Mastering the Elements - Chapter - 51

The sea stretched wide and quiet beneath the darkening sky, only disturbed by the rippling chakra of the ten masked shinobi closing in around Itachi Pottaru—still cloaked, still hooded, standing poised above the water as if gravity itself dared not challenge him.

They had formed a circle. Tight. Precise. Calculated.

Smart, Itachi thought. They won’t use wide-range jutsu. They’re worried about crossfire. Friendly casualties.

The blades came out—short swords, kunai, ninja sabers glinting with moisture and killing intent. The scent of steel and sea salt filled the air.

Itachi didn't draw a weapon.

Instead, he spoke calmly, as if offering instruction.

“You expect to cage me with blades?”

No one answered.

He allowed himself a half-smile. “Then allow me to show you a technique from a friend of mine.”

In a flash, Itachi’s hands blurred through a sequence of seals, his chakra vanishing from the center of their senses.

Then—

Boom.

With a burst of speed and chakra, dozens of afterimages erupted across the water, each one shifting with unnatural fluidity—not clones, but illusions made by Shisui’s afterimage technique, which used near-teleportation speed to create deceptive reflections across the battlefield.

The surrounding shinobi tensed.

One slashed at an afterimage.

Nothing.

Another fired a kunai—it passed cleanly through.

“Fake!” someone shouted.

But while their eyes darted from image to image, searching for the real one, none noticed that the true Itachi was already gone.

Beneath the water’s surface, deep under their feet, a Wood Release clone had emerged—indistinguishable from the original, overflowing with chakra.

This was no mere puppet.

This clone could fight, bleed, burn.

And that’s exactly what it did.

The moment the real Itachi slipped away, the clone launched itself into the fray, casting a wave of water upward as it met the nearest enemy with a crackling punch.

“He’s here!” someone yelled.

“No—wait—”

But it was too late.

The clone was already upon them, moving fast, reacting with nearly perfect intelligence. A Wind Blade met the clone’s shoulder and carved deep—but it didn’t stagger. Instead, it retaliated with a vicious Water Dragon Jutsu, which forced several of the attackers back.

Kunai flew.

One stabbed the clone through the side.

Another embedded into its thigh.

Blood did not spill.

But the clone didn’t slow down.

“Why isn’t he slowing down—?”

“I said, it’s him! Take him down!”

From above, three shinobi threw an array of exploding kunai, aiming to end it decisively.

The clone made no move to evade.

Instead, it dove beneath the surface, dragging two of the attackers with it.

Boom!

The explosion churned the ocean into a maelstrom of smoke and foam.

Silence followed.

Bubbles rose slowly.

And then—nothing.

Only drifting embers and fragments of torn cloth floated to the surface.

The shinobi regrouped above, panting, circling the disturbance.

“Is he…?”

“Gone.”

“Vanished. Chakra’s not present. No movement. No body either.”

“Burned up. Must have been vaporized by the blast.”

“Serves him right.”

The leader gave a tight nod. “Good. It's done. Indra is dead. No need to report further. If we killed him and bragged about it, more hunters would come. Let this end here.”

The circle dissolved. One by one, the shinobi vanished into the mist.

Far away—deep within a sea cave at the rocky border of the Fire Country—the real Itachi Pottaru emerged from the shadows, soaked and silent. He stood under a dripping arch of stone, removing his soaked cloak and collapsing into a meditative kneel.

He took a breath.

Then another.

His chakra slowly stabilized.

Above him, water echoed in trickles across the cavern ceiling. The illusion had worked. The clone had drawn all attention. His enemies now believed Indra had died beneath the sea.

A necessary fiction.

If they believed he lived, they would keep sending teams. Keep hunting him.

But dead men don’t get followed.

And now, only Itachi Pottaru would return to Konoha.

No longer a myth.

No longer Indra.

But a shinobi.

A son.

And a soldier of Konoha.


The forests of the Fire Country whispered with the breeze of late spring. The scent of pine and blooming magnolias filled the air as Itachi Pottaru, now restored to his true form and name, moved swiftly across the treetops—his cloak light, his chakra masked beneath layers of subtle technique.

