As the great nations prepared to welcome the New Year, the ninjas of the smaller nations could not feel even a trace of holiday cheer.
Land of Rain.
Fine rain fell like threads from the gray sky, pattering against Yahiko's face.
Rainwater slid down his orange hair, dripped from his jaw into his collar, and chilled him to the bone.
But even harder to bear than that cold was the sight before him.
Bodies lay scattered across the muddy ground.
Men, women, the elderly—even children who had not yet come of age.
The other members of Akatsuki arrived one after another.
Nagato stood behind Yahiko, his red hair soaked by the rain.
The tragedy before them was reflected in his Rinnegan.
Konan lowered her head as well.
"We came too late."
Nagato frowned.
His gaze fell upon a small body curled up in a corner. It was a child no more than seven or eight years old, one hand still stretched forward as though he had wanted to grasp something before he died.
Yahiko slowly crouched down and gently closed the eyelids of an elderly man who had died with his eyes open.
"Why—"
"Why must the world be like this?"
He stood and looked around.
These innocent people had never taken part in any war. They had only wanted to live peaceful, stable lives.
Yet even that simple wish had been mercilessly crushed.
The great nations had pushed their wars onto the land of smaller nations, treating the Land of Rain as a chessboard for wearing down their opponents.
Konoha and Sunagakure, Iwagakure and Cloud Village—the ninjas of the Five Great Nations fought and killed upon the Land of Rain, while its civilians became cold numbers in their battle reports.
No one cared about the cries on this land