Rain fell in relentless sheets, a cold, unyielding drizzle that drenched the charred earth and painted the battlefield in muted shades of gray and brown. Each drop seemed to carry a whisper of the lives that had ended here, of chakra dissipating into the air, mingling with the scent of burnt wood, scorched earth, and iron-rich blood. The world was still, but only barely; the echoes of the final clash of jutsu and steel lingered, faint and haunting, vibrating in the muscles of his body even as his lungs screamed for air.
Itachi's chest burned. Each inhale tore at his throat, burning as if fire had lodged itself in his lungs. His limbs trembled, not from weakness alone but from the cumulative weight of every choice he had ever made. Every life taken, every secret carried, every lie told—all pressed down on him now like an immovable stone. Blood clung to his lips and teeth, and the metallic tang filled his mouth. His hands were slick and trembling, fingers stiff with pain, but he refused to let himself collapse. Not yet.
Sasuke stood a short distance away, the boy's small, worn frame quivering slightly. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, and the pale sheen of exhaustion coated his face. His eyes, wide and haunted, darted to Itachi and then away again, as if afraid the man before him would strike with lethal force. Itachi's gaze, by contrast, was calm, unyielding, a mirror of his inner resolve. Every movement, every step forward, carried a mixture of love, regret, and unbearable sorrow.
Itachi's mind drifted, unbidden, to memories of the past—the moments that had built this life into the tragedy it had become. The massacre. The screams, the betrayal, the cold certainty he had carried when killing his own clan. Every swing of the blade, every word spoken in deception, every act of cruelty had been for Sasuke. For the boy who had been the light in a life otherwise steeped in shadow. And yet… the cost had been absolute.
He could still feel the sting of that moment when he had collapsed, his chest heaving, as he allowed himself to be pierced by Sasuke's rage and hatred. The boy had struck him, unaware of the truth, acting only as the instrument of destiny Itachi had prepared. Even knowing it was necessary, even planning it to protect the future, the sensation of dying by the hands of someone he loved most had left scars deeper than any physical wound. Pain mingled with relief, sorrow with fulfillment—an impossible, jagged emotion that tore at his heart and left him raw.
And now, standing in the aftermath, every sense was alive. The rain soaked through his clothes, weighing him down, cold and heavy. His hair clung to his face, slick with water and blood. The air was dense, rich with the scent of wet soil, blood, and ozone—the aftermath of lightning chakra from the Kirin strike he had barely survived. Every sound was amplified: the drip of water hitting debris, the faint crackle of dying fire, the distant calls of birds returning cautiously to the battlefield. Even this quiet was a reminder of life moving forward, indifferent to his suffering.
He remembered the lives he had failed to protect. Not just the clan, but the friends he had lost along the way. Kakashi… Shisui… all gone. And yet here, in this fragile moment, he could see that at least some of the next generation had survived. Sasuke. Naruto. Naruto… the persistent, unyielding presence who had refused to let the boy be consumed entirely by hatred. Itachi allowed himself a moment of private gratitude, a silent acknowledgment that even amidst all this loss, some threads of light remained.
Still, the weight of regret pressed down. Could he have done more? Protected Sasuke better? Prevented the deaths of the clan? His chest tightened painfully. He had believed he was choosing the lesser evil, sacrificing himself and his reputation so Sasuke might grow strong, might live free of hatred. Yet the knowledge that his brother had raised a blade against him, that he had bled at the hands of the one he loved most, still haunted him. The memory of that final blow lingered, sharper than any blade, seared into his mind: the fear, the confusion, the conflicting emotions in Sasuke's eyes mirrored in his own heart.
Itachi's fingers flexed, gripping the stone-strewn ground for balance. Every step toward the boy would be agony, every breath a labor. Yet he moved forward. Step by step. He did not speak, did not cry out, did not allow himself the comfort of emotion beyond the quiet, simmering storm within. Every motion was deliberate, measured. He could not falter now—not in front of Sasuke, not in front of the ghosts of his past.
As he walked, memories drifted in fragments. Sasuke as a child, laughing, innocent, unaware of the shadows creeping into his life. The days spent teaching him small lessons, the moments of comfort in fleeting touches, the whispered reassurances that had seemed so trivial at the time. Every childhood memory was juxtaposed against the blood and chaos of the present, and the contrast left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Naruto's persistence came to mind. That boy, once a nuisance, now a steadfast presence. He had kept Sasuke tethered, had protected him even when rejected, and had offered Itachi a small, unspoken hope that Sasuke would not be entirely lost to vengeance. Even from beyond the battlefield, Itachi acknowledged the role of others in shaping the boy's survival. He had not been entirely alone, and for that, he allowed a fleeting, silent appreciation to touch his consciousness.
