Boom!
"Everyone, stay calm!"
"Ahhhhhh—die!"
"Target the enemy commander first!"
"Earth Style: Headhunter Jutsu!"
The shadowed forest was alive with danger.
Screams of agony, the metallic clash of kunai and shuriken, and the deafening roar of exploding tags all blended into a brutal cacophony that assaulted Uchiha Itachi's ears.
Even his clothes and sandals were stained with blood—blood flung from the chaos around him.
Though he wasn't permitted to fight—not yet—simply following his father Uchiha Fugaku through the trees was enough to immerse him in the reality of war. Blood splattered from every direction, sometimes even raining down from above the branches, soaking into his uniform.
For the first time, Itachi stood within the true circle of battle.
Before this, every "war" he had seen was from afar—joining the logistics unit to clean up after the fighting was done. He had never experienced this—the suffocating, visceral presence of death all around him.
But tonight's ambush changed everything. For the first time, he felt what it meant to face real danger.
"Breathe… steady your rhythm."
Forcing his breath to remain calm, Itachi followed closely behind his father's silhouette as they darted through the darkness.
Now and then, Fugaku's figure would vanish ahead—only to reappear moments later, kunai in hand, its edge freshly crimson with blood.
So this… is war.
Compared to being a distant bystander, now that he was in its midst, Itachi could truly feel what the word meant.
Life itself was slipping away all around him.
Each life—a balloon, full and vibrant—
until a single needle's prick ended it with a sharp pop, leaving nothing behind but discarded fragments trampled underfoot.
Yes. Trash.
People were nothing more than that.
His expression remained calm—eerily calm—as his thoughts deepened.
From the time he left Konoha to this border battlefield, he had seen far too many corpses: Uchiha and Iwa-nin alike.
And every one of them, once fallen, looked no different from refuse strewn across the ground.
They had all lost their breath.
A moment ago, they had shouted, fought, burned with life—
and the next, they were silent, equal in death.
No… not exactly equal.
Those who bore the Uchiha bloodline, who carried the Sharingan, surely had a "value" greater than the average Iwa-nin.
That was the thought that flickered across Itachi's mind.
He never considered fighting—not because of fear, but because of understanding.
He was too weak.
To seek protection under his father's power was all he could do.
As they fled further from the battle, the sounds of fighting—screams, explosions, steel against steel—slowly faded.
And yet, Itachi remained detached, as if watching from outside reality.
A mere observer to the carnage.
Instead, his thoughts drifted inward—toward the unsettling notion that life could be measured in "quality."
If life could be assigned value like an object—
what "quality" did his life hold?
And what meaning, if any, did it have?
Since stepping onto this battlefield, Itachi had never stopped thinking.
Now, amid the chaos, his mind burned with clarity.
...
"This should be far enough."
When the only sound left was the rustle of footsteps through grass, they had escaped the ambush.
The moonlight filtered weakly through the trees, illuminating the overgrown forest floor.
Fugaku halted, scanning the surroundings with sharp eyes. Finding a hollow at the base of a large tree, he fell silent in thought.
"Itachi… can you stay here alone?"
Turning with his usual stoic expression, Fugaku looked down at his five-year-old son.
For a brief instant, the father inside him hesitated—but the clan head could not.
"I may need to go back for a while," he said quietly.
Leaving a child—his own son—alone on a battlefield was no simple matter.
But the squad that had been ambushed was Uchiha. And Fugaku… was their leader.
Itachi immediately understood his father's intent. Yet he showed no fear.
"…I'll be fine."
Strictly speaking, he was not alone.
He could sense her—the faint, unwavering presence of Artoria, the spectral queen who now stood silently behind him, unseen by any other.
"Stay hidden," Fugaku ordered firmly. "Once the cleanup is over, I'll come back for you."
Receiving Itachi's calm nod, he pointed to the tree hollow and motioned for him to crawl inside. Then, before leaving, Fugaku erased all traces of their passage through the area.
Soon, the sound of his footsteps faded.
Silence enveloped the forest.
Curled up inside the hollow, Itachi listened to the stillness—the absence of all noise but his own heartbeat.
Darkness. Solitude.
His senses sharpened; his hearing especially grew keen.
Something was moving beyond the hollow—
insects? Animals?
Or people?
Yet this unknown presence did not stir fear in him.
If anything, the quiet darkness drew him deeper inward, into contemplation.
Here, at last, he could think freely.
"Are you still here… Your Majesty?"
Itachi's voice echoed only in his mind—respectful, steady.
"Do not be afraid," came Artoria's answer, her faint figure materializing at the entrance. "If anyone approaches, I will alert you."
Her tone, as always, was composed and gentle. But this time, Itachi felt something new beneath it—an almost imperceptible warmth.
"Your Majesty," he said softly, "may we continue the conversation we didn't finish before?"
Artoria blinked, studying the small boy huddled in the hollow.
Under the pale moonlight, his black eyes reflected no fear, no uncertainty—only calm.
"You still wish to discuss that… even now?" she asked quietly.
"You're in the middle of a battlefield, surrounded by death. Don't you fear dying?"
"Do you truly think," she continued, her emerald eyes narrowing, "that finding the answer to those questions matters more than thinking about how to survive?"
Itachi looked up at her, his voice unshaken.
"Then tell me, Your Majesty… are you still fond of war?"
Even as he faced a being not of this world, his gaze was steady, his tone polite, his expression void of emotion.
That composure—a still lake, dark and deep—
was not something a five-year-old child should possess.
The moonlight bathed Artoria's pale skin, her eyes flickering with confusion as she regarded him.
This child, in such peril, was not trembling—he was pondering.
And his question pierced her heart more sharply than any blade.