The green light wouldn't steady.
Tatsuya pressed his palms against the chunin's chest, watching the chakra flicker like a candle in wind. His reserves were dangerously low—had been for hours now—but there were still wounded who needed him, still lives balanced on the edge of what his hands could do.
"Hold still," he murmured, though the man beneath him had stopped moving minutes ago. Shock, probably. The kunai had caught him in the shoulder, missing the subclavian artery by centimeters. Lucky. Relatively speaking.
Around him, the forward outpost hummed with controlled chaos. Shinobi moved with purpose—reinforcing positions, clearing debris, counting the dead. The probe attack had lasted maybe three minutes. The aftermath would take hours.
"Meguri."
He didn't look up. "Busy."
"He's stable." Ren's voice, flat as always. "You've been working on him for ten minutes. He's stable."
Tatsuya blinked. Checked his work—the wound was closed, the bleeding stopped, the tissue beginning the slow process of knitting itself back together. Ren was right. He'd been healing on autopilot, his mind somewhere else entirely.
He pulled his hands back. The green light died.
"Takeshi?"
"Evacuation team's prepping him now. Your work held." Ren settled onto a supply crate nearby, moving stiffly. His knuckles were torn, swollen—he'd been fighting bare-fisted at some point, his earth-reinforced strikes powerful enough to shatter bone. "Two others from Team Six need attention when you're ready."
"Give me a minute."
He didn't have a minute. But he took one anyway, letting his head fall forward, breathing through the hollow exhaustion that came from pushing chakra reserves past empty. His hands trembled slightly. Not fear—just depletion. The body telling him it had nothing left to give.
He gave anyway. That was the job.
"First real engagement?" he asked, not quite looking at Ren.
A pause. "That obvious?"
"You're still here. Still functioning. That's not obvious at all." Tatsuya pushed himself upright, joints protesting. "Most people freeze. Or break. You did neither."
Ren was quiet for a moment. Then: "I killed a man. With my hands." He looked down at those hands—broad, calloused, built for violence. "It was easier than I expected. That bothers me more than the act itself."
Tatsuya understood that particular horror. The discovery that killing came naturally, that the human capacity for violence was a feature rather than a flaw. He'd made peace with it. Mostly.
"It gets easier," he said. "That's not comfort. Just truth."
"I know." Ren's expression didn't change. "My father told me the same thing before he died."
Before Tatsuya could respond, Jiraiya appeared at the edge of the medical station. The Sannin's jovial mask was entirely absent now, replaced by a harder expression.
"Meguri. Inoue. With me."
They followed him to the command tent, where other team leaders were already gathering. The space was cramped, bodies pressed close around a rough table covered in maps and casualty reports. Tatsuya found a corner and made himself small, conscious of his rank among these hardened veterans.
Minato was already there, standing at Jiraiya's shoulder. His expression was calm, attentive—but Tatsuya caught the slight tension in his jaw, the way his eyes kept moving to the tent entrance.
"Scout report came in," Jiraiya said without preamble. "That wasn't a probe. It was bait."
The tent went quiet.
"Iwa has committed a larger force to this sector. Forty to fifty shinobi, moving through the western corridor." Jiraiya traced a line on the map with one finger. "They're not harassing supply lines anymore. They're trying to establish a foothold."
A jonin with a Nara clan shadow stitched into his vest leaned forward. "Reinforcement timeline?"
"Eighteen hours minimum. Probably closer to twenty-four."
"We can't hold this position against fifty for a full day. Not with our current strength."
"No." Jiraiya's smile held no humor. "We can't hold. But we can hit them before they consolidate. They don't know we've spotted their main force. That's an advantage we won't have twice."
Discussion erupted—tactical considerations, force allocation, risk assessment. Tatsuya listened, absorbing the shape of the argument while studying the map. The terrain was rough, forested hills cut by ravines and seasonal streambeds. Good for ambush. Bad for sustained engagement.
His eyes caught on a feature he'd noted during the initial briefing. The western ravine—the one he'd flagged as dangerous for approach. From this angle, looking at the enemy's likely route...
"The ravine," he said.
The tent went quiet again. Every eye turned to the genin who'd spoken out of turn.
Tatsuya felt his face heat but didn't look away. "The western ravine. Their advance route passes through it. If we position forces on the elevated approaches—"
"We discussed that terrain during briefing," a chunin interrupted. "The sightlines work both ways. We'd be exposed to counter-fire."
