The sun hung low in the sky, casting a reddish hue across the charred remnants of Kawa-no-Mura. Though the flames had been extinguished, smoke still curled in the air like the breath of a wounded beast. Villagers moved slowly, dazed and weary, their clothes stained with ash and blood. Some cried silently as they salvaged what they could. Others stood motionless, haunted by what had unfolded only hours earlier.
At the heart of the village, Itama stood over the restrained body of Sora, the rogue Uchiha who had sparked this tragedy. The man was unconscious now, his chakra sealed, but his final words still lingered in Itama's thoughts.
"No one is neutral… Not anymore."
Itama turned away from the bound man, his jaw tight. The villagers needed help—medical supplies, fresh water, food. And more than that, they needed protection. He couldn't afford to linger. He had to send word to the Senju encampment. Even if some still doubted him, this was bigger than their clan politics.
He knelt beside a child with a bleeding arm, weaving hand signs as chakra gathered in his palm. The wound closed with slow precision. The girl flinched but didn't cry. Itama gave her a quiet nod and moved on to the next.
Suddenly, a flicker of chakra surged through the forest.
Itama snapped upright.
His hand went instinctively to the kunai strapped across his back. Around him, villagers paused, sensing the tension.
From the edge of the treeline, a presence approached—not masked, not subtle.
But familiar.
A lean figure stepped from the shadows into the smoky clearing, armor glinting dully in the light. Raven-black hair trailed behind him, and his eyes—crimson with the awakened Sharingan—locked instantly onto Itama's.
Izuna Uchiha.
Gasps erupted among the villagers, a few of whom tried to retreat. One man, still cradling a wounded child, reached for a farming sickle with trembling fingers.
Itama raised a hand to stop them.
"Izuna," he said, voice cautious, steady. "This isn't your battleground."
Izuna's gaze swept the village. His eyes lingered on the burned homes, the bodies wrapped in cloth, the villagers eyeing him with raw fear. Then he looked down at the unconscious Sora, and his eyes narrowed.
"He acted alone," Izuna said. His voice carried no heat, but there was something deeper within it—shame, perhaps, or anger restrained with effort. "He was disowned. No one sent him."
"I know," Itama replied. "But that doesn't undo the damage."
The two shinobi stared at each other across the ruin of neutrality.
Izuna stepped closer, and for a moment Itama tensed—ready to summon wood from the ground, to weave jutsu, to defend again.
But instead, Izuna knelt.
He placed a hand on the ground, eyes flickering as he silently channeled chakra.
A wind jutsu—gentle, precise—blew across the village square, clearing lingering smoke and ash. His chakra reached outward, alerting the hidden Uchiha scouts who had remained on the village's periphery, watching from the shadows.
They withdrew.
"No more threats here," Izuna said. "Not today."
Itama stared at him. "Why help me?"
"You saved a village," Izuna said. "You protected civilians. That's not something I ignore—even if it comes from a Senju."
The words felt strange, coming from an Uchiha. But the sincerity in his voice was unmistakable.
Still, trust did not come easily.
"You're Madara's brother," Itama said, quiet but pointed. "Do you speak for him?"
"No," Izuna replied. "I speak for myself."
He rose slowly and looked out at the villagers. "I came to find the one who did this. Sora betrayed our ways—he turned against everything the clan is supposed to be. If we let that kind of hatred spread… there won't be anything left to rebuild."
Itama watched him carefully. For a long time, neither spoke. Then, with slow, deliberate movement, Izuna pulled a scroll from his armor and tossed it toward Itama's feet.
"Supplies. Medical salves, water capsules, ration pills. I took them from our border cache without telling anyone."
Itama knelt and opened the scroll. He stared at the contents—more than enough for a village in need.
One of the elders behind him stepped forward, speaking in a harsh whisper. "You can't trust him. He's Uchiha."
But Itama responded without looking back. "Today, he's a man who chose to help."
Izuna turned to leave, but paused at the edge of the clearing. "There will be consequences for what I did," he said. "I'll face them."
"Why take the risk?" Itama asked, genuinely puzzled now.
Izuna looked back over his shoulder, and for a fleeting moment, something like weariness crossed his face.
"Because I'm tired of burying children."
Then he vanished in a blur of movement, the wind rustling leaves in his wake.
Itama stood in silence for a long moment, staring at the place Izuna had been.
Behind him, the villagers murmured uncertainly, but there was a shift in tone—less fear, more confusion, perhaps even gratitude. Some approached the scroll and its supplies, their eyes cautious but relieved.
A boy whispered, "Was he really Uchiha?"
"Yes," Itama answered. "And he did the right thing."
He turned back to his work. The dead needed to be buried. The wounded needed healing. There was no time to celebrate small miracles—but perhaps, deep within, a spark had caught flame.
Later that evening, as the stars began to appear, Itama stood beneath a broken shrine near the river. The night air was cool, and the smell of burnt wood still lingered, but the worst had passed.
Takeshi's words echoed in his mind.
"The only way to end a war is to understand those you've been taught to hate."
He glanced toward the horizon, where Izuna had disappeared.
A new thought formed—subtle, but unshakable.
Maybe the path to peace didn't just run through the Senju.
Maybe, just maybe, it ran through the Uchiha too.