CHAPTER 62

The forest beyond the Senju camp was quiet, too quiet.

Itama moved silently along a narrow deer path, his senses sharp. Moonlight filtered through the canopy in slanted shafts, painting silver streaks across the underbrush. He had left camp under the guise of a routine perimeter check, but whispers overheard in the mess tent told him something was wrong—terribly wrong.

A group of Senju shinobi had broken off from their assigned positions. Not for patrol. Not for recon. They moved like a shadow cell, cloaked in secrecy and fueled by growing distrust. The target: a known Uchiha-held encampment on the eastern border. But it wasn't a battlefield raid—it was a decapitation strike.

An assassination.

He crouched low beside a cluster of roots, fingers brushing the earth. Tracks. Recent. Five individuals, skilled. No wasted movement. They were fast and disciplined—veterans. And among them, he had recognized a name: Kaito Senju, once a close ally of Tobirama's, now a fervent war hawk among the elders' faction.

"Peace has weakened us," Kaito had been heard saying earlier that week. "While we parley, the Uchiha sharpen their blades."

Itama's stomach clenched. He wasn't naive—he knew hatred ran deep. But this? This wasn't war. It was sabotage. If the squad succeeded, the Uchiha would retaliate, and the fragile progress toward peace would burn to ash.

He quickened his pace, sticking to the shadows. Ahead, voices whispered.

"They'll be gathered for the nightly council," one muttered.

"The glade's unguarded from the west," said another. "Strike at moonrise, pull back before dawn."

He spotted them in a clearing—five Senju shinobi, faces masked in cloth, only their clan insignia exposed. Each bore the hardened posture of those born into war. Their leader stood tall, grey hair tied tightly behind his head, blade strapped across his back—Kaito himself.

Itama stepped out of the trees, hands raised. "This ends now."

The five turned instantly, weapons half-drawn. Kaito's eyes narrowed. "Itama. I wondered if the whispers were true."

"Turn around. Return to camp. This mission dies here."

"You would stop us?" Kaito said coldly. "You, who walks with Uchiha? Whispers with Madara?"

"I walk for peace," Itama replied. "I walk to stop needless death."

"That peace you speak of is built on our graves," Kaito growled. "Do you think the Uchiha want the same future as we do? They bleed us, kill us, ambush our scouts. And you trust them?"

"I've seen more than you know," Itama said, stepping forward. "I've seen Madara risk his life to save innocents. I've seen Uchiha protect what they love, just like we do. You claim they only want war—but you're the one with a knife ready."

Kaito's hand hovered near his weapon. "You would draw against your own clan?"

"I would protect what matters—even from those blinded by hate."

The tension snapped like a pulled thread. Two of the masked shinobi moved first, flanking Itama in a blur of movement. He dropped low, hands flashing through seals.

"Mokuton: Wooden Vines Binding!"

From the ground, thick roots exploded upward, wrapping around the attackers' arms and legs, hurling them aside with force. Kaito and the remaining two split, encircling him.

Itama's chakra pulsed. He moved fast, dodging a barrage of kunai with a sidestep and retaliating with a sharp kick to one assailant's chest, sending him crashing into a tree.

Kaito was on him in an instant.

Blades clashed—Kaito's curved ninjatō against a hastily formed wooden shortstaff. The rogue Senju moved with deadly grace, testing Itama's reflexes with calculated swings. Itama blocked high, ducked low, spun behind a tree, and returned with a whip of wooden tendrils from his palm.

"You've grown strong," Kaito said, breathless, circling.

"I had to," Itama said. "So I could stop this madness."

Kaito came in again, blades sparking off reinforced wood chakra. But this time, Itama didn't counter with force—he feinted, redirected the strike, and locked Kaito's arms with wooden cords that snaked from the ground and bound his wrists in place.

The elder Senju grunted, trying to pull free.

Behind him, the last standing assassin approached Itama's back with a kunai raised. But a quick clone switch—an advanced variant of his new technique—allowed Itama to slip behind the would-be killer and knock him unconscious with a precise blow to the neck.

The battle ended in seconds. The clearing stilled.

Kaito knelt, bound, face lowered in shame and fury. "You think this changes anything?"

"I know it does," Itama said. "Because now I know the lengths some among us will go to destroy peace. And I'll make sure your actions don't ignite a war."

"You're no Senju," Kaito spat.

"I am," Itama said quietly. "More than ever. Because I fight to save our future, not to avenge the past."

He turned and summoned help—trusted shinobi he knew wouldn't question his judgment. The captured assassins were taken into custody discreetly. No alarm was raised, no internal scandal leaked to the enemy. Hashirama was informed, grim-faced, but relieved.

"What will you do with them?" Itama asked.

Hashirama sighed. "The council will want a trial."

"Then let them see the truth. Let them understand this is what war makes of us."

Tobirama said little, but he lingered outside the tent that night. As Itama passed by, the younger brother spoke without turning.

"You protected the peace. I won't forget that."

"I didn't do it for approval," Itama replied.

"I know. That's why it worked."

The moon rose high, casting long shadows across the camp. But amid the darkness, a flicker of hope endured. Itama had stopped bloodshed with resolve—not steel. And though war loomed always at the edges, the fragile peace still held.

Barely.

But it held.