In the heart of Kumogakure, the thunderclouds rolled gently over the Raikage’s Tower, a soft murmur of distant storms humming through the open balcony behind Jiran’s desk. The current Raikage sat with calm dominance, his wide frame cloaked in the white and gold of his title, the tall hat casting a faint shadow over his stern face. With one hand, he flipped through mission reports and intelligence scrolls; with the other, he casually tore a piece of grilled meat from a skewer, chewing with quiet satisfaction as he read.
Grease glistened at the corner of his lips, but he didn’t miss a single word on the reports. Between bites, his fingers tapped against the desk in rhythm, echoing like raindrops over stone—his mind fully engaged, yet his body utterly relaxed. A small plate of rice balls and salted fish sat nearby, untouched for now, while another skewer of roasted vegetables balanced on the armrest of his chair. As he paused to sip from a warm cup of tea, he leaned back slightly and scanned the latest Black Ops dispatch detailing strange chakra shifts near Kumogakure.
“Tch… If they’ve gone quiet, then thunder’s gonna be the first sound they hear again.”
His words rolled out low and sure, like the warning growl of a gathering storm. Jiran, known to many as
The Iron Storm of Kumogakure, didn’t need to shout to command respect. He simply ate, read, and prepared—ready to lead his village into whatever storm the world was foolish enough to send next.