The Medic

by Faircrown

Summary:

During the Third Shinobi War, Sakura Haruno, a hardened combat medic with extraordinary skills, becomes a vital force on the battlefield.

Amidst bloodshed and chaos, she catches the attention of Minato Namikaze.

Chapter 1

Summary:

Read this before you proceed please. The dynamics in this story are toxic, obsessive, and far from healthy. This fic deals with war crimes, power, fixation, and submission in ways that are not meant to be romanticized outside the fictional context.

The Medic (Working Title)

 

Chapter 1:

 

The Third Shinobi War had been a storm brewing long before the first battle erupted. Tensions had simmered between the Five Great Nations for years; each vying for power, resources, and control over the ever-shifting balance of the shinobi world. Treaties were fragile, alliances temporary, and the constant struggle for dominance had turned the world into a battlefield waiting to ignite.

The war itself had no single beginning; there was no formal declaration, no clear moment where one village struck first. Instead, it was a series of escalating conflicts, small-scale skirmishes that grew into full-blown battles that spread across borders like wildfire. Land disputes between Iwagakure and Konohagakure had intensified with the Land of Earth pushing its forces aggressively into smaller territories, challenging Konoha’s influence. Kumogakure, never one to remain idle; capitalized on the chaos, launching its own raids and stirring unrest. Sunagakure, still reeling from economic hardship, found itself caught between survival and war. And Kirigakure, infamous for its brutality, thrived in the bloodshed.

But it was the war between Konohagakure and Iwagakure that became the most destructive. The Land of Fire, rich in resources and military strength, became a primary target. The Hidden Stone sent wave after wave of shinobi, pushing into Konoha’s borders with relentless force, and Konoha had no choice but to respond in kind. 

It was a war unlike any before it. The battlefield was everywhere — villages, forests, rivers, even the skies above were marked by the clash of shinobi. Genin barely past their academy days were thrust into combat, Chūnin who had never seen war before were forced to lead, and Jōnin, once the pillars of their villages, fell like leaves in autumn.

The loss of life was staggering. The shinobi nations did not fight with honor; they fought to survive. Assassinations, ambushes, and sabotage missions became as critical as large-scale battles. Spies infiltrated enemy camps, poisoning supplies, stealing classified information, and planting misinformation. Villages that once flourished and lived peacefully were reduced to smoldering ruins.

Konoha had been holding its ground, but it was being stretched thin fighting battles from all fronts. Food became scarce and everyone was working in production for the war. Fields once filled with children’s laughter now echoed with the clatter of tools and the murmurs of tired workers. The academy’s transformation was swift and ruthless. Once a place of learning and growth, it was now an assembly line churning out warriors at an unprecedented pace. 

Children, stripped of their youthful innocence, were pushed through an intense, compressed training regimen that prioritized rapid combat readiness over thorough education. Graduation ceremonies became mere formalities as students were sent to the frontline. Konoha’s retired shinobi donned their battered armor once more, stepping onto the battlefield as the village demanded their return. Every able-bodied shinobi, young or old, was needed elsewhere.

In the heart of the conflict, the battlefields themselves bore the marks of a war that spared nothing in its fury but amidst the brutality, there were moments of quiet — small respites where the wounded were gathered, where medics struggled against the tide of death, where warriors found brief solace before returning back to the carnage. 

One pink-haired combat medic was among the already dwindling medical force, her presence a fragile lifeline within the storm of war. For her, the battlefield was relentless, offering no reprieve; shinobi fell faster than they could be saved, and the wounded piled up like discarded weapons.

There was a shortage of leadership so within a short period of time, she naturally took control of the force and no one questioned her, not when she was able to streamline orders and optimize battlefield triage with ruthless efficiency. Under her command, the wounded were stabilized faster, the supply lines moved smoother, and even the most hardened soldiers found themselves relying on her presence. Despite that, the heat of war managed to sneak up onto her and along with her medics, she struggled.

The largest medical camp was nestled in a heavily-forested region near the border of the Land of Fire, protected by natural barriers and guarded by a rotation of shinobi. Due to the lack of manpower, they heavily depended on the environment for cover. It was meant to be a safe zone, a haven for the broken and bleeding — but in truth, it was only a step removed from the frontlines. The wounded arrived in droves, carted in on stretchers, dragging themselves in on torn limbs, or carried by comrades barely clinging to life themselves. 

The air reeked of antiseptic, scorched bandages, and something darker — something that never quite left the noses of those who lived there: death. The sharp tang of copper hung thick and the scent of rotting flesh clung to their clothes, heavy and suffocating. 

Inside the overcrowded tents, the cries of the wounded mixed with the hurried footsteps of exhausted medic-nin weaving between cots, their hands glowing with fading chakra. Every surface was stained red, and the supply crates, once filled with bandages, salves, and soldier pills, were nearly empty. They'd long resorted to makeshift bandages and crude methods of sterilisation. Some weren't even afforded anesthesia during procedures. The war outside had not slowed, and neither had the steady stream of bodies being carried in. 

The medic tents were overwhelmed, machines beeping erratically and cries of the wounded echoed through the air, mingling with the sharp commands of overworked medic-nin. Supplies were running dangerously low, and decisions had to be made — ruthless, calculated decisions. Those with a fighting chance were given priority. Beds were emptied not based on compassion but on logic. Those beyond saving were gently laid aside; their headbands taken for identification and their bodies covered until it could be cremated later. 

Minato Namikaze moved swiftly through the chaos with purpose, his sharp eyes scanning the tent for a single person — the Slug Sannin’s apprentice. He had heard whispers of her skill, of hands that worked faster than thought, of chakra control so precise it bordered on unnatural. But as he frantically searched, all he saw were exhausted medics, their reserves running dry. He tried to call out, to stop one for answers, but none had the time to spare. Until finally, a passing older medic-nin, sweat beading at his temple, spared him a glance before nodding toward the far end of the tent. 

Minato was halted in his tracks, breath raw in his throat. The camp bustled around him — steel clashing in the distance, smoke hanging thick as wet cloth, the shouts of the wounded tangling in the wind. Yet, through the churn of chaos, his gaze caught on her.

She moved with steady purpose, slender body bent over a cot, hands slick with blood as they worked over a shinobi's chest. Dried crimson clung to her cheeks in dark smears, hair falling loose in the frantic press of her fingers. There was nothing soft about her — not in the way she pulled the kunai free from his stomach with a grim set to her jaw, not in the way she braced the man’s face as if daring him to die.

And yet… there was something there. Not gentle, but enduring. The kind of quiet defiance that lingered at the edges of her gaze — as if death had come to pick up its due, but she kept stealing the pieces back. Over and over.

Minato watched the way her shoulders lifted with every breath, steady despite the chaos pressing in from all sides. She gritted her teeth, pushing her abilities to the limit, but the moment the shinobi's breathing stilled, she knew it was over. Her jaw clenched as she withdrew her hands, her expression grim as she whispered the words that sealed his fate.

“He’s gone.”

She did not spare the dead man another second and gathered herself quickly, barking an order to vacate the cot for others. She quickly and methodically washed her hands in a nearby basin, before wiping it with a spare clean cloth. This wasn’t the place to linger. He knew that. Yet for a heartbeat too long, he stood there, feeling the weight of the moment press against his chest.

The battle raged just beyond the canvas walls.

But here — for just a breath — time pulled at its seams.

Before she could move to the next patient, a golden blur materialized before her and the momentum caused her to crash into his chest taking her by surprise. Large hands gripped her shoulders to steady her. She barely had time to register the figure before a firm voice cut through the chaos.

“Medic.”

Sakura’s eyes snapped up, locking onto the man before her — Minato Namikaze or The Golden Boy, her mind supplied. The very sight of him, standing tall amidst the chaos, sent a surge of confusion through her tired mind.

What was he doing here? He belonged on the battlefield, not within the cramped, blood-soaked confines of a medic tent. Every second he lingered was a second he wasn’t out there turning the tide of war. Sakura pulled away from his hold, straightening despite the exhaustion weighing on her bones. Her sharp green eyes raked over his body, searching for injuries, but found none. His stance was steady, his breathing even — if anything, he looked untouched, save for the dirt and soot smeared across his skin and the signs of wear on his uniform. 

Her brows furrowed. He had no reason to be inside the medic tents, no reason to be wasting time unless…

“I have two injured shinobi in a cave in. I need your immediate assistance.”

“Find yourself some earth users, have those shinobi excavated and then bring them here. I can't be removed from my station,” Sakura replied curtly, already turning away.

Before she could take another step, a strong arm shot out in front of her face and blocking her path. Her eyes snapped up once again to his, irritation flashing on her features. He met her glare with an unwavering gaze, noticing the way heat flushed across her face from the sudden anger.

“Move, Namikaze-taichou,” she bit out.

Minato wasn’t surprised that she recognized him; most people did. But he had no time for pleasantries or protocol. This was one of those moments when rank mattered, and he wasn’t above using it.

“You're just a Genin, aren't you?” He asked despite his eyes tracing the purple diamond on her fair skin. The very same seal the Sannin has on her forehead.

Sakura’s jaw clenched, her fingers curling into fists as her nails bit into the blood-caked skin of her palms. The statement wasn’t an insult, not outright, but it was a reminder of the rigid hierarchy she operated under. A reminder that, despite the lives she’d saved, despite the skills that set her apart, she was still just a Genin in the eyes of someone like him. 

Her chakra, already strained to its limits, flared involuntarily, a brief flicker of defiance before she forced it under control. She exhaled sharply through her nose and crossed her arms tightly over her chest.

“You know as well as I do that I am needed here,” she said, her voice steady despite the fatigue weighing down her limbs. “Someone has to lead these medics, Namikaze-taichou.”

Her body ached to move — to keep working, to do something other than stand here arguing while people died around them. As the lead medic, she was in charge of the camp now, despite her lower shinobi rank. They were already spread too thin, and losing the previous medical commander so suddenly in an assassination had only made it worse.

“I saw a tokubetsu jounin on my way here. He will take charge.”

“He doesn't have enough field experience,” she shot back in frustration. Even the older medic took instructions from her, relying on her leadership skills.

Minato’s expression remained unreadable, but his sharp blue eyes didn’t waver. He wasn’t here to debate. The weight of his presence pressed against her like an unspoken force, demanding obedience.