But these moments of peace were fleeting. The world he had built through sacrifice was littered with corpses, burned villages, and shattered futures. The battlefield itself was a mirror to his soul: broken, scarred, and irrevocably changed. He could feel the weight of every decision pressing against him, an invisible force that threatened to crush the fragile remnants of his body and mind alike.
Itachi's breath came in ragged bursts now, each inhale a sharp reminder of the fragility of life. Blood ran freely from his mouth, dripping into the mud and mixing with the rain. Yet despite the overwhelming exhaustion, he continued. Each step toward Sasuke was a conscious act of will—a declaration that even in the face of death, he would remain the protector, the shadow, the brother who bore the unbearable weight alone.
And as he moved, he felt something strange—an almost imperceptible thread of relief weaving through the grief. Sasuke had grown. He had survived. Naruto had stood by him. There was a faint, impossible sense of accomplishment in knowing that, despite everything, the boy would continue. Itachi's lips curved slightly, barely noticeable, wet with blood, a smile that carried sorrow, pride, and the tiniest flicker of hope.
He remembered the childhood forehead taps, the quiet gestures meant to comfort, to reassure. The memory felt almost tangible now, guiding his hand as he raised it toward Sasuke, each movement measured, deliberate, slow. The rain soaked him through, yet he hardly noticed. The battlefield, the blood, the corpses—all of it faded into the periphery as he focused solely on the boy before him.
The rain continued to fall, colder now, heavier in some places, turning the battlefield into a wet, slick mess of mud, debris, and blood. Itachi's robes clung to his skin, soaked through, weighty with water and grime. Every movement sent pain lancing through his body—shoulders, ribs, legs, even his fingers. But still, he moved. Step by careful step, toward the boy he loved, toward the one he had sacrificed everything for.
Sasuke's breathing was shallow, uneven, punctuated with ragged gasps. His eyes darted nervously, flicking to the faint shimmer of Itachi's Mangekyō Sharingan. Panic surged through him, an instinctive, animal fear. He's going to take my eyes… the thought screamed through his mind, refusing to allow reason to intrude. He had been expecting this. He had imagined it countless times during the long, lonely nights filled with hatred, revenge, and frustration. And now that the moment had arrived, the anticipation was unbearable.
Itachi did not speak. His face was an expressionless mask, but beneath the calm surface, his heart was a tempest. Every step toward Sasuke carried centuries of pain compressed into a few meters. He remembered the Kirin, the lightning slicing the sky, the raw destructive energy that had ripped through the battlefield. He remembered the Susanoo, the armor that had saved him but cost him every ounce of chakra he had. His body ached from the backlash of both attacks—the burns, the lacerations, the bruises that felt like broken bones in his ribs.
Every muscle trembled, every limb screamed for rest, yet he pressed on. He could feel the cold biting into his skin, the rain soaking his hair, dripping into his eyes, mixing with the blood running down his face. The smell of wet earth and iron from blood was overwhelming, clinging to his senses like a second skin. Each inhale brought the sting of his own mortality, yet he ignored it.
Sasuke's gaze never left him, wide with fear, heart pounding in his chest like a drumbeat. His hands twitched at his sides, ready to strike, ready to defend, ready to end the life of the one he had believed to be his enemy. But his chakra was nearly gone; exhaustion weighed on him like chains. He had used everything he had in the battle—the last reserves of lightning and fire, the fury and hatred he had built over years—and now he was vulnerable. Vulnerable to the brother who had always been both his tormentor and his protector.
Itachi's mind drifted. He remembered Sasuke as a child—soft, small, innocent. The first time he had taught him a technique, the careful patience required, the gentle corrections that had always concealed the weight of his own burdens. He remembered the quiet moments when he had placed a hand on Sasuke's shoulder, the small touches to reassure, to comfort, gestures so simple yet loaded with significance.
Those memories, so fragile and bright, contrasted painfully with the present. The boy before him was no longer a child. He had grown, shaped by hatred, by grief, by pain. And yet he was still his brother, still the person Itachi had lived and died for.
