Rain soaked the valley by morning, falling in long, cold sheets that darkened the trees and muddied the forest floor. Water streamed down the bark of the ancient oaks, dripping from branches like tears. The river, swollen from the downpour, roared against the earth, carving a path beside the hidden Senju encampment nestled deep in the woods.
Itama stood at the forest's edge, hidden by the brush, his cloak weighed down with moisture. The storm did little to mask the tight knot of tension in his chest. His hands trembled—not from cold, but from what lay ahead.
The Senju camp had changed.
Taller palisades ringed the perimeter, each log sharpened to a point and reinforced with tightly wound ropes. Watchtowers had risen at key points, manned by sentries in brown-and-green flak, eyes ever-watchful beneath wide-brimmed hoods. The scent of steel and wet bark permeated the air.
It was more than a camp now.
It was a war bastion.
He stepped forward.
One pace.
Two.
No more hiding.
Not today.
As he neared the clearing before the main gate, the scouts on the northern watchtower tensed. A whistle cut through the air, sharp and urgent, followed by the sound of drawn weapons and scuffling movement below.
Within seconds, five Senju shinobi stood in the rain, weapons at the ready. Spears, kunai, and blades gleamed with water.
One of them stepped forward—a captain, judging by the armor plates strapped to his shoulders.
"Halt!"
Itama stopped but did not raise his hands.
His hood fell back as the wind tugged at it, revealing the unmistakable markings of the Senju bloodline: the strong jawline, the eyes dark and focused, the streak of brown hair falling across his brow.
"Identify yourself," the captain barked, though there was uncertainty in his voice. "Now."
"Itama Senju," he said.
The words were quiet.
But they struck like thunder.
Gasps followed.
Two of the younger guards stepped back.
"That's not possible," one of them muttered. "He's dead."
The captain's eyes narrowed. "Prove it."
Itama took another step forward, opening his cloak. Beneath the fabric lay the armor plating issued only to full-fledged Senju shinobi—worn and damaged, but still intact. Along the edges were marks unique to his unit, the one that had last been deployed alongside Tobirama. Faint, but present.
He unclipped a small leather pouch from his belt and tossed it forward.
The captain caught it and opened it cautiously.
Inside lay a pendant—wooden, carved by hand.
Hashirama's work.
A small flame etched at its center.
"I wore that into battle," Itama said. "Hashirama gave it to me the night before the Uchiha ambushed us."
The silence was sudden and full.
Then the captain nodded, swallowing thickly.
"Let him through."
The gates creaked open. Guards parted. He walked forward without looking back.
Inside, the camp was alive with motion. Training dummies soaked in rain, medics moving between tents, and dozens of shinobi emerging from shelters to witness the commotion. As he passed, voices broke the stillness.
"Is that—?"
"Itama?"
"He's back—he's really—!"
Some backed away, unsure. Others stared, frozen with disbelief.
Itama's eyes never wavered.
He passed the central barracks, where he had once sparred with his older brothers. The memories struck him with the force of a kunai to the gut.
Laughter in the training yards.
Blood on his hands.
Tobirama's lectures.
Hashirama's gentle reassurances.
It felt like another life.
He walked toward the command tent.
Two guards stood at attention outside, both too stunned to move as he approached.
"I need to see them," he said.
They said nothing, simply moved aside.
He stepped inside.
The warmth of the fire was immediate, crackling in a metal brazier at the tent's center. The scent of parchment, steel, and damp fabric filled the air.
At the table stood two men.
Hashirama turned first.
Tobirama didn't move.
Itama stopped just inside the threshold.
For a long, excruciating moment, no one spoke.
Then Hashirama took a step forward, disbelief etched across his face. His hair was longer now, tied back tightly, his eyes red-rimmed from sleepless nights and grief. His face, once bright with hope, had grown weary.
"Itama?" he whispered.
The younger brother nodded once.
"I'm here, aniki."
The whisper turned into a choking sound as Hashirama rushed forward, arms wrapping around his brother in an instant. The strength of the embrace stole the breath from Itama's lungs.
He froze.
Then returned it.
The warmth—real and trembling—broke something inside him.
"You—You were dead. We buried—your blood—Tobirama found—"
"I know," Itama said softly. "I should have come back sooner."
Hashirama stepped back, hands gripping Itama's shoulders. "How? Where have you been? What—"
Tobirama's voice cut like a blade through the moment.
"Explain."
Itama turned to face his elder brother.
Tobirama stood with arms crossed, jaw set, face unreadable. But Itama saw it—the tiny twitch in his brow, the stiffness in his shoulders. Surprise, buried beneath armor.
"I survived," Itama said plainly. "I was wounded. Separated. Rescued."
"By whom?" Tobirama demanded.
"I don't know his real name," Itama replied. "He's a Senju. An exile. Someone who chose not to take part in the clan wars."
Tobirama's mouth tightened.
"So you chose to vanish with a traitor."
"No," Itama said calmly. "I chose to survive. To learn."
"What could an exile teach you that we couldn't?"
Itama's fingers curled slightly at his sides.
"How not to hate."
The words hung in the tent like smoke.
Hashirama looked between them, voice quiet. "Itama…"
"I'm not here to lecture," Itama said, gaze still fixed on Tobirama. "I know what the clan faces. I know there's a war coming. I've seen it in the forests, in the patrols, in the way the Uchiha sharpen their blades."
His voice steadied.
"But I won't fight blindly again. Not like before. If I'm to serve the Senju, it will be because I believe in what we stand for—not just because I was told to."
Tobirama's glare was unwavering. "You question the clan's purpose?"
"I question why we're still killing," Itama answered. "After all the death, all the blood, how are we any different from them?"
Hashirama stepped between them, raising a hand.
"Enough," he said. "Not now."
The fire crackled, spitting a spark that hissed as it died on the wet earth beneath the brazier.
"I'm glad you're alive, otōto," Hashirama said. "And I know there's much to talk about. But the fact you've returned at all is enough for me right now."
He turned to Tobirama.
"Let him rest. He's home."
Tobirama said nothing. But after a long pause, he gave a single, stiff nod.
Hashirama reached for his brother again, guiding him to sit near the warmth of the fire.
"You'll need food. Dry clothes. We'll inform the others—"
"No," Itama interrupted. "Not yet. Let me stay quiet. Just a few days. Let them remember me before they see what I've become."
Hashirama hesitated, then nodded.
"As you wish."
Itama sat in silence, letting the warmth seep into his soaked bones. The flames flickered in his eyes—but within them, something else burned.
A small, steady ember.
The forgotten flame had returned to its source.
And though it flickered, it would not be extinguished again.