Smoke from the burned-out campfires hung over the valley, thick and bitter like regret.
The air stank of blood, rain, and cheap incense — the kind you light when you've got too many bodies and not enough priests.
Raizen stood before the clan, his clothes still stiff with dried mud. Behind him, rows of fresh graves stretched across the field like a second army.
"Don't mourn too long," he said, voice hoarse but steady. "The patriarch gave his life for the clan. The only way to honor him is to make sure we're still here tomorrow."
His words cut through the air like a cold wind. The younger shinobi lifted their heads; the veterans clenched their fists.
Amamiya Watari — one of the old guard, eyes sunken but fierce — stepped forward. "The young patriarch speaks truth. The patriarch's death isn't an end. It's a demand. We carry that burden now."
The gathered Jōnin straightened. Their tears didn't stop, but they stood taller.
When a clan loses its leader, the next name to echo matters more than the last.
And tonight, Amamiya Raizen became that name.
"Preserve the patriarch's body," Raizen ordered quietly. "He'll be buried when this war ends. Not before."
"Yes, Raizen-sama!"
The voices of his clan filled the camp, strong and certain. But Raizen heard the cracks beneath.
The Kaguya Clan might have pulled back for now, but everyone knew this wasn't peace. It was just a breath before the next storm.
That night, in the council room, the air was thick with exhaustion.
Maps littered the table. Every red mark on them was a grave waiting for a name.
"Defensive lines first," Raizen muttered, pinching his brow. "We can't afford another frontal assault. Not with what's left of us."
The room emptied by midnight, leaving only Raizen and three senior shinobi — Amamiya Seiji among them, silent and grim.
"What do you think the others will do when they hear Gen-sama is gone?" Raizen asked, eyes fixed on the dark beyond the window.
Seiji exhaled through his nose. "They'll fracture. Some will rally behind you, some won't. The miners and the outpost guards—they've never seen you fight."
Raizen's lip twitched. "So it's politics now. Perfect."
The others said nothing. Everyone knew what he meant. Even among survivors, loyalty had a half-life.
Raizen turned away. "Forget it. One problem at a time. Kaguya first. Everything else later."
He stared at the maps until the ink lines blurred.
A reincarnated soul in a war full of children with knives — and he was the one supposed to keep them alive.
Some cosmic joke.
By morning, scouts brought word from the border.
The Kaguya troops were retreating.
Raizen let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
"The front's quiet," he said. "Finally."
But the peace felt wrong. Temporary. Like the silence after lightning, when you know the thunder's still coming.
Even in victory, the numbers were brutal. Five hundred went to war. Barely a hundred came back.
The returning shinobi limped through the gates of the clan compound under gray skies. The smell of smoke followed them home.
Grief spread faster than any enemy could.
Every door bore a strip of white cloth. Every street echoed with soft crying.
Raizen walked past them all, his face unreadable, heart heavy.
He'd won a battle — and lost half a generation.
By sunset, the clan gathered in the mourning hall.
Black banners fluttered like dying crows. Rows of bodies lay beneath white sheets, still and pale.
Raizen stood before them, eyes scanning the crowd — families, comrades, the broken and the hardened.
Each face reflected the same question: Was it worth it?
He drew a slow breath.
"The Kaguya attacked us believing strength alone decides fate," he began. "But our people stood their ground. They fought, bled, and died so that the rest of us could keep breathing. That makes them heroes."
A murmur swept through the hall.
Raizen's tone hardened. "Remember their names. Their faces. Every one of them traded their lives so our children don't have to."
He looked down at the rows of bodies.
"They burned like leaves in the flame. But from ashes, new buds grow."
The silence that followed was heavier than any explosion.
Heads bowed. Tears fell quietly.
And for a moment, even the wind outside seemed to pause — listening.
...
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