The forest had begun to turn dense with moisture, the coming rains announcing themselves in the pressure of the air. Distant thunder rumbled across the horizon, but Itama Senju remained still beneath the canopy, a thin veil of mist curling at his feet.
He crouched atop a mossy outcrop, his breath shallow, every sense extended.
They were close.
He had first noticed them half an hour ago. A rustle of movement that didn't belong. A snapped twig too clean to be an animal. The slight press of chakra signatures—familiar and sharp like the tang of old metal.
Senju scouts.
Three of them, no more than twenty meters to the south, moving slow. Methodical. Trained to be unseen—just like he had once been.
He pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his face, tightening it around his chin. His gear was light—modified over weeks under Takeshi's instruction to minimize sound, weight, and exposure. The Senju emblem was long gone from his person. But they would know him.
Or they might.
He could not afford to be certain.
He slid backward off the outcrop into a patch of shadow, landing silently, knees bent. The damp earth welcomed him.
He moved with careful steps, weaving through ferns and low-hanging branches, placing his feet only where the earth was softest. His chakra was already being suppressed, woven inward like a tightly packed knot. It was an art Takeshi had drilled into him—how to vanish not just from sight but from sense.
But even as he moved, he knew: if they were trained well, they'd find him eventually.
He wasn't a ghost.
Not anymore.
He reached the edge of the clearing—the same glade where his earliest experiments with wood chakra had begun. His eyes scanned the tree line. The scouts hadn't followed him in yet.
Good.
He stepped into the open.
There, in the center of the glade, he knelt slowly, palms pressing to the soil. He closed his eyes, trying to feel it again—that subtle hum, the rhythm of roots far below. The last time he had summoned it, a sprout had responded.
Now, he needed more.
He whispered to the earth. Not in words, but in breath and intention. A low surge of chakra spread outward through his palms, barely more than a ripple.
From the edge of his vision, the grass quivered.
A single root slithered to the surface and twined in a slow arc, like a finger tracing a path. Not enough to trap or strike—but enough to warn.
They were within range now.
He rose to his feet.
Three chakra signatures closed in from the southern edge. He could feel the hesitation in their movements. They'd sensed something. Maybe not him—but a shift in the terrain. A change in the chakra flow.
The first scout stepped into the clearing.
Itama did not move.
The scout's eyes met his, widening instantly. A woman—tall, lean, face partially masked. Her hand flew to her kunai pouch but froze midway.
"Itama?" she breathed.
The second and third appeared behind her, both young, both instantly tense.
No one spoke.
Itama said nothing. He stood beneath the half-dead tree at the glade's edge, hood pushed back, the Senju features unmistakable in the soft light. His face bore scars now—one across the right cheek, faint but visible. His eyes were sharper. Older. No longer the child they had known.
"You're supposed to be dead," the second scout said, voice low.
Itama raised his hands—not in surrender, but to show no aggression.
"I was," he said.
Silence. Even the wind dared not move.
"What… what happened?" the woman asked, still gripping the kunai but not drawing it.
Itama's gaze shifted between them. He recognized her now—Ayaka. She'd been two years older, a tracker in the lower ranks. The others were unfamiliar.
"There's no time to explain," he said. "I'm not your enemy."
"Then why hide from the clan?" the third scout challenged. "Why not come back?"
Itama's jaw clenched.
"I couldn't," he said.
More silence.
"You've been gone for months," Ayaka said carefully. "Hashirama… he mourned you. The whole clan—"
"I know."
The words came harder than he expected.
"I know," he repeated, softer. "But the Itama who died… he was just a child. Angry. Blind. I've seen too much now to return as if nothing happened."
The second scout stepped forward. "You'll have to come with us. You understand that, don't you?"
Itama looked down at his hands.
"I'm not ready," he murmured. "Not yet."
"We don't have a choice," Ayaka said gently. "We'll bring you back in peace if we can, but the others won't wait long. If you resist, they'll send more."
He closed his eyes.
The roots beneath his feet shifted—gently, just enough for him to feel their readiness. He didn't want to fight them. But he couldn't be taken. Not yet.
Not until he understood what he was meant to do.
Not until he could look Hashirama and Tobirama in the eyes and speak his truth.
"I'm sorry," he said, opening his eyes.
And then he moved.
The roots surged upward—not to harm, but to obscure. Thick vines twisted into a sudden wall of moss and bark, splitting the glade in a curtain of green. The scouts shouted in surprise, chakra flaring.
Itama dropped a smoke pellet and vanished backward into the trees.
He ran low, silent, heart thundering. The roots guided him, slipping aside for his steps, curling behind him to slow pursuit. He wasn't strong enough to trap them—not yet—but he didn't need to. Just enough disruption. Just enough time.
Branches whipped past his shoulders. Leaves tore at his cloak.
Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.
The mantra pulsed with every heartbeat.
He could hear their pursuit now, shouting orders, breaking branches. But they were slower in this terrain.
He knew it better.
He had trained in it.
Survived in it.
He veered right, crossed a narrow stream, and leapt into a hollowed log. Breathing hard, he calmed his chakra, sealed it tightly once more.
Silence followed.
No footsteps.
No voices.
He waited five minutes.
Ten.
When he emerged, the forest was quiet again.
He moved north.
Not back to the shed.
Not yet.
They would find it.
Takeshi could handle himself, and they had agreed long ago never to reveal each other's locations. They operated in shadows now—like whispers among the roots.
As the sun dipped low, painting the forest in amber light, Itama climbed a ridge overlooking the valley.
He stood tall, pulling back his hood.
They knew he was alive now.
And soon, so would the rest of the clan.
He would not hide forever.
But when he returned, it would not be as a boy desperate to prove himself.
He would return as someone who had questioned the legacy given to him.
And found something stronger.
Not a blade.
Not a title.
But a truth.
The storm clouds rolled in overhead.
And Itama welcomed the coming rain.
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