In the great land of Konoha, deception is no longer just a mistake—it is an art, a legendary technique perfected by one former official whose mastery of evasion rivals even the finest ninjutsu.
From the moment he stepped into power, this grand tactician spun reality into fiction so flawlessly that even the truth itself began questioning its own existence. Policies became promises, promises became illusions, and when the people demanded answers, he merely raised an eyebrow, smirked confidently, and declared, "Why ask me?"
In the grand theatre of politics, he plays the role of the misunderstood hero—transforming scandals into minor technical errors, turning broken promises into statistical triumphs, and silencing critics with conspiracy theories so elaborate they could rival the plot of an award-winning thriller.
And thus, the cycle begins. Because one lie is never enough—no, a single falsehood demands an army of others to protect it. Each time a deception starts to crack, he swiftly patches it up with another, like a strategist desperately fortifying a crumbling castle. If the public starts asking for proof, he simply sighs, feigns disappointment, and crafts a new narrative even more absurd than the last.
With the skill of a seasoned performer, he plays the victim. With a downcast gaze and a solemn expression worthy of an Oscar nomination, he laments how he has been slandered. "This world is cruel!" he says, almost convincing enough to make the audience sympathise. But in this grand illusion, it is not he who suffers the insult—it is the intelligence of the very people watching.
And of course, the nation’s institutions—education, judiciary, law enforcement—cannot escape the swirling vortex of deception. Universities scramble to update their curriculum: "Reality Management: How to Convince Yourself That Lies Are Truth." Courts, once symbols of justice, now search for linguistic loopholes to redefine falsehoods as creative storytelling. And the police, once sworn to protect the people, now spend their time ensuring that no inconvenient truths disrupt the official's carefully curated illusion. Once, 'A Rotten Fish Starts at the Head' was just an old saying to call out corruption. But now? The rot has gone open-world, spreading beyond politics and seeping into every corner of life—like a bugged NPC that just won't disappear from the game!
The casualties? Oh, they fall silently. Public trust erodes, policies grow increasingly bizarre, and citizens begin to wonder whether they are living in a functioning democracy or merely extras in an elaborate political simulation.
But worry not—the official remains unmoved. He knows that as long as his words echo across the media, as long as institutions continue nodding along, and as long as the people remain too exhausted to fight the absurdity, his web of lies will never collapse.
In Konoha, truth has long since vanished. Perhaps it fled to a place where it would be appreciated. Or perhaps, weary from years of neglect, it simply chose early retirement—alongside integrity, buried beneath the rubble of empty speeches.
[Bahasa]
