The air was thick with tension along the southern border of Senju-held territory. The trees, once a sanctuary of nature, now loomed like silent sentinels to war, their branches splintered by shuriken and scorched by stray fire release jutsu. Leaves hung limp in the smoky air, trembling as if in anticipation of the violence that simmered just beyond the next ridge.
Itama moved silently through the brush, his hand resting loosely on the hilt of a kunai. He was part of a small reconnaissance squad assigned to patrol and support the outer perimeter. These were considered "light missions" by the council—appropriate for a recently returned shinobi whose strength and loyalty were still being evaluated. But the term "light" was deceptive. The border regions were riddled with danger: rogue ninjas, minor clans, and unaffiliated mercenaries all probing for weaknesses.
Today's patrol had taken them close to a contested ridge known as Sanzu's Crossing—a narrow valley lined with streams and jagged stone, often used as a hidden route by smaller, opportunistic clans. Itama, along with two older genin and a chūnin commander, was tasked with monitoring movement through the area. But even before they reached the ridgeline, something felt wrong.
Birdsong was absent.
No forest noise. No chatter of wildlife.
Just stillness.
The team leader, a tall chūnin named Renga, signaled a halt and raised his hand, closing his eyes to focus on ambient chakra. His brow furrowed.
"We're not alone," he muttered.
Itama had already sensed it too—a flicker of chakra beyond the next slope, low and erratic. It didn't feel like a proper shinobi's presence. Not organized. Not disciplined. More like panic. Or fear.
They moved swiftly, crouching low, weaving between trees. As they neared the slope, faint voices drifted up—shouts, and cries. Then, a scream.
The team crested the ridge, and Itama's heart seized.
Below, in the narrow streambed, a skirmish had broken out. A small merchant convoy—no more than three wagons—was under assault from masked attackers in mismatched armor. Bandits, likely. Or perhaps remnants of a disgraced clan seeking supplies. The convoy guards, only lightly armed, were already overwhelmed. One lay motionless in the stream, a kunai buried in his neck.
And amid the chaos, a child—no more than five—ran from one of the wagons, crying, stumbling through mud and blood as an attacker closed in behind him with a drawn blade.
Renga gave no order.
Itama moved.
He leapt down the slope with a speed that surprised even his teammates. In one fluid motion, he unsheathed his kunai and flung it, chakra guiding its path. The blade whistled through the air and struck the attacker's hand, forcing the man to drop his weapon with a howl of pain.
The child tripped and fell, face-first into the mud.
The attacker turned, eyes narrowing, but Itama was already on him. With a burst of speed and chakra-enhanced footwork, he closed the distance and slammed his palm into the man's chest, sending him reeling backward into the stream.
Itama knelt by the child, scooping him into his arms.
"It's okay. I've got you," he said quickly, his voice low, steady, trying to ignore the trembling of the small frame in his arms.
From the ridge, the rest of the squad descended, launching shuriken and smoke bombs. The bandits began to scatter, not expecting organized resistance. A few attempted to stand their ground, but Renga unleashed a series of precise water-style techniques, forcing them back.
Itama darted behind the cover of a broken wagon, shielding the child from the growing crossfire. He drew a second kunai and peeked around the edge of the wheel—calculating angles, checking for threats.
Two bandits noticed him and moved to flank.
He took a breath, focused chakra into his legs, and sprang up in a wide arc—landing between the two attackers. Using a twisting motion from his rogue training, he pivoted and struck the first with a sweeping kick to the back of the knee, sending him crumpling. The second lunged with a blade, but Itama parried it, twisted the man's wrist, and knocked him unconscious with a blunt strike to the jaw.
It was over within seconds.
By then, the rest of the skirmish had ended. The remaining bandits either fled or lay defeated in the shallow waters. Renga and the other two Senju moved quickly to check on the wagons, searching for survivors.
Itama returned to the child, who sat huddled behind the wheel, tears streaking down his mud-stained cheeks. His eyes were wide, but less afraid now.
"What's your name?" Itama asked gently, kneeling.
"Shun," the boy whispered.
"Shun. That's a good name," Itama said. "You're safe now."
The boy looked at him for a long moment, then reached up and clung to his neck, burying his face in Itama's chest. Itama hesitated—then wrapped his arms around the child, holding him tightly.
He felt the boy's heartbeat. Fast. Frantic. Alive.
Alive because of him.
The moment struck him deeper than he expected. He had trained for years to kill. To fight. To protect villages and clans as an abstract idea. But here, with a child sobbing in his arms, everything suddenly felt real.
This was why shinobi existed.
This was what his clan had once stood for.
Not endless wars. Not territory. But life.
Renga approached, nodding with approval. "Good instincts, Itama. You moved fast. Saved him."
"He was just a kid," Itama said, rising with the boy still in his arms.
Renga looked at him a moment longer. "Even so. Most shinobi hesitate. You didn't."
The wagons were too damaged to continue, and two of the guards were dead. But one had survived, though gravely injured. With the immediate danger over, the squad secured the site and began signaling for medical assistance from the nearest Senju outpost.
Itama remained by the boy's side, helping him clean the mud from his skin and keeping him warm with his cloak. As they waited, he kept his senses alert. Not just for danger—but for the faint hum of mokuton chakra beneath the soil. He didn't use it openly, not here. But he listened to it.
He imagined vines wrapping protectively around the boy like a cradle of bark and roots. Not to smother. But to shelter.
When the medics arrived and took over, Shun resisted being parted from Itama, gripping his sleeve with small fingers.
Itama knelt beside him.
"You're going to be alright now," he said. "The village will take care of you."
"Will you come back?" Shun asked.
Itama hesitated.
"I'll try," he said softly.
And then he stood, stepping away as the medics lifted the boy onto a stretcher and carried him into the woods.
The team began their return journey to the Senju camp, slower now, burdened by the weight of what they'd seen and done.
Itama walked in silence, his mind full of conflicting thoughts.
He had used rogue techniques today. Movements the clan would not recognize. Skills not taught by the elders. He had risked revealing his secret training.
But no one questioned him.
Not today.
And in his chest, something stirred—a quiet pride. Not for defeating enemies. But for saving one life.
One small spark.
A forgotten flame.
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