The Tactician: Naruto Fanfiction

[3648 Words]

The grave was simple. 

A small, smooth stone, nestled between countless others, each marked with names that once belonged to the living. Hers was among them now. Just another name etched in stone. 

Yasu stood there, unmoving. Simply staring. 

It had been three days. Three days since the blood, the screaming, the weight of the knife in his hands. Since he had been dragged from that house and locked in a room where shinobi had studied him like a puzzle to be solved. Three days since he had been assigned a new life before he could even process the one he had lost. 

And now, he was here. Standing before a grave that belonged to his mother. 

It was… odd. 

In his past life, he had only ever attended one funeral. His father's. 

It hadn't exactly been a good memory. 

The weight of responsibility, the suffocating expectations, the way his mother had stood beside him, her grip on his hand too tight, as if she were holding onto a lifeline rather than her son. People had spoken in hushed voices, their condolences empty and meaningless. Not a single word of them had been meant for him. 

It had been a hard time. 

And now? 

Now he was standing here, staring at another grave, and he wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel. 

His mother—his real mother in this life—was gone. The woman who had raised him for four years, who had worked herself to exhaustion just to make sure he never went hungry, who had tried—really tried—even when she was too tired to go on. 

And now, she was fucking dead. 

He lowered his gaze, staring at the uneven dirt beneath his feet. 

It should have been raining. 

That was what he remembered from his father's funeral—the grey sky, the distant roll of thunder, the scent of damp earth clinging to the air. It had felt appropriate. But here, now, the sky was clear. The sun was bright, casting long shadows across the graveyard, as if the world had already moved on without a second thought. 

She deserved more than that. 

He exhaled slowly, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides. 

Some part of him knew he should say something. People spoke at graves, didn't they? They whispered prayers, made promises, said final goodbyes. 

But the words wouldn't come. 

Instead, he just stood there, letting the silence settle in his chest like something heavy. 

His grip tightened. 

Three days ago, he had sat across from her, promising her a future where she wouldn't have to suffer anymore. And now she was six feet beneath the ground. 

Ridiculous. 

Something burned at the edges of his thoughts, but he pushed it down before it could take shape. 

Crying wouldn't change anything. 

Neither would standing here. 

With a slow breath, he finally turned away from the grave, his footsteps light against the dirt path as he walked away. 

Away from what was left of her. 

Away from what was left of that life. 

Yasu didn't look back. 

The path beneath his feet was uneven, scattered with loose stones and patches of dry grass. The sun was high, casting long shadows of the graves behind him, stretching toward him as if trying to pull him back. 

But he didn't stop. Didn't slow. 

Then, after only a few steps—another presence. 

Hisao fell into step beside him. 

The man had been standing back, giving him space, watching. Now, he simply matched Yasu's pace, silent at first, his presence noticeable but not intrusive. 

Yasu didn't acknowledge him. 

Not out of disrespect—he had just learned, in the past three days, that Hisao wasn't the type who needed words to fill silence. If he had something to say, he would say it. If not, he would wait. 

And sure enough— 

"Strange thing, life," Hisao said at last, voice steady but thoughtful. "You have it, and then you don't. Everything changes. Just like that." 

Yasu said nothing. 

Hisao glanced down at him, eyes sharp despite his otherwise relaxed posture. "What do you think of that?" 

Yasu thought a lot. That much, Hisao had already figured out. He had spent the last three days watching, observing. The boy didn't speak unless he had a question—didn't waste words the way children usually did. 

It made Hisao wonder how his mind worked. 

How a four-year-old could sit across from an interrogator with absolute composure. How a child who had just lost everything could walk away from a grave without a single word of mourning. 

So he was testing something now. Prodding. 

After a moment, Yasu finally spoke, his voice quiet but firm. 

"Life is complicated." 

Hisao raised a brow. "Most people don't realize that until they're much older." 

"I'm not most people." 

That earned a slight chuckle, brief but genuine. "That, I've gathered." 

Yasu's gaze remained forward, focused. "People act like life is precious. Like it's meant to be protected, preserved. But people also waste it." A pause. "They waste it a lot." 

Hisao hummed, considering. "And you don't think it's precious?" 

Yasu was quiet for a beat. Then— 

"I think it just… is." 

Hisao glanced at him again, intrigued. "Explain." 

Yasu exhaled through his nose, thoughtful. "People live. People die. It happens. Some people go out fighting, some in their sleep. Some quickly. Some slowly." His voice remained steady, too level for a child. "Some lives matter more than others. Some don't matter at all." 

There was no emotion in his tone. No anger, no bitterness. Just fact. 

Hisao let the silence settle before asking, "And what about your mother?" 

Yasu's fingers twitched slightly. The first real reaction he had given. 