"Only if they know we're there." Tatsuya stepped closer to the map, pointing. "The northern approach is heavily forested. Dense canopy, minimal clearing. A force could move into position undetected if they went in before dawn. By the time the enemy enters the ravine's kill zone, we'd have elevation and concealment."
"And if they have scouts ahead of the main force?"
"Then we eliminate them quietly. That's what the elevated position is for—we see them before they see us."
Jiraiya was watching him with that unreadable expression again. "You've studied this terrain."
"I study all terrain. It's—" He caught himself before saying survival habit. "It's prudent."
"Prudent." The word came out flat, but something in Jiraiya's eyes had shifted. He looked at the map again, then at Minato. "Thoughts?"
The young jonin moved forward, tracing the route Tatsuya had indicated. "The approach works. Timing would be tight, but achievable. If we commit two-thirds of our combat strength to the ambush position and leave a skeleton force here..." He nodded slowly. "We could break their advance before they consolidate. Turn their strength into a liability."
"Risks?"
"If the ambush fails, we're caught between their main force and any reserves they've held back. And we'd be leaving the outpost vulnerable."
"The outpost doesn't matter," Tatsuya said. "It's a temporary position. The wounded matter. The supply caches matter. We evacuate both before we move."
More discussion. More objections. But the fundamental logic held—they couldn't defend against a force twice their size, so offense was their only option. Better to choose the ground than have it chosen for them.
When Jiraiya finally called for consensus, the plan was approved. Modified from Tatsuya's initial suggestion, refined by more experienced minds, but fundamentally the same shape.
As the tent cleared, Jiraiya caught his arm.
"Good thinking kid" the Sannin praised quietly.
Tatsuya met his eyes. "Thank you, but I'm just trying to survive."
"No." Jiraiya's grip was firm but not painful. "You think like someone who wants everyone to survive. Those are two different things." He released Tatsuya's arm. "Get some rest. We move in four hours."
Sleep wouldn't come.
Tatsuya lay on his bedroll in the cramped shelter he'd been assigned, staring at canvas that was too close to count as a ceiling. Around him, other shinobi slept or pretended to—the particular silence of people preparing for violence, each lost in their own rituals of readiness.
His body ached for rest. His chakra reserves were slowly recovering, the deep pool refilling in increments too small to measure. But his mind wouldn't quiet.
He kept seeing the man he'd killed. The kunoichi with the tantos, her eyes going wide as her arm stopped working. The spray of blood when his sword opened her throat. Quick, clean, efficient—exactly what he'd trained for. Exactly what he'd become.
A few months ago, that would have horrified him. Now it was just... data. His mind was already thinking of more efficient ways he could have dealt with that situation, which was probably even more terrifying that the actual act, he thought.
He rose quietly, slipping out of the shelter without waking the others. The night air was cold, carrying the mineral smell of the mountains and the faint char of extinguished cooking fires. Stars wheeled overhead, impossibly dense away from the village's light pollution.
He found a spot at the perimeter—close enough to be within the watch rotation's coverage, far enough for the illusion of solitude. Sat with his back against a tree and tried to meditate, to sink into the chakra circulation exercises that were supposed to accelerate recovery.
The exercises helped. The meditation didn't.
"Can't sleep either?"
He didn't startle—had sensed the approaching presence before the words came. Minato emerged from the shadows, moving with that economical grace that made him seem to flow rather than walk. He settled against a neighboring tree, close but not crowding.
"Tried," Tatsuya said. "Didn't take."
"The night before battle." Minato's voice was soft, contemplative. "I've never gotten used to it. The waiting. Knowing what's coming and having to sit still anyway."
"Does it get easier?"
"No." A slight smile, barely visible in the darkness. "But you get better at functioning through it. That's not the same thing."
They sat in silence for a while. Tatsuya found himself studying Minato's profilethe strong jaw, the unruly hair, the way his eyes never quite stopped moving even in rest. This was the man who would save the village someday. Who would die doing it, if history held its course.
Unless something changed.
"Can I ask you something?" Tatsuya said.
"You can ask. I might not answer."
"Why did you become a shinobi?"
Minato was quiet for long enough that Tatsuya thought he might not respond. Then: "Because I could."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only honest one." Minato shifted, his gaze lifting to the stars. "I was orphaned young. The Academy took me in—one of many war orphans they processed through those years. I didn't choose to become a shinobi. It was simply... what happened to children like me."
"But you stayed. You excelled. That's a choice."
