Darkness flickered at the edges of Itama's vision. The scent of scorched bark and blood clung to his senses, thick and suffocating. His limbs had long since numbed, pain dulling to a deep, pulsing throb. He couldn't tell how long he had been unconscious—minutes, hours? The forest was quieter now, as though the land itself had paused in breathless mourning.
He tried to move.
A sharp jolt in his side forced a gasp from his cracked lips. Something had shifted inside him—broken ribs, perhaps. He winced, forcing his eyes open fully. The world came into focus slowly: a mossy canopy overhead, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the low chirp of insects returning after the battle's end.
And a figure crouched beside him.
Itama's instincts flared to life. His hand shot toward the kunai pouch at his waist—only to find it gone.
"Don't bother," the figure said coolly. "I already disarmed you. You're in no shape to fight anyone."
The voice was calm, low, and masculine, tinged with something old—like weariness masked beneath control. Itama blinked hard, forcing his vision to sharpen. The man knelt nearby, partially obscured by shadow and a tattered brown cloak. His dark hair was streaked with gray, and a jagged scar ran across his jaw.
But it was the emblem stitched faintly into his shoulder that froze Itama's blood.
A leafless tree. The ancient crest of the Senju.
"You're one of us," Itama rasped.
The man didn't respond right away. He pulled a cloth from a pouch and dabbed at a cut above Itama's eye. His touch was practiced but far from gentle.
"I was," the man replied. "A long time ago."
Itama's eyes narrowed, confusion settling into his bruised face. "You left the clan?"
"I didn't leave." The man's tone grew sharper. "The clan left me."
He began wrapping a torn length of cloth around Itama's arm where a wound had reopened, tightening the makeshift bandage with precision. Itama hissed at the pressure but gritted his teeth. The rogue worked methodically—cleaning blood, resetting a twisted wrist, applying a bitter-smelling salve to scorched skin.
"How did you find me?" Itama asked after a moment.
"You scream louder than you think when you're dying," the man said flatly. "Lucky I was close."
Silence settled over them for a beat, broken only by the soft chirr of distant cicadas. The man eventually leaned back, examining his handiwork with a practiced eye. "You're not dead. That's the best I can offer."
"Why help me?" Itama asked, voice low.
The rogue's jaw tightened. "Because you're still a Senju."
There was no pride in his voice. No warmth. Only a resigned duty that weighed heavier than the silence between them. He rose and turned away, eyes scanning the woods beyond the clearing. "Those Uchiha. You're lucky they didn't finish the job. Their arrogance cost them."
"They're strong," Itama admitted. "Fast. They almost had me."
"Almost doesn't count," the man said, stepping toward a fallen tree. He picked up a small sack, rummaged briefly, and tossed a wrapped ration toward Itama. "Eat. Your chakra's drained. You'll need strength."
Itama caught it weakly. "You didn't answer me. Who are you?"
The man didn't look back.
"Name's irrelevant."
"Not to me."
The rogue paused, shoulders stiff. Then, with a quiet sigh, he spoke: "Takeshi."
Itama stared at him, the name unfamiliar.
"I don't remember hearing about you," he said carefully.
"You wouldn't have." Takeshi moved to sit against a tree, far enough to keep distance, close enough to keep watch. "I fought long before you were born. Fought for the clan. Bled for it. Then one day, I didn't anymore."
Itama frowned. "Were you exiled?"
Takeshi's eyes, sharp and unblinking, met his. "I was forgotten."
The weight of the words struck harder than expected. In them, Itama heard something too familiar—a reflection of the fragility of honor, the price of loyalty in a world that never stopped warring.
Takeshi looked away again, gaze distant. "You fought well. Sloppy, but not hopeless."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"Don't."
Itama leaned back slowly, breath ragged. Despite the pain, the anger, the confusion—he was alive. And this man, this ghost of the Senju, had kept him that way.
"I have to go back," Itama said eventually. "They'll think I'm dead."
"You are, as far as the Uchiha are concerned," Takeshi replied. "And that gives you an advantage."
Itama turned his head. "What do you mean?"
Takeshi stood once more, dusting off his cloak. "If the enemy believes you're dead, they'll stop hunting you. For now. That gives you time to heal… and time to think."
Itama watched him, eyes narrowing. "You think I should stay hidden?"
"I think you should survive."
Takeshi's voice carried the weight of years behind it. There was no malice, no cruelty—only a cold wisdom earned on battlefields long buried by time.
"I'm not hiding," Itama said firmly. "I'm a Senju. I will return."
Takeshi didn't argue. He simply nodded.
"Then rest tonight. At first light, you walk."
The sky had dimmed into twilight, casting a pale violet glow through the treetops. Takeshi moved deeper into the trees, disappearing into shadow like he had never been there.
Itama stared upward, silent, the bandages around his chest tight with each breath. The pain was real. The wounds were deep.
But he was still breathing.
And someone still believed in the name Senju.