The Uchiha's fireworks had lit the sky in a brilliant, chaotic bloom, signaling the scattered coalition ninjas to regroup. Across the battlefield, shinobi moved like shadows, methodical and ruthless. "Cleaning up" meant more than gathering the wounded—it meant stripping the fallen of valuables, and burying corpses where they fell. Survival was cruel, and the battlefield had no patience for sentiment.
Raizen and Madara followed the smoke and sparks, guided back toward the main troop. The coalition began an orderly retreat once the forces had gathered. Those too injured to move, or too hidden to notice the signal, faced only two fates: die quietly where they fell, or be discovered later by patrolling comrades and rescued. War was like this—merciless and indifferent, the suffering of a few exchanged for the survival of the many.
A day and a night of combat had left even the strongest exhausted. Raizen's boots squelched through mud as he trailed the group, scanning for familiar faces. His clan—his family—was nowhere in sight. Anxiety gnawed at him.
By nightfall, the group reached the Uchiha coalition camp. Even the youngest Genin were treated as heroes; bandages were applied, wounds tended, and resting areas prepared. Raizen sat in the quiet of his tent, waiting for the others from his clan, but the silence stretched long. Impatience turned to unease.
He rose and made his way to the registration office—where the fates of missing ninjas were recorded. The tent was crowded, filled with the murmurs of survivors and the muffled sobs of those who had lost comrades.
"Raizen!"
The voice cut through the noise, low but unmistakably familiar. Raizen turned, and there stood Amamiya Tianzheng, his expression a mix of relief and resignation. But his left arm was gone.
"Big Brother Tian!" Raizen ran to him, eyes narrowing as he took in the injury.
Tian laughed, a brittle sound. "An ambush… I lost my arm, but I survived. That's luck enough, isn't it?"
Raizen swallowed, a hollow knot forming in his chest. The one who had looked out for him—who had always been his anchor—was now irrevocably changed.
"And… Brother Spirit? Brother Ling?" His voice trembled slightly.
Tian's smile faltered. "Spirit… is gone."
"Gone?" The word hit Raizen like a kunai to the chest. Just a month ago, death had been distant, almost abstract. Now it was tangible—real, sharp, unavoidable.
"And the left-wing eldest brother?" Raizen asked, his voice tight. Tian's eyes darkened, and she whispered, "Come with me."
Raizen followed, unease crawling along his spine. They entered the medical area. Rows of bandaged ninjas lay in quiet pain, the air thick with disinfectant and tension. At the end of the ward, the left-wing of the Amamiya clan rested on a bed, breathing shallowly but alive.
Raizen's stomach twisted with relief, but the cost of survival weighed heavy in the air. The battlefield had spared some, but at the cruelest expense to others.