The morning sun filtered through the leaves in dappled patterns, bathing the Senju camp in golden light. Itama stood at the edge of the training fields, arms crossed as a small group of Genin sparred under the watchful eye of their instructor. Their movements were still clumsy—full of energy but lacking control. One overzealous punch sent a boy stumbling into the dirt, and his opponent froze in panic.
Itama stepped in without a word, crouching beside the fallen boy and helping him up. "Keep your footing low," he said gently, brushing dirt from the boy's sleeve. "You're too top-heavy when you swing."
The boy nodded, wide-eyed, and scrambled back into position.
"Itama-sama," came a voice from behind.
He turned to see a young Chūnin messenger approaching with a scroll in hand. The boy bowed deeply before offering it.
"Assignment orders," the Chūnin said. "From the mission hall."
Itama nodded, accepting the scroll. As he unrolled it, his eyes quickly scanned the contents. Another low-tier patrol. Perimeter sweep. Simple, cautious work meant more for observation than confrontation. It was the third such mission in as many weeks.
"Understood," he said, rolling the scroll back up. "Tell them I'll depart by sundown."
As the Chūnin left, a soft sigh escaped Itama's lips. He didn't complain—wouldn't complain. This was what the clan expected of him: a slow reintegration, one cautious step at a time. But he knew the truth. These assignments weren't just about helping the village.
They were about monitoring him.
He turned back to the training field, watching as the children resumed their exercises. He found a strange comfort in it—the repetition, the discipline. For all the changes that had occurred within him, the rhythm of clan life remained largely unchanged. There was safety in that illusion.
Later, in the mess tent, he ate quietly at the end of a long bench. Two Chūnin sat nearby, speaking just loudly enough that he could hear—likely by design.
"Think he really just hid out all that time?" one muttered.
"Lucky to be alive," the other replied. "Too lucky."
"He doesn't even talk about it. Keeps everything vague."
Itama pretended not to hear.
When another shinobi sat across from him, he glanced up—recognizing Daiki, one of the younger Jōnin who had once trained beside him before the ambush. They'd never been close, but they'd shared enough battlefields to know each other's strengths.
"You've been quiet since returning," Daiki said without preamble, picking up his rice bowl.
"I've had time to think," Itama replied evenly.
"That so?" Daiki chewed for a moment. "Most of us thought you were dead. You don't say much about what happened."
"There's not much to say," Itama said.
Daiki arched a brow. "A year in hiding, trained by a rogue, and nothing to say?"
Itama looked away. "I survived. That's all that matters."
There was a pause. Then Daiki leaned in slightly, voice lower. "You might want to open up, even a little. People talk. And right now, most of them don't know what to think of you."
"I'm not here to explain myself," Itama replied, tone clipped.
Daiki smirked and leaned back. "Just saying. Silence makes good kindling for suspicion."
That evening, Itama departed for his patrol alone. He moved quietly through the forest, his footsteps light, his chakra suppressed. The perimeter was clear—nothing unusual to report. Yet he moved slowly, deliberately, as if waiting for something to leap from the trees.
Old habits from a year in the wild.
He reached a cliffside overlook and paused there, gazing out at the valley below. Trees stretched for miles, their green canopy dancing in the evening breeze.
He thought back to the rogue. The man's voice had been like gravel, and his training brutal but effective. He'd never offered his name. He'd never asked for Itama's either. There had been no need for identity in survival.
But Itama never spoke of those lessons now. Not to his brothers, not to the council, not to his fellow shinobi. He had buried that year behind carefully constructed silence.
Because they wouldn't understand.
They saw only what they wanted to see: a wounded Senju who had miraculously returned. To many, his silence was guilt. Or suspicion. Or shame.
But to Itama, it was armor.
He made camp beneath an outcropping of stone, lighting a small, smokeless fire with precise movements. As the flames flickered, he stared into them, eyes unfocused.
He remembered days when he'd burned with rage at the Uchiha. When he had thrown himself into battle with reckless abandon, thinking glory would bring peace.
Now, he watched flames differently.
Not as tools of war.
But as reminders of how easily light could become ash.
The next morning, he returned to the village with nothing to report.
When the mission captain asked how the night had gone, he simply replied, "Uneventful."
That word became his default. Clean. Neutral. Nonthreatening.
When Tobirama summoned him for a private debrief later that week, the questions came like kunai: sharp, precise, meant to draw blood.
"Did the rogue mention the Uchiha?"
"No."
"Did he speak of alliances?"
"No."
"Did he train you to use chakra in new ways?"
"Only to survive."
Tobirama studied him for a long moment.
"You've become very good at saying little."
Itama didn't flinch. "That's what you prefer, isn't it? Control."
Tobirama's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing more.
Afterward, as Itama walked through the camp, several young shinobi bowed as he passed. He returned their nods. To them, he was still a Senju. A symbol of perseverance, even if they didn't fully trust him.
In the training yard that evening, he sparred with Daiki. The blows were light at first—measured. But as the match wore on, Daiki pressed harder, trying to provoke him.
"You've lost your edge," Daiki muttered after a missed block. "All that time hiding made you soft."
Itama's eyes narrowed.
Then he moved.
Not with the reckless aggression of his youth—but with cold, practiced efficiency. He ducked a punch, swept Daiki's legs, and pinned him with a blade to the throat in a single, fluid motion.
Daiki blinked up at him, stunned.
"I didn't hide," Itama said quietly. "I endured."
He stepped back and offered Daiki a hand up.
That night, alone in his tent, Itama stared at the ceiling.
He knew this silence wouldn't hold forever.
Eventually, someone would push harder. Eventually, he would be forced to speak the truth.
But for now, he would give them what they wanted.
A loyal, quiet, wounded Senju.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
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