The morning mist clung to the forest like a second skin, wrapping the trees in a soft hush. Itama knelt in the middle of a secluded glade, arms resting on his thighs, eyes shut. His breath came slow and measured, each inhale drawn from the scent of damp bark and fresh leaves, each exhale laced with faint warmth of chakra gently cycling through his body.
He had returned to this place for the third day in a row. Something about it called to him. The clearing was quiet, too quiet—even for this part of the forest—and the air seemed to thrum with an energy he couldn't quite place.
Takeshi's teachings had drilled precision and stealth into his movements, discipline into his chakra control. But this… this was different. Subtle. Unstable. Organic.
It had begun as a tingle in his fingertips.
Days ago, while focusing his chakra through the soles of his feet during silent movement exercises, he'd felt something strange—a mild tug from the soil beneath him, like the roots of the trees were responding to his presence. He had ignored it at first, chalking it up to fatigue or imagination.
But then it had happened again.
And again.
Now he was trying to understand.
He pressed his palms against the earth, spreading his fingers apart and letting his chakra seep downward. Slowly. Gently.
The ground responded—not with violent tremors or visible change, but with a pulse. A soft shift. Almost like a heartbeat.
Itama opened his eyes and stared down at the moss. Nothing had moved. Yet he felt it—life, energy, connected and vast, stretching in every direction like veins beneath the soil.
He sat back, pulse quickening.
Wood Release.
The thought came to him unbidden, quiet as the wind through leaves. A rare ability. A legendary one. Tied to his bloodline. Tied to Hashirama.
He shook his head.
No. That wasn't possible. Only Hashirama had ever manifested it. Their father had made that clear—again and again. Hashirama was the miracle. The blessed child of the Senju. None of the others had inherited that power.
But what if…?
Itama's hands trembled as he extended them again, this time placing his fingers flat over the mossy stone before him. He channeled chakra—more than before, but not too much. He tried to push it not with force, but with intent. With harmony.
The stone remained unchanged.
But the moss grew brighter.
Itama drew back, startled.
He blinked, leaned forward. His fingers grazed the surface again. This time, he focused less on control and more on resonance—letting his chakra blend with the natural energy already present.
The moss shimmered faintly, the green intensifying, the edges curling upward as if stretching toward his hands.
His heart pounded.
"It's not possible," he whispered.
And yet, it was happening.
He stood and moved to the base of a tree. It was old—thick-trunked, its bark gnarled and worn by decades of storms. He pressed a palm to its base and let his chakra flow again.
He felt its structure—the tension in its fibers, the slow shift of water and life within. He couldn't see it, couldn't command it—but he could feel it. And more than that, it responded.
"Good," came Takeshi's voice from behind him.
Itama flinched, withdrawing his hand.
Takeshi stepped into the clearing, arms folded, eyes sharp. "You're beginning to hear the earth."
"You knew?" Itama asked, wary.
"I suspected. The way the forest listens when you walk. The way your chakra interacts with the world around you."
Takeshi stopped a few paces away, watching him carefully.
"You're touching something rare, boy. Something not even most Senju dream of reaching."
"I can't use it," Itama said quickly. "Not like Hashirama."
"Not yet," Takeshi replied. "And maybe never like him. But that's not the point."
Itama looked back to the tree, breathing uneven. "I don't understand it."
"You're not supposed to. Not yet," Takeshi said. "You're trying to master something rooted in instinct. Connection. You can't brute force it. You have to listen."
Itama frowned. "But how? What do I even listen for?"
Takeshi knelt beside him, drawing a kunai and stabbing it into the dirt.
"The forest doesn't speak in words," he said. "It speaks in patience. In cycles. You'll know you're listening right when things grow without you commanding them to."
Itama stared at the kunai for a long moment.
"I don't want to rely on power," he muttered.
"You'll have to," Takeshi said. "But the right way. Use it to understand, not dominate."
He paused, then added, "Hashirama built mountains. But he never built bridges between hearts. If you've been given a spark of his gift, don't waste it trying to match him. Use it to heal."
Itama felt a strange tightening in his chest. Not fear, not pressure—hope.
"I want to try something," he said.
Takeshi nodded and stepped back.
Itama closed his eyes and knelt again, this time placing both hands on the soil beside the kunai. He didn't push chakra outward with intensity. He breathed into it, letting it slip through his fingers like water. And in the quiet—deep in the hum of the forest—he sensed the soil shifting.
Not upheaval.
Not destruction.
But a gentle curve of moisture collecting. A fine shoot rising, barely visible. A thread of green.
A single stem pierced the dirt near the kunai, no larger than a sprout. It unfurled its leaves like a yawn after sleep.
Itama opened his eyes.
And smiled.
---
That night, he sat outside the shed under the stars, the warmth of a small campfire licking his fingers. Takeshi was inside, sleeping—or pretending to.
Itama stared at his hands.
He hadn't told Takeshi everything.
Not about the whispers.
Not about the dreams.
Not about the growing sense that the earth knew him.
And perhaps more than anything…
That something deep below was calling his name.
Not as Hashirama's brother.
Not as a forgotten son.
But as someone different.
Someone new.
The flame that would not die—but grow.
And tomorrow, he would return to that clearing.
Not to command.
Not to conquer.
But to listen.
And to let the forest teach him how to become something no Senju had ever dared to be.