“I’m ordering you to come with me,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

Sakura’s breath caught for a split second, the words landing heavier than they should have. Under the weight of that cerulean gaze, beneath the steely authority of the man before her, she felt the leash of rank tighten around her throat.

“One is partially crushed under a boulder and Rin Nohara had transplanted Obito's Sharingan into Kakashi Hatake. She is currently stabilising them as we speak but we may be running out of time. They-” 

“What?”

Sakura’s breath hitched, her thoughts momentarily derailed. The chaos of the tent faded into the background, drowned out by the pounding in her ears.

A transplanted Sharingan?

Her gaze sharpened as she took a step closer, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. “You’re telling me,” she said slowly, voice edged with disbelief, “that Nohara performed an emergency ocular transplant… on the battlefield?”

Minato gave a curt nod, his expression grim. “She did what she had to. But Kakashi and Obito are both in critical condition. I need you there now.”

Sakura’s mind raced. A hasty transplant like that; without proper sterilization, without sufficient chakra to properly integrate the eye, could mean a hundred different complications. Infection, rejection, chakra network instability, not to mention the situation they were in… trapped under a cave-in, there was no telling how bad his condition was. 

And not to mention the Uchiha. She's assuming he's the one crushed under the boulder. They were both still alive but needed immediate medical intervention now by the way Minato was pressing onto her like this.

Damn it.

Her fists tightened at her sides, frustration warring with duty. The logical part of her screamed that she was needed here, that dozens of shinobi would die without a lead medic keeping this place together. But another part of her; the part that had spent years perfecting the art of medical ninjutsu, the part that refused to let anyone die on her watch, knew that if she didn’t go, this Kakashi and Obito might not make it. 

She exhaled sharply, already moving. 

“Tachibana-san!” she barked, catching sight of the grey-haired medic tending to a wounded man across the tent. The old medic’s head snapped up immediately. 

“You’re in charge until I get back. Take over triage and keep the critical cases rotating — anyone who can stand gets moved out. Prioritize head trauma and gut wounds; we’re losing too many too fast. If we’re short on hands, pull anyone who isn’t dying to help. And for god’s sake, keep the supply runners moving — we’re running low on IV fluids, bandages and dressings.”

Tachibana’s eyes widened, and he wrung his hands in hesitation.

“B-but Sakura-san, I-”

“Shizune will reinforce you during my absence,” she ignored the stuttering tokubetsu jounin who had somehow never once set foot outside of the hospital until this war broke out but it was time he put his senior rank to good use. Then she turned to the dark haired teenager working nearby.

Shizune immediately stood in attention upon hearing her name and took her orders. She had been taught well - well enough to handle battlefield triage, and certainly well enough to heal more penetrating injuries. She had been stationed in the medic camp alongside Sakura since the first day they were both plucked out of their travels and conscripted into war. Sakura trusted her skills as a medic, enough to hold the fort while she was away for a while.

“I'll leave Katsuyu-sama to aid you and serve as communication should any complications arise.”

The dark haired teenager nodded in affirmation. She felt much more confident with the esteemed slug summon present to assist. 

“Understood!” 

Katsuyu was promptly summoned and Sakura briefed her request to the ancient slug. Shizune gave a formal bow towards the slug before bending down to scoop her up and placing her carefully into her breast pocket, quickly leaping back into action to resume her duties. Despite her young age, Sakura had taught her extensively as her fellow apprentice. In turn, the younger girl regarded her as a mentor.

Minato was bemused by their interactions, but there was no time to dwell on it. The fact that she could command such respect among her peers, despite her rank, only solidified what he had already begun to suspect; this medic was no ordinary shinobi.

Sakura turned back to Minato and said, “Lead the way.”

Instead of turning and walking out of the tent, the blonde haired man shot Sakura an apologetic glance before gathering her around the waist, one hand cradling the back of her neck.

“Hey! What are you do-”

In a flash, they disappeared from the tent. 

The world lurched.

For a split second, there was nothing—no ground beneath her feet, no air to breathe, just a suffocating weightlessness. Then, everything slammed back into focus.

Sakura stumbled as her boots hit solid ground, her vision swimming from the sudden displacement. Her stomach twisted violently in protest, but she bit down the nausea, wrenching herself free from Minato’s steadying grip.

“Next time,” she ground out, bracing her hands on her knees as she steadied herself, “warn me before you do that.”

Minato barely acknowledged her complaint, his attention already snapping toward the cave-in ahead. Dust and rubble coated the ground, the remnants of a collapsed rock formation blocking what was once an entryway. The air was thick with unsettled dirt, and even from a distance, Sakura could hear the ragged breathing of the trapped shinobi.

Her stomach clenched.

“Obito is in no position to move, and there's little space inside for another person with this rock blocking the way,” Minato informed her. “You’ll need to attend to him first, he's the one with the most critical injuries.”

Sakura nodded but decided to assess the situation by herself anyway. She placed a hand onto the rocks and pushed chakra through the solid matter. Closing her eyes, she read the contours of the earth and mapped out the hollowed space beneath. Her furrowed eyebrows quickly smoothed over with relief. Luckily, she could force her way through the rock blockade. 

“You’re a sensor?” Minato asked in surprise.

“Not a great one, I have multiple sensing techniques however,” Sakura replied through closed eyes. She missed the way Minato stared at her slim fingers and how his eyes traced the length of her arm up to her face as he regarded her carefully. 

Not great but good enough, he mused.

“I can handle this,” Sakura finally concluded and her eyes snapped open. She pulled on a pair of leather gloves from her back pocket and said, “Tell the kids to brace for impact.”

Minato was sceptical but he nodded regardless. He suddenly disappeared and she could hear muffled voices talking inside. There was a pull of chakra next to her and in an instant, he was back again.

“They're ready.”

Sakura nodded and prepared her stance. Without further prompt, the blond jumped backwards to make way just in time before Sakura quite literally punched the boulder until it smashed into a cloud of debris. He threw up an arm to shield his face as dust billowed past him in gritty waves. When it finally settled, he reappeared beside her, blue eyes narrowing slightly as they traced the destruction she’d left in her wake. 

Minato had seen his fair share of remarkable feats in his time; shinobi who danced with blades like extensions of their soul, who could summon firestorms with a whisper or vanish into the wind itself. But watching this blush haired kunoichi reduce a massive boulder to fine powder with nothing but chakra and raw strength was a sight to behold.

The remnants of the cave-in lay scattered like sand at their feet, fine dust still hanging in the air. The ground beneath him trembled faintly, as if the earth itself hadn’t yet recovered from the blow. Minato’s mind worked quickly, dissecting what he had just witnessed. Chakra-enhanced strength to such a degree was rare — almost unheard of outside the Sannin.

He exhaled slowly, gaze steady.

So this is what Tsunade’s apprentice is capable of.

Seeing as the path was cleared, he quickly took point and led Sakura into the cave. They climbed over some rocks easily, their steps precise despite the uneven ground. The air inside was thick with dust and the lingering scent of blood, but Minato moved with the effortless grace of someone accustomed to war zones. Behind him, Sakura followed without trouble.

A few meters away, Rin crouched beside the debris, hands trembling but steady, glowing faintly with chakra as she pressed them against the only visible part of Obito’s body — the side not pinned beneath the massive rock. Sweat and grime streaked her face, mixing with the blood that clung to her sleeves — some of it hers, most of it not. Her breath hitched, chest heaving with effort, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

She looked up at their arrival, relief flashing across her face. “Minato-sensei! Sakura-sensei!”

Sakura was already moving, her focus zeroing in on the chakra signature half buried beneath the boulder. She could feel him—weak, flickering, but alive. His left eye was closed, signs of an eye extraction prominent; this one must be Obito Uchiha based on what Minato had told her. He grunted and shifted slightly beneath the rubble, a pained sound barely escaping his throat. Despite this, it was a good indicator; it means he was still breathing and had a fighting chance. 

She glanced at the other figure slumped against the wall, breathing heavily while clutching his recently bandaged eye carefully. Sakura would have to check on him later. Right now, this Uchiha was in a more serious danger.

“How bad?” she demanded sharply, dropping to her knees beside Rin. Without wasting a second, she pressed her palms over Obito's body, sending out a pulse of chakra to assess the damage.

Rin swallowed hard, her breath shaking. “Obito-kun — he’s pinned under most of it. His right torso is crushed, and there’s internal bleeding.” Her voice croaked, barely holding steady. “He’s been drifting in and out of consciousness. I… I’ve kept him stabilized with the stasis jutsu, but that’s all I can do, Sensei.”

Sakura was impressed by Rin’s ability to perform the stasis jutsu; it was an advanced technique, not easily mastered by someone at her level. Yet, despite the strain evident in the trembling of her hands and the sweat streaking her face, Rin had managed to keep Obito stable, buying them precious time. It wasn’t a cure, but it kept him from slipping away — and right now, that was enough.

“Kakashi-kun… his vitals are stable for now, but the transplant—”

“Any complications?”

“No, I just haven't been able to check him -”

“Then focus on the Uchiha,” Sakura reminded the young medic not unkindly. Rin bit her lips, worried regardless as the life of her two teammates were at stake.

With the stasis jutsu, everything was still inside Obito's body as if it was frozen in time. This prevents his situation from deteriorating and it gives Sakura some time to figure out what they can do with the massive weight pressing against half of his body. Reminding Rin to keep maintaining the jutsu, she focused her attention on the obstacle. Sakura’s chakra surged, tracing the energy flow within the rocks. Her brows furrowed as she processed the information. The boulder was heavy but stable. However, moving it the wrong way could send the entire formation crashing down on the boy.

“How long since he's been crushed by this boulder?”

“It’s nearly an hour now. But Obito is still… he's still alive, Sensei,” Rin choked out, her voice thick with disbelief and desperation. Her hands trembled where they hovered over Obito’s exposed torso, her chakra flickering as exhaustion gnawed at her control.

One hour. That was far beyond what a human body should have been able to endure under such conditions. Crush injuries of this severity often led to rapid internal bleeding, organ failure, and a lethal condition known as crush syndrome—where toxins built up in the trapped limbs and could flood the bloodstream the moment the pressure was released.

Sakura shifted her stance and sent a pulse of chakra to map the boulder. With her eyes closed, she was able to focus on the shape of the large rock and Obito’s body. No wonder he was able to survive this long, the boulder hadn't fully crushed him in as there were smaller stones and rocks wedged beneath the weight of the massive boulder, creating just enough space to keep him from being completely flattened. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t in a critical condition.

