Main World.
Year 14 of Konoha, winter.
Hokage Building.
The afternoon sunlight slanted through the tall windows, carving sharply defined geometric patterns of light and shadow across the floor, yet it could not dispel the oppressive atmosphere in the office, so heavy it seemed almost solid.
Tobirama Senju stood behind the broad desk, both hands braced against its surface, his body leaning slightly forward.
A rare crack had appeared in his usually calm, keen, blade-sharp expression.
He had not lost his composure. Rather, his gaze held a mixture of shock, anger, disbelief, and a trace of offended coldness as he stared fixedly at several scrolls spread across the desk.
The ink on the scrolls was still fresh. They were detailed reports the Anbu had just submitted on the latest developments at the Toyotomi Clan's "Martial Arts Hall."
"The Martial Arts Hall... what a fine Martial Arts Hall!"
Tobirama Senju's voice was low, but it sounded as though it had been forced through a crack in the ice, every word carrying a bone-chilling cold.
He picked up one of the scrolls, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles turned white, almost crushing the tough material.
"Ten strips of cured pork or supplies of equivalent value to enroll. Six years of tuition paid in full, with food, lodging, and basic ninja tools included. At lunch, they even get... one boiled egg each." He read the report aloud, his tone full of undisguised mockery, as though he were reciting some absurd joke.
"Training grounds, textbooks, even the venues and examiners for internal Chunin assessments-all provided by them. As for missions... they solicit them directly from merchants, minor nobles, and even certain border town mayors in the Land of Fire. Their cut of the mission payments is ten to twenty percentage points lower than