Tobirama Senju had never trusted blind faith—not in gods, not in destiny, and especially not in people. Where his elder brother saw potential and light, Tobirama saw cracks, risk, and eventual betrayal. He didn't hold this as cynicism but as survival. It was how he had lived through countless battles, outlasted ambushes, and anticipated traps that claimed hundreds of others.
And now, his suspicion had a name: Itama.
His youngest brother's reappearance from death's grasp still gnawed at him. Not because of envy or disbelief, but because it didn't add up. He had seen Itama's blood staining the battlefield with his own eyes—had felt the crushing despair in Hashirama's silence. Yet Itama returned. Alive. Changed. Stronger.
Too strong for someone who was allegedly wounded, hiding, and healing.
And so, for days now, Tobirama had been watching him. Not directly—Itama would have noticed. No, he used layered observation: shadow clones stationed on rotation, concealment techniques rooted in silence, and chakra masking so subtle even their own sensory teams would overlook him. His methods weren't simple spying—they were clinical, meticulous dissections of behavior.
What he witnessed disturbed him.
Itama's training ground lay deep in the western forest near the river's bend, an area considered unstable due to root collapses and wild chakra flow. Tobirama, perched on a high branch and veiled beneath a shifting Genjutsu of refracted light, watched the clearing where his brother trained alone.
He arrived before dawn, as he had for several days.
Itama was already there, standing shirtless in the cool mist, drawing lines in the dirt with a wooden staff he'd carved himself. His hands moved precisely, drawing circles, pathways, and directional arrows—battlefield schematics. Tobirama's sharp eyes caught the careful chakra flow diagram etched into the soil: a mimicry of circulatory flow fused with trap triggers and clone trajectories.
Then Itama began.
No warm-up. No rest. Just immediate immersion into advanced technique.
Hands moved. Chakra stirred. Wood burst from the ground with eerie fluidity.
But what Tobirama saw next stunned him.
Itama's clones didn't simply appear—they unfurled, slowly rising like growing saplings, cloaked in mist. Unlike Hashirama's clean and assertive manifestation of life through Mokuton, Itama's version was something else entirely: slow, careful, nearly sentient in its subtlety. These weren't brute force clones meant to smash or intimidate. They were precise, elusive, ghostlike warriors.
More alarming was how he controlled them.
Itama stood still, eyes closed, as three clones moved in perfect harmony through the clearing. One leapt high into a tree, camouflaged into the bark. Another slithered under the soil like a root tendril, its chakra masked to near invisibility. The third weaved into tall grass, only its shadow cast faintly on the forest floor.
Tobirama muttered under his breath. "This isn't mimicry. This is... adaptation."
Hashirama's clones were complete and powerful copies, perfect for frontal combat. But these—these were tools of infiltration and disruption. Techniques steeped in misdirection, created not by sheer talent but by tactical necessity.
Itama was no longer a boy eager to prove himself in the shadow of his brothers. He was becoming something else—a shinobi tempered by survival, shaped by silence.
The rogue's teachings, Tobirama realized grimly.
Takeshi.
He remembered the exile. The traitor who once fled the clan rather than continue the war. Tobirama had heard the rumors from the older council members, had seen Takeshi's name struck from the records. And now it was clear: Takeshi had passed on more than knowledge—he had seeded an entire philosophy into Itama.
As the training continued, Tobirama's clone moved closer, crouching behind a curtain of foliage, its senses focused.
Itama dropped to a knee, placing his palm against the earth.
"Mokuton: Hōzō Shokubutsu."
From the ground, creeping vines with narrow blue buds grew rapidly. As they sprouted, a wounded wood clone limped toward them, its arm severed at the elbow. When the vines brushed the broken limb, they shimmered—and the wood began to regrow.
A regenerative field technique.
Tobirama narrowed his eyes.
Healing via external plant stimulus? A fusion of Mokuton and basic medical ninjutsu? This was beyond what they had recorded. And Itama had done it silently, without hand seals, guiding chakra through the earth itself.
Even as the clone recovered, Itama created another, overlapping chakra into both simultaneously—one moving with speed, the other with stealth. A dual-control technique.
This time, Tobirama's clone shifted ever so slightly—his attention so focused on the mechanics of Itama's work, he barely noticed the ripple.
Then Itama's voice cut the air.
"You've been watching me for some time, haven't you, Nii-san?"
Tobirama's clone froze.
The real Tobirama, still high in the trees and cloaked, blinked once.
Itama stood, still facing away. His tone wasn't angry—more weary than anything.
"I wasn't sure until yesterday. But I can feel the chakra signature now. Subtle, masked, but familiar."
He turned slowly.
Tobirama's clone stepped from the shadows, arms folded.
"You've grown sharp," it said coolly.
"I had to," Itama replied, brushing dirt from his hands. "The kind of sharp that grows from being left behind."
The clone tilted its head. "You've learned techniques that border on forbidden. Cloaked Mokuton constructs, underground movement, regenerative clones. Not even Hashirama can perform some of this."
"I'm not trying to replace him," Itama said, voice low. "I'm trying to do what none of us have done: survive without becoming monsters."
Tobirama didn't respond. The real him remained still, silent, observing.
Itama continued, "You're here because you still don't trust me."
"You're right," the clone answered flatly. "I don't."
There was no hostility in Itama's eyes. Only fatigue.
"I understand," he said. "But I'm not a threat, Tobirama. I'm an answer to a different kind of war. One where silence, healing, and deception win more than raw power."
The clone hesitated before dispersing in a small puff of smoke.
From the treetop, Tobirama finally exhaled.
He had seen what he needed. Itama was dangerous—not because of what he'd become, but because of what he believed. A shinobi like him could change the shape of warfare. Could teach others. Could inspire dissent. Or hope.
Hope was dangerous.
Yet even as he faded from the branch and began his silent retreat, Tobirama couldn't shake the echo of his brother's words.
"I'm not a threat. I'm an answer."
He would continue watching. He would document every technique, every movement. Because something was shifting in the Senju camp—and this time, it wasn't the enemy beyond the border.
It was the brother they had buried and forgotten, now rising in the roots beneath their feet.