Sakura exhaled slowly, opening her eyes. 

“He’s lucky,” she murmured, though the words felt hollow given the state he was in. 

“The smaller rocks absorbed most of the pressure, but his body is still heavily damaged.”

Obito’s face was ghostly pale, sweat beading at his brow despite the chill of impending shock. His breathing was weak, his chest barely rising and falling. Even with the cushioning effect of the smaller stones, his right half, primarily his upper body, had suffered devastating trauma.

“I see,” Sakura exhaled, pushing down her frustration as her chakra crawled back to her with feedback from her chakra sensing technique. She pulled her hands away from the boulder and continued assessing the boy from every angle carefully. 

“You already know that removing this rock would instantly spell his death. Not unless you're stabilising and healing him simultaneously. And at this point, you can't do both.”

As she talked, the glow of Rin’s chakra flickered but the girl pushed through, sobbing as she held on. Sakura noticed the jutsu-shiki on multiple rocks, assuming that this was the famous Hiraishin seal that made Minato inescapable to enemies. She figured it had multiple uses other than chasing after enemies then. Now she understood why Minato needed her here immediately instead of transporting them back to the medic tents to be saved. The minute he lifted up those rocks, Obito faced instant death unless he was constantly being stabilised but Rin didn't have much skill nor chakra to keep up with his life-saving procedures. 

“You also don't have the capacity nor capabilities to fix this kind of damage. Under normal circumstances, I would declare this a non-survivable injury and move on but-”

“No, sensei! Please, don't! I’m begging you… please…” Rin was begging at this point, sobs wracking through her body and tears dripping like waterfalls.

“Rin…” Obito’s voice croaked beneath her, unable to see his teammate’s face but his heart broke from hearing her voice.

“But,” Sakura pressed on, “there is something else that I could do. I can't guarantee his survival, but I can at least try.”

She absolutely could save him, this she knew but the repercussions of using her technique and supplements was going to cost her enormous amount of time and energy, especially in the middle of the war where every ounce of her chakra had to be rationed like the precious resource it was.

“That's all we ask,” Minato said from behind her.  

She thought it was an especially heavy ask just to save a boy. But she was not heartless. And she definitely would not abandon her oath. If he had been stuck under this rock this whole time and was somehow still stubbornly clinging on to life, then she would help him survive.

“Alright,” Sakura nodded. Then, in a much smaller voice and to herself, “Alright…”

She gritted her teeth. The real danger wasn’t just the injuries—it was what would happen after they moved the boulder.

If she removed the pressure too quickly, the toxins and necrotic waste trapped in his dying tissues would flood his bloodstream all at once. It would be instant death. His heart wouldn’t stand a chance.

Sakura pulled out a syringe from her medic pouch, this one filled with a rapid-acting vasopressor to maintain his blood pressure. She glanced at Rin. “Get ready to give him a chakra transfusion the second we move this. His body is going to crash the moment the pressure lifts. Do you need a soldier pill?”

Rin shook her head, “I just took one a couple hours ago.”

Sakura nodded. If Rin took another so soon, she would pay the price of overdosing; the most immediate and biggest risk being cardiac arrest. Every shinobi has been warned severely against the overuse of soldier pills for this exact reason. They are useful, but they are never reliable.

She turned to Minato. “We need to move the rocks, but carefully. The debris is too unstable for brute force. I need you to use your Hiraishin to teleport this biggest piece on my exact count. Once I’ve gone in, you can start moving the rest manually.”

Minato gave a firm nod, already reaching for his kunai. He didn't make a comment on how she was able to deduce his use of the seals by mere observation.

She injected the syringe into Obito’s arm and kept giving orders to Rin, who had become more alert now that they were taking action. 

“Rin, you must keep stabilizing him. At no point in time, until I have completely taken over the healing, are you allowed to stop. You have to keep his injuries in a stasis. Do you understand?”

“Understood,” Rin sniffled and nodded vigorously, her hands glowing steadier as she reinforced her chakra.

Sakura took a deep breath, pushing aside the exhaustion dragging at her limbs. She reached into her breast pocket and pulled out a large round pill. She popped it in her mouth and crunched it to release the bitter yet potent rush of energy that spread through her body almost instantly. The stimulant burned down her throat, igniting her exhausted muscles with artificial strength and forcing her chakra to regenerate in rapid, concentrated bursts; but she knew it was a temporary fix. The crash would come later and it would be brutal.

“That doesn't look like a normal soldier pill,” Minato commented apprehensively, noticing the larger size and darker colour of the pill compared to the standard issued ones.

“That's because it's not. This is ten times more potent than the usual dose,” Sakura answered offhandedly. 

She knew that only she had access to these specific pills because she had made them and it was her own recipe. No sane shinobi would dare consume soldier pills even 3 times the recommended dosage in a month. It would fry their body otherwise and risk their career, or worse, their life. But Sakura knew the risk and had built up a tolerance that no normal medical shinobi could match. Years of pushing her body beyond its limits had conditioned her to withstand what would cripple most shinobi.

Minato frowned, clearly uneasy and said, “That’s dangerous.”

She gave him a wry smile, “So is war.”

There was no time to rest and there was no room for doubt. She had trained for this; years under Tsunade’s tutelage had prepared her for moments exactly like this. The past year and a half in the frontline medic camp had desensitised her to damage this extensive. If she was being honest, she was actually excited with the prospect of healing an injury of this magnitude when common sense would've dictated a shinobi to abandon this teammate to push on with their mission, conserve their efforts or make an escape. In a way, she was touched by their loyalty to each other. And so, even if the odds were stacked against them, even if logic dictated that Obito shouldn’t survive, she would try. 

“Go!” Sakura signalled.

Minato vanished and reappeared in an instant, the largest chunk of rock disappearing with him. One by one, the heavier rocks was removed as he teleported them to a safer distance outside. Each time he did, the foundation of the rubble shifted slightly, but Sakura’s enhanced strength steadied the remaining rocks, ensuring that Obito wouldn’t be crushed in. Rin's chakra continued on steadily, her focus unyielding in this crucial moment despite her shaking muscles. 

Minato vanished in a golden flash, reappearing at different points, his kunai slicing through stone, teleporting away the heaviest obstructions.

Bit by bit, the path to the injured shinobi was uncovered.

And then—

A hand. Pale, wrecked, slick with blood.

Rin gasped his name, “Obito!”

Sakura shoved the last boulder aside, and suddenly, there he was. His ribs had partially collapsed inward, his chest sunken where the boulders had caved it in. His arm was mangled with flesh torn and bruised so deeply that it had turned black and purple. His right leg was fortunately not lost beneath the debris, untouched but bleeding possibly from the initial impact.

Sakura’s heart clenched.

He was barely holding on, his breaths weak and rattling with pain. Miraculously, the boulder had not damaged his skull and the right side of his face was largely intact. The most he would be worried about was deep scar tissue and in Sakura’s medical opinion, a face could be reconstructed. Behind the lacerated lid, she could see his eyeball moving, signalling that it was not far gone like what they had expected.

Obito heard the voices as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He knew that help had finally arrived. He could hear his teacher, Rin, and then the voice of another woman… 

He smiled.

“Sensei,” he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. “You’re… late.”

Minato’s jaw tightened, guilt flashing through his expression.

Sakura didn’t hesitate. She was fast to move and was positioned beside Obito, the crushed side, hands already glowing. Rin gasped, feeling the strength of the medic before her spreading and working with rapid succession to heal Obito’s injuries. She could feel the cells regenerating at a rate that surpasses her own comprehension. Sakura’s healing chakra was a gentle yet relentless force, commanding the cells to regenerate, repair and rebuild at an inhuman rate. The cool minty chakra brushed against hers and eventually took complete control over Obito’s body, healing different sites and types of injuries simultaneously. 

Sakura was doing the work of an entire team of medic nin, her chakra weaving through Obito’s body with precision and speed, mending broken bones, sealing torn flesh, and pushing his shattered body toward recovery at an impossible rate. Each pulse of her healing chakra seemed to defy the limits of human endurance, coaxing his cells to regenerate faster than the damage could spread. The cool, minty energy flowed seamlessly, her focus unwavering as she worked in harmony with Rin’s presence, guiding her chakra to take full command of the repairs. It was as if time itself bent around the intensity of her determination, and for a fleeting moment, Obito’s battered body felt the faint stirrings of life returning.

Then, Rin felt her own chakra falter before completely giving out. 

“I’m sorry, Sakura-sensei,” Rin gasped, her body and chakra finally failing her.

“Save your strength,” she murmured, the loss of Rin’s stasis jutsu thankfully did not interfere with her work as she had already gotten a good grip on the healing. Rin’s collapse didn’t deter her—it only heightened her resolve.

Blood pooled beneath Obito, not in fast, pulsing bursts, but in a slow, seeping spread, signaling that while arteries remained intact, smaller blood vessels had ruptured throughout his body. His skin had turned deathly pale, a stark contrast to the dark patches of bruising that bloomed across his torso. Shock was settling in deeper, his body trembling despite the crushing heat of his injuries.

And yet, his heart still beats. Weak, faltering, but steady enough to cling to the fragile thread of life.

Sakura forced down the surge of panic and focused. 

“I need blood-replenishing pills. Now,” she ordered Rin.

Rin scrambled to retrieve them from her pouch, popping them immediately into Obito’s mouth and aiding him to swallow it. Obito’s fingers twitched weakly. 

“Stay with me Obito. I’ve got you,” she said as she guided her chakra across his body.

“.... Sannin’s apprentice,” he mumbled. “You sound… like an angel.”

Sakura managed a tight, humorless smile. “Thank you. Now relax.”

She had already evaluated his injuries for blood flow and nerve function of his arm. She had decided against amputation as it was possible for the limb to be saved, despite the extensive damage. Plus, it has been approximately 1-2 hours since ischemia. As she continues infusing her chakra into his body, she could feel it reaching to injured tissues, stimulating the cells in the damaged area and accelerating the repair and regrowth needed to completely heal the damage. Her chakra coaxed the cells to regenerate and rebuild tissue structures and close the wounds, essentially “sealing” the injury at a microscopic level. 

But to repair all the critical injuries simultaneously; the severed arm, lung contusion and internal multi-organ failure and shock as well as the onset of necrosis. Healing all these at once is impossible for an average medic especially since she was working all by herself. 

