The village of Kawa-no-Mura nestled peacefully beside a crystal-clear river that gave it its name. It was a settlement known not for military might or strategic value, but for neutrality. Farmers tilled the soil, merchants passed through with wares, and weary travelers from both Senju and Uchiha lands occasionally paused here to rest—under an unspoken pact that bloodshed stopped at its borders.
But that fragile peace shattered before dawn.
The attack began in silence, as the mist still curled thick over the thatched rooftops. A shadow crept along the village perimeter, swift and solitary. A lone figure in a dark cloak with the unmistakable crimson swirl of the Uchiha clan stitched subtly beneath the fabric moved like a ghost through the morning haze.
He wore no headband—no insignia. Only his eyes, glowing faintly with the Sharingan, betrayed his origin.
He was not acting under orders. He was not following Madara. He was a rogue—burning with vengeance, disillusionment, and a cruel idea of justice. His name was Sora, and he had lost everything in the endless war. Now, he burned the world to balance the scale.
He started with a spark.
A single flick of his fingers launched a small ember from the tip of his kunai into a cluster of haystacks near the market square. Within moments, the flames leapt hungrily, smoke billowing into the sleepy sky. Then the screams began.
Villagers ran in every direction, some clutching children, others rushing to extinguish the fire—but before they could organize, fireballs erupted from the rooftops. Sora moved like a reaper, casting jutsu with fluid efficiency. A wave of fire washed over a storehouse. A blast of wind sent market stalls tumbling. People scattered.
To him, this was justice. A message. The Senju had allies who dared remain neutral? Then no one was truly innocent.
From the shadows of a bakery, a young villager, barely more than a boy, hurled a kunai in desperation. It didn't even come close. Sora caught it midair without blinking.
"You want to be a hero?" he said coldly, stepping toward the trembling youth.
Before he could strike, another figure descended from above—boots slamming onto the dirt between them. A wall of earth rose instantly, shielding the boy. The rescuer's voice cut through the smoke.
"Enough."
The voice was calm. But behind it was the kind of fury that promised reckoning.
Itama Senju stood tall, wearing partial armor over his flak vest, a crimson sash wrapped across his chest. His eyes were steady, his chakra unmistakable.
Sora smirked. "Another Senju. They send you to protect these cowards?"
"I came because this village matters. And because you're not one of theirs. You're a disgrace to your clan."
Sora's Sharingan spun. "They forgot me long ago. I'm just returning the favor."
In a blur, he moved—fast, far faster than any of the villagers could follow. Fire crackled through the air, shurikens embedded with explosive tags raining from above.
Itama weaved hand signs. Earth surged upward, catching the blast and absorbing the shock. He dashed through the smoke and struck back—wood tendrils emerging from his sleeve and lashing toward Sora, who flipped backward, evading them narrowly.
Their duel tore through the heart of the village.
Sora struck with fury—his fire relentless, his eyes anticipating every move. But Itama matched him. Though not as fast as Tobirama nor as strong as Hashirama, he fought with precise control, rooted by inner calm and conviction.
At one point, Sora ignited the very air between them, creating a corridor of fire. Itama leapt into the wall of flame, reappearing on the other side—scorched, but undeterred. He struck with a wooden spear formed mid-flight, clashing against Sora's blade.
"I'm not like the others," Itama growled, forcing the rogue back. "I've lived outside the clan. I've learned from someone who saw through this madness."
"You speak like a traitor," Sora spat, crouching low as his hands flew into seals.
"Then you understand nothing about peace."
Sora exhaled. "Katon: Hōsenka Tsumabeni!"
Small fireballs rained down, each disguised with kunai at the center. Itama spun into a defensive stance, wooden clones springing into life around him. Some took hits and burst into ash. Others charged forward as diversions.
One got close enough.
Itama emerged behind the clone, landing a brutal blow that cracked Sora's ribs and sent him crashing into a water trough.
Villagers watched from hiding places as the rogue coughed and groaned, trying to rise. Itama approached, eyes solemn, kunai in hand—not to kill, but to stop the madness.
"Why?" he asked, voice low. "Why this village?"
"They welcomed your kind," Sora rasped. "They fed them, sheltered them. They let the Senju rest here. No one is neutral. Not anymore."
Itama closed his eyes, absorbing the words like poison. Then he looked at the villagers—the faces he had protected, the children trembling behind carts and stone walls.
"You're wrong," he said. "These people want nothing but to live. That isn't weakness. It's strength to choose peace when surrounded by war."
He bound Sora, neutralizing his chakra, and turned to the villagers. "Help is coming. You're safe now."
The people emerged slowly, hesitantly, many whispering his name. For the first time, some saw the Senju not as warriors—but as guardians.
Later, as Itama knelt beside the village elder to help with rebuilding, his hands ached from both battle and healing. He looked to the charred skyline, the scent of ash heavy in the air.
This war wasn't just about clan pride anymore.
It was about what kind of future they could create—what kind of future they must create. For villages like Kawa-no-Mura. For the orphans, the widows, and the children too young to even understand the symbols on the enemies' headbands.
He stood, wiping blood and soot from his brow.
And he knew the next step in his journey would demand even more of him.