97: Fugaku: I'm going to stop pretending. I'm going to reveal my cards. All the Uchiha members are rebelling!

In the Hokage's office, the air was so heavy it felt like water could be wrung from it.

On Hiruzen Sarutobi’s desk, there were no longer ordinary Village documents, but military intelligence scrolls piled up like mountains.

The seal of each scroll was branded with the character “Urgent” in red wax, representing the highest level of emergency, the red so glaring it looked like bleeding wounds.

Kumogakure, Iwagakure, Hidden Mist, Sunagakure.

Four crimson arrows, from the four directions of the Ninja World map, were firmly pinned towards the green leaf symbolizing Konoha in the center, like four dining knives preparing to carve up a corpse.

Hiruzen Sarutobi’s pipe was already cold.

He did not understand, nor could he believe.

What exactly had Konoha done to suddenly become the target of the entire Ninja World’s collective assault overnight?

This was illogical and unreasonable.

Such a large-scale four-way coordinated action must have a hand secretly manipulating it, but who was the owner of that hand?

“Hokage-sama,” an Anbu member knelt on one knee, his voice hoarse, “The latest intelligence from the border indicates that the four Villages’ troop advancement speed, formations, and even Ninja deployments show a high degree of synchronicity.

It’s like… like they are operating under the same battle plan.”

“Synchronicity…” Utatane Koharu’s face was pale as she murmured, “This is impossible, they were clearly still wary of each other…”

“Unless someone gave them an offer they couldn’t refuse, and a common goal that made them temporarily set aside their hatred.”

Hiruzen Sarutobi’s voice was low and weary.

He picked up a scroll, then slowly put it down, its weight feeling as heavy as a thousand pounds.

This shouldn’t have happened.

In the underground secret room of the Naka Shrine, candlelight flickered, stretching the shadows of every Uchiha Clan member into ghostly figures.

The atmosphere was even more oppressive than in the Hokage’s office, like solidified lava, needing only a single crack to erupt.

Uchiha Fugaku stood before all the core Clan members.

He did not read the forged secret letter, but merely hurled out the most chilling words from it, one by one.

“Eye Hunting Squad.”

“Uchiha Fan’s eyes are just the beginning.”

“The ultimate target, my Mangekyo.”

Dead silence.

Dead silence for over a dozen breaths, even the “crackling” sound of the burning candle disappeared.

“Bastards!”

Uchiha Yashiro of the radical faction suddenly slammed his fist against the stone wall, and the hard rock cracked like a spiderweb, with Crushing gravel dropping.

His eyes were bloodshot, his three-tomoe spinning wildly, and the Chakra surge he emitted made the surrounding candlelight flicker.

“What do they take us for! Livestock in a pen! They come to take our eyes when they need them!”

A young Uchiha Ninja even uncontrollably burst into laughter, his laughter sharp and frantic: “Haha, how ridiculous! I was just drinking with a Konoha colleague yesterday, and he said we Uchiha are the pride of the Village! Turns out we’re the pride of spare parts!”

Compared to the radical faction’s fury, the reaction of the moderate Clan elders, who had always advocated for peaceful integration into the Village, was even more chilling at this moment.

An old man with white hair swayed, almost falling, but was supported by someone next to him.

He showed no anger, only a deathly pallor on his face, a hollowness and bewilderment that came from a belief being utterly crushed.

He trembled his lips, looking at Fugaku, his voice as dry as sandpaper rubbing.

“Clan Head… My son died in the Third Ninja World War protecting the Hokage’s direct Anbu.

So, all these years of our forbearance, all these years of loyalty and sacrifice… In their eyes, it was just to make it convenient for them… to extract parts?”

This question was more devastating than any angry roar.

It shattered the last shred of illusion that all the Uchiha Clan members present still held for Konoha.

Fugaku slowly closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the strange Mangekyo pattern was devoid of any emotion.

He did not answer the question, but merely put forth a resolution.