That was why it struck everyone how Sakura was able to extend her healing effects; her chakra surging through Obito’s battered form, mending what should have been beyond saving. His breathing steadied, his color returned, and for the first time since they had uncovered him from the rubble, he no longer looked like a boy lying on death’s door. 

Minato was stunned into silence, watching over the pink haired medic and his students like a hawk. The sheer scale of what she was accomplishing before him didn’t seem possible—not by the standards of any medic-nin he had ever known. Rin had begged him to find Tsunade’s apprentice, insisting that she was the only one who could save Obito.

After seeing her in action, he understood why.

There was a small thud; Rin had fallen unconscious due to chakra exhaustion next to her teammate, her hands gripping his good left hand. Minato had rushed forward just in time to cushion the head of his student before it hit the ground. He gently laid her down and turned his attention to the pink haired kunoichi, now that his team’s medic incapacitated, he wondered if she would need more assistance. 

“What can I do to help?”

Sakura didn’t look up. She poured more chakra into stabilizing his vitals and healing, her newly regenerated reserves racing to her command. 

“Keep Hatake comfortable,” she said. “But don't let him go to sleep.”

The blond nodded and went to Kakashi, checking over him.

Sakura did not let anything interfere with her focus after that. 

 

Chapter 2

The Medic

 

Chapter 2:

 

It took her an entire day with no rest in between. 

Sakura worked like a machine, kneeling beside Obito, her hands glowing relentlessly with healing chakra. She wasn’t just healing him — she was rebuilding him, piece by fragile piece and relentlessly dragging him back from death’s door. By the time she was finished, night had long settled and the first light of dawn had begun to creep over the horizon.

Minato had brought clean water and Rin was wiping away blood that clung stubbornly to Obito’s skin, marvelling at the transformation beneath her fingers. What had once been a mangled ruin of shattered bones and torn flesh was now whole again — not flawless, but whole. Fresh, puckered scars marked the places where broken limb and destroyed tissue had been painstakingly restored. Lines of healing flesh, still tender and livid, marked the places where death had nearly claimed him. His chest rose and fell steadily, his breathing no longer labored. He looked almost peaceful in his sleep.

“You saved him, Sakura-sensei,” Rin whispered, her voice trembling with both relief and disbelief. She clutched the damp cloth in her hands, fingers still shaking. “You really saved him.”

Sakura didn’t say anything but she leaned back and exhaled slowly. There was still a lot of work that needed to be done on Obito but the worst was over. His body would require days of follow-up treatments and he would need physical therapy and months of rehabilitation. Damaged nerves had to be retrained, scar tissue managed, and muscle strength rebuilt from the ground up. But he was stable and breathing on his own now.

Taking a full minute to herself, she closed her eyes as her chest rose and fell in steady, controlled breaths. When she finally stood, she stretched her arms above her head, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension that had settled deep in her muscles. 

Minato watched in silence, more intently than he should have. His eyes traced the arc of her movements, the way her shirt shifted to reveal a glimpse of the smooth skin at her side, the delicate hollow of her throat where sweat clung like dew. A few strands of her hair had stuck to the nape of her neck, darkened with moisture, and he found his gaze caught there—on the place just behind her ear, where her skin looked softest. And then, there, just beneath her jawline, he noticed a faint bruise blooming — a mark she likely hadn’t even realized she’d earned in the chaos. 

Her limbs trembled ever so slightly — a telltale sign of the exhaustion she refused to acknowledge. She brushed it off with a light shake to her body. And her soft, impossible pink hair shifted with the movement, catching the light like silk stained in cherry blossom hues. He looked away then, the movement casual, almost automatic, though his fingers curled slightly at his side.

But a moment later, his gaze found her again — drawn back without thought.

Sakura was reaching into her collar, where a small slug with a blue streak rested snugly against her skin. She spoke to it in a low, calm tone, her voice barely carrying over the crackling of the nearby fire. Minato caught fragments of the conversation — reports from the medic camp near the frontlines. His brows furrowed as he realized what that meant: Sakura would need to return soon. Despite the grueling hours she had spent saving Obito, her work was far from over.

Once the communication ended, the slug dissolved in a quiet puff of chakra, and Sakura exhaled softly before making her way to Kakashi. She crouched beside him, hands glowing faintly as she carefully checked his transplanted eye again.

While Minato had been out securing the perimeter and fetching clean water, Sakura had already tended to the grey haired boy, meticulously monitoring the Sharingan to ensure the transplant had taken properly. Her chakra seeped into his skin to soothe any residual inflammation and stabilize the new tissue, encouraging for the fragile connections to hold. Normally, she would allow the body to heal itself post surgery but she wasn't taking any chances with the village’s most treasured dojutsu especially with how everything had transpired. 

Kakashi was silent, even as Sakura’s practiced hands moved over the fresh bandages covering his newly transplanted eye. His breathing was steady but tense, the only sign of his discomfort betrayed by the slight clench of his jaw. Sakura noticed but said nothing, assuming that he must be feeling a magnitude of emotions within. When she was finished tending to the eye, Kakashi was immensely relieved.

“You’re healing well,” she finally murmured, her voice low but reassuring. “No signs of rejection and any infection have been dealt with. The chakra flow is stable. Rin did a very good job on you.”

Kakashi just nodded in agreement though the scorching pain behind the implanted eye had only disappeared after the pink haired medic had tended to him. 

“You’ll have to keep it covered when it's not in use. Unlike… natural users of doujutsu, it cannot be deactivated at will and your body isn’t built to handle it,” she continued softly. “Overexertion could damage your optic nerve or worse. You need to pace yourself once you start using the Sharingan.”

Kakashi exhaled quietly, his shoulders barely shifting under the thin blanket draped over him. 

“I’ll take care of it until Obito’s ready.”

Sakura frowned. The Sharingan couldn't handle another transplant, not in the near future and certainly not with the way Rin had performed the surgery. While she had done a great job; under extreme duress and poor working conditions, the eye had still been damaged during the initial extraction and implant. The tissue around the optic nerve was delicate, inflamed, and barely holding together. Another transplant would risk permanent damage, rendering the eye useless. 

Sakura had done her best to fix the damage though.  By all means and purposes Kakashi will be able to utilise the eye and its powers but it wouldn’t be without consequences. Overexertion could strain the fragile connections she had painstakingly healed. Prolonged use might lead to nerve degradation, blurred vision, or, in the worst-case scenario, complete blindness. 

Sakura assumes like any other doujutsu, the Sharingan will demand a high chakra consumption. For a non-Uchiha like Kakashi, the drain would be significantly worse because his body lacks the genetic makeup to handle it. If he kept this eye, Kakashi would be looking forward to scheduled checkups and constant monitoring. If he decides to return the Sharingan, well, Sakura wasn't sure if it could survive another extraction.

While she isn't privy to the reason how Kakashi had obtained the Sharingan in the first place (though she could assume that Obito had begged them to take it in what he thought was his final moments alive), she couldn’t help but wonder how the two boys would feel once they are reunited. Guilt was a powerful thing, and Sakura had seen firsthand how it could linger like a shadow. Obito had given Kakashi his eye in what he believed were his dying breaths — a final gift, a burden to bear. Now, with Obito alive, the weight of that sacrifice would be something they’d both have to face.

Sakura sighed softly, wiping her brow. She wasn’t one for sentimentality on the battlefield, but even she could feel the gravity of the situation settling heavily in the air. Kakashi’s breathing had evened out, exhaustion finally pulling him into a restless sleep. She adjusted the blanket over his shoulders, fingers gentle despite the weariness dragging at her bones.

When she stood again, she noticed Minato was still watching her quietly. His gaze wasn’t intrusive, but it was steady — deliberate in a way that made it impossible to ignore. He tracked her movements with the kind of focus usually reserved for threats on the battlefield.

It unsettled her more than she cared to admit so she redirected his focus.

“This will be a mess once you’re back home,” Sakura gestured to the two boys, obviously referring to the Sharingan situation.

Minato didn't reply but he silently agreed. Right now though, it was a problem for another day. They had more pressing concerns, and the battlefield didn’t allow time to dwell on complicated emotions. Minato exhaled softly, running a hand through his blond hair as he glanced at the two boys. 

Rin was rummaging through Obito's pack, looking for his spare clothes sealed haphazardly in a scroll with multiple sets of kunai, instant noodle packets and the roll of smoke bombs and explosive tags. She managed to pull out a pair of pants and a standard issued black shirt. She wordlessly dressed him in the clean clothes and once she was done, she walked over to where Sakura and Minato were resting.

“Sensei, I don't think Obito and Kakashi is fit to continue with the mission,” Rin said quietly.

“Nor are you,” Sakura interrupted, green eyes critically assessing the younger medic. “You're still suffering from the side effects of chakra exhaustion. It's best if all three of you return to camp with me.”

“But-”

“I declare you to be unfit for the mission,” Sakura announced, halting whatever argument Rin was going to make but from the looks of it, the girl wasn't actually going to make any. If anything, she looked relieved. The Hatake boy maybe would have objected, but he was too far out cold to be making any complaints soon. She's heard that he was a stickler for rules and shinobi duties, he looks the type anyway.

“She's right,” Minato agreed, “I’ll be taking over your mission as we're still within the time limit to execute it despite the setback.”

“Sakura Haruno.”

“Huh?” Minato paused, turning away from Rin with a slight tilt of his head, brow furrowing as he regarded the medic with quiet confusion.

“That's my name,” Sakura said, scoffing lightly, though there was a sharper edge beneath her words. “You haven't once addressed me by it.”

Minato blinked, taken aback. Then, after a beat, a small and measured, almost apologetic smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Forgive me,” he said, his voice softer now. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I suppose I got caught up in the situation.”

The Golden Boy wouldn’t have remembered her name, wouldn’t have spared her a second thought if circumstances hadn’t forced him to find her. She wasn’t delusional enough to believe otherwise. To him, she was just another medic — competent, useful in the moment, but ultimately forgettable.

Not that it mattered. 

She wasn’t here to make an impression. 

She was here to keep people alive.

Minato blinked and he seemed to catch the shift in her expression, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He opened his mouth to say something but she was already turning away. 

Sakura crouched beside what remained of her small pack, fingers checking and rearranging the sparse contents with methodical care. She’d only had her medic pouch when she was brought here. No supplies for long travel, no reinforcements. Just her chakra and whatever emergency tools she kept stashed for triage on the field. 

