The night after the storm of battle was a strange one. The rain had stopped, but the smell of blood lingered in the soil, thick as smoke. Fires flickered along the encampment, their warmth too small to drive away the shadows that clung to every shinobi's face.
Ryuzen sat outside the medic tent, arm still wrapped, his body aching with phantom lightning. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard Shinro's voice echoing in the thunder. Every time he opened them, he saw whispers—men pointing, soldiers muttering:
"The Stormbringer survived again."
"Is he even human?"
"Danzo-sama is watching him."
He didn't care. Or at least, he told himself he didn't. The silence between his heartbeats told a different story.
"Ryuzen."
He looked up. A masked ANBU stood before him, faceless and cold. "You're summoned to the strategy tent. Immediately."
Ryuzen's brows drew together. He expected Danzo, or some council lackey. But when he entered the large command tent, the sight inside made him pause.
Sakumo Hatake—the White Fang of Konoha—stood hunched over a war map, his silver hair catching the torchlight like blades of moonlight. His presence filled the space, heavy yet dignified, a warrior's aura tempered by years of war.
Opposite him stood Minato Namikaze. Young, sharp, golden. His eyes burned not with arrogance but clarity—the kind of clarity only geniuses carried. He was calm, steady, but the air bent subtly around him, as if destiny itself leaned closer.
And now, between them, stepped Ryuzen.
Sakumo's gaze lifted, sharp and assessing. Minato, by contrast, offered a small nod of welcome.
"Sit," Sakumo said simply. His voice was deep, commanding, but not unkind.
Ryuzen sat. The silence stretched for a beat too long.
Finally, Minato spoke. "We're reworking the defense line. Too many squads are spread thin. The Stone will push again by dawn."
Sakumo grunted, adjusting markers on the map. "I'll lead the next strike squad myself. We can't afford hesitation."
Ryuzen frowned. "You? The White Fang leading a small strike squad?"
Sakumo's lips twitched, almost a smile but not quite. "When morale breaks, sometimes it's not numbers you need. It's certainty."
Ryuzen leaned back, arms crossed. "Certainty. Or sacrifice."
The words hung heavy. Sakumo didn't flinch—but Minato's eyes flicked toward him.
And then, almost too casually, Minato shifted the subject. "Kakashi was asking about you again, Sakumo-san."
Ryuzen blinked. He hadn't expected that name here, now, on the eve of battle.
Sakumo's shoulders stiffened. "Kakashi…" His voice softened. "He's too sharp for his age. Too aware."
Minato smiled faintly. "That's because he has your blood."
But Sakumo didn't smile back. He stared down at the map, hands tightening on the table's edge. "My son sees strength. The White Fang. The sword. The glory. But I don't know if he sees me. The man who bleeds, doubts, falters." His voice grew quieter. "I don't know if I've taught him how to live… only how to fight."
The silence that followed was heavier than any war drum.
Minato spoke gently, voice carrying the weight of foresight. "Kakashi won't just inherit your blade, Sakumo-san. He'll inherit your resolve. But…" He hesitated, then added, "it will come with pain. Pain he won't understand until much later."
Ryuzen, listening, felt something twist in his chest. A memory—not his, yet familiar—of standing alone as a boy, storm raging inside, waiting for a father who never came.
He leaned forward. "You fear Kakashi will only see the legend. But children… they don't remember legends, Sakumo. They remember moments. A hand on their shoulder. A word before leaving. Even the smallest act burns deeper than the brightest fame."
Sakumo looked at him then, truly looked, and for a fleeting moment, the great White Fang's eyes carried exhaustion no one else was allowed to see.
"You speak as if you know," Sakumo said.
"I do," Ryuzen answered. His voice was low, steady, like distant thunder. "Because I grew up with nothing but the storm. No father. No hand. Only silence. And silence can kill more than any kunai."
Sakumo's jaw tightened. Minato's gaze softened, and he seemed to understand what wasn't being said.
The tent was quiet again—until Sakumo suddenly exhaled, a harsh laugh under his breath. "And yet here we are. Three men talking about a child while the world burns around us."
"Not just any child," Minato said softly.
Ryuzen watched the exchange with sharp eyes. He knew this wasn't just small talk. This was legacy—threads weaving themselves in real time. Kakashi was being shaped by a war he wasn't even fighting.
And beneath it all, another name slithered into the conversation.
"Danzo doesn't like how much Kakashi watches me," Sakumo said bitterly. "The boy adores strength, but Danzo fears what children of war become. He's already whispering about loyalty, obedience. He sees my son as a future tool—or threat."
Minato's expression darkened. "Danzo sees everyone that way."
Ryuzen's storm flared inside him, unbidden. He had heard Danzo's whispers too many times. His storm, his existence, was already marked for chains. Now Kakashi too?
The thought made his fists clench.
The discussion shifted back to maps, to supply lines, to formations—but the weight of the earlier words lingered like a ghost in the torchlight.
When the meeting finally ended, Sakumo lingered near the tent's entrance. He didn't look at either of them as he muttered under his breath, almost too quiet to hear:
"Kakashi… forgive me, if all I can leave you is a burden heavier than my sword."
Ryuzen froze. He felt it in his bones—that this wasn't just a father's worry. It was prophecy.
As Sakumo stepped into the night, Minato glanced at Ryuzen. His voice was calm, but his eyes burned with something deeper. "Remember this moment, Ryuzen. Because someday, the storm you carry won't just clash with enemies. It'll clash with history."
Ryuzen didn't answer. He simply followed Sakumo's silhouette with his gaze—one man destined to be broken not by enemies, but by the very village he bled for.
And in that instant, the storm inside him whispered back:
I will not let Kakashi inherit only silence.
Author's Note:
This chapter was one of the hardest for me to write—not because of the battles or strategy, but because of the silence between words. Sometimes, the loudest moments in war aren't the clash of swords or the roar of jutsu… but the quiet confessions of fathers, the fears of sons, and the heavy truths no one says out loud.
Sakumo Hatake isn't just "The White Fang." He's a man trying to be a father in a world that keeps demanding him to be a weapon. Minato stands as the light of the future, yet even he knows that light is forged from painful shadows. And Ryuzen… well, he speaks from a storm that only those who have felt true loneliness will understand.
I wanted this chapter to be a mirror—for Kakashi's legacy, for Ryuzen's storm, and maybe even for us as readers. Because sometimes we don't remember legends… we remember the small, fleeting moments that shape us forever.
If this chapter struck a chord with you, let me know. Every read, every collection, every comment means more than you know—it reminds me that these words are not echoing into silence.
Stay with me. The war is far from over, and the storm is only beginning to clash with destiny. ⚡