“I propose that the Uchiha Clan, from this day forward, secede from Konoha.”

No one objected.

Not a single moment of hesitation.

One by one, hands, whether from the radical or moderate factions, were firmly raised in the oppressive silence.

The rustling sound of sleeves rubbing together formed a farewell elegy.

Unanimous approval.

Just then, a barely perceptible whooshing sound echoed.

A pitch-black kunai silently pierced the pillar in front of him, with a small scroll tied to its tail.

The force was controlled perfectly, neither alarming anyone nor failing to ensure he would see it.

Fugaku’s gaze sharpened.

He did not immediately retrieve it, his sharp eyes scanning the tail of the kunai and the seal of the scroll, confirming there were no traces of explosive tags or poison.

He extended two fingers and gently removed the scroll.

Unrolling the scroll, the handwriting on it was messy and hurried.

“The invasion will commence at dawn.”

“A coup, is your only chance.”

“South Gate, third watch, there will be a crack.”

The content of the note was inhumanly brief.

Fugaku exerted pressure with his fingertips, grinding the paper into dust.

An existence that could precisely discern the Uchiha’s secret meeting and was thoroughly familiar with Konoha’s defenses.

Who the other party was, and what their purpose was, remained completely unknown.

But this note became the final straw that tipped the scales.

He looked at his Clan members, those faces, some angry, some bewildered, some resolute, clearer than ever before.

The Uchiha had no retreat; behind them was a bottomless abyss, and the only chance for survival lay within that “crack,” whose authenticity was unknown.

“Prepare for action.”

Fugaku’s voice was flat.

…

Land of Iron border, the conspiracy had dispersed, and the killing intent had arrived.

Northern border, Kumogakure camp.

Ay’s muscles rippled, and electric arcs crackled on his body, scorching the surrounding air into a slight distortion.

“Is it not time yet?” he asked impatiently.

“Soon, Lord,” Darui leaned lazily against a tree, yawning, “If you keep electrifying, Konoha’s patrol will be roasted before dawn.”

Ay glared at him but ultimately did not lash out.

Behind him were thousands of Kumogakure Ninja; they had not set up camp, but simply stood in silence, adjusting their breathing, each one’s eyes like drawn swords.

They had only one mission: to smash open Konoha’s gate from the front with the most overwhelming force.

Eastern border, the Hidden Mist army lay hidden in the dense forest.

It was terrifyingly quiet here, even the chirping of insects and birds had ceased.

The Fourth Mizukage, Yagura, stood on a towering tree branch, the Three-Tails’ Chakra flowing slowly within him, making his eyes appear inhumanly cold.

Below him, countless Hidden Mist Ninja merged with the shadows, silently awaiting orders.

They were hunters, who would infiltrate by water and through the dense forest, bringing chaos and death to every corner of Konoha.

Western border, in front of the Iwagakure formation.

Ōnoki floated half a meter off the ground, his hands clasped behind his back, occasionally rubbing his old back.

“Honestly, I’m an old man and still have to do this kind of physical labor,” he complained to his son Kitsuchi beside him, “The expenses for this operation, that guy better bleed a lot for them.

Not a single penny less than the agreed-upon down payment.”

Kitsuchi chuckled honestly, not responding, only looking towards Konoha with a grave expression.

He knew that although his father complained, once he made a move, it would be earth-shattering.

The indestructible Dust Release would be the judgment hanging over Konoha’s head.

Only the Southern border, Land of Wind.

Kazekage Rasa stood atop a sand dune, the wind and sand blowing his robes.

His army’s formation was loose, looking more like a hastily assembled mob.

His mission was “feint attack.”

Rasa’s mouth twitched; that word on the mission brief stung his dignity as a Kazekage.

But he looked at the Sunagakure Ninja in the distance, who were emaciated but had fanatical eyes, and he suppressed that displeasure.

The gold Orochimaru had promised was enough to help the Village through its most difficult decade.

Face was worthless in the face of survival.