Step by slow step, Itachi closed the distance. His mind reflected on every action of the battle—the exhaustion, the desperation, the perfect timing of each counter. He had survived Kirin with Susanoo, yes, but only barely. Every strike, every motion, had cost him dearly. His body was breaking down, his vision blurred intermittently, yet he continued. This was not about strength or victory anymore—it was about connection, about a final act, a final message to the boy he loved.
Sasuke's body twitched, muscles tense, every nerve screaming. He wanted to run, to strike, to flee, yet he could not. His body betrayed him, weighed down by exhaustion and the lingering effects of chakra depletion. Fear kept him frozen, the anticipation of pain or betrayal locking him in place.
Itachi's eyes flickered momentarily to the boy's face. He saw fear, confusion, exhaustion—and beneath it all, the faintest glimmer of the child he had once known. That glimpse was enough to reinforce his resolve. He would do this, he would reach Sasuke, and he would leave him with a memory of care, of love, even if it was fleeting.
As he approached, every detail of the battlefield seemed magnified. The crackle of dying fires, the soft hum of residual chakra, the rain pattering against broken stones, and the slick mud underfoot all became sharp, painful reminders of mortality. His feet slipped once, sending a jolt of pain through his ankle, but he ignored it, forcing himself forward. Pain was irrelevant now. Only the boy mattered.
The flashbacks continued relentlessly, unbidden but welcome. He remembered Naruto—persistent, irritating, yet unwavering. That boy had been there when he could not, when he had failed. He had stayed by Sasuke's side, offering support despite rejection, ignoring hatred, and embodying the hope Itachi had always wanted for his brother. Gratitude flared briefly within him, a flicker of warmth amid the cold, damp battlefield.
But the memories of failure were heavier. He had failed the clan, failed his own ideals, failed Sasuke in ways that could never be undone. He remembered the moment of collapse, the moment he let Sasuke strike him, the blood pooling around his body. Even knowing it was necessary, even knowing that it had to happen for the future, it had still hurt in ways that defied reason. To die by the hand of the one you love… the pain lingered, a jagged scar across his soul.
Yet as he drew closer, he felt a strange calm beneath the storm. Sasuke had survived. Naruto had survived. The world, in its stubborn way, would continue. There was relief in that truth, a fragile thread of hope weaving through the grief. He allowed himself a moment to recognize that, fleeting though it was.
Sasuke's eyes tracked his every movement, still wide, still panicked. Every small motion of Itachi's body—the way his fingers flexed, the slight tremble of his shoulder, the careful, deliberate steps—was interpreted as a threat. The boy flinched, bracing for attack. But Itachi did not move with aggression. He was not here to fight. He was here to reach out, to leave something behind beyond the scars and hatred.
The memory of the forehead tap surfaced in his mind. The small, quiet gesture he had offered countless times as a child to reassure Sasuke. It had been simple, yet meaningful. And now, even as his body ached and his lungs burned, he knew he would reach out in the same way. Not as a killer, not as a weapon, not as the shadow the boy had feared, but as a brother.
The rain fell harder, masking the soft sounds of movement. Each drop was a cold, liquid reminder of life, of persistence, of the cruel indifference of the world. Itachi's vision blurred intermittently from exhaustion and blood loss, but the outline of Sasuke remained clear enough to guide him. He took another step, a tremor running through his ankle and up his leg. Pain lanced through him, but he did not falter.
Each step was measured, deliberate, a quiet testament to his will. He was close now, and the memories of their shared past—both painful and tender—surged in his mind, lending him strength. The boy had grown, stronger than he had feared, shaped by pain but not broken entirely. That was enough to sustain him through the final distance.
The final meters between them felt impossibly long. Each step Itachi took was agony—muscles trembling, lungs burning, blood slicking the ground beneath him. Rain soaked through his hair, plastering strands to his face, mixing with the streaks of blood flowing from his mouth and nose. Every drop carried the bitter tang of iron, the scent of rain-soaked earth, and the remnants of chakra lingering in the air from the battle.
Sasuke's chest heaved violently, and his hands shook at his sides. The exhaustion from the fight made every breath a labor. Yet even as his body weakened, his eyes never wavered from Itachi, every instinct screaming to defend himself. The boy's pupils were wide, unblinking, reflecting both terror and awe. He could not comprehend fully what he was seeing: his brother, battered, bloodied, yet moving toward him with a calm that defied reason.
