"The Land of Lightning is a militarized nation, its people raised on a culture of combat—just like the shinobi village that represents its strength: the Hidden Cloud Village."

"However, a love for fighting doesn't necessarily mean true power. Violence doesn't solve everything, and during the Great Ninja War, that warmongering cost the Land of Lightning dearly. In the end, they failed to emerge as the victors."

"Compared to the true winner—Konohagakure—the Hidden Cloud lacked one thing: wisdom. Their fixation on brute strength only brought misfortune and chaos to both the village and their nation."

"According to the writer's investigation, the crime rate in the Hidden Cloud is the highest among the Five Great Nations, and when compared to the Hidden Leaf, it's ten times worse."

"Such terrible public safety has severely limited the village's development. After all, if the environment isn't even relatively secure, how could anyone from the outside feel safe enough to settle and build a future there?"

Sakima whispered those lines to herself under the dim light of her dormitory in the new district outside the Hidden Leaf. These accommodations were prepared specifically for staff recruited under Konoha's recent "Call for Talent."

A blonde girl with a single ponytail, Sakima had come from the Hidden Cloud. She was a spy, planted under the guise of a talented specialist in data processing, statistics, and administrative planning. Her goal had been clear: infiltrate the Leaf and help the Hidden Cloud surpass them.

She had done just that. Having successfully entered Konoha's personnel department, she had officially become a small part of the Leaf's grand machine.

After a long day of work, she'd picked up a newly published magazine called *Kōchi*—Public Knowledge—from the Konoha Game Association. The first article? An analysis of the Hidden Cloud's current state.

It was razor-sharp in its observations, directly pointing out the village's bleak prospects due to its rampant crime and disorder. Reading it now, Sakima couldn't deny how accurate it all sounded.

The Land of Lightning's obsession with combat had become deeply ingrained in its culture. Everyone—from commoners to the Raikage himself—harbored a desire to crush their enemies. Even the Second Raikage, who had once attempted to broker peace with the Second Hokage, was assassinated by extremists like the infamous Gold and Silver Brothers.

Sakima's thoughts grew heavy.

She'd never thought about these issues before. But seeing them laid out so plainly—and compared to other nations, especially the Leaf—made them impossible to ignore.

She glanced down at the article's author: "Zhou Shuren." A pen name. In the author's bio, he described himself as a scholar who had traveled extensively.

"A scholar, not a shinobi... That makes sense. Shinobi are numb to these things. Only civilians would still notice what the rest have learned to ignore."

She murmured, "But those very details have widened the gap between the Cloud and the Leaf. And if we don't fix them, we'll never catch up..."

She jotted her reflections into a small notebook. Then, determined, she made plans to purchase more copies of *Kōchi* to send back to the Hidden Cloud.

She believed—no, hoped—that once the village's wiser minds read these articles, they too would reflect.

*Kōchi* didn't just criticize other nations. It tackled issues across all shinobi villages, including those in the Land of Fire. It wasn't blind patriotism. It was objective, honest, and open.

"A magazine truly worthy of the name *Public Knowledge*—fair, public, and just," another figure commented under the same night sky.

This time, it was Pakura , a skilled jōnin of the Hidden Sand Village. She was on her way home after her delegation had finished its visit to Konoha.

She had bought the magazine before leaving but only now had time to read it.

And she, too, was captivated.

Each story, each critique, struck with a literary force previously unseen in the shinobi world. The writing was masterful, sharp, and deeply reflective.

Pakura 's eyes were drawn to the section about the Land of Wind—her homeland.

It discussed the region's barren lands, desertification, and poor agricultural output, which led to widespread poverty. But it also pointed out a hidden opportunity: the Land of Wind was rich in mineral resources. If mined and sold effectively, it could provide the financial means to lift its people out of misery.

Yet for centuries, no one had done anything.

Even now, during the era of shinobi villages, things hadn't changed. The entire country continued to teeter on the brink of poverty.

