Winter, Konoha Year 13.
The cold wind cut like knives through the Land of Iron's perpetually snowbound gorge, whipping up a skyful of shattered white jade that lashed the towering venue of the Five Kage Summit-a ring-shaped structure carved from a single mass of obsidian, symbolizing the five nations' equality and fragility.
The air was cold enough to crack stone, but the invisible chill pervading the venue was ten times more biting than the wind outside.
At the center of the circular chamber, five high-backed stone chairs stood in a pentagonal arrangement.
In the eastern seat of honor sat Hashirama Senju. Wrapped in a thick white fur cloak, he had the ashen, blue-gray complexion of a man beyond saving, with sunken eyes and protruding cheekbones. Only his eyes, as they swept over the other four Kage, still carried the heavy, lingering authority of the "God of Shinobi," along with a deeply buried hope that bordered on pleading. Beside him, Tobirama Senju stood ramrod straight like the most faithful and coldest of shadows, dressed in a dark blue Hokage ceremonial robe. His gaze behind his glasses was sharp as a hawk's as he inspected each guest without a trace of warmth.
To the south sat Reto, the Land of Wind's First Kazekage, lean and wiry as iron. A thick sandproof cloak enveloped him, leaving only a pair of falcon-sharp eyes exposed, filled with the desert people's tenacity and greed. His fingertips absently toyed with a rough piece of gold-bearing sandstone.
To the west sat A, the Land of Lightning's First Raikage, as massive as a mountain. His bronze skin gleamed like metal, his arms were folded across his chest, and his knotted muscles strained against his tight black clothing. His defiant gaze carried the Land of Lightning's distinctive arrogance and impatience.