The rain had eased by morning, but heavy clouds still lingered over the Senju camp, casting it in hues of gray. Mist curled over the treetops like coiling serpents, and puddles of water reflected the movement of shinobi making their rounds through the muddy grounds. The scent of damp earth clung to everything.
Inside one of the larger tents at the center of the camp, Hashirama Senju sat cross-legged beside his younger brother. A steaming bowl of rice and simmered root vegetables sat between them, untouched. Hashirama couldn't stop smiling.
"It's surreal," he said, shaking his head with a laugh. "I keep looking over to make sure you're really here and not some genjutsu."
Itama gave a faint smile. His strength had only barely begun to return, and though the camp medics had done their best, there was still an ache deep in his bones. He wore fresh clothes now—brown linen robes over light armor—and his damp hair had been tied loosely behind his head.
"I thought of this moment a thousand times," Hashirama continued, leaning forward. "I buried you in my mind, Itama. I carried your death like a stone in my heart. And now… I don't know what to do with all this relief."
Itama bowed his head slightly. "I don't deserve such welcome, aniki. Not yet."
"Nonsense," Hashirama said, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "You're alive. You came back. That's all that matters."
Outside the tent, the bustle of camp life carried on. Morning drills had begun. Shouts echoed from the sparring fields as shinobi honed their chakra and techniques in unison. Children ran between tents with practice kunai, watched carefully by elder instructors. Life pulsed through the camp with fierce purpose.
But not all hearts beat the same.
Across camp, Tobirama stood before a map table in the strategy tent, surrounded by his lieutenants. His sharp eyes scanned terrain lines and patrol routes, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The ink on the map blurred beneath his gaze, and his fingers tapped the wood in a steady, agitated rhythm.
One of his lieutenants finally spoke. "Commander, is something wrong?"
Tobirama blinked once. "No," he said curtly. "Leave me."
They bowed and left the tent without protest.
Alone now, Tobirama moved to the side table and poured himself a small bowl of tea. His reflection stared back at him from the surface of the steaming liquid—sharp features, pale skin, eyes like cold iron.
Itama's return did not sit well with him.
He remembered the battlefield, the scent of blood and scorched earth, the screams, the bodies. He remembered finding the remnants of the ambush site—shattered trees, scattered gear, and the blood. Too much blood.
No body, true.
But enough blood that survival seemed impossible.
Until now.
Tobirama's thoughts darkened.
Who had rescued Itama?
Why hadn't he returned sooner?
And what had he become in the shadows?
He stepped out into the cool morning air, walking slowly through the camp. Shinobi bowed as he passed, but he barely noticed. His gaze moved from one tent to another until he reached the medical quarters. A few words exchanged with the sentries, and he was permitted inside.
There, sitting on a cushion and wrapped in a light shawl, Itama looked up at him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Tobirama stepped closer, arms folded.
"Do you still remember the hand signals we used on the southern patrols?" he asked suddenly.
Itama blinked at the strange question but nodded. "Of course."
"What's the signal for a silent retreat in fog cover?"
Itama held up his hand and moved his fingers in a quick, practiced motion—three taps to the chest, palm out, and then a flick downward.
Tobirama didn't react.
He fired another. "What did Father say the night before we left for the Valley Front?"
Itama's brow furrowed, but he answered. "He said… 'Don't make me bury another one of you.' Then he gave you his old tanto."
Tobirama's voice remained flat. "Describe the injury you took during the Ryuzaki skirmish."
"A kunai to the thigh. You cauterized it in the field and called me a reckless idiot."
Still, Tobirama's eyes narrowed.
"You say an exile rescued you. Who was he?"
"I don't know his name," Itama said. "He wore no symbol. No colors. But he had Senju chakra. Old and powerful. He claimed to have left the clan because he was tired of bloodshed."
"Why would such a man risk himself for you?" Tobirama asked coldly.
"I don't know," Itama admitted. "But he saved my life. He taught me to survive, to think, to question."
Tobirama's jaw tightened. "To question what?"
Itama's voice dropped. "Everything."
Tobirama stared at him for a long time. Then he turned sharply and left the tent without a word.
Back outside, Hashirama approached, having seen his brother pass.
"Tobirama—"
"He's changed," Tobirama said, not slowing. "That exile twisted him."
"He survived," Hashirama replied. "You didn't see what he went through."
"And you didn't hear him," Tobirama countered, stopping in his tracks. "He hesitated. He questions the war. The clan. Us."
Hashirama's tone hardened. "So do I."
Tobirama's eyes snapped to him.
"We've both seen what this war has done to our people," Hashirama said. "If Itama has doubts, maybe we should listen."
"That's the problem," Tobirama said, voice like ice. "You want peace. You always have. But peace will not come through mercy. It will come through power. Control. Strategy."
He turned to face his brother fully.
"Itama's return is a miracle, yes. But miracles can be poisoned."
"You think he's a threat?"
"I think," Tobirama said slowly, "that he's a variable we can't afford to ignore."
Back in the medical tent, Itama stared at the doorway, heart pounding.
He had heard everything.
He closed his eyes.
He had come home.
But home had changed.
Just as he had.
And the road ahead, he now knew, would not be lined with easy reunions or warmth.
It would be a gauntlet.
One that would test not just his strength—but the very soul of the Senju.