The dawn light filtered through a canopy of smoke-streaked clouds, casting a pale, golden hue across the Senju encampment. The air still smelled faintly of ash and scorched earth, remnants of the most recent skirmish with the Uchiha. Yet despite the lingering tension, a quiet hum of activity had returned to the camp—shinobi sharpening blades, gathering supplies, murmuring orders. Life moved forward, as it always did between battles.
In the center of the camp, Itama Senju stood before the mission tent, posture upright but shoulders tight with anticipation. The battered shoulder plate on his armor bore a fresh scratch, a memento from the last engagement. His expression was calm, composed—but his thoughts raced.
He had just received his first independent assignment.
"Squad Three reporting, Itama-sama," came a voice from behind him.
He turned.
Standing before him were three shinobi—young, eager, and untested. The first was Enji, a wiry boy of about fifteen with alert eyes and a massive scroll strapped to his back. Next to him stood Kana, a kunoichi with ink-stained fingers and a quiet confidence. The third was Nobu, a broad-shouldered genin who wore heavy gloves and a constant scowl.
All three bowed slightly as Itama approached.
"You don't have to call me 'sama,'" he said with a faint smile, though his voice was firm. "We're equals on the field. You'll address me as Itama-taichō during the mission. Understood?"
"Yes, Taichō!" they replied in unison.
He nodded, then stepped aside and gestured toward a low table where a map was pinned down with kunai.
"The elders have asked us to investigate a string of attacks along the northern supply route. Three convoys have been ambushed this week—supplies stolen, bodies left behind. Too clean for bandits. Could be Uchiha or one of the splinter clans. We won't know until we get there."
He pointed at a narrow pass marked in red.
"We move here by nightfall. Set a trap. Observe. We don't engage unless absolutely necessary. This is recon and recovery. Questions?"
Kana raised a hand slightly. "If we encounter civilians?"
"Protect them. Escort them to safety," Itama said quickly. "But don't break formation unless ordered. Understood?"
She nodded.
He glanced at the others, seeing no dissent, then rolled up the map and slipped it into a scroll tube on his back.
"Pack light. We move in twenty minutes."
They dispersed with a mixture of energy and anxiety, leaving Itama alone for a moment by the table. His fingers lingered over the dented edge of the map. Leading a squad. It wasn't just another step in his return—it was a test. A message from the elders: prove your loyalty, your judgment, your strength.
Tobirama hadn't spoken to him directly in days.
Hashirama had only offered a firm pat on the shoulder and a quiet, "Do what you think is right."
And so, with dawn cresting the hills, Itama led his squad north.
The journey was uneventful for the first half-day. They moved swiftly under forest cover, avoiding patrol routes and sticking to deer trails that the Senju had used for decades. Itama kept them in loose formation—Enji at the rear for ranged jutsu support, Kana scouting ahead with sensory tags, and Nobu near him, ready to engage close threats.
As they climbed a rocky slope leading toward the pass, the forest grew unnaturally quiet. Even the birds had gone silent.
Itama raised a hand, signaling a halt.
Kana dropped soundlessly from a branch beside him. "I've laid detection seals. No sign of chakra movement yet. But something's off."
He nodded. "We set up here."
They fanned out across the slope, laying traps—wire threads, explosive tags disguised under loose leaves, and Kana's ink beasts, coiled and waiting in their scrolls.
By nightfall, the team was hidden, cloaked in silence, waiting for a sign.
Itama crouched beneath a mossy overhang, his senses alert, chakra carefully suppressed. Every sound—the rustle of leaves, the drip of dew—felt amplified. He closed his eyes briefly, steadying his breath. He thought of the rogue's lessons. He thought of the blood he'd seen spilled. He thought of the child he'd saved, the lives lost in vain, and the ones he still had a chance to protect.
Then, a faint sound.
Metal scraping stone.
He gave a hand signal—two fingers raised.
Kana vanished into the treetops.
Enji held his scroll ready, chakra already pulsing along the seals.
Nobu flexed his fists, crouching lower.
They came in silent, practiced formation—five figures in dark armor, each with painted masks. Their movements were too disciplined for mere thieves. Their leader raised a hand and pointed toward the slope.
They knew.
"Ambush team," Itama whispered through clenched teeth.
The masked shinobi scattered, leaping forward.
"Now!" he shouted.
Explosions tore through the forest floor as tags detonated, hurling earth and flame into the night. Kana's ink panthers leapt from scrolls, snarling as they crashed into the attackers. Enji unfurled his scroll and released a wave of fire-enhanced wind, engulfing one of the enemy in a swirling inferno.
Itama moved fast.
He intercepted two attackers, ducking under a blade and striking hard with a wood-enhanced palm, roots bursting from the ground to seize one assailant's legs.
The second came at him with a short blade glowing red. A curse seal.
Itama blocked with a kunai, but the force knocked him back. Pain lanced through his ribs. He grunted, rolled, and summoned chakra through his palms.
"Wood Style: Restraining Vines!"
Thick vines shot from the forest floor, coiling around the cursed blade wielder, squeezing until the attacker's chakra sputtered out.
To the side, Nobu fought with sheer brute strength, his punches shaking trees, while Kana danced through enemy strikes, landing precise cuts with poisoned senbon.
Itama surged forward again.
The last masked ninja raised both hands, summoning a storm of kunai laced with tags. Itama raised his arms and focused.
"Wood Style: Living Wall!"
A curved barrier of bark and root rose before him, absorbing the explosion and shielding the squad.
The enemy leader tried to escape, but Enji tagged him with a binding seal mid-leap. Kana's ink panther leapt and slammed him to the ground.
Silence fell again.
The forest, broken and smoldering, creaked as the last embers faded.
Itama stood in the center, panting, blood on his sleeve, adrenaline pulsing. One of the masked enemies groaned nearby, struggling against root bindings.
"We're alive," Kana whispered.
"We did it!" Enji laughed, staggering forward, wide-eyed and flushed.
Nobu collapsed to one knee, breathing hard but grinning.
Itama exhaled slowly. The mission wasn't over—they would have to report, investigate further, and possibly uncover deeper threats. But tonight, his squad had fought as one. And they had survived.
No—more than that.
They had won.
As the moon rose over the broken pass, Itama stood tall, his eyes reflecting both the firelight of battle and something deeper—a quiet certainty, a tempered will.
This was no longer just survival.
This was leadership.
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