The morning sun filtered through the forest canopy in shafts of soft gold, illuminating the training ground Itama had chosen deep within the woods—far from the eyes of patrolling Senju and the wary gaze of his brother Tobirama. This place, where Takeshi once taught him how to feel the breath of chakra in the wind and the tremors of enemies through the soil, now echoed only with the sound of his breathing and the rustle of leaves.
His robe was stained with sweat, dirt clung to his arms, and a deep gash along his forearm trickled blood. But Itama stood tall, his hands forming the Ram seal as he concentrated. Around him, wooden stakes jutted from the ground in odd angles—failed attempts. Fragments of twisted roots and brittle bark from earlier trials crumbled underfoot. He had been at it for hours. No—days.
The traditional Wood Clone Technique, known as Mokuton: Mokuhenge Bunshin no Jutsu, was Hashirama's innovation—a high-level ability that only he had mastered, creating solid clones infused with chakra that could interact with the environment. Even Tobirama had never replicated it. Most considered it unique to the First Hokage's absurd power. And yet, beneath the surface of his own chakra, Itama had begun to feel something shift. Something that resonated like ancient wood awakening.
He took a deep breath. His chakra was calm, but vast, like groundwater swelling beneath the earth. Unlike Hashirama's technique, his clones would not be precise mimics—they wouldn't carry full chakra signatures or perfect detail. But they could endure, persist, move, and act.
He weaved the signs again: Ram → Snake → Tiger → Ox.
"Mokuton: Kage Mokugyou Bunshin no Jutsu!" he muttered, voice steady, breath held.
From his shadow, a root shot upward, writhing like a serpent, then splitting at the tip. Bark folded over like muscle weaving into limbs, and in a flash, a figure stood before him—identical in height, shape, and posture. It wasn't perfect—its face was only a smooth mask of bark with faint indentations for eyes—but its movements mirrored Itama's exactly. He stepped forward. The clone did the same. He swung his right arm—it followed.
But more than mimicry, he could feel the clone.
Linked not just by chakra but by instinct.
It was a manifestation of his inner growth—subtle, different from Hashirama's brilliant display of raw Mokuton. Where his brother's clones were extensions of overwhelming power, Itama's variant was woven from stealth, nuance, and spiritual connection.
He drew a kunai and tossed it at the clone.
It dodged.
"Faster reaction than the last," he noted aloud.
Then, with a thought, he directed the clone toward the training stump across the clearing.
The clone raced forward—its feet silent against the earth, its form nearly flickering as it twisted into a mass of wood, vanishing into the surrounding trees. Moments later, it emerged from the opposite side, attacking the target from behind with a precise strike that split the stump cleanly in half.
Itama's eyes widened.
This version wasn't just a combat decoy—it could camouflage within the terrain like living foliage, temporarily melting into trees and reforming. It was slower than a true teleportation, but for infiltration, surveillance, and guerrilla skirmishes, it was unparalleled.
"This could shift everything," he breathed.
Memories surged—of Takeshi teaching him not just how to fight, but how to vanish, how to survive.
"Make them look at what isn't there," Takeshi had once said, placing his finger against Itama's chest. "And let what is real strike when their eyes close."
This clone embodied that lesson. It was not a weapon of dominance like Hashirama's constructs. It was a whisper in a battlefield of roars—a subtle, dangerous idea made real.
As the clone dissipated into roots and bark dust, Itama sat, chakra drained but spirit ignited.
The next few days became an intense blur of training. Each morning, he refined the jutsu, improving the density of the clone's structure and testing its versatility. He learned it could traverse underground via roots, using his chakra to temporarily animate narrow paths. It wasn't suitable for long distances, but as a distraction or for close combat trickery, it was exceptional.
He tested its limits in mock fights against himself, simulating the rhythms of real battle. At one point, he paired it with basic transformation techniques, layering false appearances over its barked surface—an echo of Takeshi's deception skills. He created a Wood Clone disguised as a wounded Uchiha shinobi, then practiced striking from behind with another. This was more than just replication. It was a fusion of old ways and new will.
Late one evening, Hashirama found him there, deep in the woods, kneeling beside two clones that were sparring like phantoms in the twilight.
"What are you doing all the way out here?" Hashirama asked, his voice gentle but edged with concern.
Itama stood slowly, panting. "Working on something."
Hashirama observed one of the clones, narrowing his eyes. "That's… wood chakra, isn't it?"
"Yes," Itama said. He didn't flinch under his brother's gaze.
Hashirama nodded slowly. "I didn't think anyone else could do it."
"I didn't either," Itama admitted. "But Takeshi taught me to see beyond what the world says is possible."
Hashirama's smile was soft. "He taught you well."
There was a long pause.
"Your version—it moves differently. Shadows the terrain. Not like mine."
"I'm not trying to be you," Itama replied, wiping sweat from his brow. "I'm trying to be me."
Hashirama stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Good. We need more of that now."
They stood in silence, watching the last of the light fade behind the treetops.
When Hashirama left, Itama sat down again, drawing a crude sketch of his chakra pathways in the dirt. He noted how he directed energy through his sternum into the limbs, then split it symmetrically into the root system beneath his feet. It was an odd, inefficient flow by typical standards, but it allowed his clone to remain grounded while mobile—like a sapling bracing in wind.
That night, Itama crafted three clones and sent them across the Senju outpost undetected. One snuck through the outer perimeter unnoticed by patrolling guards. Another left a subtle trap on a designated supply path. The last delivered a message to a young medic-in-training, returning with an intact reply. None of the clones were intercepted.
Tobirama would find out eventually, of course. He always did. But for now, this was his.
His secret strength.
A technique born not of overwhelming might, but of focus, adaptability, and silent resilience.
A variant wood clone, shaped not in the image of gods—but in the shadow of a forgotten flame.