When they returned to the Uchiha area of the defense zone, the clan's shinobi were already clearing the battlefield. The ground was cratered with potholes, charred earth, and the splintered scars of jutsu strikes.
From the ridgeline, the forest near Mount Kikyo looked mauled — as if some giant had bitten a notch out of the green canopy. The distant sea of trees was pocked with gaps, smoke curling from blackened trunks. Behind the mountain, the Kikyo Castle still smoldered; many houses had collapsed entirely, the rest sagged in ruin. Not a single roof stood untouched.
The battle had lasted barely half a day, but its weight was plain in the ruin it left. Konoha had paid dearly, and just rebuilding the castle would bleed its treasury.
No one in the returning Uchiha squad looked proud. They moved with the heavy quiet of soldiers who had survived while others hadn't. Uchiha Gen matched their grim expressions... smiling here would have been almost obscene.
"Captain, I'm back."
Uchiha Yashiro sat on the grass, one arm in a sling, head bowed in brief rest. He looked up at Gen — the genius of their clan, still unscathed and though relief flashed in his eyes, his voice stayed flat.
"Good. Go take care of yourself."
"Yes."
Gen bowed slightly and moved on.
Pride ran deep in the Uchiha, often turning into a sharp tongue, especially toward outsiders. Among their own, it was muted but still there, that guarded, self-contained way of being that kept them apart from the rest of Konoha.
Cleanup didn't take long. Efficiency was a shinobi's currency, and the battlefield was stripped and cleared before the sun dipped low.
The Uchiha, as Konoha's police force, were first to leave the zone but there would be no rest yet. They still had to escort villagers from the shelters back home.
By the time that work was done, night had fully fallen.
Back in the clan compound, the exhausted trickled in. Some collapsed into bed; others drew the short straw and took the night watch.
Gen, not yet part of the police roster, walked home free of that burden.
Inside, he stripped off armor, ninja tools, tights, boots, trading them for loose home clothes.
His stomach growled; since the night before, he'd eaten only ration pills and sips of water.
Cooking was quick; a pot of rice, shredded potatoes with meat, a side of kimchi. He never skimped on meals when he had the time; with his parents' inheritance and Sharingan-awakening clan's financial help, he lived comfortably enough.
As he ate, faint sobs drifted through the open screen window. They came from somewhere deeper in the compound.
Bad news traveling home, he guessed. Tonight, all of Konoha would be thick with grief.
He sighed, kept eating. Hunger was hunger; mourning changed nothing.
When the dishes were emptied, he left them soaking in the sink, washed up, and went to bed. He didn't think about the war — not tonight.
Dawn found him rested.
After a simple breakfast and last night's dishes cleaned, he stepped out.
The streets were still quiet, save for a police ninja just finishing his shift, eyes ringed with fatigue, "Gen, out so early?"
"Forest training."
"You work hard, as always. A true genius of the Uchiha."
"Thanks. Get some rest."
They parted ways, and Gen made for the clan-owned forest on Konoha's edge. Sunlight speared through the canopy. He breathed deep, wove hand signs.
Fire Style: Great Fireball Technique.
Flames roared from his mouth, coalescing into a rolling sphere.
Fire Style: Phoenix Fire Technique.
Wind Style: Breakthrough.
Wind fanned the inferno until an entire stretch of forest blazed, air rippling with heat. He fed the flames until his chakra neared empty, building a fire so fierce it produced little smoke.
Natural fire would be the key. Chakra-born flames could be sealed; mixed with real flame, they would resist suppression; just like Sage-enhanced fire.
He grinned. Time to bring something new into the world.
"Be born, my darling!"
He plunged a hand into his own chest, drawing out a sphere of bright white soul-light — part of his spirit, most of his stored lifespan. With a throw, he cast it into the blaze.
The fire paused… then warped into a massive face, laughter rolling out wild and alien.
In a flash, the sea of flames collapsed inward, shrinking to a single streak of light that shot toward him.
It landed in his palm — a crimson fire dragon, barely a foot long, its horns like a deer's, eyes sharp as a rabbit's, scales shimmering like molten glass.
"Master," it said in a deep, steady voice, coiling in his hand.
"You want a name?"
"I do."
"Then you'll be Shuryu."
The dragon's gaze gleamed. "Shuryu… yes. I understand, Master."
"Stay hidden until I say otherwise. It's not time for the world to see you."
"I can merge with you," Shuryu said. "Attach to your body, blend my soul into yours. No one will notice."
"Perfect. Left forearm, then." He replied.
In a shimmer, the dragon vanished, leaving a warm, lifelike tattoo curling along his arm.
"Beautiful," Gen murmured, smiling as he walked away.