Yako returned to the lakeside.
Senju Tobirama truly was a genius—his creations were unlike anything else.
Most Water Release techniques relied on blunt, crushing force.
But Tobirama had devised sothing different, like the rotary boost of a centrifugal pump, compressing chakra to increase water pressure and hurling a jet stream at trendous velocity.
And even that wasn't the limit.
Yako had drawn new inspiration. Why not take it further? Two opposing water vortices could mimic a gear pump, generating even greater force.
In his previous life, gear pumps produced far more pressure than centrifugal ones. Two gears turning in opposite directions, biting into each other, constantly created a vacuum at their junction—forcing liquid forward under imnse compression.
He ford seals. Water gathered in his mouth, not much, just enough, freshly created as needed.
Slowly, carefully, he shaped two opposing vortices inside his mouth. One spun left, the other right.
He pressed them together.
The mont they collided, the twin vortices bit into each other—drawing in pressure from centrifugal force, and doubling it with the grinding squeeze where they shed.
The pressure surged.
Yako unleashed it in a jet. This ti the water shot out even faster, ripping straight through the trunk of one tree before embedding into a second.
Maintaining chakra flow, he swept the jet sideways. The wave sliced cleanly through both trees.
It worked.
By borrowing the principle of the gear pump from his past life, he had forged a sharper, stronger version of Tobirama's jutsu.
He nad it: Water Release: Twin Vortex Water Severing Wave.
After a dozen more attempts, he grew steadily more precise.
He tested it on a boulder. The stream carved through stone, cleaving it neatly in two.
Yes—this could be his sharpest blade in battle. A water-knife that could rival steel.
For now, he set aside further tinkering. Mastery would take ti—perfecting chakra flow, reducing consumption, strengthening force, improving his speed with seals.
After all, hand seals weren't just about the fingers. They demanded matching chakra circulation, synchronized down to the smallest thread. Only then could true speed be achieved.
He recalled how in the original tale, Fukasaku had used a similar technique to slice apart one of Nagato's summons.
If his new jutsu could reach that level, it would beco a deadly weapon indeed.
Blazing speed, cutting lines across massive swathes of battlefield… a Tokubetsu jōnin would be proud to call it their signature move.
The following afternoon, Yako received his mission: security detail for the jōnin council.
A dull assignnt. Who would be stupid enough to attack during a gathering of Konoha's jōnin? Every seat in that hall held a veteran killer.
ANBU at such etings were little more than shadows behind the Hokage's chair, couriers for quick commands and scrolls, or hunters summoned at a word to fetch speakers to the floor.
On the second floor of the Hokage Tower, over ninety jōnin had assembled—everyone not on the front lines or ANBU duty.
Yako stood quietly in the corner, his role as guardian little more than formality.
At the dais sat Sarutobi Hiruzen, Danzo, and Mitokado Homura.
The council leader, Nara Shikaku's father, Nara Shikakaku, rose to speak.
"All of you have heard the news. Sunagakure has declared war on Konoha. This council will assign command for the Land of Rivers front—the general, the deputy, and the unit captains—"
"Wait!"
The sharp interruption jolted Yako from his boredom.
Soone had dared to cut off the clan head of the Nara in mid-speech. Bold.
But when he saw who it was, he wasn't surprised.
Tsunade had stood from her seat in the first row.
"Before we rush into assigning the River campaign," she said, voice clear and heavy with anger, "shouldn't we reflect on what went wrong in the Land of Grass and the Land of Rain? Too many shinobi died there. Does no one think soone should be held accountable?"
Murmurs swept the chamber. Dozens of eyes turned toward the three elders seated above.
Yako admired Tsunade's courage—it was powerful, direct. But reckless. Such bluntness would never corner the high council.
Sure enough, Nara Shikakaku replied with smooth calm:
"Konoha grieves for every loss in Grass and Rain. Yet the reports from Commander Mitokado Homura make it clear—we expelled the Stone shinobi from Grass, secured a pact with their daimyo, and claid the guardian shinobi posts for our own.
In return, Grass has granted Konoha mission rights.
For the good of the village, sacrifice is sotis inevitable."
A single phrase, for the good of the village, was enough to choke off dissent.
But Tsunade was not so easily silenced.
"I proposed once that every squad should include a dical-nin. With just one dic per team, the death toll would fall sharply.
If you claim that's impossible, then double the number of dics at the front. Even that would vastly reduce casualties.
It's so obvious, and yet you've done nothing. Why?"
Her voice cracked with fury. "I've never feared sacrifice for Konoha—but there must be a limit. Why can't we do more to lessen it?"
This ti, Koharu Utatane had to rise.
"Princess Tsunade," she said, tone clipped but steady, "to train a single dical-nin takes years. Anatomy, dical theory, and advanced jutsu—five years at the least before a genin can reach competence. The scrolls alone would fill a wagon.
The village knows their value. We do want to lower casualties. But the cost, the ti… not during war. After this conflict ends, I'll hear your proposal more fully."
She didn't say the truth aloud, but everyone understood: better to throw genin as expendable fodder than pour resources into training healers.
Genin as one-use pawns. Chūnin as the pawns' captains. The economy of war.
Clan jōnin, with their strong foundations, nodded in tacit approval. But among the civilian-born jōnin—the ones who had clawed their way up through blood and miracle—grief shadowed their faces.
Then, another voice rose.
Senju Hanaki, head of the Senju clan and director of Konoha Hospital, stood tall.
"Lord Hokage. The Senju clan still has 227 shinobi. We will dedicate them to dicine. Already, 112 are trained dics. Of the remaining 114, with Tsunade's guidance and mine, we can prepare at least fifty to competency within a month."
The hall went silent.
Shock rippled through the jōnin ranks.
What were the Senju planning?
Under the banner of dicine, they were withdrawing nearly their entire clan from the battlefront—stepping out of combat, retreating into the hospital system.
And yet… they left sixty-four in the fight. Enough to dodge accusations of cowardice. Enough to say they were still contributing.
No one could claim the Senju were betraying the village.
A woman at the helm, Yako thought, was far more pragmatic than any man.
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