Dawn painted the Senju encampment in a soft hue of gold as the mist curled off the grass like faint smoke. While most of the shinobi began their morning drills or quietly prepared for missions, a small clearing near the rear of the camp began to fill with younger voices—giggling, whispering, clumsy footsteps crunching leaves.
Itama stood there, hands clasped behind his back, the sunlight catching faint streaks of healing salve on his arms. Before him were seven children—none older than ten—ranging from bold to shy, all of them still unscarred by the burden of war. Their eyes lit up at the sight of him, a mixture of curiosity and cautious admiration.
He gave them a nod. "Today," he said, "we'll begin with something more important than throwing kunai or weaving battle jutsu. We're going to learn how to protect what matters."
A small boy with hair like tangled straw raised his hand. "Are we learning ninjutsu?"
Itama knelt so their eyes were level. "In a way. But this kind of ninjutsu doesn't destroy. It saves. You're going to learn healing."
Some blinked in confusion. Others looked at each other uncertainly. Healing was not the most glamorous of skills. Many children aspired to be warriors like Hashirama, or precise like Tobirama. Few dreamed of sealing wounds or tending to the broken.
But Itama knew the truth.
Healing was survival. Healing was resistance. Healing was hope.
And now, it was his duty.
---
They began by learning to feel chakra in their hands.
Itama demonstrated first. Sitting cross-legged, he extended his palms and concentrated. A soft green glow shimmered into life around his fingertips. The glow was gentle, like a heartbeat made visible, and it danced faintly in the morning air.
"You don't need to force it," he told them. "Chakra flows like water. You can't punch water into place—you shape it, guide it."
He moved to each child one at a time, guiding their hands, helping them find the right pulse of chakra, adjusting their form with the same care the rogue healer once used on him. The children struggled at first—some producing only flickers, others none at all. One accidentally gave himself a small static shock and yelped, to the amusement of the others.
But Itama was patient.
He remembered being their age, sitting wide-eyed as Hashirama tried to teach him basic nature transformation. He remembered the frustration, the mistakes, the feeling of falling behind. Now, for the first time, he understood what Hashirama must have felt—this mix of pride and concern, of wanting so badly to protect innocence without smothering it.
After an hour, two of the children had managed a faint healing glow, and one girl had stabilized a small bruise on her wrist with shaky hands.
"You did it," Itama said, smiling at her. "You've just saved someone's life. Maybe your own."
Her eyes widened. The others looked on with renewed energy.
The lesson continued.
---
By midday, the children were exhausted but buzzing with excitement. Itama dismissed them with a promise: "Tomorrow we practice on actual wounds."
They scattered with laughter and whispers, racing off toward the food tents.
Itama remained seated, watching the wind shift through the leaves above him.
It felt right—this quiet teaching. It was a far cry from the chaos he had known. Not just the wars of blades and fire, but the inner war, the one he had waged in secret, hiding his pain, his doubts, his power.
The rogue's voice echoed in his memory. "Healing is how we remind the world that life still matters, even when death surrounds us."
This was how he would honor that lesson.
By teaching the next generation to preserve, not just destroy.
---
That evening, Hashirama found him preparing salve ingredients near a mortar, crushing herbs with steady rhythm.
"You've caused quite a stir," Hashirama said with a grin. "Children following you like ducklings. Their parents are… surprised."
"Surprised?" Itama said mildly.
"Well, it's not every day a shinobi returns from the dead and teaches chakra healing like a wandering sage."
Itama gave a faint smile. "They need to know more than how to kill."
Hashirama's gaze softened. "You're becoming a better teacher than I ever was."
"No," Itama replied, grounding some ginger root. "I'm just learning from my mistakes."
Hashirama hesitated. "They need someone like you, especially now. Morale is thin. There's something about seeing someone survive and give back… It gives people hope."
Itama didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice was quieter. "I just want them to survive."
---
Far away, Tobirama stood in the shadows of a nearby watchtower, arms crossed, watching the distant figures of his brothers speaking.
His eyes narrowed slightly when he saw the children gather around Itama again. Their laughter reached even his distant perch.
He turned and disappeared before Hashirama noticed him.
To him, healing was a luxury. A distraction.
And the more Itama embraced it… the more dangerous the unknown became.
---
Night fell.
And in a quiet corner of the Senju camp, Itama Senju—once thought dead—sat surrounded by small herbs, quiet scrolls, and seven eager little students who would one day remember the first time someone taught them how to save a life.
The forgotten flame flickered gently in the dark.