"Yes." The word carried weight. "Somewhere along the way, I realized something. I had strength. Speed. Talent, if you believe the instructors. And there were people who had none of those things—civilians, children, the weak. People who would be crushed by the violence that shinobi live in." He paused. "I could protect them. Not all of them. Not always. But more than if I'd chosen differently. So I chose this."
Tatsuya absorbed that. Idealistic, yes. But not naive—Minato's eyes held none of the bright-eyed fervor of true believers. This was conviction tempered by experience, hope that had survived contact with reality.
"And when you can't?" Tatsuya asked. "When you're not strong enough?"
Minato turned to look at him directly. Those blue eyes were uncomfortably perceptive, even in the darkness they burned with clear intent as he spoke.
"Then you get stronger. Train harder. Push further. Find the limits of what you are and move them." A slight tilt of the head. "Or you die trying. There isn't really a third option."
The words hit harder than they should have. Tatsuya felt something in his chest—recognition, maybe. A philosophy that matched his own, coming from someone who'd arrived at it by an entirely different path.
"That's a lonely way to live," he said quietly.
"It doesn't have to be." Minato's smile was warmer now, more genuine. "The people you fight beside, the ones you protect—they become reasons. Anchors. Without them, you're just accumulating power for power's sake. That's not real strength. That's just a void wearing strength's face."
Anchors. Tatsuya thought of Yuki, of Shin, of the promises he'd made and the people who'd become reasons to keep making them.
"You sound like you've thought about this a lot."
"Jiraiya-sensei asked me the same question once. Years ago, when I was just starting out." Minato's gaze went distant. "I gave him a different answer then. Something about protecting the village, serving Konoha. All the things the Academy taught us to say."
"What changed?"
"I watched people die. Good people, bad people, people who were just in the wrong place." His voice was steady, but something underneath it wasn't. "I realized the village was just a word. A symbol. What I was actually protecting—what actually mattered—was the people inside it. The specific, individual lives. Once I understood that, the rest got simpler."
Simpler. Not easier. Tatsuya understood the distinction.
"The scout team I asked about," he said. "During the briefing. You noticed I knew that terrain better than I should have."
"You memorized the tactical maps before we even left Konoha." Not an accusation—just observation. "I saw you studying them during the march."
"Is that strange?"
"For a reserve pool genin? Extremely." Minato's tone was mild. "Most shinobi your age are focused on techniques, on raw capability. You're thinking about how to use terrain, how to position forces, how to win before the fight even starts."
Tatsuya didn't have a response that wouldn't reveal too much. He stayed silent.
"Jiraiya-sensei noticed too," Minato continued. "He doesn't say much, but he's watching you. Has been since you showed him the chakra scalpel."
"Should I be worried?"
"No." The word was certain, reassuring. "Jiraiya-sensei collects people. The ones with potential, the ones who might become something significant. He's trying to figure out which category you fall into."
"I'm just trying to survive."
Minato laughed softly. "You say that a lot. I'm starting to think it's not entirely true."
Before Tatsuya could respond, movement at the camp's edge drew both their attention. A scout, moving fast through the trees. The message was clear before words were exchanged:
The enemy was moving. Faster than expected. The timetable had just compressed.
"Four hours became two," Minato said, rising smoothly. "You ready?"
Tatsuya stood, checking his equipment with automatic precision. Kunai secure. Sword across his back. Pouches organized. Everything in its place for the violence to come.
"Does it matter if I'm not?"
"No." Minato's smile was sharp now, all warmth gone. "But I asked anyway. Seemed polite."
The ravine was a wound in the earth.
Tatsuya crouched among the rocks on the northern approach, hidden by dense brush and the predawn darkness. Around him, Konoha shinobi waited in similar concealment—shadows that breathed, death that held itself perfectly still.
Below, the ravine floor was empty. Peaceful, almost, if you didn't know what was coming. A stream trickled through the center, catching the first grey hints of dawn. Birds were beginning to stir in the canopy above.
He'd been in position for an hour. His legs burned with the strain of stillness. His chakra reserves were better than yesterday—maybe seventy percent—but that wouldn't last long once combat started.
Patience, he told himself. Wait for the signal.
The enemy advance guard appeared first.
Three shinobi, moving carefully through the ravine's mouth. Scouts, checking the route for exactly the kind of ambush they were walking into. They were good—professional, alert, covering each other's blind spots.
Not good enough.