"She mattered." The words left him before he could think about them. 

Hisao nodded, as if confirming something to himself. 

"You're a smart boy," he said, though it was more than that. "A curious one." 

Yasu didn't respond to that. He simply kept walking. 

Hisao let the silence stretch. He had learned, over the past three days, that Yasu never filled silence for the sake of it. He let it sit. Let it settle. As if testing its weight before deciding whether it was worth breaking. 

And for once, Hisao decided to do the same. 

They walked, the only sound the quiet crunch of their footsteps against the dirt path. The wind moved lazily through the trees, stirring loose leaves across the ground. Graves faded behind them. The village stretched ahead. 

Then, after a long moment, Hisao spoke again. 

"My parents died before this village even existed." 

His voice was steady. Not soft, not hardened—just matter-of-fact. 

Yasu didn't look at him, but Hisao could feel his attention shift. 

"It was during the warring states period," Hisao continued. "Before there were hidden villages, before there was any real order. It was just clans fighting, killing, dying, over and over again." He exhaled through his nose. "That's the world I was born into." 

Yasu remained quiet. Listening. 

"I don't remember them well," Hisao admitted. "I was young. Younger than you." His fingers flexed slightly, as if recalling something distant. "One day, they were just… gone. Killed in a battle that didn't even matter. No one buried them. No one mourned them. The only thing left of them was me." 

The wind stirred again, cooler this time. 

"I never had time to grieve," Hisao said. "There was no luxury for that back then. You either learned how to survive, or you didn't. And if you didn't…" He tilted his head slightly, as if considering his own words. "Well. No one had time to care." 

Yasu finally looked at him. Not fully—just a sidelong glance. 

Hisao noticed. 

He smirked slightly but didn't comment on it. Instead, he kept his gaze forward, watching the path ahead. "I wasn't strong. Not at first. I was just another orphan left behind. Another body waiting to be discarded." 

His fingers twitched briefly, before relaxing again. 

"But I had one thing," he continued. "I could sense people. Feel them, even when they weren't there. It kept me alive more times than I can count." He chuckled lightly, the sound dry. "It's funny. Back then, it was just an instinct. I didn't even know what it meant. I just knew when to run." 

Yasu was silent. 

Still listening. 

Hisao sighed. "I found my way to the village. Before it was even called Iwagakure. Before Mū was ever Tsuchikage." He exhaled slowly, as if grounding himself in the memory. "And that was that. I survived. I got stronger. And now, here I am." 

The quiet stretched between them, but this time, it was different. 

It wasn't just silence anymore. It was something shared. 

Yasu's gaze dropped slightly, as if turning something over in his mind. 

Finally, Hisao glanced down at him again, something unreadable in his expression. "You remind me of myself," he admitted. "Not in every way. But in enough." 

Yasu's fingers twitched. It was barely noticeable. 

Then, after a long moment— 

"…How did you deal with it?" 

Hisao raised a brow. "Deal with what?" 

"Their deaths." 

Hisao exhaled through his nose. Thought about it. Then— 

"I didn't," he said simply. "Not really. I just kept going." 

Yasu considered that. 

It had been hard for him to process his father's death in his past life. Not because he had been particularly close to the man—he had been young, too young to truly understand what death meant, too young to recognize the weight of it. 

But the people around him hadn't made it any better. 

They hadn't spoken about grief. 

They hadn't even acknowledged it. 

His mother had only complained—not about losing him, but about what came after. About how his family was treating her, about how unfair it was, about how everything had suddenly become so difficult for her. 

And his grandfather? 

His grandfather had barely said anything at all. 

No long speeches, no soft reassurances, no visible grief. He had simply kept going. Unshaken. Unbothered. And Yasu—who had been waiting, waiting for something, for permission to feel whatever it was that was twisting inside his chest—had been left with nothing. 

No direction. No guidance. 

So, in the end, he had just done what they had done. 

He had kept quiet. 

He hadn't cried. He hadn't asked if he could cry. He hadn't even been sure if he was allowed to. 

And now, standing in a different body, in a different life, he wondered— 

Had he even mourned his father at all? 

Or had he just buried the feeling before it could ever reach him? 

He glanced at Hisao, who had just told him, I didn't deal with it. I just kept going. 

And for the first time in three days, something in Yasu wondered if he had been doing the same thing his entire life. 

. . . 

The house was larger than Yasu expected. Not grand. Not extravagant. Just... large. 

The walls were stone, cool and sturdy, with wooden beams running across the ceiling. The floors were smooth but bare—no rugs, no unnecessary furnishings, just space. The furniture was simple, functional, placed with the kind of precision that made it clear Hisao wasn't the type to decorate for the sake of it. 

It was nothing like his old home. 