Her eyes flicked to Obito, still unconscious but stable. She was already calculating the safest way to transport him back to camp.

“We’re in Kusa, aren’t we?” she asked suddenly, without looking up.

Minato hummed, caught off guard. He hadn’t expected her to be paying attention to anything beyond the endless hours of healing and chakra depletion. And yet she had. 

Sakura didn’t look at him, instead wiping her hands on a clean rag with mechanical precision. “The soil is different. Damp, but not like the forests back home. And the air… it smells like moss and rain. There's twines here that's also native to the Land of Grass but the cave formations suggest we're closer to Iwa’s territories. I also sensed traces of Doton when we first entered this cave.”

Minato smiled faintly. Observant. He should’ve expected as much. 

“You’re right,” he admitted, but opted not to say more. 

Sakura nodded absently, as if his confirmation had only solidified what she already knew. Her gaze flicked toward the cave entrance, where the first pale hints of dawn were beginning to filter through the jagged rocks. The light pooled on the damp earth, glistening off the moss and slick stone walls.

“Figures. Konoha wouldn’t send you out here if it wasn’t important.”

Sakura took off her hair tie, and Minato watched as long pink hair fell from the loose bun, cascading down her back in messy, sweat-dampened strands. Minato’s gaze followed the motion — unthinking at first — drawn to the way she pressed her slender fingers into her scalp, trying to ease the tightness there. Her tired sigh was soft, almost inaudible, a small sound that didn’t quite match the cavern’s stillness. It caught in the air longer than it should have.

Sakura continued to comb her fingers through her hair, wincing at the unfortunate slick feeling of oil and grime that clung stubbornly to her scalp. Days of relentless healing left little room for proper hygiene. She grumbled quietly, gathering her hair and re-tying them again – more securely this time. The act relieved some of the pressure on her head but it wasn't enough. She swore to herself she’d jump into the first river she saw once this was over.

“We’re too close to Iwa’s borders,” she said quietly, tightening the straps on her pack. “If they track us here, we won’t make it far before they catch up.”

Minato’s expression remained calm, but there was a flicker of understanding in his eyes. She was right. The mission to destroy the Kannabi Bridge had already drawn Iwa’s attention, and with Obito’s injuries delaying them, their window of safety was closing fast. They were already testing the limits of luck by resting this long.

“If they wanted to destroy the bridge, they could've just sent me alone. What was the old man thinking, sending these kids for this task?”

Though she was muttering to herself, Minato caught every word and his eyes widened in surprise.

“How-” 

“Because it's obvious, Namikaze-taichou,” Sakura snapped, irritation rising to the surface. Once again, she tried not to take offense at the way he sounded so incredulous — as if tactical reasoning was beyond her. But she failed, again, and the heat in her voice betrayed her.

The blond haired man just stared as heat flush across her face once more. She was prone to angry outbursts, he thought to himself but it was neither the time nor the place to feel amused, though the corners of his mouth threatened to twitch in spite of himself.

“Cut off Iwa’s supply lines, and only then we'll have the edge to win the war.”

Sakura exhaled sharply, buckling the strap of her bag with unnecessary force. 

“But to send a genin team into enemy territory for a demolition mission?”

“They're Chunin,” Minato interjected but Sakura’s sharp laugh cut him off.

“Recently minted, I’m sure.”

Minato’s lips pressed into a thin line but he didn’t argue with her very precise deduction. Kakashi was promoted to Jounin for this mission, as was Obito and Rin to rank Chunin. He wasn’t the type to push back against the truth, no matter how bluntly it was delivered. Sakura had a point — a sharp one. The Third Hokage wasn’t known for reckless decisions, but sending three teenagers to execute such a pivotal mission reeked of desperation. Konoha was losing ground, and Kannabi Bridge was a lifeline Iwa couldn’t afford to lose.

Minato exhaled through his nose as Sakura’s anger seemed to burn into the air between them. That quick flash of heat in her cheeks, the tight set of her jaw, the way she stood her ground like she could stare down a thousand shinobi and not flinch — he couldn’t shake it.

He wasn’t sure what unnerved him more: the fact that he noticed or the fact that it lingered.

“The war has cost us more than we’re willing to admit,” he said finally, voice quiet. “Everyone is being pushed to their limits.”

Sakura snorted softly, bending down to double-check the makeshift stretcher Rin had pieced together. She adjusted the straps, testing the strength of the bindings with a tug and tied another string to reinforce the stretcher.

“Limits,” she echoed bitterly. “These kids are barely holding together, and you’re telling me we’re at our limits? If this is the best we can do, we’re in worse shape than I thought.”

Sakura recalled the amount of bodies she had to burn; small, young, barely of age bodies. She hated everyone and everything on those days. Hated the way Shizune cried, scrubbing her hands raw in icy water, only to plunge them back into torn flesh and splintered bone to save their lives. There was no time for mourning. No time for ceremony. Just fire, blood, and the endless stench of death.

And still, they kept going… because someone had to.

“I think we're already way past our limits,” Sakura finally said bitterly, moving over to Obito to gently lift him onto the stretcher with Rin’s help. The younger girl just bit her lips somberly. Eyes wet, and face downcast.

Minato didn’t respond immediately. He watched her carefully, noting the exhaustion in her posture—the stiff set of her shoulders, the way her hands trembled ever so slightly when she thought no one was looking. But her movements are sure and calculated. Whatever monstrous soldier pill she had ingested yesterday was still burning through her system, granting her borrowed strength to keep going long past the point most shinobi would have collapsed. Her eyes were still alert despite taking little to no breaks. Green… like polished jade.

Minato didn't account for Sakura being someone so unexpected. Skilled, sharp-tongued, unapologetically blunt when she felt something was wrong. She didn’t speak to provoke, and she challenged him not out of defiance. Her words are unadorned, direct and unyielding. When she met his gaze, there was no hesitation, no fear—just conviction. He’d seen that look before… in comrades who never made it home. In the mirror, once, before the war had carved the softness out of him. 

It wasn’t the kind of thing he should be drawn to. Not now, not here. But it clung to him anyway.

He glanced back at her, just for a second, catching the tail end of her scowl as she shifted Obito’s weight more comfortably on the stretcher. Her hand paused for a beat, and then her eyes flicked up. 

Caught.

Their eyes met. Hers narrowed—just a little—and he couldn’t tell if it was suspicion or curiosity. Maybe both. 

Minato should have looked away.

He knew it—knew—that his stare could be unsettling. He had learned long ago how to use it as a tool: calm, unreadable, sometimes even kind. But always steady, always in control. People tended to fold under it, their confidence slipping the longer his gaze held. Even enemy shinobi faltered when they met the stillness in his eyes.

But this time… it was him who shifted.

He looked away first, jaw tightening. 

Minato adjusted the strap on his flak jacket, more to distract himself than out of necessity. “We move in two minutes,” he said quietly, voice a little rougher than before.

He glanced at Rin, she was trembling like a leaf. They had let her sleep for eight hours but she was still fighting the combined effects of chakra exhaustion and being on the soldier pill. He pressed a hand on her shoulder and she looked up at him, searching for something.

“I’ll take care of it,” Minato assured her. “You make sure to keep watch over Kakashi and Obito, okay?”

“What do you mean? I’m coming with you,” a raspy voice croaked from the corner of the cave. Kakashi had woken up from his short nap and realized that everyone was going to make a move soon.

“Are you sure you can handle this, Kakashi?” Minato asked. Unlike the rest of them, Kakashi was the most rested of them all, impromptu eye transplant surgery notwithstanding. But he still wanted to make sure that Kakashi was still fit to run the mission. 

“Yes, sensei.” 

Minato regarded Kakashi for a moment longer, assessing him. He could see the determination etched into the boy’s pale face — the way his jaw clenched, how his one visible eye burned with stubborn resolve. Sakura had even healed his sprained wrist and other smaller injuries, making him essentially fit for another fight. He might need some time to adjust to working with one eye for now as the covered Sharingan is still unknown to him, but Minato knew Kakashi could overcome it. He was a quick study after all. 

Besides, if he took Kakashi with him, there's a higher chance of success. Kakashi would maintain his mission in destroying the Kannabi bridge and Minato could get back on the mission he was diverted from; to intercept and annihilate the Iwa forces in its entirety on the frontlines. 

Minato turned his head slightly, eyes flicking toward the pink-haired medic who had just finished re-checking Kakashi’s vitals. She hadn’t said anything yet, but her subtle nod was enough of an answer.

“The camp is about 80 clicks from here. Obito is too unstable for my teleportation technique and we're in a time crunch to reach the Kannabi bridge. Can you make it on your own with Obito and Rin, Sakura-san?”

Sakura snapped her attention to him, unsure how to feel about the sudden shift to her first name — a level of familiarity she hadn’t expected when before, he hadn't even addressed her by anything but “medic”. In the rigid formality of war, it felt oddly personal, leaving her momentarily off-balance. 

Minato didn’t wait for her response and he crouched to draw a map in the dirt, tracing the fastest route back to the camp with precise fingers.

“You’ll need to avoid the main trails. Iwa scouts are likely monitoring them,” he continued. “Cut through the eastern ridge. It’s rough terrain, but it’ll keep you out of sight.”

He tapped the spot where the cave was marked. “From here, follow the slope down to the river. Stay on the north bank — the water will mask your scent, but it’s shallow enough to cross if you’re pursued.”

At a fork in the river, he marked an ‘X.’ “When you reach this bend, leave the water and head west through the forest. There’s an abandoned supply route here — old enough that it won’t show fresh tracks, but flat enough to make carrying Obito easier.”

Minato glanced at her briefly. “Move quickly but don’t push too hard. If Rin burns out again, neither of you will make it.”

He pointed toward a series of jagged marks on the map — a small range of hills. “You’ll pass through the foothills here. Avoid the ridge; Iwa outposts are set up for long-range surveillance. Stick to the low ground where the tree cover is thickest.”

Finally, his finger circled a point near the edge of the map. “This is the last checkpoint before camp. It’s a fallback post with supplies and a safehouse. If you’re pursued, don’t lead them there. Use it only if you’re certain you’ve lost your trail.”

He sat back, eyes flicking over the map one last time before meeting her gaze. “At your current pace, it should take you a day and a half. Two, if you’re forced to slow down.”