Tatsuya didn't see them die. Jiraiya's forward team was somewhere in the rocks ahead, handling that particular task. One moment the scouts were advancing. The next, they simply... stopped. Crumpled. Three bodies in the shallow water, blood mixing with the stream.
Then the main force arrived.
They came in formation—not the ragged advance of bandits, but the disciplined movement of trained soldiers. Tatsuya counted as they entered the kill zone. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. They kept coming, a river of dark uniforms and gleaming metal, filling the ravine floor with concentrated violence.
Now, he thought. Hit them now, before—
The signal came.
Fire erupted from three positions simultaneously—Great Fireballs, Dragon Flames, techniques he didn't recognize that turned air itself into an inferno. The leading elements of the Iwa force vanished in the conflagration, their screams lost in the roar of combustion.
Then chaos.
The ambush collapsed into close combat within seconds. Iwa forces scattered, regrouped, counterattacked with the brutal efficiency of veterans who'd survived worse. Stone techniques shattered the elevated positions. Earth walls erupted to block Konoha crossfire. The neat geometry of the ambush dissolved into a thousand individual battles.
Tatsuya moved.
His first priority was the wounded—a Konoha chunin who'd taken shrapnel when his position exploded. The man was screaming, clutching at a leg that bent wrong in two places. Compound fracture, probably arterial involvement.
Tatsuya's hands glowed green as he slid into cover beside the wounded man. "Hold still. Don't move."
"My leg—"
"I know. Hold still."
The damage was severe but survivable. He couldn't set the bones here—not enough time, not enough chakra—but he could stop the bleeding, stabilize the tissue, give the man a chance to reach proper medical care. His hands worked with automatic precision, feeling the flow of damaged biology and coaxing it toward repair.
Thirty seconds. The leg stopped hemorrhaging. The man's screams faded to whimpers.
"Stay here. Don't try to move." Tatsuya was already rising, scanning for the next casualty. "Evacuation team will find you."
He moved through the battlefield like a ghost, following the sound of pain. Stabilize and move. Stabilize and move. The rhythm became meditation, each wounded shinobi a problem to be solved in the seconds between his arrival and departure.
An Iwa chunin found him while he was working on a kunai wound to someone's abdomen.
The attack came from his blind side—a stone-reinforced fist aimed at the back of his skull. He felt the approach through some combination of chakra sense and survivor's instinct, twisting away just enough to turn a killing blow into a glancing strike.
His head rang. Blood ran into his eye. But he was moving, drawing his sword, facing the threat.
The enemy was older, heavier, marked with the scars of decades of combat. A killer who'd been ending lives before Tatsuya was born.
No time for fear. No time for calculation.
Fire Release: Phoenix Sage Fire.
The jutsu came out rough, chakra stretched thin by hours of healing. Small fireballs scattered toward the enemy, more harassment than threat. The Iwa chunin batted them aside with earth-armored arms and closed the distance.
Tatsuya met him with steel.
The impact jarred through his arms. His opponent was stronger, faster, more experienced. But Tatsuya had something else—knowledge of exactly where a blade needed to go to end a fight instantly.
He aimed for the inside of the elbow. The brachial artery, the median nerve. A cut there would disable the arm completely.
His opponent read the attack, shifted to block. The blades met in a shower of sparks.
They separated, circled, engaged again. Tatsuya was losing—he knew it, felt the steady erosion of his stamina against his enemy's greater reserves. Each exchange cost him more than he could afford.
The chakra scalpel was his only advantage. But his opponent was too wary now, keeping distance, forcing Tatsuya to commit to blade work rather than close-quarters techniques.
He thought about all the times Shin or even Duy said to fight with instinct, but he just wasn't there yet. Not good enough. Too soon
Think, he told himself. Don't just fight. Think.
The ground around them was torn up from previous combat. Debris everywhere—rocks, broken weapons, bodies. His opponent was ignoring it, moving with the casual confidence of someone who'd fought in worse terrain.
Tatsuya pretended to stumble.
His foot caught on a rock—deliberately, obviously. His guard dropped. His balance shifted.
His opponent lunged.
And Tatsuya's free hand came up, chakra flaring to life in the instant before contact.
The scalpel caught the man's forearm, severing tendons with surgical precision. The grip on his weapon failed. The sword fell.
Tatsuya's blade finished it.
He stood over the body, breathing hard, blood dripping from his face. His hands were shaking now. Not fear—exhaustion. The tank was running empty.
"Medic!" someone shouted. "We need a medic!"