The mask, both literal and figurative, had been shed.

The time for ghosts was over.

Now he was simply Itachi, shinobi of the Hidden Leaf, son of Harry Pottaru, and soldier returning home.

As he passed over a wide hill road that curved toward the main southern gates of Konoha, he caught sight of movement ahead—a caravan of shinobi in Leaf flak jackets, traveling on foot with heavy expressions, muted chatter, and a lingering weight in the air.

Itachi dropped silently onto the path a few meters ahead of them, not intending to alarm them. His posture was calm, hands at his sides.

One of the jōnin halted the group with a raised hand, his gaze narrowing at the sudden figure.

“Identify yourself.”

Itachi gave a respectful nod. “Itachi Pottaru. Konoha shinobi. Returning from extended training trip.”

The man’s brow relaxed slightly, but suspicion remained in his voice. “Pottaru? Harry-sama’s son?”

“Yes.”

Another shinobi stepped forward—an older woman with a scar along her jaw. “I’ve heard of you. You are a wood release user, right?.”

“I am,” Itachi said, calm.

A heavy pause followed. The caravan remained wary but eased visibly.

“You’re welcome to travel with us,” the leader finally said. “We’re returning from Sunagakure. The Chūnin Exams.”

Itachi’s eyes flickered. “Then you're part of the delegation.”

The older kunoichi nodded. “We were.”

She hesitated a moment. Then added, with a solemn expression, “We lost two genin in the third round. Both from the same team.”

Itachi bowed his head slightly. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” one of the chūnin muttered. “They fought hard. One of them held off two Sand-nin before collapsing. The other… didn’t even scream when she went.”

The group fell quiet.

Itachi’s eyes swept over the younger shinobi walking silently in the rear—five of them. Worn, silent, eyes full of things no child should carry.

“Out of nine, seven returned,” the jōnin said. “And only three promotions. It was a hard year.”

Itachi said nothing, only walking alongside them now, matching their pace.

He didn’t know any of their names.

And they didn’t know him beyond reputation.

But that didn’t matter.

For a moment, on that quiet forest path, they walked together—Konoha shinobi, hardened by loss, bound by duty, and moving slowly toward home.



Though his rank was still officially chūnin, everyone who traveled beside him could feel the difference.

This was not a boy barely past his academy years.

This was a warrior shaped by war and loss—one who had faced A and S-rank threats, unleashed black flames upon the battlefield, and buried a comrade with his own hands. His calm, his control, his precision—it unsettled even the jōnin traveling beside him.

But the younger shinobi saw something else.

They saw a teacher.

And Itachi, despite his exhaustion, did not refuse them.

“Can you really create a jutsu that makes clones without shadow seals?” asked one of the promoted chūnin, eyes wide.

Itachi nodded. “The afterimage technique—one of my friend taught it to me. It won’t last long, but it can disorient the enemy for just enough time to strike or escape.”

“Show us?” came the hopeful voice of a genin, barely thirteen.

Itachi sighed, but it wasn’t irritation. It was weariness.

He stepped onto a clearing beside the road. The others gathered around as he made a few swift hand signs. In a blink, six blurry forms of himself rippled into existence, dashing outward in all directions.

Several younger shinobi gasped. Even the jōnin raised their brows in appreciation.

“It's not chakra intensive,” Itachi explained. “But the key is timing and speed. If you move too slowly, the illusion fails. Practice your body flicker technique. You’ll need it more than any flashy jutsu.”

That opened the floodgates.

Over the next two days of travel, Itachi began quietly mentoring the genin and chūnin. He taught them chakra suppression while moving, the difference between a feint and a real kill strike, and even shared two B-rank jutsus—one earth-based and one water-based—for those who could handle it.

The senior jōnin watched with a mixture of relief and admiration.

One of them, Hamada, a veteran with graying temples, pulled Itachi aside near a campfire the second night.

“You’ve got a gift,” Hamada said, watching his team practice the earth trap jutsu Itachi had shown. “That’s more teaching than some of these kids got in six months.”