Despite him asking if Sakura could manage his teammates, she realized that he was giving a command. She doesn't think he could afford to send them back to camp and have enough time to return and carry out his mission. 

Sakura nodded, her mind already memorizing the route. 

“Understood.”

“Rin, you’ll take the lead,” Minato ordered, his tone firm and unwavering.

Rin sputtered in shock, eyes wide. 

“But Sakura-sensei—” She turned toward the older medic, face flushing with embarrassment and horror. It felt wrong. Sakura was more qualified, more experienced. She had taught her, after all. It was a brief couple of lessons at the hospital, but Rin still regarded the pink haired medic as her superior.

But Sakura simply stared ahead, her expression calm, though her hands curled slightly at her sides. She nodded once in affirmation, accepting the order without question. The war didn’t care how many lives she’d saved or how much chakra she’d burned to keep Obito breathing. It didn’t care that she was more experienced, more prepared, or more qualified. 

Rank was rank. 

Rin was a Chunin. She was not.

And as a chunin, Rin should be capable of leading missions and making strategic decisions. Minato was just following protocol. Efficient. Impersonal. The right call, from a command standpoint. Sakura belatedly realized this was also probably a teaching moment. A test for Rin. A calculated choice made in the name of leadership development — one that had nothing to do with her. 

“Don't worry, Rin. Should any medical emergencies arise, Sakura-san will assert authority,” Minato assured her.

Rin faltered, then gave a small, uncertain nod — reassured, but still visibly uneasy beneath the weight of the responsibility. Sakura offered her a small, encouraging smile, the kind that said, You’ll be fine, even if the situation ahead promised anything but ease.

Minato lingered as Rin stepped away to gather her things. His gaze drifted to Sakura, just for a moment too long.

Then, as if the decision came to him in real time, he reached into his pouch and drew one of his tri-pronged kunai — its edge still clean and sharp.

“Take this,” he said, holding it out to her.

Minato didn’t say anything more, just held the kunai out, waiting. There was something unspoken in his posture, a quiet insistence that made it feel less like a mere offer and more like a quiet command.

With a slight sigh, she reached out and took it. The metal was cool under her fingertips, heavier than the kunai she typically used. She turned the kunai and recognized the Hiraishin seal etched into its handle. She looked back up at him, raising one pink eyebrow in question. 

“Once the mission’s complete, I’ll locate you,” Minato said. “Contingency, in case things go sideways.”

Sakura’s gaze flicked back to the kunai, her fingers curling around the cool metal. It was an expensive instrument, especially of this design, one she doubted Minato had any trouble procuring with his funds and status. Still, it wasn’t just the price or craftsmanship that struck her. 

She wondered, briefly, if this level of concern was typical for him. Was he always like this with his students? Always watching, always preparing for every possibility—every worst-case scenario?

Sakura frowned slightly, unsure of how it made her feel—like she was being put under his scrutiny. Like his eyes were on her even when he wasn’t looking. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. But it wasn’t easy either.

Minato didn’t crowd her, and didn't question her competence the way others sometimes did. He was bossy most definitely but so far, his orders always came with reason. And there was something about the way Minato kept his eyes on her that felt like more than just oversight. It wasn’t the usual watchful gaze of a superior making sure she followed orders. No, this was different. It was measured, like he was assessing her not just as a soldier, but as someone—someone whose every action he silently cataloged. And for what reason, she may never know.

“Understood,” she finally murmured in response as she tucked the kunai into her pouch, her fingers lingering on the cool metal for a second longer than necessary. Minato watched her, his gaze almost imperceptible, calculating the movements as if each one held more meaning than it did. 

He blinked and quickly turned his attention back to the map, calculating gaze shifting back to the task at hand. His posture was once again composed, brushing off the subtle tension that had remained in the air between them. 

Minato crouched beside the remnants of their brief shelter, his hands moving with practiced efficiency. The dying embers of their small fire were smothered under a thin layer of dirt, and he swept aside any footprints near the cave’s entrance with a flick of chakra-laced movement, dispersing the soil in wide, careful arcs. He worked in silence, precise and unhurried, but with the unmistakable urgency of someone who knew exactly how little time they had left.

Minato activated a sealing tag and pressed it against the wall, letting the residual chakra soak into the paper. Between Sakura’s extensive healing and Rin’s earlier chakra expenditure, the air was thick with traces that would light up like a beacon to any skilled sensor-nin. The tag shimmered faintly as it absorbed the lingering energy—then, in a blink, the glow vanished. The seal completed its work, erasing all evidence of their presence. Not even a trained sensor would be able to tell anyone had ever been here.

By the time he stood again, brushing his hands off on his flak jacket, the cave had been wiped clean of their presence—like they’d never existed here at all.

He nodded toward the exit, then added, “We need to move quickly. Time’s running out.”

Sakura nodded once more and said, “We’ll make it.”

Behind her, Rin swallowed thickly, still looking uncertain but determined. She squared her shoulders and shifted her grip on the makeshift stretcher.

Sakura didn’t seem to notice since she was already heading out, mind shifting to the terrain ahead but Minato’s gaze slid back to her once more, subtle and sharp. 

Just a glance.

He said nothing else.

They split up—Minato and Kakashi disappearing into the trees toward Kannabi Bridge, their silhouettes melting into the chaos ahead. Sakura took point, her senses sharp, guiding Rin as they moved through the ravaged forest, every step away from enemy lines and back to the Land of Fire.

Obito’s breathing was shallow, but steady—for now.

Sakura didn’t let herself look back.

Notes:

Sakura juggles exhaustion, war wounds, and Minato’s unsettling habit of staring.

What do you guys think?

Chapter 3

Summary:

Sakura made it back to camp.

Kakashi blew up the Kannabi Bridge.

Minato killed 1000 Iwa shinobi... or did he?

The Medic

 

Chapter 3:

 

One day later, they made it back to camp. 

Luckily, they managed to escape enemy's detection and had not encountered any hostile forces along the way. The journey was smooth though and they arrived earlier than expected despite Rin needing frequent breaks and Obito developing a high fever. 

Exhaustion clung to their bones, each step heavier than the last as they stumbled past the perimeter guards. The familiar scents of smoke, metal, and antiseptic filled the air — the constant backdrop of the Konoha frontline medical camp. Shinobi moved with purpose around them but the distant clatter of weapons and the low hum of voices felt muted to Sakura’s ears.

Obito remained unconscious, his breathing shallow but steady. The makeshift stretcher creaked under his weight as Rin and Sakura carefully lowered him near the triage station. 

Tachibana, the old senior medic, nearly cried in relief when he caught sight of Sakura. 

“Haruno-san is back!” He shouted, as if signaling to everyone that his shift as the lead medic is now finally over. Sakura also swore that the old man had more hair on his head three days ago than he did now. 

There wasn't enough medic to greet them but Sakura passed Rin to Tachibana while she helped secure a bed for Obito. The boy was no longer quivering and his fever broke hours ago. He’ll be needing fluids though so Sakura quickly grabbed the nearest machine and hooked him up with an IV drip. 

She rummaged through the stack, noticed its scarce content and sighed, resting her forehead against the makeshift cabinet. Supplies were running out faster than expected — saline, painkillers, bandages — and the weight of it pressed heavily on her chest. The camp wasn’t built to handle this many casualties for this long. She expected the supplies to dwindle but had hoped they had more time before being forced to run on fumes. The next shipment of supplies was not due in a week at least and she knew that her medics would break just by trying to keep everyone else held together.

Sakura pressed her lips into a thin line, exhaling through her nose as she pulled back from the cabinet. She glanced at Obito, his breathing steady but weak, the soft beeping of the monitor a reminder of how fragile his recovery was. In the tent and on the cots, there were many others like him. Some worse, and a few faring better. 

“We’ll make it work,” Sakura said, more to herself than anyone else. She tugged one of the last IV bags into place, adjusting the drip with careful fingers. “We always do.”

“Sakura-senpai!” There were tight arms suddenly enveloping Sakura around her waist, making her smile. 

“I’m alright, Shizune,” Sakura assured the worried medic. The teenager was prone to worrying and this was the first time since the war they had been separated. Sakura realized it must've caused Shizune some major anxiety. Turning around to squeeze the younger girl by her shoulders, she was glad to see her fellow apprentice looked fine.

“I’m on my break right now but I could still give Obito a checkup,” Shizune said eagerly as she prepared to make a diagnostic scan on Obito. She remembered this boy from the academy back then, he was a few years younger. He’d been loud, sort of a class clown and a bit of an attention seeker. Was he still the same, she wonders. 

“I received your report from Katsuyu-sama. Can't say I’m surprised you managed to fix so much in that situation,” Shizune hummed as her chakra ran through Obito’s body, checking his system. 

“Oh!” Shizune gasped, realizing that given the time constraint and lack of medical backup, Sakura had essentially performed a miracle. Aside from continuous nerve repair and physiotherapy, and several more sessions to stabilize his previously severed chakra network to the right arm, most everything had been healed. He was severely dehydrated though.

She hesitated before carefully peeling back the bandages covering the right side of Obito’s face. Her breath hitched at the sight beneath. Angry, gnarled flesh stretched from his cheekbone to his jaw, the skin warped and uneven where it had been melted away by rock and flame. Deep ridges carved across the ruined tissue, still an angry shade of raw pink despite Sakura’s meticulous healing.

She exhaled softly, adjusting the bandages back over his face with gentle hands and said, “Sakura-senpai. His eye…”

“It's functional. He’ll be needing some post-surgical healing and vision rehabilitation therapy. They both do…”

Shizune immediately understood, after receiving the report via the slug summon. It had been shocking to hear the news and Shizune assumed Obito wouldn't have made it. She stared at Sakura in awe, realizing that Sakura was the type of healer that could perform miracles. The young medic wonders if she could ever reach the heights that only Sakura and Tsunade could have ever achieved.

“In any case, I'll arrange for him to be evacuated immediately. He's in no condition to stay here in the frontline. The next medical convoy leaves at dawn,” Shizune continued, her voice soft but resolute. 

“We’ll stabilize him until then.”

Sakura nodded, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. The mention of Katsuyu reminded her of the endless hours spent funneling chakra into Obito’s broken body, desperately holding him together. She could still feel the phantom ache in her hands, the dull throb of chakra exhaustion gnawing at the edge of her senses.

