The world returned in fragments.
First came sound—the whisper of rain against canvas, the murmur of voices that bent into silence whenever they realized he was awake. Then came pain—a raw, tearing agony that ran deeper than flesh, as if his very chakra coils had been gnawed by something hungry. And finally came memory—the strike of Shinro's blade, the storm he had unleashed, the battlefield swallowed in light and thunder.
Ryuzen's eyes opened to the dim glow of lanterns. The air smelled of blood, herbs, and damp earth. He lay within a medic tent, bandages wrapped tight across his chest, arms, and neck. Each breath was shallow, his lungs unwilling to obey.
He tried to move. His body answered with rebellion.
"Don't."
The voice was stern, commanding—one that brooked no argument. Ryuzen turned his head, sluggishly, and saw her.
Tsunade.
Her blond hair was tied high, strands escaping to frame sharp eyes that glared down at him. She wore the white coat of the medical corps, stained faintly with the day's endless casualties.
"You're lucky you're still alive," she said, her hand glowing green with chakra as it pressed against his ribs. The warmth of her jutsu seeped through him, but behind it was steel. "Whatever technique you used—it didn't just tear your body. It shredded your life-force."
Ryuzen's lips cracked as he forced words out. "…Storm Binding… was the only way."
"Only way?" Tsunade's eyes narrowed. "You nearly collapsed the entire frontline with that storm. I'm still stitching soldiers who were caught in the backlash of your 'only way.'"
He swallowed hard. The truth was bitter. In defeating Shinro—no, not even defeating, merely surviving—he had scorched friend and foe alike.
Tsunade's expression softened, if only slightly. "Rest. Your body isn't ready to carry that storm again."
The Whispering Camp
Outside the tent, the war did not pause.
Every soldier that passed near cast a glance at the medic tent, whispers crawling like fire through dry grass.
"That's him."
"The one who fought the Blade of Silence."
"I heard he called down thunder so bright it blinded half the field."
"No… I heard he tore chakra itself apart."
Some spoke with awe. Others with fear. None with certainty.
A young chūnin, carrying water pails, whispered to his companion: "Do you think he's even… human?"
Inside, Ryuzen heard everything. His senses were still raw, too sharp. Every word was another weight pressing down on his chest.
He closed his eyes, but the whispers did not fade.
The Council Divided
Far from the battlefield, in Konoha's council chambers, Ryuzen's name burned hotter than the war itself.
Hiruzen Sarutobi sat at the head of the table, the pipe in his hand unlit. His face was carved with lines deeper than any map of battle.
"Reports confirm it," a messenger said. "Shinro was driven back. Our forces were saved by Ryuzen's intervention."
Danzo's single visible eye gleamed. "Saved? Or endangered? You speak of intervention. I see recklessness. He unleashed a storm that spared no one. Tell me, Hokage—what is more dangerous to Konoha's future? Shinro's blade, or a shinobi who believes himself a god?"
Homura and Koharu exchanged uneasy glances.
Hiruzen exhaled smoke he hadn't realized he'd drawn. "…Ryuzen is still a shinobi of Konoha."
Danzo leaned forward, his voice soft but sharp. "And so was Kagami. So was Sakumo. Power like this does not serve villages—it swallows them. If you do not place a leash on Ryuzen now, you will find yourself staring at another threat within your own gates."
The chamber fell silent.
Hiruzen did not answer. He could not.
The Visit
On the third day, Ryuzen woke to laughter. Not cruel, not mocking—genuine, unrestrained.
"Ah! You're awake!"
Ryuzen blinked. The man sitting cross-legged at his bedside was wrapped in bandages nearly as thick as his own, but his grin was wide enough to light the tent.
Might Duy.
"Finally!" Duy beamed. "I thought you were going to sleep through the whole war!"
Despite himself, Ryuzen almost smiled. Duy's optimism was so absurd it bent the very air around him.
"You should… be resting," Ryuzen muttered.
"Resting? I am resting! Sitting here, talking to you, healing at the same time. Two birds, one kunai!" Duy gave him a thumbs-up so vigorous his bandages strained.
Ryuzen shook his head. "You nearly died. Again."
"And yet here I am," Duy said proudly. "Because of you. You saved me, Ryuzen. You saved many. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
The words cut deeper than any wound. Ryuzen turned his face away. "I didn't save them all. My storm… killed as many as it saved."
Duy's voice grew quiet, but not weak. "That's war. Every choice costs lives. What matters is that you had the courage to choose."
For a long moment, silence hung between them. Then Duy laughed again, softer this time. "Besides… you're still here. That means you still have the chance to do better tomorrow."
Ryuzen closed his eyes. For the first time since the duel, he allowed himself to breathe without shame.
Shadows on the Horizon
Night fell heavy. Rain pattered against the tent, steady as a heartbeat. Ryuzen drifted between sleep and waking, his body caught in the slow rhythm of recovery.
Then—wings.
A hawk cut through the downpour, landing on the medic tent's post. Its message was sealed with urgency. Tsunade broke the wax, her eyes scanning the scroll. Her jaw tightened.
She turned to Ryuzen. "Don't move. Not yet."
But he had already seen the name written on the parchment. Even in the dark, it burned bright.
Shinro.
Alive.
Not only alive—rallying the scattered, the broken, the disillusioned. Building something new in the ruins of the Third War. A storm of his own.
Ryuzen's hand trembled against the sheets. The storm inside him stirred, restless, demanding release.
Tsunade pressed him back down. "If you get up now, you'll tear your body apart."
Ryuzen's voice was hoarse, but steady. "…Then heal me faster."
Cliffhanger
Beyond the medic tent, thunder rumbled.
But it was not Ryuzen's storm.
It was Shinro's—rising again, somewhere far, somewhere too close.
And Ryuzen, bound in bandages, could do nothing but wait.
Author's Note – Chapter 36
When I wrote this chapter, I wanted you to feel what true aftermath tastes like. Not just the blood and bandages, but the silence that follows a storm—the whispers, the doubts, the politics that circle like vultures.
Ryuzen didn't win. Not really. He survived. And sometimes survival itself is the cruelest victory, because it leaves you with questions you don't want to answer.
Tsunade sees him as a weapon that can break itself.
Danzo sees him as a weapon that must be caged.
The shinobi around him see him as something more—or less—than human.
And Shinro? Shinro is not gone. Storms don't die that easily.
This is the chapter where the war pauses, but the tension does not. Where scars are stitched shut, but wounds still bleed beneath the skin.
Remember this: every great storm needs recovery. But storms never heal quietly. They gather. They sharpen. They wait.
And when Ryuzen rises again, it won't just be recovery. It will be reckoning.
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⚡ Next up, Chapter 37 will drag us back into the warfront—but this time, Ryuzen carries not just his storm, but the weight of fear from both allies and enemies.