In a battlefield thousands of kilometers away from the land of rice
Uchiha Itachi remembered very clearly the moment he became aware of exactly what he was.
It was raining that day. Itachi had only just turned four, and the rain—so heavy he had trouble opening his eyes under its weight—beat down mercilessly on his tiny body. Standing beside him, his father offered nothing in the way of sympathy or support. And Itachi himself didn't wish for any.
"Remember, this is a battlefield." His father's powerful words pushed through the roar of the rain to pierce Itachi's heart.
Battlefield…
Not a word for a four-year-old boy to fix in his memory. To say still less of the scene that lay before him at that moment, nothing remotely fit for a child's eyes.
Bodies, bodies, bodies…
Mountains of dead bodies as far as the eye could see. And not a single one at peace. The corpses had stiffened, with faces twisted in agony.
"In a few years, you'll be a ninja too. This war might end, but the reality of the ninja does not change. This is the world you will step into."
His father's callous voice filling his ears, Itachi stood still and endured. If he relaxed his control, the tears would come spilling out.
It wasn't that he was scared. It wasn't that he was sad. An emotion he couldn't put into words surged within him. He didn't understand why, but he felt such a tightness in his chest, he could hardly stand it.
Soaking wet in the rain. His father probably wouldn't notice if he cried. Still, Itachi didn't want to. He felt that if he cried here he might lose something critical to his life as a ninja. So he desperately tightened his control over himself.
But the tears came naturally spilling out.
People with Konoha forehead protectors. Ninja from other lands. The countless dead bodies blanketing the surface of the earth had no connection to national borders now. All of them had been unable to kick free of their own deaths as they struggled, mourned, writhed. Those anguish-filled faces were all the same, no matter which land the ninja were from.
Not one among them had wished for death. And yet they had all died. Why? Because of the war.
"Father." Itachi heard his own voice. And then, for the first time, he realized he was shaking. It wasn't the chill of the rain. It wasn't a fear of the corpses. Rage made Itachi shake. "Why did you bring me here…"
His father was silent for a while at the question from his young son, and then he began to respond, as if choosing his words carefully. "You are a clever boy."
Eyes still turned toward the corpses, Itachi waited for his father to continue. He felt a warmth on the top of his head. The palm of his father's hand.
"I wanted to make sure you saw this reality."
Itachi frantically searched his mind for the meaning of the word "reality." He was only four. He didn't understand the difference between reality and fiction. Even so, he grasped the meaning of what his father was leaving unsaid.
"This is the world I will live in…"
"That's right, Itachi. Ninja are creatures that fight. Never forget what you've seen here today."
His father's voice led Itachi to rub his eyes. He burned the hellscape before him into his retinas so that he would never forget it.
A warmth unlike that of his tears wriggled and squirmed within his eyes. The sensation—a wild wave of power flowing toward his retinas—was so terrifying, he unconsciously closed his eyes. When he did, the wave slowly, quietly disappeared into the center of his head. His heart pounded madly, and his breathing was ragged. He took a deep breath, and opened his eyes. Before him, the hellish world was unchanged.
He gently pressed a hand to his chest. He felt like if he gave himself over to that power, he would stop being himself somehow.
"What's wrong?"
He didn't respond to his father's question, but simply stared hard at the sight before him. This hell might have been the world in which he was to live, but he had no intention of sitting back and simply accepting it.
I will change it.
It was a mistake to try and resolve things by fighting, for whatever reason. This world had to change. This belief became the foundation of the man known as Uchiha Itachi.
Itachi never forgot that day.
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Iwagakure Command Tent, Land of Rice Fields
Rain drummed a hollow rhythm on the tent canvas, the sound echoing the exhaustion in Commander Kitsuchi's bones. Before him stood his eight jonin commanders, their faces etched with the same grim determination that had sustained them through three years of war. The air hung thick with the scent of wet earth, stale sweat, and the metallic tang of blood that never quite washed away.
Ganryū of the Earth Grinders stood closest, stone dust permanently embedded in the creases of his knuckles. His massive frame seemed to absorb the lamplight, shoulders hunched like a weathered cliff face. To his left, Kuroba from the Explosion Corps picked absently at the yellow stains on his fingers – residue from the volatile tags he handled daily. The sharp scent of gunpowder clung to him like a second skin.
Across the map table, Fūma of the Boulder Vanguards stood with arms crossed over his cratered armor, his stillness more threatening than any movement. Beside him, Chiyo of the Seismic Sensors kept her bare feet firmly planted on the trembling ground, eyes closed as she read vibrations no one else could feel. Her breathing matched the earth's subtle pulse.
"Two hundred forty-eight dead yesterday," rasped Mizuchi, the Medics commander. He held up hands still crusted with another man's blood beneath the nails. "The field hospitals overflow with men who'll never wield a kunai again. Konoha shinobi shatter bones like glass."
Rōga of the Airborne Lancers slammed his fist onto the map, making inkwells jump. Hawk feathers woven into his collar trembled with the motion. "For what? Burnt paddies and poisoned wells? Konoha hoards land their soft hands can't even farm!"
Fūma's stone-like knuckles whitened. "My Vanguards break mountains, not retreat like frightened voles."
