The rain fell like an omen.
Cold, unrelenting, it soaked the dirt trails between the outposts and battered the Senju squad as they trudged through the dense forest. Mist hung between the trees, blurring vision and warping sound. The mission had been routine—patrol a contested stretch of border, ensure no Uchiha movement, and return before nightfall.
Routine. But war never respected routine.
Itama led the six-man team silently, his senses sharpened despite the weather. Beside him, Enji moved like a shadow, his hand never far from the hilt of his blade. Kana walked rear guard, cautious and alert, and Nobu—stern and loyal—covered the right flank. The two younger shinobi, Aki and Rento, followed closely, assigned under Itama's command as part of their higher-rank field exposure.
They never reached the halfway point.
Itama felt it first—a flicker of chakra, barely perceptible through the rain. He held up a fist.
"Down," he whispered.
The squad dropped to one knee in practiced silence.
In the distance, muffled by storm and foliage, a twig snapped.
Rento's eyes widened.
"Ambush," Itama breathed. "Kana—left flank. Nobu—backtrack twenty meters, cover with explosive tags. Aki, with me."
No one questioned him. They moved.
The next instant shattered into chaos.
Kunai whistled from above, and four figures descended from the trees—Uchiha.
Itama moved instinctively, drawing Aki into a roll as fire jutsu burst in a sweeping arc. The ground behind them exploded into steam and mud. Screams pierced the rain. Kana was already clashing with one attacker, her blades catching the reflection of lightning above. Nobu triggered the traps, but one of the enemy shinobi countered with a water wall.
Itama leapt forward, forming hand seals midair.
"Wood Style: Binding Roots!"
Roots surged from the earth, snaring one Uchiha by the leg. Itama dropped onto him with a brutal elbow, knocking the enemy unconscious in a single strike. But there were still three others.
And then, the cry.
Aki's scream froze Itama mid-motion.
He turned—and saw it.
A flash of steel, too fast.
Aki stood alone, an enemy blade deep in his side.
"No!" Itama shouted, but the clash around him forced his attention away. He deflected a kunai with his bracer, spun around, and disabled another enemy with a barrage of wood spikes. Kana finished her foe with a final thrust, blood painting her cloak.
When they turned, it was over.
The attackers retreated, melting back into the trees.
Itama rushed to Aki's side, dropping to his knees.
The boy gasped for air, blood gurgling at his lips. He was barely sixteen.
"Stay with me," Itama said, pressing his hands to the wound. "Kana, medical kit! Nobu—signal for reinforcements!"
Aki blinked slowly, his voice faint. "I… I did good, didn't I… Captain?"
"You did perfect," Itama choked, wood chakra flowing from his hands, trying to seal the wound, trying anything.
But the cut had gone deep. Too deep.
Aki smiled weakly. "Sorry. I… won't see peace, huh?"
And then, his eyes dulled.
His chest stilled.
Itama froze.
Rain poured over them both, washing the blood into the roots of the forest.
Kana returned too late with supplies. Nobu stood nearby, fists clenched.
No one spoke for a long time.
They carried Aki's body back through the storm, wrapped in a tattered cloak. The squad said nothing as they marched, the weight of their loss heavier than any mission scroll.
At the edge of the camp, Hashirama waited beneath a tree, gaze solemn.
He met Itama's eyes and understood without a word.
Later that night, the funeral was held near the memorial stone—a slab marked with the names of the fallen, etched by Tobirama's precise hand. Aki's name was added.
The camp was silent as the Senju gathered in the rain. No speeches were made. No eulogies given.
But when Itama stepped forward, soaked and silent, the murmurs stopped.
He looked down at the freshly carved name. His voice was soft, but it carried.
"Aki was brave. Loyal. He trusted me with his life."
The camp watched him, eyes reflecting flame and grief.
"I failed him."
Hashirama moved toward him. "Itama—"
"No," Itama interrupted, his voice breaking. "He died under my command. That blood… is on my hands."
Tobirama stood at the back, arms folded, his expression unreadable.
The clan dispersed slowly after the rites, leaving Itama alone by the stone.
Night deepened.
Itama sat in silence for hours.
He remembered Aki's quiet determination. His eagerness to learn. The way he always asked questions after missions, scribbled notes, practiced long after the others rested.
Gone.
Another young life taken before its time. Another flame extinguished.
That night, Itama didn't return to his tent. He remained by the memorial until dawn, unmoving. In the silence, he spoke to Aki—not with words, but with memories, with regret, with promises.
"I won't waste what you gave," he whispered. "I'll make peace mean something. For you."
The next morning, as the first light broke over the hills, Itama returned to the field.
He trained harder.
Longer.
Silently.
Every technique, every movement carried the weight of a lost comrade.
And though his eyes were shadowed with grief, his will sharpened like steel.
The others saw it.
Even Tobirama.
And though the whispers of doubt still echoed, no one questioned that something had changed.
Itama Senju, the forgotten flame, now burned with sorrow—and resolve.