The morning after the skirmish, the Senju camp stirred with a mix of urgency and tension. Word had already spread: Itama Senju, presumed weak and shadowed by suspicion, had led a successful mission on his first command. Supplies had been recovered. Enemy operatives had been captured. Not a single squad member had been lost.
And yet, as Itama returned with his team, the applause that might have greeted another shinobi never came.
The mission debrief took place in the war council tent, thick with the smell of wax, parchment, and dried blood. Hashirama stood to one side, arms crossed but relaxed, while Tobirama loomed behind the elders with a colder, calculating gaze. The other clan heads and senior advisors were present, seated in a wide arc around a central mat where Itama and his squad knelt. Scrolls of reports lay stacked before them, but no one had touched them.
The room was quiet.
The first voice to speak was Elder Nao, her expression unreadable.
"You disobeyed standard formation protocols."
Itama lifted his head. "I followed a flexible approach to formation, allowing for reactive shifts based on terrain and enemy movement. I deemed it appropriate for recon."
Another elder—Haruo, old and grizzled, his face marked by dozens of battles—clicked his tongue. "Appropriate? You took a squad of genin and faced down a trained enemy team. What if you had been killed? What if they had been captured?"
"They weren't," Itama replied, keeping his tone measured. "We accomplished the mission without casualties. All three squad members proved themselves under pressure."
"Luck," Haruo muttered.
"Leadership," Hashirama interjected, stepping forward. "I reviewed the report myself. Itama responded to the threat with clear, tactical action. The enemy was intercepted and neutralized using unconventional but effective means."
Tobirama's eyes narrowed. "Effective… yes. But unconventional. Reckless, even."
Itama turned to face him. "Reckless would have been charging in without preparation. We laid traps. We observed. We engaged only when necessary."
Tobirama said nothing for a moment, then stepped forward slowly. "Your use of Wood Release was documented during the mission. You created defensive barriers. Restraining roots. That bloodline is rare—even among us. Who trained you to wield it?"
The question hung in the air like a blade.
Itama hesitated.
"I discovered it on my own," he answered carefully. "During my recovery. I trained it in secret because I knew it would raise questions."
"Indeed, it has," another elder said, his eyes narrowed. "Your disappearance, your return, your techniques—many threads that do not tie neatly together."
"We live in an age of war," Itama replied. "What matters is whether a shinobi strengthens the clan—not whether he fits perfectly into expectations."
There was a rustle of discomfort.
Kana, who knelt beside him, leaned forward. "Permission to speak?"
Elder Nao gave a stiff nod.
Kana's voice was quiet but firm. "He saved us. We were outnumbered, ambushed. Without Itama-taichō's leadership, none of us would have made it back."
Enji nodded. "His tactics gave us the upper hand."
Nobu, grim-faced and uncomfortable before the elders, still managed a gruff, "He earned our respect."
Silence again.
Then Hashirama stepped forward and knelt beside his brother. "Whatever doubts you have, his team speaks for him. He has done what was asked and more."
The elders conferred in murmurs, exchanging glances.
Tobirama's voice broke through them. "He's done well—for a first mission. But leadership is not proven in one battle. Let him be tested again. Assign him greater responsibilities. Let the clan see if his actions match his words."
Haruo grunted. "Very well. Another mission. With a larger squad."
The elders gave reluctant nods. The decision was not approval—but neither was it condemnation. Itama had passed, barely. His path forward would be harder now, watched by more eyes, judged by every decision.
As the council dissolved and shinobi filtered out, Itama remained seated for a moment, steadying his breath.
Hashirama crouched beside him. "You did well."
"They don't believe me."
"They don't have to. You've planted the first seed. Now let it grow."
Outside the tent, the camp bustled with routine—young shinobi sparring, medics unloading herbs, runners moving with scrolls. Itama watched them, feeling the weight of new eyes upon him. Admiration from some. Resentment from others.
Later that day, as he walked through the training field, he overheard two jonin talking.
"Think it's true? That he fought off five enemy shinobi?"
"Maybe. Maybe he just got lucky. Or maybe his brother bailed him out."
He kept walking.
In the mess hall, a table of genin fell quiet as he entered.
"He's the one who disappeared, right? Then came back with weird powers?"
"Didn't Tobirama-sama say something about rogue techniques?"
He ate alone.
In the training grounds, as he observed Kana and Enji spar, two chunin passed behind him.
"Too much praise for a single successful mission."
"He'll choke under pressure. Watch."
He didn't respond. But later that night, when he sat alone at the edge of camp, staring into a dimming fire, he allowed the weight of it all to settle over him.
He wasn't just being tested.
He was being watched. Judged.
One mistake—and it would all unravel.
And yet, beneath the burden, a stubborn fire burned.
He wasn't the boy who fell to Uchiha blades.
He wasn't the ghost who hid in the woods, nursing wounds.
He was a Senju.
He was a leader.
And no doubt, no whisper, no suspicion would dim the flame now rekindled.
Not again.