It wasn't cramped, dimly lit, with stacks of books in odd places, ink stains on the table, and the scent of candle wax lingering in the air. His mother's home had been lived in, worn down by time and habit. 

This place felt... untouched. 

Hisao moved ahead of him, striking a match. The scent of burning wood filled the room as he lit the first candle, then another. The soft glow flickered against the stone walls, stretching shadows across the floor. 

Yasu didn't move. He just watched. 

"There's a reason Iwagakure was built the way it was," Hisao said, like he was picking up a conversation they hadn't started. 

Yasu didn't respond. 

Instead, he settled into a seat at the low table in the center of the room. He'd noticed over the past three days that Hisao talked when he wanted to, and he didn't seem to expect Yasu to fill the silence. That was fine. 

Hisao continued lighting the room, his movements practiced, as if he had done it a hundred times before. "This village wasn't built for beauty. It wasn't built for unity like Konoha, or for trade like some of the other nations." He straightened, shaking out the match before turning toward Yasu. "It was built to survive." 

Yasu watched the flames dance in the candlelight. Survive. 

It wasn't a new word to him. It wasn't an unfamiliar concept. 

"Konoha was made with a dream in mind," Hisao went on, stepping around the table, his presence steady but not heavy. "The Senju and Uchiha put down their weapons and decided to build something together. They wanted peace." He scoffed slightly. "Iwagakure wasn't built for peace. It was built for strategy." 

Yasu tilted his head slightly, gaze shifting to the walls—the stone, the weight of it, the way the village itself seemed to loom. 

"Because it's defensible," he said. 

A flicker of something—approval?—crossed Hisao's face. "Exactly." 

Yasu looked back at him. 

Hisao leaned against the table, arms crossed. "War shaped this village," he said, quieter now. "Even the ones born after it ended still carry the weight of it." His eyes were sharp, unreadable. "And whether you realize it or not, it's shaping you too." 

Yasu didn't answer. 

Didn't have to. 

Because he already knew that. 

Hisao didn't stop there. 

He let his words settle for a moment, then leaned forward slightly, resting an arm against the table. 

"The First Shinobi War," he said, voice edged with something Yasu could only describe as resentment, "wasn't just a war. It was a slaughter." 

Yasu's eyes flickered toward him, interest piqued. 

He had heard bits and pieces about the war in passing—whispers in the village, occasional mentions from older shinobi—but never in detail. No one ever talked about it directly. The war had ended thirteen years ago, before he was born, but its effects were everywhere. In the streets. In the way people carried themselves. In the way the village still felt like it was preparing for the next fight. 

Hisao continued, watching him carefully, as if gauging how much he could say. 

"The Five Great Nations tore into each other. The world hadn't seen that kind of chaos since the Warring States Period," he said. "It started because villages were greedy. Konoha, Suna, Kiri—doesn't matter which one. They all wanted more. More land, more resources. They took from smaller nations, from each other, until everything spiralled out of control." 

Yasu absorbed that, mind turning. 

"You think it was greed?" he asked. 

Hisao scoffed. "What else? Look at Konoha." His fingers tapped once against the table, sharp and deliberate. "They claim to want peace, but the moment they got their precious tailed beasts, they acted like they had the right to dictate everything. Hashirama Senju thought giving out the tailed beasts would create balance." Hisao's tone was dry, unimpressed. "All it did was fuel the fire." 

Yasu blinked, taking in the information. Tailed beasts? 

Hisao leaned back slightly, gaze distant. "Hashirama died before he could see the consequences of his plan. His brother, Tobirama, took over—tried to hold things together. Didn't last. Died in the war, just like countless others." 

Yasu could hear the bitterness in his voice. 

"The war lasted years. We lost thousands. And for what?" Hisao's jaw tightened slightly. "In the end, an armistice was signed. A pathetic excuse for peace. A deal that didn't change anything, just put everything on hold until the next war starts." 

Yasu frowned slightly. "You don't think it's real peace?" 

Hisao gave him a pointed look. "What do you think?" 

Yasu considered that. 

The village still trained children to be soldiers. The adults still talked about other nations as enemies, even if there was no battle happening at this moment. Every shinobi Yasu had met carried themselves with the same unspoken readiness, as if waiting for the next fight. 

It wasn't peace. 

It was a pause. 

"…It won't last," Yasu murmured. 

Hisao nodded, satisfied. "No. It won't." 

Yasu's fingers tapped lightly against the wooden table. 

Hisao noticed but said nothing. He let the silence settle, waiting. 

Yasu was curious. Deeply curious. 

It was different from a child's fleeting interest—this wasn't the idle questioning of someone looking to pass the time. This was intentional. Hisao had seen it over the past three days. The way Yasu's mind worked. The way he only spoke when a question had already formed, fully constructed, sharpened. 

