The clouds hung low over the battlefield, gray and swollen with the threat of rain, casting long shadows over the rocky plateau that marked the Senju-Uchiha borderlands. Wind howled between jagged outcroppings of stone, whistling through the dead branches of trees stripped bare by years of conflict. The air was charged, thick with tension and chakra, as if the land itself anticipated bloodshed.
Itama stood among a group of Senju shinobi, eyes narrowed as he scanned the distant tree line. His armor, though repaired and reforged, still bore the faint marks of his last real encounter—one he'd survived only by choice, not by dominance. That standoff with Izuna had left more than physical wounds. It had planted a seed—one of doubt, one of possibility.
But that seed had no place here today.
A hawk screeched overhead, its cry breaking the silence. Moments later, a flare shot into the sky—red and angry.
The signal had come.
"Positions!" barked Daigo, one of the elder Senju commanders. His face was lined by decades of war, his eyes hard. "Uchiha patrol is approaching from the north ridge. Standard formation!"
Shinobi broke into motion, moving with swift coordination. Earth jutsu users fortified the perimeter with walls and trenches. Wind and fire specialists took up positions along the natural ridges, prepared to launch counterattacks. Medical-nin retreated to the rear, already preparing for what was inevitable.
Itama moved with them, but slower—thoughtful.
He had trained. He had healed. He had seen war, lived through betrayal, and learned from exile. But nothing could fully prepare a man for the inevitability of what he now sensed coming.
"Don't fall behind, Itama!" snapped Daigo, noticing his pace.
Itama nodded but remained quiet. His fingers twitched slightly as he felt the familiar stir of chakra within his system. Wood style. He hadn't used it in open combat—yet. Not fully. Not in a way that would draw attention. But he knew the moment would come, and it would be dangerous in more ways than one.
A sudden tremor in the ground shook everyone.
"Earth jutsu?" a Senju whispered.
"No," Itama said grimly. "They're here."
Explosions tore through the northern ridge.
Flames erupted skyward, painting the clouds in violent hues of orange and red. From the smoke charged Uchiha warriors—dozens of them, each with their Sharingan blazing like curses carved from flame and vengeance. Kunai and shuriken rained down like iron hail, while fireballs lit the sky with bursts of heat that scorched the very air.
"Engage!" Daigo roared.
And so, the skirmish began.
Itama leapt into the fray, moving like water between stone. He dodged a kunai, ducked under a blade, and delivered a crushing elbow to an Uchiha's ribs, knocking the man unconscious before spinning to parry another strike.
To his left, a Senju was caught in a fireball, his scream cut short.
To his right, a young Uchiha boy lunged at him, eyes wild with terror and rage. Itama knocked him down with a precise strike to the gut—but didn't finish him. He couldn't.
All around him, the battlefield screamed.
Explosions roared like thunder. The crack of steel against steel echoed endlessly. The cries of the wounded bled into the sky.
Two Uchiha flanked him, their Sharingan swirling. Genjutsu attempted to flood his mind—images of fire, of loss, of pain. But Itama grounded himself, focusing his chakra into his feet and palms, sending subtle pulses through the ground. The rogue had taught him how to disorient illusions using the natural world.
He moved low and fast.
"Wood Style: Thorned Roots!"
From the dirt beneath them, spiked roots burst upward like a nest of serpents, ensnaring one Uchiha's leg and throwing him to the side. The second leapt away, but not before Itama caught his shoulder with a chakra-infused punch.
More came.
Two, then four, then six.
They knew he was stronger now.
He backed up toward a rock formation, hoping to limit their angles. Shuriken and jutsu rained toward him. He deflected what he could, absorbed a graze across the shoulder, and retaliated with a wave of earth-splintering force, cracking the stone beneath their feet.
But he was tiring.
Then came the blur.
A figure dropped from the sky with the force of a falling meteor, scattering the Uchiha assault like leaves.
Hashirama.
Vines burst from the ground, coiling around several attackers, rendering them unconscious with a surge of chakra that sapped their strength. Hashirama turned, eyes wild with emotion and fire, and nodded at Itama.
"You're doing well, brother!" he shouted over the chaos.
Itama's lips barely moved, but his heart surged.
Together, they pushed forward, shoulder to shoulder.
They moved like dual storms—Hashirama's Wood Style overwhelming in scale, towering roots and walls rising and falling like gods reshaping the land; Itama's style, smaller but precise, focused, almost surgical in its execution. Vines that constricted instead of crushed. Roots that disarmed instead of destroyed. The contrast was clear, but the power was undeniable.
Still, the Uchiha would not fall easily.
From the smoke emerged a counterattack—a phalanx of coordinated Uchiha, eyes all aglow, led by a tall figure in dark crimson armor.
Tajima Uchiha.
Their father.
The elder Uchiha moved like an executioner. Fire exploded from his palms, charring earth and tree alike. His blade sang as he carved a path through the Senju lines.
Hashirama stepped forward, expression hardening.
Tajima raised a brow. "Still trying to play the diplomat, Hashirama?"
"No more than you're trying to play the tyrant," Hashirama replied.
Itama stepped beside his brother, but Hashirama raised a hand to hold him back. "Not yet," he whispered.
Tajima raised his blade.
And in the very next moment, the battlefield erupted into a singular clash of titans.
Hashirama and Tajima met in a storm of wood and fire, their chakra shaking the earth itself. Itama could only watch for a moment before being pulled back into the fight, the Uchiha pressing hard on the Senju lines.
The battle stretched for hours.
Itama fought side by side with comrades—healing the wounded between strikes, defending the medical corps with subtle wood barriers, striking when openings revealed themselves. His arms ached. His chest heaved. His chakra ran low.
But he did not falter.
And when the retreat was finally called—when the Uchiha pulled back under the cover of smoke and exhaustion—he was still standing.
The field was littered with the wounded and the dead.
The rain finally came, washing away the blood, soaking through armor and earth, trying in vain to cleanse the sins of another fruitless battle.
Itama knelt beside a fallen Senju boy no older than ten, a shuriken lodged in his side. He pressed his hands down, channeling chakra, trying to stop the bleeding, whispering soft words—words he wasn't sure the boy could even hear.
"Hold on," he murmured. "Just hold on a little longer."
Behind him, Hashirama stood in the rain, silent and still.
And further still, at the edge of the treeline, Izuna Uchiha watched from the shadows—eyes unreadable.
The war had not ended.
The clans had skirmished again.
And the cost, as always, was far too high.