He moved. Because that was the job.
The wounded collection point was supposed to be safe.
It was positioned behind the main battle, in a hollow shielded by rock formations and the dense bodies of the forest. Six wounded shinobi lay on makeshift stretchers, their injuries stabilized but serious. Two genin from other teams stood guard, looking far too young and far too scared.
Tatsuya had just finished treating a sucking chest wound—the kind of injury that killed you slowly if no one was around to collapse the pneumothorax—when the world shifted.
The jonin came through the trees like a force of nature.
He was massive—six and a half feet of muscle and killing intent, stone armor coating his forearms and torso like geological plate mail. The two genin guards didn't even have time to scream. One moment they were standing; the next, they were broken shapes on the ground.
Tatsuya was the only combatant left between the monster and the wounded.
He knew, with absolute certainty, that he was going to die.
The jonin's eyes swept the collection point—wounded shinobi, medical supplies, the single genin standing between him and easy kills. His smile was ugly. Contemptuous.
"One of you?" He laughed, the sound grating like stones. "They left a child to guard their broken toys."
Tatsuya drew his sword. His hands had stopped shaking. There wasn't enough energy left for fear.
"You can walk away," he said. His voice came out steady. Good. "The battle's lost. Your main force is broken. Dying here gains you nothing."
The jonin laughed again. "Dying? Boy, you're the one who's going to die. I'm just going to enjoy it."
He moved.
Stone armor didn't make him slow. If anything, the opposite—earth techniques reinforcing muscle, making each movement faster and stronger than mere flesh should allow. The first strike would have pulped Tatsuya's skull if he'd been standing still.
Thankfully, he knew better.
Duy's training had drilled the Strong Fist foundations into his bones. Step, pivot, flow—let the attack pass, create angles, find openings. The jonin's fist carved air where Tatsuya's head had been. He circled, keeping distance, looking for weakness.
There wasn't any. This was a jonin—a true elite, someone who'd earned that rank through decades of survival in a world that killed weakness. Tatsuya was a genin with borrowed time and desperate skills.
Fire Release: Great Fireball.
The jutsu bought him two seconds—the jonin shielded with crossed arms, stone armor absorbing the flame. Two seconds to reposition, to think, to find any edge that might extend his life.
Fire Release: Flame Bullet.
Suppressive fire, forcing the jonin to adjust his approach. Another second. Tatsuya's chakra reserves were screaming.
The jonin burst through the flames, arms extended, stone spikes erupting from his gauntlets. The attack would have impaled Tatsuya through the chest if his sword hadn't caught it—steel meeting stone in a shriek of tortured metal.
The worse part was... the big bastard's still grinning.
His blade cracked. Held. Barely.
"You're better than I expected," the jonin admitted. "But still just a child playing at war."
Tatsuya didn't waste breath responding. He disengaged, circling, drawing the jonin away from the wounded. Every step bought time. Every second was precious.
Phoenix Sage Fire. Harassing attacks, scattered fireballs that the jonin swatted away like insects. But they made him move, made him adjust, kept him from simply closing and ending this.
The pattern was clear. He couldn't hurt this man with jutsu. Couldn't overpower him with taijutsu. His only chance—
The chakra scalpel, which was slowly becoming a crutch he was relying on too heavily.
He had to get close. Had to land a touch on somewhere vulnerable. The tendons of the forearm, maybe. Or the hamstring, if he could reach the legs. Something to disable, to slow, to create an opening.
The jonin attacked again. Overhead strike, stone-armored fist descending like a meteor. Tatsuya slipped inside the arc, just as he'd done against the earlier opponent.
His palm reached for the jonin's arm.
Stone armor. The scalpel couldn't penetrate.
The counterattack caught him in the ribs.
He felt bones break. Felt the world go white with pain. His feet left the ground, his body ragdolling through the air until it crashed against a tree hard enough to crack bark.
Breathing hurt. Moving hurt. Everything hurt.
But he was still alive. And the jonin was between him and the wounded.
He stood up.
His sword was gone—lost in the impact. His ribs were grinding against each other with every breath. Blood filled his mouth, copper and salt.
The jonin watched him rise with something that might have been surprise. "Still moving? Maybe you're stupider than I thought."
"Maybe." Tatsuya's voice was a rasp. "Or maybe I'm just too stubborn to know when I'm beaten."
He raised his hands. Chakra flickered at his fingertips—green, the color of healing, shaped into something that was the opposite of healing.
