fraction before answering.
“Contamination. Partitioning. Or an external imprint layered too cleanly to be accidental.”
“And if it is none of those?”
“Then we confirm the subject is singular,” Inoichi said slowly, “and that what we are observing is a fractured internal structure formed by the subject himself.”
Minato spoke before Hiruzen could answer with a kind of quiet finality that made the room feel smaller.
“You’re talking about entering his mind while he’s still recovering,” he said. “If you misread this, you may not get him back the way he is now. It is too risky.”
That line shifts the room’s tone. Even Kisaragi goes still at it. Inoichi himself doesn’t deny it immediately.
“I understand the risk,” the Yamanaka admits. “But I would not be proposing it if the alternative were safe. The unknown variable is already inside him. And if it is what I suspect, then doing nothing is not neutrality. It is a risk for the Village.”
Hiruzen finally moved.
He reached for the pipe resting in its holder on the desk, fingers working methodically as he packed it with tobacco, probably grounding himself in something physical while his subordinates filled the room with a mixture of stress and anxiety.
“Minato,” he calls. Not as Hokage ordering a subordinate to stand down after letting their emotions speak first—but as a man addressing another man’s concern directly.
Minato meets his gaze.
“You are not wrong to be concerned,” Hiruzen continued calmly. “But we cannot afford ignorance when it concerns the village’s security.”
Minato said nothing. His gaze lingered on Hiruzen for a moment longer than necessary before dropping away, the reaction of a man who understood the reasoning and hated it regardless.
Hiruzen shifts his attention to Inoichi.
“This is not to be done as an interrogation.”
Inoichi nods, “It will not be.”
Hiruzen’s eyes narrow slightly.
“You will not extract anything. You will observe. And you will withdraw at the first sign of instability. I will not risk your life on uncertainty.”
“Yes, Lord Hokage.”
Hiruzen let the silence linger after Inoichi’s acknowledgement, ensuring there would be no misunderstanding regarding his orders. Only afterwards did his attention turn back to Minato. Something unreadable passed through his expression—measured, weighty, almost paternal in its restraint.
“You may be present, if you choose.”
Minato inhaled slowly. Kisaragi already knew what he would answer before even hearing it.
“I will be there.”
Hiruzen lit his pipe, taking a long, measured drag. He did not dismiss anyone, nor did he signal the meeting’s end. The reason became clear a moment later.
“One more thing,” he said, exhaling a puff of smoke. “Is there any possibility that the subject is a jinchūriki?”
Minato’s lips pressed into a thin line before he answered with a slight shake of his head. But the first voice to respond was Kisaragi’s.
“No seal markings were found by the medical staff during examination,” he said. “Nothing consistent with containment or suppression fuinjutsu in their records.”
Hiruzen tapped the stem of his pipe once against the ashtray.
“Minato?”
The blond exhaled once through his nose.
“Jiraiya-sensei inspected him before bringing him to the village and again during transport,” he replied. “He found no evidence of a containment seal or anything else that would suggest Shiro is a jinchūriki.”
Hiruzen gave a slow nod.
“Yet our jinchūriki claimed to have sensed bijū chakra within him.” He took another measured drag from his pipe, the ember briefly flaring. “That boy continues to defy simple explanations at every turn.”