Chapter 4: Ashes of the Old Mist
The Mizukage's Tower — once a nest of cowardly schemers — now stood silent.
Yamamoto sat alone at the head of a long, cracked stone table.
Before him knelt the surviving council — the highest-ranking shinobi, administrators, and war staff of the Hidden Mist.
Old men with thin hair and sharp smiles.
Middle-aged jōnin who had grown fat on power but thin in spirit.
Scribes and treasurers who thought influence was more dangerous than a kunai.
Bastards, the lot of them.
Yamamoto's gaze swept across the room like a scythe.
"You bitch about tradition," he said coldly, "but not one of you can name a single war you won without drowning your own people first."
No one dared answer.
He slammed his palm against the table, cracking it straight through.
"Listen well, you rotten bastards."
The council flinched.
"In the past, this village let council members buy loyalty. Bribes. Threats. Deals in the dark. A pitiful excuse for leadership."
It was true.
In the old Mist, power wasn't earned through merit or strength — it was bought, traded, and stolen.
Elders funded private assassins to kill rivals.
Clan heads made backroom deals to protect their own while sabotaging others.
The academy taught children to kill their best friends, then handed the survivors over to these same treacherous old fools.
No wonder the Mist had become a rotting corpse wearing armor.
Not anymore.
Yamamoto pointed directly at them.
"From this day forward, the council is dissolved."
Murmurs broke out. One elder — a trembling rat of a man — dared to raise a hand.
"You—you cannot simply erase tradition—!"
He never finished.
Yamamoto's sword flashed — just once — and the man's head hit the stone floor, bouncing like a dropped melon.
Blood pooled. The scent of iron filled the air.
"Tradition?" Yamamoto growled. "Tradition is earned through blood and wisdom, not cowardice and coin."
He rose to his full, terrifying height.
"The new system is simple. I am the Mizukage."
He stabbed his sword into the cracked floor, flames licking the blade.
"Under me: Three Generals. No more political worms hiding behind paperwork. Each General will command one division: Defense, Expansion, and Intelligence."
The shinobi shifted uneasily.
"Defense handles borders, patrols, and village security. Expansion oversees raids, alliances, and conquest. Intelligence roots out spies, traitors, and any bastard who thinks of selling out the Mist."
He glared at them.
"Promotion will be by merit alone. No bloodline favoritism. No bribery. You want to rise? Earn it."
Silence hung heavy in the hall.
"Clan heads will submit to the Generals, not the other way around. No private armies. No secret coups."
He yanked his sword free, resting it casually on his shoulder.
"And if any of you traitorous bitches think you can rebuild your little kingdoms behind my back?"
The temperature rose.
The mist around Yamamoto's feet hissed and evaporated.
"I'll turn your entire bloodline into ash before sunrise."
The message was clear.
Submit.
Or die.
One by one, heads lowered in submission.
It wasn't loyalty — not yet — but Yamamoto didn't need loyalty today.
He needed order.
He would rebuild Kirigakure with fire, hammer, and blood.
He would carve a village worthy of fear — and respect.
The Bloody Mist was dead.
The Iron Mist had been born.
And under Yamamoto's reign, it would never bow to anyone again.