"You're going to cut me with medical techniques?" The jonin laughed. "The armor covers everything vital, boy. You'd need a blade just to reach skin."
"I know."
Tatsuya charged.
It was suicide and he knew it. His only advantage was that the jonin wouldn't expect it—wouldn't believe that a broken genin would throw himself at certain death rather than run.
The fist that met him was inevitable.
But so was his hand, reaching past the blow, finding the gap at the jonin's wrist where armor met armor.
The chakra scalpel cut deep.
It wasn't enough. The damage was superficial—severed tendons in the wrist, painful but not disabling. The jonin barely noticed.
The second blow caught Tatsuya in the chest. The third drove him into the ground. The world narrowed to pain and pressure and the distant certainty that this was it, this was how it ended—
"Enough."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
Yellow light. Speed that defied perception. One moment the jonin was raising his fist for the killing blow; the next, he was falling in pieces.
Minato stood where the enemy had been, blade dripping, expression carved from ice.
The jonin hit the ground in sections. He didn't get up.
Tatsuya tried to speak. Coughed blood instead.
"Don't move." Minato was beside him suddenly, hands pressing against wounds, checking injuries. His face was pale beneath the blood spatter. "Your ribs are broken. At least three. Possible internal bleeding."
"The wounded—"
"Are safe. Because you held him." Minato's voice was tight. "Seventeen seconds."
"What?"
"From when he engaged you to when I arrived. Seventeen seconds." Those blue eyes met his, and there was something in them that looked almost like respect. "That's longer than most chunin would have lasted against a jonin. That's longer than a lot of jonin would have lasted against that particular one."
Seventeen seconds. It had felt like hours.
"He was toying with me" Tatsuya managed "That's not nearly enough..."
"No." Minato's hands were glowing now—green, warm, the steady pulse of healing chakra. "But you're still alive. So are the people you were protecting. That makes it enough."
Consciousness was getting slippery. The edges of his vision were going grey.
Of course he knew medical jutsu, goddamn genius... Tatsuya thought as he was fading away.
"Stay with me," Minato said. "Medics are coming. Just stay with me."
Tatsuya wanted to respond. Wanted to say something about how staying seemed easier said than done, about how the darkness was very inviting, about how seventeen seconds still felt like failure.
What came out was: "Tell Yuki... I kept my promise."
Then the grey swallowed him whole.
He woke to the smell of antiseptic and the sound of quiet crying.
The tent was medical—he recognized the layout, the equipment, the particular quality of light filtered through canvas. A field hospital, better equipped than the forward station. They must have evacuated him.
His chest was wrapped in bandages. Breathing hurt, but less than it should have. Someone had done real work on his ribs.
The crying was coming from nearby. A young voice, female. One of the wounded from the collection point, probably, processing trauma in the aftermath.
He tried to sit up. His body disagreed strongly.
"Easy." A hand on his shoulder, pressing him back down. "You're stable, but barely. Rest."
Jiraiya. The Sannin sat on a supply crate beside his cot, looking tired in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion. His white hair was matted with blood and dirt. His eyes were old.
"The battle?"
"Won. Barely." Jiraiya's voice was flat. "We broke their main force. They're pulling back. The sector's secure."
"Casualties?"
"Eight dead. Fourteen wounded, including you." A pause. "Better than expected, given what we were facing."
Eight dead. Eight lives ended because the math of war demanded payment. Tatsuya closed his eyes and felt the weight of numbers he couldn't change.
"The collection point," he said. "The wounded there—"
"All survived. Because you held off that jonin long enough for Minato to arrive." Something shifted in Jiraiya's expression—not quite approval, not quite understanding. Something in between. "You should have run. Any sane person would have run."
"Running meant leaving them to die."
"Yes." The word hung in the air. "It did."
Silence stretched between them. Outside, the sounds of a camp in the aftermath of violence filtered through—orders being given, wounded being treated, the low murmur of people processing survival.
"The chunin," Tatsuya said finally. "During the main assault. Abdominal wounds. I... I made a choice."
Jiraiya was quiet, waiting.
The words just kept coming out, "There were three others I could reach in the time it would have taken to save him. Maybe save him—the wounds were severe. So I moved on." The words tasted like ash. "I left him to die so I could save people I knew I could help."
"I know." No judgment in Jiraiya's voice. No comfort either. Just acknowledgment. "The evacuation team found him. He was already gone."