The article criticized this stagnation. And its most stinging line followed the now-classic "template format": brutal honesty.

What stunned Pakura even more was that this article wasn't written by someone from the Land of Fire or the Hidden Leaf—it came from a writer native to the Land of Wind.

This internal critique struck deep.

Pakura went through a whirlwind of emotions: indignation, realization, anxiety, deep thought, and, ultimately, recognition.

Her worldview had been shaken.

But seeing the flaws didn't mean she knew how to fix them.

She wasn't trained for this. Her education had been limited. Her so-called awakening had only led her to ask questions—not answer them.

The message was clear: "Your country is flawed. Something must change. Or it will collapse."

Yes, this was the rhetorical weapon of dangerous foreign media from another world.

Unaware of this subtext, Pakura 's thoughts had already been manipulated. And seeing the magazine also criticize the Land of Fire only reinforced its perceived fairness.

So when she reached the articles titled "Konoha's Kunai Are Washed Three Times" and "A Bowl of Chashu Ramen: The Hidden Leaf's Compassion," she accepted them as truth.

The kunai article was written from the perspective of a professional weapon cleaner. During the Second Great Ninja War, he spoke of doing his best in the rear lines—even if he couldn't fight.

"I can't protect the Leaf on the front lines, but I can still help its warriors behind the scenes."

"Even if it's just a little—if it helps improve their chances—I'm willing. That's why I wash every kunai three times to make sure they're always at their sharpest."

The report noted that these kunai, thanks to that care, proved to be more effective than those of other villages.

Inspired by his example, other villagers joined in. Eventually, it became standard to triple-wash every kunai sent to the frontlines—one of the unsung reasons the Leaf won the war.

It wasn't just the shinobi. It was everyone.

This spirit—of unity, of the Will of Fire—was what kept the Leaf strong.

Pakura could almost see the Leaf's people banding together during the war—so vivid were the scenes the article evoked. And even though she knew it was her village's rival, her heart stirred.

Then came the crushing realization: the Hidden Sand could never replicate this.

They had fewer civilians, little water to spare, and honestly—who even hires people to clean kunai?

The contrast was devastating.

Then came the ramen article.

It told of a longstanding ramen shop in Konoha. The elderly owner had been there since the village's founding. He'd seen the village grow, and in his small way, contributed to its soul.

The story recounted how he would often feed retired or disabled shinobi, orphans, and the elderly—sometimes at his own expense, sometimes when others stepped up to pay.

A simple bowl of ramen, humble yet filled with warmth, carried the essence of Konoha's compassion.

Once again, Pakura was shaken.

Such stories wouldn't happen in the Hidden Sand.

Once, she would've laughed at the very idea. In the brutal shinobi world, kindness was weakness. Humanitarian care was something to be mocked or dismissed.

But now, with the Leaf thriving—flourishing—those same ideas were no longer laughable.

They were enviable.

Strength and prosperity mean many things. And for a superpower like Konoha, they meant everything.

Pakura breathed in, her chest tight, her mind racing.

And then, she understood.

She hadn't just been sent to spy on the Hidden Leaf.

She'd been sent to learn.

To absorb Konoha's advanced thinking and techniques, and carry them home.

This—this was her true mission.

Maybe the elders of the Hidden Sand had foreseen this. Maybe this was what they wanted her to realize on her own.

In that moment, Pakura 's eyes lit with hope.

A vision of the Hidden Sand, prosperous like the Leaf, bloomed in her heart.

These were her reflections after reading *Kōchi*.

And she wasn't alone. Many shinobi from other villages shared similar thoughts after picking up the magazine.

Its impartial tone and blend of critique and heartwarming tales made the content feel authentic.

People believed it—compared it to their own experience—and were moved.

No one noticed that the negative content always pointed at the Land of Fire, while the touching stories always came from the Hidden Leaf.

After all, in most minds, Konoha and the Land of Fire were one and the same.