The Cost of War

A week had passed since they left the Land of Iron.

Seven days of relentless ambushes. Seven nights of blood-soaked battles.

The rogue shinobi had come like wolves, attacking from the shadows, setting traps, and striking with merciless precision. Their goal was clear—prevent Konoha from returning with the Hokage alive.

But Tetsuma and his forces had endured.

By the time the army reached Konoha's gates, they were battered, bruised, and broken.

Some walked with heavy bandages, others leaned on their comrades, and too many were missing—sealed inside scrolls meant for the dead.

Tetsuma's black ANBU armor was torn, blood both his own and others caking its edges. He felt the weight of loss pressing on him.

Of the 120 ANBU he had led, fewer than 100 returned.

Twenty elite black ops shinobi—the finest warriors of Konoha—now lay buried in unmarked graves in the jungle.

And yet, despite the suffering, despite the exhaustion etched into their faces, the shinobi of Konoha stood tall.

They had returned.

As they approached the village, the massive gates creaked open. Families stood waiting. Some hopeful, some dreading the worst.

Then—a single cry of relief.

Followed by another.

And another.

The village erupted into a mix of grief and celebration. Wives searched for husbands. Parents looked for their children. Some found them. Others… did not.

Tetsuma's eyes scanned the crowd but found no comfort there.

He had buried too many.

He knew too much of war to celebrate survival.

His gaze flickered toward the carriage, where the Second Hokage still rested under heavy guard. The operation had been a success—Tobirama Senju still lived.

But the cost had been staggering.

As he stood there, staring at the village he had fought so hard to return to, Tetsuma wondered: How much more would Konoha have to bleed before peace truly came?

. . . . .

Tetsuma stood still, his sharp gaze sweeping across the crowd. The voices of Konoha's people filled the air—cries of relief, sobs of grief, and murmurs of exhaustion.

His mind was still on the battlefield, haunted by the faces of those who had fallen. Jiro… the twenty ANBU who never made it back… the comrades sealed inside scrolls.

But then—he saw them.

Two figures pushing through the crowd with urgency.

His father. His mother.

His father's strong frame was still the same—Hatake Eiji, the proud warrior who had trained him since childhood. His sharp silver eyes, so much like his own, scanned him for injuries.

But it was his mother who reached him first.

Senju Tōka—once the most feared kunoichi of her generation, now just a mother worried for her son.

Before Tetsuma could react, she wrapped her arms around him. A tight, warm embrace.

He stiffened. He wasn't used to this.

For so long, he had been a soldier, a killer, a commander. He had been feared, respected, even hated. But never just a son.

And then, in a soft whisper, she spoke.

"Welcome home, my son. You've done a very good job."

Tetsuma's breath hitched.

He had fought in countless battles, faced death more times than he could count. But nothing—nothing—had ever broken his composure like those simple words.

Slowly, his tense muscles relaxed. He allowed himself, just for a moment, to close his eyes and lean into the embrace.

For the first time since the war began, he felt home.