Tatsuya stared at the canvas ceiling. The numbers were burned into his brain. Three people alive because he'd made a choice. One person dead because he'd made the same choice.
"This will never be as simple as 3 lives are better than 1 will it? It's one thing to kill someone whilst they're trying to do the same to you, but to so callously throw away an ally's life..." he asked.
"No." Jiraiya leaned back, something heavy settling into his features. "But you learn to live with it. Learn to accept that sometimes the only options are bad ones, and choosing the least bad option is all you can do." He paused. "Most shinobi never have to make those calls. They're not in positions where the math falls to them. Medics are different. Medics carry weight the rest of us don't have to feel."
"That's not comfort."
"It's not meant to be. It's truth." Jiraiya's eyes were sharp, assessing. "You've got the eyes for this. The medic's eyes. You see what needs doing and you do it, even when doing it costs you something. That's rare. Valuable."
"And if I can't keep doing it? If the cost gets too high?"
"Then you stop. Find another path. Some of the best shinobi I've known burned out because they couldn't learn to set the weight down, but some died before they even got to realize." A slight smile, tired but genuine. "But I don't think that's going to be your problem. You compartmentalize too well."
Compartmentalize. Yes. That was the word for what he'd learned to do, in another life, in operating rooms where people died under his hands and he had to keep functioning anyway. The skill had transferred. For better or for the worse.
Or maybe it was just another way of losing himself, one piece at a time.
"Minato likes you," Jiraiya said abruptly.
Tatsuya blinked at the non sequitur. "What?"
"My student. He doesn't like many people—respects plenty, but genuine connection? That's rare for him." Jiraiya's expression was unreadable. "He told me what happened at the collection point. How you stood against a jonin rather than run. He says you bought those wounded seventeen seconds."
"He was clearly holding back."
"Be that as it may, he's mentioned it four times since I arrived. That's how I know it meant something to him." Jiraiya stood, stretching muscles that must have been stiff from hours of combat and aftermath. "Get some rest. We move at noon—slow pace, carrying wounded. I want you functional enough to help with medical support on the march."
"Understood."
Jiraiya paused at the tent's entrance, looking back. "For what it's worth... you made the right call. With the chunin. Three lives against one, when the one probably wasn't salvageable anyway. The math was clear."
"The math is always clear." Tatsuya's voice came out hollow. "That's what makes it terrible."
The Sannin nodded once, something like respect in his eyes, and disappeared into the morning light.
The march home took three days at wounded pace.
Tatsuya worked through most of it, despite his own injuries. His ribs were stable—whoever had treated him had done excellent work—and his chakra reserves recovered faster when he stayed active. Or at least that was what he told himself. The truth was simpler: staying busy meant not thinking.
Not thinking about the chunin he'd left to die.
Not thinking about the jonin who'd almost killed him.
Not thinking about seventeen seconds and what they meant.
He moved among the wounded, checking bandages, adjusting treatments, doing the small maintenance work that kept stable patients from becoming critical ones. The other shinobi watched him with expressions that ranged from gratitude to wariness. The genin who'd held off a jonin. The medic who'd made battlefield triage calls that got people killed.
He wasn't sure which reputation he'd prefer.
On the second evening, Minato found him at the edge of the camp.
They'd barely spoken since the collection point. Tatsuya had been too exhausted, too focused on the wounded. Minato had been occupied with command responsibilities, coordinating the extraction and managing the logistics of retreat.
But now, in the quiet hours before sleep, the young jonin settled beside him with the ease of established routine.
"How are you feeling?"
"Functional." Tatsuya tested his range of motion, felt the familiar pull of healing tissue. "Another day and I'll be at maybe eighty percent."
"You heal fast."
"I cheat." At Minato's questioning look: "Medical chakra. I've been accelerating my own recovery. It's inefficient—costs more than it gives—but it saves time."
"Clever." Minato's tone suggested genuine appreciation. "Most shinobi don't think to apply medical training to themselves."
"Most shinobi aren't obsessive about every possible advantage."
That earned a small laugh. "You say that like it's a flaw."
"Isn't it? Obsession usually is."
"Depends on what you're obsessed with." Minato's gaze was distant, watching the stars emerge above the canopy. "I'm obsessed with getting faster. Stronger. Good enough to protect the people who matter. That doesn't feel like a flaw."
"And when you fail anyway? When someone dies despite everything you've done?"
"Then I get stronger. Try harder." No hesitation. "What else is there?"
Tatsuya thought about the chunin. The math. The terrible clarity of choices that only had bad options.
