Konoha’s Five-Element Ninja

Chapter Five: So-Called Comrades

The tension was palpable as Hayama's squad returned to the Konoha camp in near silence. Before they even had a chance to report in, Yura Yamanaka abruptly left, heading straight for the Yamanaka clan's station.

Tatsu Yamashiro scoffed and muttered, "How rude."

Hayama chuckled lightly, his face adorned with a cheerful smile as he said, "Clan ninjas are all like that. I'm arrogant; you just have to put up with it."

Tatsu shivered at his captain's words. After months of working together, he'd learned to gauge Hayama's mood, and the more "gentle" Hayama's tone, the more dangerous his thoughts. It was a dissonance that made the tall youth increasingly deferential. Tatsu couldn't help but recall a fortune from his childhood: a benefactor would appear in his life. While he wasn't overly superstitious, Hayama's presence had him rethinking that old prophecy.

"Captain Hayama, let's focus on completing the mission report. There's no need to dirty your hands over someone like her—just another cast-off from her clan."

Hayama's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Tatsu for a few long moments. Then he laughed and waved the comment aside. "Tatsu, don't overthink things. Let's move on."

With that, he strode past the bowing young man and headed straight to the mission management tent.

As Hayama had anticipated, the camp was in chaos. Squad after squad was being hastily assembled and dispatched. Yet, this piecemeal reinforcement strategy did little to address the larger problem. Unless Konoha could concentrate its forces—say, ten jōnin squads deploying via Flying Thunder God to provide pinpoint support—the "elite" Konoha teams trying to bait the enemy were as good as dead.

"Reporting in! Captain Shirakumo Hayama of the Seventh Squad, Seventh Company, First Combat Battalion, here to deliver our mission report."

A voice from inside, usually calm and welcoming, now rang with irritation: "Enter!"

As Hayama stepped into the tent, his eyes briefly adjusted to the dimmer light. He took note of the ninja seated at the head. The man was small in stature, wearing a standard Konoha combat vest and forehead protector. His square face, typically stern, now bore an icy scowl. Clearly, his mood was anything but good.

"Director Sarutobi, here's our squad's combat report."

A black scroll was handed to Sarutobi Kaho by a nearby attendant. At 27 years old, Kaho was in his physical prime but was only an average jōnin. The Sarutobi clan lacked any special bloodlines, and Kaho's position as the camp's fourth-in-command stemmed solely from his family ties to the Hokage. Despite his upright appearance, Kaho was known for his petty nature and blatant displays of emotion. Most Konoha ninjas had little regard for him but dared not voice their discontent. Thanks to the Second Hokage's reforms, the Hokage's authority within the village was supreme—so much so that even a founding clan like the Uchiha had to bow, let alone commoner ninjas. Mission debriefings under Kaho had earned the derisive nickname "mini-trials," and today, Hayama found himself squarely in the hot seat.

True to form, Kaho didn't even glance at the report before tossing it into the trash. Hayama's face briefly betrayed his anger, but he quickly replaced it with a deferential smile.

"Sector 33 is one of Iwa's main entry points. Why didn't your squad stop their incursion?" Kaho demanded.

A classic "fourth-in-command" question—utterly clueless. Hayama knew this from others' accounts, but it still astonished him. Could someone so inept truly lead Konoha's 4,000-strong forces to victory?

Before Hayama could formulate a careful response, Kaho's attendant interjected. "Sir, it must be cowardice! They abandoned their post and shirked their duty. The village spends vast resources training these useless ninjas!"

A wave of fury churned within Hayama. The word "resources" was particularly grating. From the moment he became a ninja, he'd relied solely on himself. His taijutsu and the standard Three Basic Jutsu came from his late father's training. Any C-rank techniques he'd learned were spoils from enemies he had personally defeated. The so-called village resources? Already devoured by the major clans. Ordinary ninjas like him couldn't even get the scraps.

Kaho's face tightened as if to amplify his already considerable displeasure. He seemed to relish the attendant's words and wanted nothing more than to punish Hayama on the spot. Yet, without concrete evidence, he could only stew in his rage. Frustrated, he picked up a nearby cup and flung it toward Hayama's face.

Smack!

The well-crafted cup struck Hayama's cheek, its scalding contents leaving a red burn. Yet Hayama remained motionless, staring at the ground as if it were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. His heart, though, was heavy with bitterness. Resources? Training? He had received none of it—his "education" had been gleaned from scavenged techniques and hard-earned victories.

"You useless bunch!" Kaho roared. "You can't even hold off those dirt-eaters from the Land of Earth. What's the point of keeping you around? Get out of my sight. I'll report your disgraceful performance to the Hokage. Prepare yourselves for the stockade!"