“He’s strong,” Sakura murmured. “He’ll pull through.”

Shizune offered a small, encouraging smile. “Thanks to you.”

Sakura smiled tiredly in response and adjusted the weight of her medic pouch against her hip to get more comfortable. Her fingers brushed against the too-large kunai nestled awkwardly in her holster. It wasn’t shaped for her grip — too long, too heavy. But Minato had given it to her anyway, claiming to prepare for a contingency. 

“In case things go sideways,” he’d said, the low timbre of his voice stirred in her memory, quieter than usual, almost careful. 

She hadn’t questioned it then — just accepted the tri-pronged blade with a quiet nod. The Hiraishin seal etched into the hilt pulsed faintly with his chakra, a tether to something—someone—who was always moving, always fighting battles not meant for the average shinobi.

She remembered his stare — those piercing blue eyes, sharp as the edge of his kunai and just as unwavering. They had lingered on her for moments too long, filled with something unreadable. Maybe it had been a silent calculation - regarding her skills, her value, or maybe it had been something else entirely.

Heck, she had pink hair. Maybe he was just like everyone else and was staring because he was bewildered by her appearance, caught off guard by the oddity of it. She really didn't know him at all. 

Shaking her head, her thumb ghosted over the ridges of the seal. Instead, she wondered if perhaps he had known something that she didn’t. Maybe it hadn’t been about trust, or even necessity — maybe it had been foresight. A quiet understanding that war twisted paths and tore plans apart, and that sometimes, survival hinged on a single choice made in a single breath.

Maybe giving her that kunai had been his way of leaving a door open — to protect his team, or to ensure that someone, anyone, made it back.

Or maybe, she thought wryly, he just hadn’t known what else to do with her. A medic not assigned to his unit. An anomaly with pink hair and steady hands who kept the show running and surviving. Maybe giving her the kunai was simply the easiest way to keep track of the unexpected variable she’d become.

She glanced at Obito — sleeping, pale, alive. Then at the rows of cots filled with the wounded.

Whatever Minato had seen in her — or hadn’t — she’d carry it anyway. 

Shizune noticed the way she fretted over the oddly shaped kunai, different from the standard ones Sakura usually carried. Her brow furrowed slightly.

“That’s not yours,” she said, not accusatory — just curious.

Sakura gave a quiet hum, adjusting her pouch so the weapon no longer jabbed into her side. “No. This belongs to Namikaze Minato.”

Shizune knew who Namikaze Minato was. Everyone did. They said he could be everywhere and nowhere at once, moving faster than the eye could follow and cutting down enemies with terrifying precision. He was the kind of shinobi who could turn a losing fight into a victory — and had, more times than anyone could count.

His name was spoken with reverence by Konoha’s forces — a symbol of hope. Among their enemies, his name came with a standing order: flee on sight.

Shizune didn’t think she had ever seen him injured or even step into the medic camp for the whole duration they had been at war, save for that one time. The memory made her frown.

In a blink, he had appeared — and after a clipped exchange, had Sakura suddenly reassigning personnel. Then, with no warning at all, he reached for Sakura, one hand on her waist, the other at her neck. And just like that, he’d vanished with her in a flash of light.

It had been jarring — too fast to process. For a moment, Shizune had just stood there in stunned silence, until a barked order from Tachibana had snapped her out of it and shoved her back into motion.

Shizune tilted her head, surprise flickering across her features and asked, “He gave it to you?”

Sakura didn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifted toward the flap of the tent, as if she might spot his silhouette outside. 

“He said it was for contingency,” she murmured, repeating his words verbatim. “In case things went sideways.”

Shizune nodded slowly, still eyeing the kunai. “It’s a summoning marker, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Sakura replied. Her thumb brushed over the seal again, almost absently. “I think… I think he wanted a way to find us. Or maybe just me. I’m not sure why.”

There was a pause between them — filled with the quiet beeping of monitors and the soft rustle of wind against the tent walls. Sakura tucked the kunai back into place. 

Suddenly, there was a groan to their left attracting their attention. The injured shinobi was writhing and breathing heavily. His heavy eyes searched for any medic that could help him.

“Is that… Akito-san?”

“The sensor, yes,” Shizune sighed and reached for a syringe with morphine already prepped beside his cot. “He was trapped in a skirmish but luckily they managed to get him back here in time. Unfortunately, this will be his last day serving the force.”

Sakura stared at Akito and realized he must've been injured by some sort of explosion. His face was heavily bandaged, Sakura could only see his eyes and nostrils. One of his legs was amputated and his hands were missing several fingers. He was in a lot of pain, Sakura realized, as she watched him moaning and crying. Shizune’s morphine injection would take effect soon, but in the meantime, the medic soothed the man with her healing chakra. Soon, he fell back to sleep.

Shizune exhaled softly, brushing a stray lock of black hair from her forehead. The tension in the room hung thick, but the steady hum of medical equipment filled the silence.

After a moment, Shizune glanced at Sakura and noticed how unusually quiet she was. She looked like she could keel over at any time now.

“You need to rest, Sakura-san. Do you need me to bring you anything?”

Before Sakura could respond, Tachibana’s voice rang out from across the tent. “Shizune! Get over here — we need hands in the east wing. We’ve got incoming from the frontlines!”

Shizune blinked, shoulders straightening as she glanced at Sakura again. For a moment, hesitation flickered across her face.

“Go,” Sakura said gently. “They need you.”

“But what about you?” Shizune protested, almost whining. 

“I’m fine, you know me,” Sakura said as she waved her off. 

“I guess my break is over then,” Shizune let out a frustrated sigh but nodded, running off toward the chaotic mess of the east wing. The tension in the camp was palpable; the war never really letting them breathe. 

As the flaps of the tent rustled shut behind Shizune, the chaos of the east wing fading into the background, Sakura let out a long, shuddering breath. The heaviness in her limbs had grown unbearable, like her bones were made of lead. She stared at Obito’s still form on the cot, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. It should’ve been comforting, but all she felt was numb.

She didn’t have the energy to move.

Her legs gave out before she could even think about finding a proper place to rest. She felt heavy, too heavy, like gravity was doing it's best to pull her down. With a tired sigh, she slid down to the ground beside Obito’s cot, the cold earth pressing against her back. The thin layer of dirt and gravel dug into her skin, but it barely registered. Her body was too far gone.

Morning light filtered softly through the canvas tent, chasing away the flickering glow of the oil lamps overhead. Their flames had long since burned out, leaving only faint trails of smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. Voices blurred in the distance — shouts, the clatter of metal trays, hurried footsteps pounding against the dirt, the sharp bark of orders from exhausted medics. But it all felt so far away.

Sakura turned her head slightly, eyes half-lidded, gaze landing on Obito. His breathing was steady. Good. He was alive. To her other side, the once-a-sensor shinobi started to snore.

Her lips parted as if to say something, but the words never came. The weight of sleep pulled her under before she could finish the thought.

And for the first time in days, she allowed herself to sleep.

 

---

 

Kakashi moved quietly through the trees, his breath controlled but heavy, every step carved from sheer will. The mission was everything. The Kannabi Bridge had to fall because cutting Iwagakure’s supply line was critical to turning the tide of the war. Even if it cost him everything.

The weight of the scroll filled with explosive tags pressed against his back as he adjusted his grip, his single uncovered eye narrowing toward the shape of the bridge up ahead. Iwa shinobi patrolled in pairs, their formation tight, movements practiced under the light of dusk.

Kakashi paused, crouching low behind a gnarled root. His heart pounded hard in his chest—not from fear, but from effort. He wasn’t at full strength. Not after what happened.

Under his eyepatch, the transplanted Sharingan throbbed, not unlike the pain before the pink haired medic nin helped to soothe away. Perhaps that healing effect had started to disappear now that he was actively moving again. It spun anxiously, reacting to the adrenaline burning through his system, as if trying to force itself into focus. But Kakashi didn’t budge. He refused.

Not yet.

Back then, caught between duty and instinct, he had faltered, and Obito had paid the price. The eye didn’t belong to him. Not truly. He hadn’t earned it, and using it felt like a betrayal—a theft. It had been Obito’s eye and no matter what he said about it being a gift, Kakashi couldn’t bring himself to rely on something that came from so much blood and regret.

He grit his teeth, ignoring the dull pain radiating from the socket. The chakra drain alone would be catastrophic in the middle of a stealth mission. So he kept it shut tight, eyepatch sealed, and pressed forward.

Navigating with only one eye was harder than he expected. Depth perception was skewed; distances seemed slippery and wrong. More than once, he misjudged the angle of a branch or the height of a leap. One slip, and he nearly crashed into a nest of dry leaves, but he caught himself mid-fall, muscles straining with the effort. He silently cursed like a sailor then, borrowing choices from Obito's range of expletives.

His body still hadn’t adjusted. Everything felt slightly off—balance, precision, even timing. He had to slow down, calculate each move, relying on memory and instinct instead of visual clarity. After getting used to it and adjusting quickly, he was finally able to move faster despite his self-imposed handicap.

Through the brush, beneath the shadows, he closed the distance. The colossal bridge loomed ahead, its heavy arches cast in ghostly moonlight. Iwa shinobi patrolled in tight intervals—two-man squads, ten seconds between each pass. Predictable, but only barely exploitable.

He waited, crouching low and breathing quietly, his one eye scanned every movement with cold intensity. Then—he moved.

Kakashi was a blur of motion. The first patrol didn’t hear him. Two quick strikes. One throat, one heart. They crumpled with a soft thud, and Kakashi dragged them out of sight, hands trembling slightly from the strain. He laid them down gently, more gently than they deserved, but only because noise would cost him time. Kakashi straightened, breath steady despite the pounding in his chest. He was fast, but not fast enough to avoid the spike of exertion in his lungs. The Sharingan under the patch pulsed again, begging to be used.

He clenched his jaw, fingers gripping into the tree bark next to him.

“No,” he hissed under his breath, more to himself than anything else.

He didn’t need it.

He could not need it.

Pushing the distraction to the back of his mind, or at least he tried to, Kakashi resumed his task lest he loses the window of opportunity.

Sliding along the bridge’s underside, he began to plant the tags. Fingers moved methodically, though his hands ached with fatigue. Without his teammates' watching his back, he had to depend on timing alone, relying on the beat of his heart to count seconds, the sharp hiss of breath to gauge silence. Every muscle in his body was a coiled wire, strung tight.

