CHAPTER 61

The wind carried the scent of smoke and metal long before Itama crested the final ridge. From the cliffside trail winding through the trees, he saw Konoha's forward camp sprawled out like a restless beast—tents fluttering, sentries pacing, and shinobi moving in sharp, clipped bursts. The unease was palpable even from a distance. Tension radiated like heat off the earth.

Itama frowned, tightening the straps on his flak vest and quickening his pace. The journey back from the hidden glade had taken only a few hours, but already it felt like returning to a different world. His time with Madara, though brief, had felt like a pause—a breath away from war. Now, the weight of reality settled again across his shoulders like a wet cloak.

When he entered the perimeter, several Senju glanced up at him. Their expressions shifted—from casual recognition to quiet curiosity and in some, unease. Itama noticed it immediately.

"Where've you been?" one young jōnin asked, brow furrowed. "Hashirama-sama sent out a runner looking for you at dawn."

Itama nodded. "I'll report to him now."

The jōnin hesitated, as if weighing whether to press further, then gave a slight nod and stepped aside. Itama passed through the maze of tents, noting the hardened looks on familiar faces. Some were whispering. Others eyed him sidelong as though uncertain whether to greet or question him.

He reached Hashirama's command tent just as his elder brother emerged. Hashirama's eyes widened in visible relief.

"There you are," he said, stepping forward and gripping Itama's shoulder. "You're alright."

"I'm fine," Itama replied, lowering his voice. "I had to follow a lead—something important. We need to talk."

Hashirama gave him a long look. Then he nodded and ushered him inside. The tent smelled of parchment and ink, of damp earth and faint smoke. A table covered with scrolls and hand-drawn maps stood at the center. Tobirama was already there, arms crossed.

"You've been gone since last night," Tobirama said without looking up. "And now you return just as things get worse."

"Worse?" Itama asked, ignoring the familiar prick of Tobirama's disapproval.

Hashirama answered, sighing. "There was an incident near the Kawa-no-Mura border. A Senju patrol was ambushed—no casualties, but they claim Uchiha were responsible."

Itama's jaw tightened. "Claim? You don't believe them?"

"I don't know what to believe anymore," Hashirama admitted. "Tensions are rising across all fronts. A single spark will light the powder."

Tobirama's eyes narrowed. "Especially when our own brother is wandering off alone during critical hours. Where were you?"

"I was gathering information," Itama replied carefully. "I met someone who wants peace as much as we do."

Tobirama stepped forward. "You were with an Uchiha, weren't you?"

Itama didn't respond right away. Hashirama's gaze sharpened.

"You were," Tobirama concluded grimly. "Don't deny it."

"I'm not," Itama said finally. "I met Madara. We talked—about peace. About fear. About the possibility of something beyond this endless cycle."

Hashirama looked stunned. Tobirama, furious.

"You met Madara—alone? Without backup? You could've been killed."

"He didn't try," Itama said, eyes steady. "And I believe he meant what he said."

Tobirama scoffed, voice like ice. "You believe? You risked your life and the clan's stability on a feeling?"

"Better a risk for peace than another war without end," Itama shot back.

"Enough," Hashirama cut in, his voice firm. He looked between them, his jaw set. "We don't have time to fight among ourselves. Not now."

The tent fell into strained silence.

Eventually, Tobirama turned away. "The council is already divided. Some think you're too sympathetic to the enemy."

"Let them think," Itama said. "As long as they're still willing to listen."

Tobirama didn't respond. He left the tent without another word.

Hashirama ran a hand through his hair, weariness plain in his face. "It's getting worse. Every day the elders grow more fractious. You have your supporters now, but… there's more suspicion too."

"Then we push forward," Itama said. "More than ever. If the tension's this bad, peace talks are more urgent—not less."

Hashirama nodded. "I've scheduled another meeting with Madara in two days. I want you to come."

"I'll be ready."

---

Outside, the camp was simmering like a pot on the verge of boiling. Shinobi argued over maps, weapons were being sharpened with more urgency than usual, and the guards on the perimeter looked more alert than ever.

Itama moved through the camp, his presence drawing mixed reactions. One child—one of the younger genin he'd helped train—ran up and hugged him, smiling. But a group of older chūnin merely watched him pass, their faces guarded.

He heard whispers:

"He trusts the Uchiha…"

"He's too much like Hashirama…"

"…what if he's being used?"

He kept walking, jaw set, until he reached the edge of the training grounds. A group of young Senju stood in formation, awaiting instruction. Their sensei spotted Itama and nodded him forward.

"You're back," she said quietly. "They've missed you."

He knelt to speak to the children, his voice calm. "What do we say about strength?"

"Strength protects," the children said in unison.

"And what else?"

"Strength listens. Strength learns."

He nodded. "Good. Now again. Let's see your stances."

As they resumed practice, Itama remained silent, watching, correcting form, adjusting posture. It grounded him—reminded him of why the fight for peace mattered.

Later that evening, as the sun dipped low and cast the camp in golden-orange light, Hashirama joined him by the main palisade.

"It feels like something's building," he said.

"It is," Itama answered. "But if we stand firm, we can shape what comes next—not just brace for it."

Hashirama smiled faintly. "You've changed."

"I had to," Itama said, eyes fixed on the horizon. "The war tried to break us. But maybe… we're finally starting to build something stronger."

Far off, thunder rolled over distant hills. Not a storm—just the sky's warning rumble. Tension thickened the air like mist, and behind the lines of trees and defenses, the world waited.

But for now, the brothers stood firm, and the fire of their resolve—flickering though it was—still burned.