The Senju encampment buzzed with quiet whispers the morning after the border incident. Though the battle itself had been small and quickly resolved, word of Itama's actions had spread with the speed of wildfire through the ranks. Some spoke with admiration—others with cautious skepticism. Itama had saved a child, yes, but the way he moved, the techniques he employed—unfamiliar, unorthodox, and unsettling to some—had not gone unnoticed.
The morning fog still clung low to the earth as Itama approached the central command tent. Two guards posted at the entrance gave him a sideways glance before nodding him in. He stepped inside, the heavy flap falling closed behind him, muffling the distant sound of sharpening blades and sparring drills.
Hashirama stood near a wooden table, a large map of the region stretched across its surface. His tall frame was slightly hunched as he adjusted wooden markers representing Senju and Uchiha forces. His expression was thoughtful, brow slightly furrowed, but when he saw Itama enter, a bright smile spread across his face.
"Itama!" Hashirama stepped forward and clasped his younger brother's shoulders with both hands, the sheer warmth in his eyes enough to melt any tension. "I heard what you did. You saved that child… and held off a full group of attackers nearly on your own."
Itama blinked, caught slightly off-guard by the genuine pride in Hashirama's voice. "I did what anyone else would've done."
"No," Hashirama said firmly, his grip tightening just a bit. "Not everyone would have moved that fast. Not everyone would have prioritized saving a child over chasing down bandits. That is the heart of a true shinobi—of a true Senju."
Itama looked away, uncertain how to respond. A small flicker of guilt stirred in his chest. If Hashirama knew what techniques he had used—if he knew they weren't taught within the clan, that they'd been passed down by a rogue, an exile—would he still say the same?
But Hashirama seemed unbothered by the details. "You've grown, little brother," he said, letting go and stepping back toward the map. "When I thought I'd lost you… it nearly broke me. But now I see—your return wasn't just a blessing. It's a sign. You're meant for something greater."
Itama swallowed hard. Praise from Hashirama always felt heavy—not in a burdensome way, but in the sense that it carried deep expectation. A hope that was difficult to bear.
Before he could respond, the tent flap shifted.
Tobirama entered silently, as if conjured by the weight of Hashirama's optimism. His white hair was damp from the mist, and his crimson eyes swept the room with sharp calculation. He acknowledged Hashirama with a slight nod before turning to Itama.
"You're being hailed as a hero," Tobirama said flatly. "Congratulations."
There was no warmth in his voice. No celebration. Only an edge—like steel drawn but not yet swung.
Hashirama turned, his smile dimming. "Tobirama—"
Tobirama raised a hand. "I'm not here to ruin the moment. I came to say what needs to be said."
He stepped closer to Itama, folding his arms. "You saved a child. That's commendable. But the reports we received from Renga and the others… your movements, your techniques—they're not standard Senju tactics. Your footwork was evasive, indirect. Your strikes were disabling, not lethal. You used pressure points, redirection. Not brute strength."
Itama remained silent, his hands curling slightly at his sides.
Tobirama's gaze narrowed. "Where did you learn that?"
Hashirama opened his mouth, perhaps to intervene, but Tobirama pressed on.
"We welcomed you back after a year of presumed death. You returned stronger. Faster. But different. I've been watching you, Itama. And I know what I saw."
Itama finally spoke, his voice quiet but steady. "You think I'm a traitor."
"No," Tobirama replied. "Not yet."
Silence blanketed the tent for a long moment. Then Tobirama added, "But I think you're hiding something. And that makes you dangerous—not just to yourself, but to the entire clan."
Hashirama stepped between them, his tone calm but firm. "Tobirama, that's enough. He saved lives. That should be all that matters."
"It is not all that matters," Tobirama snapped. "We are in the middle of a war, an endless cycle of blood. Every deviation, every unknown, is a liability."
He turned back to Itama. "If you've learned something outside the clan—if someone taught you—I suggest you bring it to light now. Before someone else discovers it the hard way."
Itama stared back at him, jaw clenched.
"I used what I had to survive," he said evenly. "Nothing more."
Tobirama's lips thinned, but he said no more.
Hashirama sighed and looked at his brothers—so different, yet both shaped by the same war. "We can't afford to turn against each other," he said softly. "Not now."
Tobirama nodded once, curtly. Then turned and exited the tent.
For a moment, Itama stood still, the lingering heat of Tobirama's scrutiny still clinging to his skin.
Hashirama placed a hand on his shoulder. "He's not wrong to be cautious. But he doesn't see what I see in you."
"What do you see?" Itama asked, genuinely uncertain.
"A bridge," Hashirama said. "Between what we've been… and what we could become."
Itama didn't respond. He wasn't sure he believed in that vision. Not yet.
But as he stepped out of the command tent, the mist rising with the morning sun, he felt the weight of both his brothers pressing on his shoulders—one warm and hopeful, the other cold and suspicious.
He would have to walk a path between them.
And he would have to survive it.