Itachi's fingers twitched as he raised his hand. Tremors ran through his entire body, and for a moment he paused, closing his eyes briefly, summoning every last ounce of willpower. This was the gesture he had rehearsed in memory a thousand times: the simple tap on the forehead, a gesture that had comforted a child and reminded him that, despite the shadows, someone had always cared.
The rain fell harder, hammering against their shoulders and heads, cold and unrelenting. It clung to their skin, soaking into their clothes, weighing them down. Itachi's vision was blurred by rain and exhaustion, yet the outline of Sasuke's face remained sharp, every expression painfully clear. His bloodied lips parted slightly as he whispered, almost inaudibly, "Sasuke…" A single name, heavy with love, regret, and an ache that could not be healed.
Sasuke froze. His body betrayed him. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure Itachi could hear it. Fear and anticipation collided violently within him. This is it… he's going to take my eyes. This is the end. Every muscle coiled for action, yet none could move. He was paralyzed by the impossibility of the moment.
Itachi's hand hovered, trembling slightly. He could feel the boy's fear radiating, raw and unfiltered. His heart ached—not from his own wounds, not from exhaustion—but from the unbearable knowledge that Sasuke had feared him, even after everything he had done to protect him. It was the culmination of decades of sacrifice, of lies, of isolation, of being the shadow in the boy's life. And yet here he was, performing one last act, a gesture of love, of closure.
He placed his fingers gently on Sasuke's forehead. The touch was feather-light, almost painfully familiar. It was a gesture he had repeated countless times during Sasuke's childhood, a reminder that no matter how dark the world became, he was there. Not as a killer, not as a shadow, but as a brother.
Sasuke's eyes widened further, shock and disbelief rooting him to the spot. The gesture—the simplicity of it—was incomprehensible after everything. The boy's mind raced. Why… why isn't he attacking? Why… Questions collided with emotion, hatred, love, and confusion, leaving him suspended in a liminal space between rage and grief.
Itachi's lips curved faintly, almost imperceptibly, blood mingling with rain. He whispered again, more clearly this time, the words carrying across the damp battlefield: "Forgive me, Sasuke… there won't be a next time."
Every syllable was weighted with decades of sacrifice. He had protected Sasuke in silence, in shadows, and now, even in death, he offered a final reassurance. The words were both a farewell and a lesson, a reminder that life continued beyond revenge, beyond hatred, beyond the spiral of pain that had consumed their clan and family.
Sasuke's breath hitched, tears beginning to form. He wanted to cry out, to scream, to demand answers, but the words would not come. He simply stared, riveted, as his brother's body swayed slightly from exhaustion, blood dripping down his robes and onto the mud-soaked earth. Every detail of Itachi's battered form was seared into his mind: the bruised muscles, the cuts along his arms, the wet hair plastered to his face, the faint, serene curve of his lips.
Itachi's body was trembling now, fatigue and injuries conspiring against him, yet he remained upright. Standing. The posture was deliberate, almost stoic. Death approached silently, an inevitable companion, yet he faced it without fear. Not out of bravado, but out of necessity—for Sasuke, for the truth, for closure.
His eyes flickered toward the horizon briefly, taking in the battlefield one last time. Fires still smoldered, smoke curling into the gray sky. The broken remnants of trees and buildings leaned like weary sentinels over the scene of destruction. He could feel the residual chakra pulsing faintly in the ground, remnants of the clash that had brought them to this moment. Every detail was sharp, visceral, a final imprint on his mind before the world faded.
Sasuke could not look away. He felt the rain, the blood, the sweat, the exhaustion, all mingling into a sensory overload. His chest rose and fell rapidly, a drumbeat of emotion he could not contain. Rage, sorrow, relief, confusion, and love collided inside him, leaving him disoriented, numb, and aching. He wanted to reach out, to hold, to question, to demand, yet words failed him.
Itachi's last breaths were shallow, rasping, each inhale a laborious act. His lips moved slightly, forming words that were meant for Sasuke alone: "I wanted… to protect you… always… even from me…" The voice was weak, fragmented by blood and pain, yet clear enough for the boy to hear.
