The moon hung high, bathing the grove outside the shed in pale silver. Leaves rustled gently in the breeze, casting fleeting patterns across the forest floor. Inside the hidden shelter, the scent of crushed herbs mixed with damp wood and ash—a strange, earthy fragrance that had become familiar over the last few nights.
Itama sat cross-legged on the floor, shirt off, ribs bandaged, his palms stained green with medicinal oils. Before him knelt Takeshi—the rogue Senju who had rescued him from the jaws of death and now, reluctantly, had taken on the role of teacher.
"Again," Takeshi said, voice flat and firm.
Itama's fingers moved over the sliced gourd skin on the table between them. He pressed two fingers together, forming the necessary seal. Slowly, he focused his chakra down into his palm. He felt the warmth begin to build—a faint hum under his skin, then a tingling in his fingertips.
The glow of healing chakra flickered across the surface of his hand.
He pressed it gently to the torn skin of the gourd.
The glow faded.
"You lost focus," Takeshi said, tapping his knuckles against the back of Itama's hand. "Too much chakra. You're trying to force it."
Itama gritted his teeth. "It's hard to control."
"It's not meant to be easy. Medical ninjutsu requires precision, not power. Think of it like a whisper, not a shout."
"Easy for you to say. You've been doing this for years."
"Exactly. And if you want to survive long enough to learn everything I know, stop whining and try again."
Itama bit back a retort. He closed his eyes, steadied his breath, and tried once more.
Chakra swirled in his core—less of a tide now, more of a stream. He drew it upward, through his chest and down into his arm, coaxing it toward his palm. This time, he released it slower. Softer. The green light glimmered faintly, settling across his hand like a layer of dew.
He touched the gourd.
Nothing exploded.
The skin began to knit back together—clumsy, slow—but real.
Takeshi raised an eyebrow. "There it is."
Itama let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Sweat clung to his brow.
"How the hell did you learn this?" he asked.
Takeshi leaned back against a crate, arms folded. "Trial. Error. A few half-dead missions where I had to figure things out on my own. The clan doesn't teach everyone the same techniques. They reserve the good stuff for the elite squads."
"And you weren't one of them?"
"I stopped playing by their rules a long time ago."
Itama didn't press. He had long sensed something different about Takeshi. The way he moved. The way he spoke about the Senju—with bitterness, not reverence.
But he respected strength when he saw it.
And Takeshi was strong.
---
The next lesson came at dawn.
Takeshi led him deeper into the forest, to an old stone clearing where moss grew thick over the broken floor. The light through the trees was dappled and dim—perfect for vanishing.
"Lesson two," Takeshi said. "Deception. Disguise. Misdirection."
"Genjutsu?" Itama asked, hopeful.
Takeshi snorted. "You think you're ready for genjutsu? That's for later. I'm talking about real-world deception. Cloaks, voices, movements, habits. The way you hold your hands. The way you tilt your head. Anything can betray you."
He pulled a cloth from his pack and tied it over Itama's eyes.
"What—"
"Quiet."
The world went dark.
Takeshi's voice circled him like smoke.
"Enemies don't need to see your face to know who you are. They'll read your steps. Your posture. Your scent. If you want to survive, especially if you're pretending to be dead, you need to disappear—not just physically. You need to forget who you are."
A shove to the shoulder sent Itama stumbling.
He caught his balance too late—Takeshi struck again, this time from behind, sweeping his legs out from under him. Itama fell hard, grunting.
"You're not thinking," Takeshi barked. "You're reacting. That's a luxury corpses don't have."
Itama tore the cloth off and sat up, breathing hard. "How do I fight what I can't see?"
"You don't fight it. You become it."
Takeshi crouched beside him, eyes sharp. "I watched your movements for two days before I brought you in. Your stance—too stiff. Your gait—too rhythmic. You walk like a soldier, not a shadow."
"I was a soldier," Itama muttered.
"Well now you're a ghost."
They spent the day there, moving between trees, across uneven ground. Takeshi demonstrated how to change the cadence of a walk to match others, how to avoid leaving chakra residue when passing through terrain, how to mimic voices with subtle throat vibrations, and how to blend into the background—not with jutsu, but with behavior.
"The best disguise," he said, "is one that doesn't look like one. Blend in too well and you stand out. Act like you belong, and no one will question it."
He handed Itama a set of robes—drab, brown, stitched with rough seams. Civilian rags. Itama looked at it, then back at him.
"I'm supposed to wear this?"
"You want to sneak into the village to eavesdrop on clan meetings or watch patrol rotations? You think you'll get far dressed like a shinobi?"
Itama muttered something under his breath and pulled the robe on.
It smelled like old straw.
---
That night, they returned to the shed, both of them exhausted. Itama collapsed onto the mat with a groan.
"I think my legs are broken," he mumbled.
"Good," Takeshi said. "Means you used them."
Itama rolled his eyes and pulled the bandages from his waist. A cut from earlier had reopened, oozing faintly.
He hesitated—then reached for the small bowl of salve Takeshi had left on the table.
"Don't use too much," Takeshi warned. "That blend's got crimson moss and darkroot. Overuse'll make your skin peel."
Itama dabbed the salve onto the wound, then paused.
"How do you know all this stuff?"
Takeshi didn't answer immediately.
He sat down across from Itama and stared into the flickering candle between them.
"My brother was a healer," he said at last. "Back before the clans started formalizing ranks. He taught me enough to survive."
"What happened to him?"
Takeshi's eyes darkened.
"He trusted the wrong people. Died for it."
Itama nodded slowly.
They said nothing more for the rest of the night.
---
By the fourth day of training, Itama could heal minor cuts and bruises without supervision. He could disguise his gait and tone well enough to pass as a wandering merchant boy, and his chakra control had improved enough to suppress his presence for short periods.
He was still weak.
But he was sharper.
Faster.
Smarter.
Every lesson from Takeshi was more than just technique—it was survival.
Itama didn't just want to return.
He wanted to be ready when he did.
---
Near the end of the week, Takeshi handed him a small mirror shard and a stick of charcoal.
"Your task tonight," he said, "is to make yourself someone else. I don't care who. Just not you."
Itama stared at the tools, frowning. "And then what?"
"Go into the village. Buy something. Don't get caught. Come back."
"What if I do get caught?"
"Then don't come back."
Itama looked up, startled.
Takeshi's expression didn't change.
"Failure in this game means death, kid. You don't get to be 'almost invisible.' Either they believe you're someone else—or they kill you before you can try again."
Itama nodded.
Later that night, the shed door swung open, and a hunched, limping boy in a brown robe shuffled into the moonlit clearing. His face was painted with faint blotches of charcoal to mimic old burn scars. His hair had been tied into a rough knot. His voice was dry and high-pitched.
He looked nothing like Itama Senju.
And when he passed two guards on the edge of the Senju compound—head lowered, hands trembling—they barely glanced at him.
He returned three hours later with a bag of dried rice and a bundle of root vegetables.
Takeshi didn't speak.
He just gave a small nod, and handed him a piece of smoked meat in return.
---
Itama chewed in silence, staring into the small fire between them.
He had learned more in these past few days than in years of clan drills and formations.
He had learned to heal.
To hide.
To lie.
But most importantly, he had learned what it meant to survive.
And survival, he knew now, was only the beginning.
The flame had returned.
But soon, it would blaze.