And now, he was thinking. 

Hisao could see it in the way his gaze stayed forward, unfocused but intense. He was processing. Filtering through what had been said, searching for the right question to ask next. 

Then, finally— 

"Who won?" 

Hisao blinked. Then he smirked. "That's the wrong question." 

Yasu tilted his head slightly, but he didn't look annoyed. Just intrigued. 

Hisao leaned back, crossing his arms. "No one won, Yasu. That's the thing about wars—there's no such thing as a real victory. Only survivors." 

Yasu's fingers stilled against the table. 

Hisao let the words settle before continuing. "But if you're asking which village suffered the least?" He exhaled through his nose. "Konoha. Always Konoha." 

Yasu's gaze sharpened. "Why?" 

Hisao's expression darkened slightly, shadows flickering across his face from the candlelight. "Because they had power. More than anyone else." His fingers drummed against his arm. "They had the Senju. They had the Uchiha. And, in the middle of the war, they got a new Hokage—Hiruzen Sarutobi." 

Yasu had heard that name before. He was Konoha's Hokage now, wasn't he? 

Hisao continued, voice edged with disdain. "Sarutobi wasn't as strong as the Senju, but he was smart. He played his cards well, and Konoha took fewer losses than the rest of us. They kept their borders secure. When the war finally ended, they still had the manpower, the resources to recover faster than the rest of us." 

He scoffed. "Meanwhile, Iwagakure bled. Our shinobi died in battles that never should have happened. And when it was over? We signed that treaty, and now we're expected to pretend it all meant nothing." 

Yasu was still. 

His mind turned, absorbing each word, piecing together the larger picture. 

Konoha—the strongest village. The one that had taken the least damage. The one that had gained the most. 

And Iwa—Hisao's village. His village, his home. Left to recover from losses that weren't evenly shared. 

Hisao's expression shifted. 

Not in a way most people would notice. It was subtle—the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way he tilted his head just enough to show interest. He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting against the table. 

"Tell me," he said, voice still casual but laced with something more. Something curious. "What do you think of all this?" 

Yasu blinked. 

His fingers, which had been still, twitched slightly against the wood. He hadn't expected the question. Not like that. 

For a moment, he was silent. 

He had spent the last few minutes absorbing information, piecing things together. But he hadn't yet stopped to consider his own thoughts on the matter. Not properly. 

"…About what?" he asked at last. 

Hisao's smirk was slight, but present. He gestured vaguely with one hand. "The war. The villages. The way the world works." 

Yasu studied him. 

He wasn't testing him, exactly. Hisao had already made his judgment of him long before this conversation. No, this was different. He wasn't looking for the answer of a child, nor was he expecting one. 

He was genuinely curious. 

Yasu exhaled slowly. What did he think of it? 

His past life had been filled with politics. With war. He had spent years understanding systems, seeing how things worked on a larger scale. He had known corruption. He had known power struggles. But this world—this world was different. 

Yet at its core, was it really? 

The strong held power. The weak suffered for it. 

The First Hokage had tried to create balance, and instead, he had created a system where the strongest village held all the cards. The war had been inevitable. Another would be, too. 

Yasu's fingers resumed their light tapping against the table. 

Then, finally, he spoke. 

"I think…" he started slowly, testing the words as they left his mouth. "That it's naïve to think balance ever existed in the first place." 

Hisao's gaze sharpened. 

Yasu continued, his tone quiet, calm. 

"If there was peace, it was only because people were too tired to keep fighting." He tilted his head slightly. "The moment someone gains an advantage, they'll take it. Just like Konoha did. Just like Iwa would, if we had been the ones in their position." 

Hisao chuckled. "You say that like you've seen it happen before." 

Yasu met Hisao's gaze, then exhaled, tilting his head slightly. 

"…I like reading." 

It was a lighter response, something he hoped would pull back from how much he had said. Sometimes, he forgot—forgot that he was supposed to be four, that he wasn't meant to speak like this, to think like this. 

But Hisao wasn't fooled. 

The older man gave him a knowing look but didn't push. Instead, he sighed, rolling his shoulders back as he stretched. "Hah… You know," he muttered, glancing toward the ceiling as if gathering his thoughts, "some people are already calling you a potential prodigy." 

Yasu blinked. 

Hisao looked back at him, his expression unreadable. "Do you know what a prodigy is?" 

Yasu was quiet for a moment before he answered. "…Someone exceptional?" 

Hisao nodded. "More or less." His gaze flickered over him, studying him in a way Yasu was getting used to. "It's what people call children who are ahead of their time." 

A pause. 

Then, with a smirk, he added, "And you, Yasu, are very ahead of your time."