The old storage shed near the eastern edge of Konoha's Senju compound had long since fallen out of use. Its walls sagged under the weight of time and weather, vines curling through gaps in the wood and up toward the tiled roof. Dust coated every surface, and the only visitors it received were spiders and the occasional rat. It was perfect.
Itama Senju had returned from the dead, but not to fanfare.
Hidden by shadow, he had slipped through the cracks of his own home, unseen even by the clan that bore his name. Takeshi had been right—showing himself too soon would only invite questions he wasn't ready to answer. And so, Itama made this place his sanctuary. From here, he would watch and wait.
And train.
He sat now on a tattered mat, the dawn light cutting through slats in the wall and painting stripes across his bare chest. Bandages still clung to his torso, yellowed from use and speckled with red. Each breath came with effort, each movement a test of his will. His limbs trembled even at rest. But he refused to let that stop him.
He was alive.
And being alive meant he had work to do.
His fingers curled slowly into a fist. Even that hurt.
He began with breathing.
In through the nose—deep, focused, controlled. Out through the mouth. Again. Again. His chakra felt like a pool buried under layers of stone. He couldn't reach it yet. Could barely even feel it. But he knew it was there. Waiting.
After an hour, sweat had soaked through the back of his shirt. His arms ached, legs cramped. His body still hadn't recovered—but his mind was clear.
He pushed himself to his feet, limbs unsteady.
He fell.
Catching himself on the edge of the mat, he gritted his teeth and stood again, slower this time. Pain roared through his ribs, but he didn't cry out. He reached for the wooden pole leaning against the shed wall. It wasn't a weapon—not anymore. Just a training staff Takeshi had carved from an old tree branch.
He held it out in front of him, trying to still the trembling in his arms. The staff wobbled. His muscles screamed.
He swung it once.
Too fast—he stumbled, caught his foot on the mat, and fell again. Dust exploded in the air around him as he hit the floor, coughing. He stayed there for a while, cheek pressed to the cool earth.
Then, slowly, he rolled to his knees.
And stood.
Again.
He raised the staff.
This time, he swung slower. Controlled.
He could still hear the crack of Uchiha kunai splitting the air.
Still feel the heat of fire jutsu tearing through trees around him.
Still smell the blood on his own skin.
He had been weak then—strong enough to fight, but not strong enough to win. Not strong enough to survive on his own.
He wouldn't make that mistake again.
---
The days blurred together.
Each morning began with pain, and ended with exhaustion. The shed became his whole world. He cleared the debris inside, reinforcing the walls with wooden planks scavenged from broken fences and discarded crates. He hung an old mirror on one side, cracked but intact enough to let him see his own stance.
He practiced chakra control every day—starting with leaf balancing, a task he hadn't done since he was six. His hands shook so much at first that the leaves tumbled off before he could even focus.
By the third day, he could hold one steady.
By the fifth, he held three.
It wasn't much.
But it was progress.
At night, when the village quieted, he crept to the outskirts of the Senju compound. Always careful. Always watching. He saw Hashirama once, speaking with a group of shinobi near the river. His brother looked older now. Tired. But strong.
Itama stayed hidden, heart pounding in his chest.
He wasn't ready to reveal himself yet.
Not until he was strong again.
Strong enough to protect them.
---
The first time he tried to mold chakra into his feet for tree-walking, he collapsed halfway up the trunk of a tree behind the shed and hit every branch on the way down.
It knocked the wind out of him.
The second time, he made it to the top before blacking out and slipping off.
By the end of the week, he could stand upside down beneath the old rafter beam in the shed for almost twenty seconds.
He kept going.
Push-ups, one-armed when his ribs wouldn't allow both. Sit-ups with a stone pressed to his chest. Staff drills until his arms ached and his hands blistered. He wrapped the blisters and kept going.
His body resisted him every step of the way. But he had learned to fight through it. It wasn't about speed. Not yet. It was about motion. Precision. Control.
He wasn't training to win.
He was training to survive.
---
On the twelfth night, he felt something.
He sat in the middle of the shed, cross-legged, hands forming a seal in front of his chest. Chakra buzzed faintly at the edge of his senses. He chased it—deeper, past the layers of pain and fatigue, until something stirred.
A spark.
Flickering.
He focused on it, clinging to it with every fiber of his being.
And suddenly, like the first breath after drowning, it surged.
His chakra burst outward in a pulse—clumsy, unfocused, but real. It crackled around his body like static, rattling the floorboards and knocking over the basin in the corner.
Itama gasped.
Then smiled.
It was weak.
But it was his.
---
He woke up before sunrise the next day.
His body was still sore, still stiff, but he could move with more ease now. He had built up endurance, carved muscle back into his bones. The mirror showed him a reflection that still looked like a ghost—but a stronger one.
He tied his forehead protector around his arm. The cloth was frayed, the symbol scratched, but it still meant something to him.
He wasn't ready to return to the Senju compound. Not yet.
But he was ready for more.
He carved a training dummy out of old firewood and tied it to a tree.
Then, for the first time in nearly two weeks, he drew a kunai.
The steel felt foreign in his hand—light, cold, familiar in a distant way. He slashed once. The blade sank into the wood and stuck.
Again. This time, cleaner.
He stepped back and hurled a second kunai. It missed the target by three inches and struck the tree behind.
He retrieved it, breathed, and threw again.
Closer.
Another throw.
Bullseye.
He trained until his fingers bled.
And when he could no longer lift his arm, he sat beneath the tree, drenched in sweat and breathless, and looked at the rising sun through the canopy.
He was still alive.
Still forgotten.
But soon…
They would remember.
Not the weak boy who had fallen in the woods.
But the flame they thought had gone out.
Itama Senju.
Alive.
And burning once more.