The meeting room, carved into a basalt cliff north of Konoha, stank of mildew and rancid sweat. Torches crackled in their rusty holders, casting twisted shadows on the walls where cracks ran like scars. A massive table, split by years of war, stood in the center, surrounded by rickety chairs.
Gaara, Kazekage of Sunagakure, stood with arms crossed, his turquoise eyes dulled by an abyssal void. His once stoic face was now marked by dark circles, his red hair disheveled, as if he hadn't slept in weeks. Sunagakure, his village, was now a pile of smoldering rubble, razed by Deidara and Kisame's Edo Tensei. Temari, his sister, shredded by water sharks. Kankurō, his brother, blown apart by a clay bomb. Gaara clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, blood dripping onto the floor.
Beside him, Ōnoki, Tsuchikage of Iwagakure, hovered inches above the ground, his frail body vibrating with restrained rage. A hideous scar barred his face, his left eye reduced to an empty socket, the skin burned and blistered from a failed Jinton against Minato's Edo Tensei.
His white beard was smeared with soot, his hands trembling, but his voice, when he spoke, was a grind of iron. Kirigakure, absent, was a black hole in the Alliance. Mei Terumi, captured by Makima, had left her village abandoned, its streets drowned in mist and blood. A few Kiri ninjas – Chōjūrō, anonymous survivors – had joined the Alliance, but their presence was a cruel reminder of the Mist Village's fall.
"Fuck, look at us," Ōnoki snarled, breaking the silence. He slammed the table, making a nervous chūnin at the entrance flinch. "Suna's a graveyard, Kiri's a fucking ghost, and Iwa's barely standing. Makima's fucked us, and you're just shitting your pants?"
Gaara looked up, his voice low, almost a whisper, but sharp as a razor. "Temari died in front of me. Kankurō… he exploded, Ōnoki. I felt his blood on my hands. Suna's gone, but I'll rip Makima's throat out, even if I have to die for it."
A Kiri ninja, a scarred jōnin named Hideo, gripped his sword, his eyes wet. "Kiri's got nothing, Kazekage. Mei's… gone. The Seven Swordsmen are dead. We're a handful, but we'll follow. Makima broke our home. We want her blood."
Ōnoki chuckled, a raw, bitter sound. "Her blood? I want her fucking head on a pike. She thinks she's a goddess? Kumo's her hole, and we're gonna burn it." He turned to Gaara, his good eye blazing. "You with me, kid, or are you too broken to move?"
Gaara didn't answer right away. He stared at the floor, where a drop of his blood formed a small puddle. Then he straightened, his chakra making the sand in his pockets vibrate. "I'm with you. But this isn't a war, Ōnoki. It's an execution."
The door creaked open, and a Konoha shinobi, a barely jōnin kid, gasped: "The 10,000 are ready, Kage-samas. They're waiting outside." Ōnoki grunted, "Then let's finish this." Gaara nodded, his face hard as stone.
Outside, a rocky plain stretched, bordered by jagged cliffs. 10,000 shinobi, a patchwork of Konoha, Iwa, Suna, and a few Kiri survivors, formed an ocean of steel and rage. Katanas glinted, kunai clicked, blood-stained bandages fluttered in the wind.
The Alliance was a wounded beast, but its fangs were still sharp. Gaara and Ōnoki climbed onto a promontory, their frail figures dominating the crowd. Silence fell, heavy as an anvil.
Gaara spoke first, his voice carrying across the plain, each word a hammer blow. "Sunagakure is dead. My sister, my brother, my ninjas… reduced to ashes. Makima took everything I had. But I'm here, fuck, and so are you. Kumo's hers. We'll raze it, rip out its heart, and piss on its ashes. Who's with me?"
A roar erupted, the shinobi raising their weapons, their cries shaking the ground. Ōnoki took over, his voice a volcanic rumble. "Look at my face! That bitch Makima sent Minato to fuck me up! Iwa's bleeding, Kiri's a hole, but we're the Alliance, damn it! 10,000 blades, 10,000 fists, and we'll make her eat her guts! To Kumo, now!"
The shinobi roared, a primal cry, their footsteps vibrating the earth as they marched. Chōjūrō, in the front row, gripped Hiramekarei, muttering: "For Kiri. For Mei." Hideo, beside him, snarled: "That bitch will die slow." Iwa ninjas, led by Kurotsuchi and Kitsuchi, chanted: "For the Tsuchikage! For Iwa!" Konoha-jin, veterans with deep scars, brandished torn banners, their eyes burning with vengeance.
Gaara, still, stared at the horizon where Kumogakure stood, hidden by mountains. A gust lifted sand around him, his chakra pulsing like a wounded heart. "Temari… Kankurō… wait for me," he whispered, so low no one heard. Ōnoki placed a knotted hand on his shoulder, a rare gesture. "Kid, you're not alone. We'll bleed her."
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