Sasuke felt a raw, unfiltered grief surge through him. He wanted to deny it, to resist it, to cling to the anger that had sustained him, but the moment was too pure, too devastating to resist. He sank to his knees, trembling, unable to comprehend the paradox before him: the brother he had hated, the brother he had feared, the brother who had shaped his life in darkness and light, was dying… yet offering nothing but love and closure in his final act.
Itachi's body swayed slightly. Blood ran freely from his mouth, staining the wet earth below. He blinked slowly, deliberately, as if sealing the image of Sasuke in his mind one final time. And then, as if acknowledging that his work here was complete, he let his knees buckle just enough to steady himself against the pain—but he did not fall. He died standing, upright, serene, and strangely graceful in the chaos that surrounded him.
The rain continued to fall, washing over them, masking the soft sound of his final heartbeat. Sasuke's gaze remained locked on the still form, unable to comprehend, unable to accept, yet forced to confront the truth: his brother was gone. And with him, the weight of decades of secret sacrifice, the twisted love, the unbearable loneliness Itachi had carried alone, had passed into silence.
Sasuke's tears fell freely now, mixing with the rain. He wanted to scream, to collapse, to rage against the injustice of it, but his body would not obey. Instead, he whispered a single, broken question, barely audible: "Why… why did you…?"
There was no answer. Only the steady patter of rain, the faint hum of residual chakra, and the quiet finality of death. Itachi's body, still upright, still bearing the weight of his choices, seemed almost like a monument to the life he had lived—a life defined by sacrifice, love, and tragedy.
And then, somewhere on the periphery of consciousness, a faint presence stirred. A shadow in the rain. Something familiar yet distant. A movement. A ripple in the water, in the air, a hint of sharpness, of camaraderie, of mischief.
Itachi's eyes, though closed in death, seemed to flicker with recognition—an almost imperceptible acknowledgment that even in the silence of mortality, something else lingered. A presence, a connection, waiting.
Somewhere, beyond the battlefield, the echoes of the past faded into the promise of something new. The rain fell harder, washing away the blood, the tears, the smoke. But in that quiet, relentless fall, the memory of Itachi Uchiha remained—a testament to sacrifice, to love, and to the enduring bonds of family, even beyond death.
Sasuke sank to the muddy ground, legs splayed awkwardly beneath him, drenched by the cold, relentless rain. His chest heaved violently, each breath a raw, painful rhythm in a body that had been pushed beyond its limits. His hands were curled tightly into fists, mud and blood smearing his knuckles as though grounding him to the reality he refused to fully accept. His eyes remained fixed on his brother's still form, a mixture of disbelief, grief, and incomprehensible sorrow chaining him to the spot.
The battlefield had fallen silent. Only the whisper of rain hitting broken earth and the faint hum of residual chakra lingered. The clash of lightning, the roar of fire jutsu, the crackle of Susanoo armor—all gone. It was as if the world itself had exhaled, leaving Sasuke suspended in a moment of raw, unbearable clarity. He felt hollow, as though the air itself had been pulled from his lungs, leaving nothing but the sound of his heartbeat and the echo of his brother's final words.
"Forgive me, Sasuke… there won't be a next time."
The words replayed endlessly in his mind, each syllable striking deeper than the blade he had once wielded against Itachi. He had expected rage, vengeance, a final confrontation—but this was not what he had received. This was something infinitely more complicated: love, regret, sorrow, and closure wrapped into a single, silent gesture—the tap on his forehead.
Sasuke's vision blurred, the rain mingling with tears on his face, streaks cutting through the grime and blood. He could still see the faint curve of his brother's lips, the tired yet serene posture of his body, the blood that soaked into the earth below. The image was indelible, carved into his memory with sharper precision than any jutsu or battle scar. And yet, it was incomprehensible. The man who had haunted his life, the man he had both revered and hated, was gone.
His mind flickered, trying desperately to process the weight of everything. Memories surged forward, uncontrolled, overlapping in a chaotic tide:
The days of their childhood, when Itachi had been the quiet protector, guiding, teaching, sometimes strict, sometimes gentle. The small gestures—a hand on his shoulder, a whisper of reassurance—that now seemed impossibly precious. The way Itachi had watched him, silently ensuring he was safe, even while carrying secrets too heavy for a child to understand.
And then the darkness: the clan massacre, the hatred he had nurtured, the years of misunderstanding, of longing, of separation. Each memory cut like a blade, stabbing simultaneously with grief and understanding. Sasuke realized, with a shock that sent tremors through his chest, that every act of cruelty had been part of a carefully orchestrated plan to protect him. To prepare him. To ensure his survival.
