Point of View – An unnamed Konoha Jōnin, Third Great Ninja War
In the grand tapestry of shinobi history, there are those whose names are etched into legend—heroes of fire and lightning, of sand and stone. And then… there are the forgotten ones.
I am one of the latter.
A nameless Jōnin of Konohagakure—just another shadow among hundrets. The only noteworthy thing I've managed to achieve in my life... is the rank of Jōnin. Even then, I know in my heart I don't truly deserve it. Compared to other Jōnin—the likes of Hatake Sakumo or the up-and-coming Namikaze Minato—I lack something. Power? Talent? Perhaps both.
I know why I was promoted. It wasn't due to valor. It wasn't skill.
It was the war.
When the Third Great Ninja War broke out, death came like a plague. Bodies piled faster than the medics could burn them. With every mission, every skirmish, our numbers thinned. The village had no choice—they lowered the requirements, made hasty promotions. I was one of those emergency Jōnin. Elevated not by brilliance, but by necessity.
They sent me to the border between the Land of Earth and the Land of Fire—where the winds carried whispers of battle, but the ground was still unscorched. Compared to the frontlines, it was quiet. Deceptively so. We thought perhaps the enemy would overlook this corridor.
We were wrong.
Iwagakure came for us.
They struck like stone falling from the sky—crushing, unrelenting. Outnumbered and outpaced, I believed I would die in those first clashes. Iwa pushed hard, wanting to expel us from the Land of Grass. And they succeeded. The commander I was assigned to—an old shinobi with a scarred face and colder eyes—ordered a retreat.
That man saved my life.
But retreat was only the beginning. Our orders changed—we were told to trap the forest, to sabotage terrain, to slow the enemy's advance. The commands were clear, but the execution... was a nightmare. There was no cohesion. Morale was low. Coordination crumbled like brittle paper. Iwa's forces were relentless, hammering at us before traps were even set.
Eventually, our higher-ups cobbled together a new plan: a desperate bid to form a defensive line.
And so I was tasked with holding it.
My team—four of us then—was ordered to buy time. Fight the enemy. Hold the line. Delay their advance at all costs. And somehow, we did it. Through sheer grit, stubbornness, and luck, we held. Others followed, reinforcing the defense, and the line began to take shape. We'd stopped the bleeding.
A new order was issued: Don't let Iwa pass.
It sounded absurd. They had already broken through stronger lines than this. And now they expected this patchwork wall of wounded and war-weary shinobi to hold?
Still, we obeyed.
Time passed. Assignments shifted. Some days we patrolled. Other days we raided Iwa supply lines or dealt with deserters. Always watching. Always waiting. Never truly resting.
Then… came the second storm.
It was the dead of night when the alarm rose. Iwa forces had launched a full-scale assault. We were miles away, resting in a temporary outpost. By the time orders reached us, the battle had already turned into a slaughter.
When we arrived… the ground was soaked in blood.
The metallic scent was everywhere—thick, choking. The soil itself had turned a dark crimson. Shouts rang out across the battlefield, drowned by the roar of jutsu. It was chaos. The line had been pierced in multiple places. We were told to slow the enemy's advance—again. To fall back—but do so gradually. Give up ground, but bleed them for every step they took.
We followed the order. Reluctantly.
Then the message came: The first city has fallen.
It was a supply hub. An essential foothold. And now… it was gone. Orochimaru-sama, one of the Sannin, took command. His voice was cold, analytical. We were to fall back again and prepare to defend the second city.
Another line. Another last stand.
That city... was one of the two bulwark before the heart of the Fire Country. If it fell, the situation for konoha would be bad. The stakes were higher than ever.
We built defenses. Laid traps. Fortified walls. My hands trembled each time I carved a seal into stone or set an explosive tag. I don't know if it was fear… or fatigue.
Then came the next assault. And it was worse than anything before.
They came like a tide—silent at first, then thunderous. We unleashed fire, they answered with earth. Walls melted, the sky burned, and the very ground cracked beneath us. The initial exchanges were long-range, but it didn't last. Soon, they were at our walls.
That's where the real battle began.
We fought like animals. Screaming, snarling, bleeding. Shoulder to shoulder with comrades I barely knew, hurling jutsu until my chakra felt like sand in my veins.
We held the wall for hours.
And then… they broke through.
We were forced into the streets.
The fighting dragged through the night. Street by street. House by house. Every corner was a trap, every alley a tomb. I remember slipping on blood, dragging my injured teammate behind cover, flinging kunai at silhouettes in the smoke. The sky never changed. It was always gray, always raining ash.
By the second day, we were pushed to the city's edge.
The once-beautiful place was a ruin. Bodies lay in the gutters. The air was thick with rot and burning chakra. We'd made Iwa bleed—of that I have no doubt. They didn't expect us to fight like this. But it wasn't enough.
The city fell.
There was no official retreat. Just the survivors… fleeing. Out of 300 defenders, only 20 made it out alive.
My three teammates—good men, brave souls—were not among them.
I remember walking away from the carnage, covered in soot and blood, my kunai hand trembling, my vest torn. No cheers. No songs. Just silence. The kind that clings to you long after the battle is over.
I don't know if this war is cursed… or if we were simply too weak.
But I do know this.
I was never a hero. Not a legend. Not a prodigy.
Just a shinobi who tried to survive.
And sometimes… that's all we can be.