"I don't know," he admitted. "That's what scares me."
They sat in silence for a while. The camp settled around them—wounded sleeping, guards rotating, the soft sounds of a military unit in temporary rest.
"Jiraiya-sensei wants to talk to you when we get back," Minato said eventually. "Nothing official. Just... conversation."
"About what?"
"I don't know. He doesn't share everything with me." A slight smile. "Probably something about potential. That's what he usually talks about when someone catches his attention."
"I caught his attention by almost dying."
"You caught his attention by not dying when you should have. There's a difference." Minato turned to look at him directly, those blue eyes thoughtful. "You're not what I expected from reserve pool."
"So you've said."
"I'll probably keep saying it. Because it rings true." He paused, choosing words carefully. "The shinobi I know—even the good ones—they fight for themselves first. Village second. Comrades somewhere after that. It's pragmatic. Survival-oriented."
"And I don't?"
"You keep saying that you do, yet you stood in front of six wounded people and fought a losing battle rather than run. That says something to me."
Tatsuya didn't have a good response. The truth—that he'd simply been unable to abandon people who needed him, that running would have meant becoming something he couldn't live with—felt too raw to share.
"I was scared," he said instead. "The whole time. I was terrified."
"I know." Minato's voice was soft. "I was watching from the trees. Trying to get there faster. You never stopped being scared. You just kept fighting anyway." A pause. "That's what courage actually is. Not fearlessness. Just... moving through the fear."
Moving through. Yes. That was accurate.
"I'm not brave," Tatsuya said. "I'm just too stubborn to know when to quit."
"Maybe." Minato's smile was warmer now. "But stubbornness can become something else, if you point it in the right direction."
"What direction is that?"
"I don't know yet." He stood, stretching muscles that must have been stiff from the day's march. "But I think you're figuring it out. And I'd like to watch you do it."
He walked away before Tatsuya could respond, leaving the question hanging in the air like smoke.
Konoha's gates appeared on the afternoon of the third day.
Tatsuya had seen them before—had passed through them barely six months ago, a broken genin with nothing but uncertainty and borrowed time. Now he was returning with blood on his hands and weight on his shoulders and something that might have been the beginning of a reputation.
The processing was perfunctory. A chunin took their mission reports, logged the casualty figures, dismissed them with the weary efficiency of someone who'd processed a hundred such returns.
But there was a note in Tatsuya's file now. He saw the chunin add it before the folder closed:
Combat medic. Effective under pressure. Recommend consideration for advanced training.
Advanced training. He wasn't sure what that meant. Wasn't sure he wanted to find out.
The team dispersed at the gate. Ren headed toward the merchant district—family, maybe, or just the need for familiar space. Takeshi was evacuated directly to the hospital, his leg requiring care beyond field treatment. The others scattered into the village's afternoon bustle, absorbed back into the routines of peacetime.
Tatsuya stood at the gate for a long moment, watching them go.
Six months ago, he'd arrived here with nothing. An orphan genin with someone else's memories and a body that didn't feel like his own. Now... now he was still an orphan genin. But other things had changed. The body moved the way he wanted it to. The skills were becoming his own. The people around him were becoming something like comrades.
Anchors, Minato had called them. Reasons.
Maybe that's what this was. The beginning of belonging, fragile and uncertain but real.
He found his way to the barracks room that was technically his home. The space was exactly as he'd left it—small, spare, utterly impersonal. But the door closed behind him, shutting out the world, and for a moment he just stood there. Breathing. Existing.
The journal was where he'd hidden it. He pulled it out, found a pen, sat on the hard mattress that passed for a bed.
The words came slowly.
Seventeen seconds. Not enough. Never enough.
He stared at the line for a long time. Then, underneath it:
Yet.
He closed the journal. Hid it away. Lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
Outside, the village continued its evening routines—merchants closing shops, children playing in the streets, shinobi going about the business of a military state at fragile peace. Normal life. The thing he was fighting to protect, even when he wasn't sure he'd ever be part of it.
His ribs ached. His hands remembered the feeling of lives saved and lives lost. His mind replayed seventeen seconds on an infinite loop.
Not enough, the voice in his head whispered. Not yet.
But he was learning. Growing as a shinobi and as a person.
Tomorrow, he'd train again. Push harder. Find the edges of his limits and move them, inch by painful inch.
Tonight, he let himself rest.
The next battle was coming. It always was.
He'd be ready.
Hopefully.