The morning sun spilled golden rays over the Senju camp, illuminating the rows of tents, wooden towers, and fortified trenches that lined the forest's edge. Birds chirped softly in the distance, and a faint mist curled across the mossy ground. In the heart of the camp, shinobi moved with quiet purpose—polishing gear, sharpening weapons, and preparing for assignments posted hours before dawn.
Itama stood in front of the mission board, his arms crossed, eyes scanning the freshly inked scrolls tacked across the wooden structure. Beside him, a group of genin and younger chūnin muttered about their assignments, excitement and anxiety woven equally into their tones.
After his return to the clan and the tense weeks that followed—council interrogations, war zone exposure, and endless suspicion—this board now marked a strange calm. His name was listed at the top of three missions.
Patrol perimeter, eastern sector. Assist with civilian relocation from Field Post 3. Deliver sealed correspondence to diplomatic outpost, Route 5.
He exhaled softly. Light missions.
Not meaningless, but far from the frontlines. Far from bloodshed.
Far from suspicion, at least in appearance.
He knew Tobirama was still watching him. He felt it in the silence behind every shadow, in the glances that lingered a heartbeat too long. And though no one said it aloud, the cautious distance other Senju maintained around him hadn't changed.
These assignments, then, were more than they appeared. A test. A leash. A message: prove yourself useful, but don't stray too far.
He stepped away from the board and made his way to the equipment tent. The supply officer, an aging shinobi named Ueda, looked up from a stack of scrolls and grunted.
"Got light gear prepped already," Ueda said. "Hashirama requested that your weight be kept low. Travel fast. Avoid confrontation."
Itama nodded, accepting the satchel handed to him—a basic supply kit, standard ration pills, a waterproof scroll for dispatch, and a simple med-kit. No explosive tags. No high-yield weapons.
A short blade, duller than his memories of the war.
He set out by mid-morning, the forest alive with filtered sunlight and the gentle rustle of leaves. His first assignment: patrol the eastern perimeter, a task that once would've been beneath him. It had always been the role of newly promoted genin or civilians under protection. But now, Itama welcomed it.
The trees whispered with memory as he moved—his body still recovering but stronger by the day. The rogue Senju's teachings in deception and healing had become second nature. He walked without disturbing the leaves, breathing in rhythm with the wind. His senses were tuned to the natural world—birdsong shifting, insects silencing, the twitch of a branch unbidden by breeze.
For hours, he moved along the perimeter, setting seals where directed, checking old ones for decay. Occasionally, he paused to inspect footprints or brush disturbed in unnatural ways. A single broken twig told stories to a trained eye.
At the easternmost bend in the patrol route, he found something peculiar.
A small doll—handcrafted, frayed at the seams—tucked into a tree hollow. Its eyes were made of tiny blue stones, one chipped. Itama crouched beside it, fingers brushing its surface. It radiated no chakra, no trap seals. A child's toy, most likely. Forgotten in flight.
He tucked it into his satchel and stood.
As he resumed his route, memories pulled at him: soft voices in the Senju camp from years ago, children playing with carved toys while the adults readied for battle. His mother's gentle hand on his shoulder. Hashirama's laugh. The fierce protective glare of Tobirama.
Those days felt distant. The war had changed them all.
By afternoon, he reached Field Post 3—a crumbling outpost along a ridgeline, where a caravan of noncombatant villagers was being loaded onto carts. Old men with hollow eyes. Women gripping satchels tightly to their chests. Children watching everything in silence.
Itama's orders were simple: help them board, ensure the route was secure, and provide minimal defense in case of threat.
"Senju-san," said the caravan leader, a lean man with callused hands and missing teeth, "we were told the road might not be safe. Bandits maybe. Or deserters."
"I'll scout ahead and walk with you," Itama said. "We'll keep to the ridgeline until the pass."
The villagers obeyed without question. The sight of a Senju was both comfort and authority.
As they moved, Itama stayed two steps ahead, his eyes scanning every slope and shadow. A light mission, they'd said. But nothing was ever truly light in wartime.
Just as they neared a narrowing bend, a small girl tripped over a stone and scraped her knee. She began to cry, not loudly, but the sound rang like a bell in the forest.
Itama knelt immediately. "Let me see."
The wound was shallow but bleeding. She looked at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.
"Does it hurt here?" he asked softly.
She nodded.
He summoned a flicker of green chakra to his palm and placed it gently over her knee. The blood stopped. The skin began to knit. Her breathing slowed.
"There," he said. "Good as new."
She blinked at him. "Are you a doctor?"
"No," he said with a faint smile. "But I had a good teacher."
She nodded solemnly, then slipped a small bundle from her robe—a folded paper flower, pale yellow and delicate.
"For you."
He accepted it with both hands.
The caravan made it safely to the drop point. No bandits appeared. No deserters. Just long silence and the rumble of wheels over stone. Once they arrived, he bid them farewell and began his return route.
As dusk fell, he made his way to the outpost along Route 5, where a single diplomatic tent awaited. The Senju officer there—an aging woman named Mai—received the sealed scroll with a nod.
"You're the younger Senju, right?" she asked, scrutinizing him.
He inclined his head. "Yes."
"I thought you were dead."
"So did I."
She grunted. "You're leaner than the stories. But quieter, too. Maybe that's good."
He didn't reply.
The return to camp was uneventful. When he arrived, Ueda took his gear back, inspecting each item for damage or misuse.
"No injuries?" the older man asked.
"None."
"Unusual for even a light mission," Ueda said, eyeing him. "But not unwelcome."
Itama merely nodded and turned to leave.
But as he made his way back to his tent, he felt it again.
The eyes.
Watching.
Measuring.
He stopped at a clearing just outside the tents. The moon hung high above, full and pale, and the forest beyond whispered his name in silence.
He opened his satchel and took out the doll and the paper flower. He placed both gently beneath a tree and sat beside them, knees drawn to his chest, head resting against bark.
They were symbols, these small, meaningless things.
But somehow, they made the weight of everything feel lighter.
Behind him, Tobirama's shadow watched from a rooftop, still and unreadable.
This time, though, Tobirama didn't move to follow. He simply stared.
And in the flicker of torchlight, neither of them spoke.
But both knew:
The true missions were only just beginning.