Itachi nodded. “They’ll need it. Most chūnin missions aren’t patrols. They’re assassinations, retrievals, or intelligence work. If they’re not prepared… they won’t return.”

Hamada looked at him for a long moment. “Two of mine didn’t.”

“I know.”

There was a long pause, only the crackling of fire between them.

“I need to rebuild my team,” Hamada said, voice low. “I already asked the Hokage for reassignment rights. If you’re not already chosen for something else… would you consider joining us? As field captain?”

Itachi looked up slowly.

“I’m honored,” he said with a respectful bow of the head. “But I can’t promise anything. The Hokage will decide my next path.”

Hamada nodded in understanding. “Just think about it. I’ve worked with a lot of shinobi in my life. But with your discipline, your power… and your heart? You’d be a commander these kids would die to follow.”

Itachi said nothing, but the words stayed with him.

As the last night of their journey drew to a close, and the distant glow of Konoha’s walls finally came into view, Itachi stood silently at the edge of camp, eyes fixed on the horizon.

He was home.

But he knew that nothing would be the same.



The gates of Konohagakure stood tall and familiar, yet to Itachi Pottaru, they felt oddly distant. As he stepped into the village with the returning delegation from the Chūnin Exams, a part of him wanted to sigh in relief, but he kept his composure. His posture was upright, face unreadable, movements calm—like a shadow that belonged, yet walked apart from the rest.

Beside him, the jōnin instructors led their surviving students with solemn expressions. The mission had been a costly one. As the group neared the Hokage Tower, the jōnin nodded to Itachi.

"You can wait outside, Itachi," said Hamada, the jōnin who had extended the offer during the journey. “We’ll debrief the Hokage on the Chūnin results.”

Itachi nodded. “Of course.”

They disappeared into the tower’s upper floors, and Itachi leaned against the railing on the outer corridor, arms folded. He waited in silence for nearly an hour. In that time, the wind whispered through the high terrace of the tower, and the village sounds—laughter of children, clanging of smiths, birds fluttering past rooftops—reminded him of how different the world was here.

No blood. No fire. No endless mist.

Just… home.

When the door finally opened, the jōnin instructors walked out one by one, each nodding to Itachi as they passed.

“You’re up,” Hamada said simply.

Itachi entered the office.

Hiruzen Sarutobi, the Third Hokage, was at his desk, pipe unlit and forgotten as he studied a scroll. When he saw Itachi, he smiled—but there was weariness in his eyes.

“Itachi,” Hiruzen said. “Welcome back. I trust your training journey was fruitful?”

Itachi bowed. “Yes, Hokage-sama. It was… illuminating.”

Hiruzen gestured to the seat opposite. “You’ve grown. I can feel it. But I’d like to see how much you’ve developed.”

Itachi gave no indication of discomfort, but he knew where this was going. The Hokage had no idea he’d spent the past year fighting in the rebellion of Kirigakure, infiltrating fortresses, commanding ambushes, and surviving encounters with one of the most dangerous men in the world.

“I’ve arranged a private assessment,” Hiruzen continued, “not just to test your abilities, but to determine your placement within our ranks. Konoha needs strength more than ever, and it’s time your skill matches your title.”

Itachi bowed slightly. “I understand.”

Hiruzen leaned back and tapped his pipe against the edge of his desk. “The training ground is located on the outskirts—secluded, shielded from the public. You’ll meet with Jōnin Commander Shinzo. He’ll be accompanied by a few other high-level shinobi. You’ll be evaluated on multiple parameters—combat, strategy, ninjutsu, and mental resilience.”

Itachi didn’t flinch. “When do I report?”

“Now,” Hiruzen said. “They’re already waiting.”

Itachi rose and turned to leave, but Hiruzen called after him.

“Oh, and Itachi…”

He turned back.

“You’re carrying something heavy. Whatever it is… don’t let it harden you.”

Itachi offered a rare, faint smile. “It won’t.”

Then he stepped out of the office and vanished from the tower like a whisper on the wind.