Injury
The rain intensified outside, the steady drum of droplets echoing faintly within the cave.
Inside, it was warm and quiet. A rare reprieve from the killing fields of the Rain Country, where shinobi from every major village hunted one another in shadow and mud.
Night fell in silence. The three-man squad remained still, conserving their chakra and strength. They shared dry rations wordlessly—battle had sharpened their instincts, and communication came more from nods and hand signs now than words.
Their teamwork had improved significantly. Repeated brushes with death had burned away hesitation. What had once been three strangers thrown together was becoming a functioning, lethal unit.
Fugaku's calm leadership and precise judgment had reshaped the attitudes of his teammates. They'd expected another haughty Uchiha, drunk on the clan's pride. But Fugaku was different—sharp, efficient, and free of arrogance.
To him, pride meant honoring the Uchiha name through action, not empty superiority. Arrogance got shinobi killed.
They unrolled the mission scroll again. Using a water-resistant map and the marker coordinates provided by Hatake Sakumo, they confirmed their current location. The cave lay ten kilometers southwest of the rendezvous point.
"We'll move at first light," Fugaku said.
The cave lapsed into silence. Outside, the rain fell like a curtain between the war and this fragile moment of rest. For now, even sleep was a luxury.
Fugaku drifted off, the sound of rain his lullaby.
---
In a valley near the border with the Fire Country, nestled in a mist-shrouded basin, lay one of Konoha's temporary forward operating bases. Camouflaged and fortified with earth-style barriers, it was a lifeline for reconnaissance and assassination units operating in the Rain Country.
At dawn, shadows moved at the edges of the camp as teams returned and reported in. Some limped in wounded, others carried sealed scrolls containing enemy intelligence—or corpses.
Fugaku and his team arrived with purpose, their uniforms soaked from the march but their posture steady. They entered the central tent, where a few Jonin-level commanders coordinated arrivals and processed mission scrolls.
At the center sat Hatake Sakumo, the White Fang of Konoha, his chakra calm but vast. His silver hair and scarred armor made him instantly recognizable.
"Uchiha Fugaku, reporting. Mission completed," Fugaku said as he bowed slightly, offering a scroll sealed with the mission report.
Sakumo accepted the scroll and handed it to an aide. Chakra surged slightly as the seal was undone. Ten corpses lay within—preserved and marked with identifying tags.
A sensory-nin stepped forward. "Four from Amegakure. Six from Iwagakure. Three Jonin, seven Chunin. No signs of interference."
Hatake Sakumo nodded. "Not bad. A clean operation."
His voice remained neutral, but Fugaku caught the faint note of surprise beneath his words. Sakumo was a realist—he didn't expect brilliance from a clan he had seen grow increasingly insular since the death of Uchiha Kagami and the loss of Madara.
"Thirteen years old," Sakumo muttered quietly. "The Uchiha may yet surprise us again."
"Report to the logistics division. Tent 13," he added. "Your squad supplies are prepared."
Fugaku inclined his head. "Understood."
---
The logistics area was easy to find—marked by flags bearing the symbol of Konoha. There, support-nin distributed monthly rations: kunai, shuriken, paper bombs, wire, field kits, and a bottle of high-grade soldier pills per ninja.
Tent 13 was theirs, matching their squad number. As Fugaku entered, he paused at the flap and surveyed the camp.
More squads were arriving. Some visibly shaken. Others down a teammate. The scent of blood and damp earth hung in the air.
His eyes scanned the Uchiha returning in scattered groups. He was silently counting them.
Though their mission hadn't specified the threat level, this region was chaos incarnate. Any encounter could spiral into a deadly skirmish. The fact that all Uchiha assigned to the vanguard were returning—so far—was no small relief.
These were not hotheaded youths. These were trained shinobi, battle-tested and aware that recklessness earned no victories in the Rain Country.
"Fugaku!" a familiar voice called.
Fugaku turned as Uchiha Jin approached, rainwater streaking his armor. He grinned.
"You're late."
"Not as lucky as you," Fugaku replied.
Jin laughed. "We ambushed a Sand scouting party. They were exhausted after a clash with Hidden Rain. We barely had to do anything."
"Luck counts," Fugaku said. "It keeps you alive."
Jin's smile faded slightly. "You're watching the returning Uchiha, huh?"
Fugaku nodded. "We were chosen for a reason. It'd be meaningless if we lost them on the first wave. These are the clan's best young shinobi."
Jin crossed his arms. "If we're to rise again, we need them alive. Not scattered in forgotten valleys."
---
By dusk, a runner arrived.
"Uchiha Fugaku, Hatake-sama requests your presence."
Inside Tent One, Sakumo waited with several senior officers. Fugaku bowed as he entered.
"Wait for the others," Sakumo said, not unkindly. "This mission will involve multiple squads."
Fugaku immediately understood. This was no longer a routine task. The operation ahead required collaboration—perhaps a diversion strike, or an infiltration assault deep into enemy lines.
This was the vanguard's true role: to hit first, disappear, and pave the path for Konoha's main forces.
As he stood in that dimly lit tent, Fugaku felt it again—that invisible weight pressing onto his shoulders.
The future of the Uchiha wouldn't be decided in council halls or village backrooms.
It would be forged here, in the mud and steel of war.