Kuroba peeled a strip of explosive paper from its backing with a sharp snick. "Let me collapse their southern supply route. Burn their granaries. Im prepared to die."
Chiyo's eyes snapped open, dark pools reflecting the lamplight. "The earth weeps from our digging. Last night, Tunnel Sector Seven collapsed. Twelve men buried alive in their sleep."
Kitsuchi's voice cut through the rising tension like obsidian splitting rock. "Enough."
Silence fell heavy as falling stone. Rain hissed against canvas. The commander traced the thick scar across his own throat – a gift from a Konoha kunoichi during the Battle of Burning Gorge.
"You think I long for this?" His gaze swept the room, lingering on each face. "When Konoha's children feast on rice grown in fertile valleys while ours suck on boiled leather for sustenance... we dig. We fight. We bury our dead in foreign soil." He planted both hands on the map, his shadow swallowing the contested territories. "This war isn't for glory. It's for tonight's thin broth in Iwa's cooking pots. So we fight harder. Smarter. Until the peace table groans under the weight of our survival."
No cheers followed. Only the slow, grim nod of Jinbe (Rearguard Holders) as he swallowed the last of his rock-hard ration bar. The resolve in the tent was palpable – not blind hatred, but the terrible necessity of men who knew retreat meant starvation for everyone they loved.
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Willow Marsh, 14:22 Hours
The marsh breathed death. Mist coiled around skeletal trees rising from black water, their roots like the grasping fingers of drowned men. Hizashi moved ahead, Byakugan veins pulsing at his temples as he scanned the submerged landscape. Behind him, Hiashi walked with lethal silence, a ghost in white robes. Takeshi, a branch family guard with eyes too old for his twenty-two years, kept a protective hand near Tsukihiko's shoulder. The boy's small boots sank deep into sucking mud with every step.
They had been following Iwagakure tunnelers for a few days now, noting down their attack and retreat routes, such intelligence was worth gold in the world of shinobi warfare. so they did their best to remain hidden and at undiscoverable distance, nevertheless they were able to follow-curtesy to the byakugan.
"Tunnel entrances here... and here," Hizashi murmured, marking a mud-smeared scroll with quick strokes. "Retreat paths lead east toward the Stoneback Bluffs. We pull back and report."
The attack came not from the tunnels, but from the water.
Ten figures erupted from the murk like vengeful spirits, mud-smeared and silent. Stone Serpents – Iwa's elite tunnel fighters. Their leader, a woman with flint-chip eyes, lunged at Hizashi with a stone dagger aimed at his throat. "you think we wouldn't notice you rats following us?" she roared furiously.
Chaos exploded.
Hiashi moved with liquid grace, Gentle Fist strikes cracking against the stone-reinforced armor of two Serpents. One gauntlet shattered like cheap pottery, revealing a forearm already mottled with deep bruises. Hizashi spun into a whirling Kaiten, deflecting earth spears that rained down. One spearhead grazed his shoulder, blooming crimson on white silk.
"DOWN!" Takeshi shoved Tsukihiko behind the rotting hulk of a sunken cedar. "Stay behi—" 4 Shinobi attacked the pair.
A kunai buried itself in Takeshi's thigh with a sickening thunk. He roared, wrenching it free as two Iwa genin dropped from the canopy – Kaito not looking older than 10 held his weapon tremblingly and Sora a bit older yet missing two fingers.
"Konoha filth!" Sora screamed, already hurling another blade.
Tsukihiko froze.
The world narrowed to a single, burning kanji etched behind his eyes: 死 (Death). Sora's enraged face blurred. The screams of clashing shinobi faded to a dull roar. His limbs turned to stone.
SCHLICK!
Takeshi staggered, a second kunai protruding from his lower back as he struggled to defend against a jonin and a chuunin. Blood bubbled at his lips as he choked out, "M-MOVE, YOUNG MASTER!"
Agony ripped through Tsukihiko's right foot – Kaito's blade had pinned it to the marsh floor. The pain shattered the death-kanji's hold. Reality rushed back: the metallic stench of blood, Takeshi's wet gasps, Sora's snarl of triumph.
Kaito lunged, overconfidence in his young eyes. "Die, clan brat!"
Tsukihiko's body moved without thought – months of Hiashi's brutal drills overriding terror. A palm strike snapped forward, chakra needles coalescing at his fingertips.
CRUNCH.
The sound was horribly small. Kaito's sternum collapsed inward. He crumpled without a sound, eyes wide with surprise, into the dark water.
"KAITO!" Sora's scream wasn't grief; it was the raw, animal sound of a brother witnessing his world end. Rage contorted his young face. He didn't see a child. He saw the killer of his last family. Hands flew through seals with desperate speed. "Earth Release: Rock Shuriken!"
Tsukihiko wrenched his bleeding foot free, stumbling back. Too slow. Jagged stone projectiles screamed toward his face, each one aimed to maim, to blind, to kill.
Behind the lethal shuriken, Tsukihiko saw Sora's eyes – not cruel, but utterly shattered. "You took Kaito," the boy whispered, the words carrying over the marsh. "Now I take you."
The shuriken filled Tsukihiko's vision. He saw his death in their razor edges.