His chest tightened, the weight of regret and comprehension pressing down. He had sought revenge, nurtured hatred, and yet now, in the aftermath of Itachi's death, he understood a truth that had always eluded him: the brother he had hated most had loved him with an intensity beyond comprehension.
Sasuke's fingers brushed unconsciously against his forehead, the spot where Itachi had tapped him, a silent imprint of love and farewell. His mind trembled under the paradox: the act had been simple, almost childish, yet it carried the weight of decades of sacrifice. It was a gesture that spoke of forgiveness, of closure, and of a bond that transcended anger and vengeance.
He remembered Naruto, persistent and unwavering, a presence that had always kept him tethered to life. Even when he had pushed the boy away, refused his friendship, and let hatred guide his path, Naruto had remained. He had stayed when no one else could, had protected him even in the face of rejection, and had shown a light in the darkness that Itachi himself had once sought to preserve. Gratitude mingled with sorrow, a bitter-sweetness that Sasuke could not articulate.
Sasuke's mind wandered further, revisiting Kakashi's lessons, the wisdom and patience of a teacher who had guided him even in the absence of understanding. The memories were fragments, flickering images of childhood, of growth, of bonds that had persisted despite tragedy. And yet, all of it now seemed overshadowed by the reality before him: Itachi, the man who had been both tormentor and protector, was gone.
The rain fell heavier, drowning the world in cold, relentless sheets. Sasuke felt the water soak through his clothes, chilling him to the bone, but he barely noticed. His body was numb, his mind a storm of grief, confusion, and realization. He wanted to scream, to collapse, to rage against the unfairness of it all, but no sound came. Only the faint whisper of the rain and the memory of a single touch anchored him to this devastating truth.
He studied Itachi's body—the stillness, the upright posture, the faint smile lingering despite the blood and exhaustion. Death had not marred him with ugliness or fear; he had faced it with the same composure he had carried through life. Even in death, he was a monument to the burdens he had borne, a testament to sacrifice and love. Sasuke felt a tremor run through him, a recognition of all he had failed to see, failed to understand, and yet would carry forward forever.
The battlefield seemed impossibly quiet, every sound amplified in contrast: the drip of water hitting the mud, the faint rustle of broken leaves, the distant call of a returning bird. Time itself felt suspended, stretching endlessly as Sasuke sat frozen, unable to comprehend, unable to mourn properly. He could not yet release the tension in his body, could not yet reconcile the pain and the understanding flooding through him.
And then, at the very edge of his awareness, something shifted. A presence—subtle, faint, yet unmistakable—touched the corner of his perception. It was neither threatening nor familiar in a way that required immediate recognition. Just a shadow of movement, a ripple in the rain, a whisper at the edge of consciousness.
Sasuke's brow furrowed slightly, instincts still taut from battle. He felt it—a presence of someone he had known, someone important, yet somehow new. The sensation lingered, teasing, almost playful in its subtlety. He did not move, did not speak, but the awareness remained, a quiet promise that the story had not yet ended.
For a fleeting moment, Sasuke allowed himself to hope—not for revenge, not for closure, but for the possibility that life, in all its cruel twists and turns, had not yet finished with him. The shadow flickered again, faint but perceptible, leaving a trace of familiarity that stirred something long buried within him.
It was enough to anchor him, to prevent complete despair, to remind him that the bonds of family, of friendship, and of sacrifice stretched beyond even death. He remained there, knees pressed into the wet earth, body trembling, mind racing, heart broken yet tethered to the faintest glimmer of anticipation.
The rain fell harder still, washing over the battlefield, over blood and tears, over the ruins of a fight that had ended only moments ago. And somewhere in that relentless downpour, the faint presence lingered, teasing, hinting, waiting. A promise of continuity, of connection, of something beyond grief and loss.
Sasuke exhaled slowly, the first controlled breath he had taken in what felt like an eternity. The weight of Itachi's death pressed on him, undeniable and immutable, yet beneath it, a fragile seed of awareness began to take root: that even in the silence of endings, beginnings might still await.
And in the distance, hidden by rain and shadow, the faintest outline of a familiar figure slipped through the storm—moving toward the boy, toward the remnants of the battlefield, carrying the weight of the past and the promise of what was yet to come.