Without a word, Hayama turned and left. The guards outside, Sarutobi clan members, sneered openly at him. In their eyes, a middle-aged chūnin like him—scarred and now tea-stained—was worth no more than their mockery.

Yet as Hayama stepped out, his face transformed once more into a bright, disarming smile. His expression was so cheerful that it made his already narrow eyes squint into near-invisibility.

Tatsu, waiting outside, had overheard the degrading remarks. His initial anger was swiftly replaced by a chill running down his spine. Seeing Hayama's broad grin, he felt as though he were being stalked by a venomous snake. The sudden cold sweat on his back testified to the atmosphere of hidden menace.

...

Back in their rest tent, Hayama lay fully dressed, his tool pouch within arm's reach, appearing utterly composed.

"Captain?" Tatsu's voice broke the silence.

"Hmm?"

"Do you think this village can win the war?"

Hayama turned his head slightly to look at Tatsu. Over their time together, Hayama had saved Tatsu's life twice. Without those interventions, Tatsu's name would already be etched on a memorial stone. He pondered Tatsu's question, but in the end, the ever-prudent Hayama kept his true feelings to himself. "Go to sleep," he said softly.

"Okay."

Silence enveloped the tent once more, save for the rhythmic patter of rain on canvas.

As Hayama lay there, his mind churned. This ninja world was far from the idealistic, adrenaline-fueled fantasy people imagined. It was a place riddled with hunger, disease, violence, and endless warfare. Every day saw countless skirmishes and pointless deaths. People who didn't even understand why they were fighting fell, while others chanted noble-sounding slogans as they carried out the dirtiest, most underhanded deeds.

The "Will of Fire"? Just a slogan.

"Comrades"? Useful tools, at best.

Years of relentless combat had left Hayama physically drained, while the village's cold indifference wore down his spirit. This was not the warm camaraderie depicted in tales of heroism. In this version of Konoha—set during the Second Shinobi World War—what mattered was not talent or dedication but a person's surname. Why should the clan ninjas enjoy abundant resources and leisurely training, while commoner ninjas bled on the front lines and were offered nothing in return?

For a long time, Hayama hadn't understood what "comrades" really meant, nor had he grasped the true nature of resources. Now, he understood.

"Comrades" were those you could trust with your life on the battlefield.

"Resources" were not money—they were jutsu.

In the ninja world, resources equaled techniques, and techniques equaled survival.

Consider the Iwa-nin with Explosion Release. Not only did his bloodline grant him unique abilities, but he also had access to specialized jutsu like Hardening Technique and Earth Spears Barrage—jutsu that Hayama coveted but couldn't obtain. Techniques weren't something you learned by mimicking hand seals; they required precise chakra control, specific pathways within the body, and proper instruction. Without a mentor, experimenting recklessly could lead to crippling injuries or death.

There were only two reliable paths to acquiring jutsu: family inheritance or direct apprenticeship. For Hayama, a ninja from a humble family with a surname derived from a street name, neither avenue was open. His mentor had died two years ago, leaving him with no guidance and a stockpile of unused chakra. In peacetime, he might have drifted along as an unremarkable ninja. But Hayama knew the cycle of wars wouldn't stop at the Second Shinobi World War. Without mastering powerful jutsu and becoming a jōnin, he would remain a disposable pawn.

This grim reality bred a growing resentment within Hayama—resentment toward the privileged clan ninjas, resentment toward the village's unjust system. Though he didn't know the original Naruto storyline well, his prior education in his former life allowed him to see the flaws in Hashirama Senju's vision of a unified ninja village.

The village system was meant to end the constant wars between ninja clans by uniting them under a single, powerful entity. This worked—for Konoha. But the world wasn't limited to the Land of Fire. The other great nations—Earth, Water, Wind, and Lightning—along with countless smaller countries, had adopted the ninja village model. The result wasn't peace but more organized, bloodier conflicts. It was no different from how early machine guns had been hailed as tools to end war, only to make battlefields deadlier.

To preserve their internal power structures, the great clans had little interest in integrating or equipping commoner ninjas. Tobirama's ninja academy reforms brought a flood of commoners into the ninja ranks, but these recruits were taught only the basics before being sent into the meat grinder. Most didn't survive.

For the clans, "comrades" were other clan members. For commoners, the only reliable ally was their own chakra and the jutsu they managed to learn.

This was Hayama's reality: cold, cruel, and utterly pragmatic. It was the inevitable outcome of a system where only the strong, the lucky, or the well-connected could hope to rise above their station.

It wasn't heroic, but it was reality.