The wind cut through the forest with a whispering chill, rustling the tall grass and scattered leaves beneath the fading light of dusk. The trees stood like sentinels, tall and ancient, their bark charred in places from old battles fought in silence. Blood stained the underbrush—fresh, warm, and bright against the earthy greens and browns. Itama Senju crouched behind a thick root, heart pounding, hand clutched tight around the handle of a bloodied kunai.
His breath was shallow, sharp. His ribs ached from the earlier skirmish, and blood dripped slowly from a slash across his right shoulder. He couldn't stop. Couldn't rest. Not here. Not now.
He had been returning from patrol. A simple scouting assignment near the river, no signs of enemy movement reported for days. The woods were quiet. Too quiet. Then the fire came.
It started with a whistle—a sound barely heard over the breeze—and the forest lit up in a blaze of red and orange. Trees exploded. Smoke choked the sky. And then came the shadows. Three of them. Fast. Silent. Merciless.
Uchiha.
Itama barely had time to react. His first instinct was to counter—hands forming signs through instinct alone.
"Water Style: Surging Stream!"
A wave of water burst from the damp forest floor, dousing some of the flames, but the Uchiha moved like ghosts in firelight. One emerged from the left, shuriken flying in a tight arc. Itama ducked, rolled, and lashed out with a kunai. He caught only air.
Another dropped from the trees. Itama parried the blade, but the force sent him crashing against a tree trunk. The impact jarred his spine. He spat blood and forced himself to his feet. His mind raced. He couldn't take them all head-on.
He threw a smoke bomb, the hiss of release masking his rapid footfalls as he darted into the trees. His heart thudded against his ribs. He pushed off one branch to another, weaving through the foliage, every motion sharpened by desperation. But the Uchiha were faster.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker of red—Sharingan.
The genjutsu hit before he could counter.
The world twisted.
The trees around him bled. The sky darkened into a canvas of spinning tomoe. His limbs slowed, weighted. He blinked furiously, grinding his teeth as pain pierced his temple.
"Snap out of it—" he snarled to himself.
A kunai sliced past his cheek. Real.
The illusion cracked, just enough for him to drop into a forward roll and escape the immediate strike. He gasped, free for a moment, chakra flaring to clear the lingering haze. One of the Uchiha lunged again. Itama countered with a wide sweep, forcing the enemy back.
He had no time to think. No time to breathe.
The second Uchiha reappeared in front of him, sword in hand. Itama raised his kunai to block, steel clashing against steel with a screech. Sparks danced as the blades met. The Uchiha's strength was overwhelming, forcing him to slide back through the dirt. Another blow came—downward, vicious.
Itama sidestepped, barely, but a knee struck his stomach, sending him sprawling to the ground. He coughed and rolled away, his back scraping against tree roots.
His body screamed at him to stop. But he didn't.
The third Uchiha dropped from the canopy with perfect precision, hand signs already weaving. A fireball erupted from his mouth—fast, hot, unrelenting. Itama reacted on instinct.
"Earth Style: Mud Wall!"
A thick wall of earth rose just in time. The flames struck and scattered, sending sparks flying across the clearing. The heat scorched his face, but he remained on his feet.
Through the smoke, the three Uchiha stepped forward, surrounding him. Their eyes glowed red in the half-light, spinning. Calculating.
"You're one of the younger Senju," one of them said coldly. "Itama, right?"
He didn't answer.
"You've got your brother's eyes," another muttered, voice tinged with scorn. "But you're no Hashirama."
He grit his teeth. His muscles trembled, sweat dripping into his eyes. He reached for another kunai, slower this time.
"I don't need to be him," he muttered. "I just need to outlast you."
The Uchiha to the left darted forward, blade raised. Itama met him with a parry and ducked the follow-up swing. The second joined in, attacking from behind. Itama twisted, catching a shallow cut along his arm but narrowly avoiding a fatal blow.
Then the third struck, his chakra flaring violently.
"Fire Style: Phoenix Flame Cluster!"
Small fireballs fanned out in a tight spread. Itama dove behind a tree trunk, the flames scorching bark and sending splinters into the air. His ears rang. His hands moved rapidly.
"Water Style: Rushing Torrent!"
A blast of water surged from beneath him, dousing the flames and pushing one Uchiha back. He sprinted toward that opening, kunai ready.
But it was bait.
A hand caught his wrist mid-swing. Another grabbed his collar. A punch slammed into his ribs, then another. He was thrown like a ragdoll into a tree, the trunk cracking behind him.
Blood pooled in his mouth.
His vision blurred.
Still, he stood.
He dragged himself up, one hand braced against the bark, legs wobbling. The Uchiha circled him slowly now—patiently. Like predators. Their eyes glowed with hunger for blood, for victory.
He staggered into a loose stance, blade low, chakra thin and trembling. The forest smelled of ash and rain.
No words were spoken this time.
They attacked.
Steel clashed. Blood flew. Fire roared.
And the forest watched in silence.