Almost there, he thought, pressing the final tag to the cold stone.

Then—footsteps. Voices.

Kakashi ducked low, chakra gathering to the soles of his feet and palms as he clung to the underside of the bridge, suspended upside down. Stone scraped faintly under the shifting weight of boots above him.

“They won’t know what hit them,” one cackled, voice too loud for a patrol.

“Keep it down, idiot,” hissed the other. “You want every rat in this forest to hear us?”

Kakashi frowned as the two paused, breaking the pace and formation just to bicker right above him. He pulled his chakra tighter to his centre and kept it concealed. 

“Lighten up, stickass. It’s already in motion and we're already underground. Nothing they can do now.”

Kakashi frowned, listening intently, hoping for a detail—anything useful—but the louder one clicked his tongue and muttered something low, unintelligible. He thought he heard them mentioning the frontlines a couple of times before the more cautious one gave a sharp hiss, “That’s enough. Shut up and move.”

Their steps shifted again, continuing with their patrol route.

Kakashi didn’t follow.

No real intel, just fragments and bluster. But something about their tone—it didn’t sit right. Had he more time, he would’ve investigated, but there was no thread to pull, no trail to follow. Just a bad feeling and two shadows disappearing into the length of the bridge.

As it was, this mission came first. The bridge had to fall.

He slipped away from the underside of the stone arch, movements swift and silent, even as that unease lingered—like the feeling of stepping onto hollow ground and not realizing it until it was too late.

He planted another explosion tag, this one closer to the weakest point in the support structure, hands steady despite the way his vision swam. The strain was getting worse. He could feel the Sharingan burning under the patch now, clawing at his chakra. He was sweating, dizzy—but he was still in control.

This was his mission. His burden.

With a final breath, he jumped back to the bank, took aim—and triggered the detonation.

A deafening roar split the night.

The Kannabi Bridge erupted into a storm of fire and stone, shattering with a force that sent shockwaves down the river. Kakashi shielded his head as debris rained down, the heat washing over him in a scorching wave. The bridge groaned and crumbled, supports plunging into the water like dying giants.

Smoke spiraled into the night sky and for a heartbeat, everything held still.

Then the shouting started.

“The bridge—holy shit, it’s gone!”

“Find them! Search the perimeter!”

“They couldn’t have gotten far!”

From his vantage point, Kakashi was able to pick out the frantic movements of the Iwa shinobi as they scrambled to regroup. Some were injured and screaming in agony, some pointed to the ruins, others to the trees — confusion rippling through their ranks. They were disoriented and vulnerable but Kakashi knew better than to stay.

He turned and ran, weaving between trees, breath ragged. His body screamed in protest. The Sharingan flared again under the patch, sensing movement, trying to feed him what he refused to see. But Kakashi kept going.

One success didn’t mean survival. And he didn’t need the gifted eye to escape. He was undeserving of it.

The forest blurred past him as he leaped and ran through the trees. His muscles burned, lungs raw with effort, but he welcomed the ache. The pounding of his heart, the steady rhythm of his breath—it grounded him. It reminded him that he was still alive.

And yet, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

A sharp whistle cut through the air.

His instinct screamed.

Kakashi twisted, narrowly dodging the sharp projectile. The blade grazed his shoulder and warm blood began seeping into his dark shirt. He landed hard, skidding back onto the forest floor, kunai already drawn and raised.

From the shadows, a figure emerged—tall, broad, wrapped in the dark grays of Iwa. A jōnin from the looks of it, and the glint in his eyes was pure murder.

“Was it you?” the man growled, voice low, trembling with rage.

“You killed my teammates!!!”

His chakra flared, wild and unrestrained.

And then he charged.

They clashed hard, metal striking metal in a flurry of speed. Kakashi moved with calculated precision, but the man was relentless— he was faster, his hits were heavier, and he moved like a man with more experience. Blow by blow, Kakashi was driven back, his muscles screaming for relief. Every hit had him wheezing for breath. He dropped low and used his size to his advantage, swept a kick and darted back, seeking space to regroup.

Then it happened. A blur of motion—too fast.

The Iwa shinobi lunged forward, hand reaching out—not for a weapon, but for Kakashi’s head. His fingers grazed his hair, then yanked downward.

There was a rip of cloth.

Not hair—but the bandages, his eyepatch. They unraveled, fluttering loose.

And then—

Red.

Sharingan flared to life.

Kakashi staggered, breath caught in his throat as his world sharpened with dizzying clarity.

The forest lit up—not with light, but with layers of detail he hadn’t seen before. Chakra signatures pulsed like lanterns in the dark. Every leaf’s motion, every gust of wind, every flicker of chakra that danced from the enemy’s form became distinct.

The Iwa jōnin lunged again, but to the Sharingan, he wasn’t fast.

Not anymore.

Kakashi saw it all. The subtle hitch in the man’s left step—a limp, slight but pronounced. The way the right side of his flak jacket clung stiffly to burned flesh, half his body darkened by soot and scorched fabric. He was injured badly and was slower than he wanted Kakashi to believe.

His movements were wild but telegraphed—the twist of his hips, the rise of his shoulder, the flare of chakra right before a strike.

The Sharingan understood it all in an instant. It fed predictions and trajectories in real time.

Kakashi moved without thinking. He ducked left, his body reacting before his mind could process the full motion. Steel rang out again, but this time, he wasn’t defending. He was calculating.

A feint. A sidestep. A counter.

To the naked eye, it was a blur of motion. But to Kakashi—

It was a map with plans.

A rhythm.

A weakness exposed.

And as the Iwa shinobi roared and lunged again, his chakra flaring like a fire barely held in check, Kakashi saw it clearly: the opening.

He didn’t want this eye.

But in this moment, it saw everything.

Every muscle fired with brutal precision. His foot snapped up, knocking the Iwa shinobi’s wrist aside. A twist, a pivot—then steel met flesh. Kakashi plunged his kunai into the enemy’s side.

The jōnin staggered, eyes wide in shock.

“You—”

Kakashi didn’t let him finish. He drove forward, forced him to the ground, hand pressed hard against his mouth as the kunai twisted deeper. His scream muted until it rattled into a final breath.

Silence.

The forest stilled again.

Kakashi crouched there for a beat, chest rising and falling. The Sharingan still spun in his eye, slower now, syncing with his breath. His head shot to the deeper side of the forest, watching for deliberate movements but none came. The Iwa nin didn't come with backup it seemed.

He stood, rewrapping the loose bandages in swift, practiced motions. No time to process. No time to think.

Kakashi exhaled, pressing his palm to his forehead protector. He couldn’t stay here. He didn’t want to stay here.

I need to see Obito.

The thought rooted itself deep. Urgent. Overwhelming. His breath evened out, his steps falling into rhythm with the rustle of the forest.

The mission was over.

But his silent promise to Obito wasn’t.

He needed to see him. Needed to make sure he was still breathing. To see with his own eyes that it hadn’t been for nothing. 

To tell him that this time… this time, he had made it back. 

And that he would never again abandon his friend.

 

---

 

The battlefield reeked of death.

The sun hung low in the sky, bleeding hues of gold and crimson over the corpses of Iwa shinobi. The light clung to their bloodstained armor, casting harsh shadows across twisted limbs and vacant eyes. Shattered weapons jutted from the earth like crude headstones, kunai lodged in tree trunks and shuriken buried in the dirt, some blades still quivering as if refusing to rest.

Minato’s steps were silent on blood-slick earth, his boots dragging strings of viscera between shattered stone and torn flesh but her barely noticed. His gaze was distant— detached and unreadable.

Then, there was a flicker of movement.

His eyes snapped to it, kunai loose in hand, his body already shifting.

His sharp eyes scoured the grounds looking for something breathing, something alive. He stepped closer, kunai loose in hand, every motion measured. A ragged breath escaped the man on the ground; shallow and wet. Their eyes met—Minato’s cold, unwavering; the other’s dull and glassy, the spark of life already fading.

He was old, far too old for the battlefield. His armor hung loose on a body no longer built for war, the plates shifting awkwardly with each shallow breath. Blood seeped from cracks in the metal, mixing with the dirt caked along its edges. His limbs shook beneath the weight of exhaustion and wounds too deep to mend.

The man’s lips moved, trembling with effort and Minato knelt down to listen. The word cracked like brittle glass, barely audible over the distant hiss of smoldering ash.

“M-mercy…”

Minato’s gaze remained impassive, tilting his head slightly as if considering the plea. Blood bubbled at the corners of the Iwa-nin’s lips, his chest rising in ragged, uneven breaths.

“M-mercy…” the man whispered again, voice trembling with hope flickering weakly in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Minato said quietly. His voice was gentle, almost kind — but there was no warmth in it. Only finality.

The blade flashed once — his cut swift, clean, precise.

The man’s breath hitched, then stilled.

Minato exhaled, wiping the kunai against the man’s sleeve with calm, practiced efficiency. He rose to his feet, eyes sweeping over the battlefield once more. There was no movement, no sound but the distant crackle of flames and the faint rustle of smoke-laden wind. The stillness felt unnatural — too quiet for a battle that had burned only moments before.

This wasn’t rage. It wasn’t vengeance. It was precision — cold, calculated, and absolute. Efficiency demanded finality, and Minato delivered it without hesitation. He moved through the remnants of the dead like a shadow cast by the fading sun—quiet, swift, unfeeling.

Minato’s gaze flicked from body to body, not with sorrow, but with the critical eye of a tactician confirming his work. Each corpse was a threat neutralized, a line of Iwa’s advance cut short. He did not grieve. He did not hesitate. Everything was just a means to an end.

They called him a hero.

Today, he felt like a butcher.

One thousand Iwa shinobi. That had been the intel — a force meant to strengthen Iwa’s dominance of the Kannabi Bridge region and crush Konoha’s northwestern front. A full-scale assault meant to shatter a direct corridor into the Land of Fire — and they had been unprepared.

Minato was deep within hostile territories when the summons arrived — a hawk bearing a red scroll, its urgency unmistakable. The message was brief and grim: abort current objectives and redeploy immediately to reinforce a dwindling force of 150 Konoha shinobi stationed along the compromised northwestern front. Composed of chakra-depleted medics and battle-worn fighters, this unit was the last line of defense between Iwa’s advancing forces and the Land of Fire’s border. Their directive was absolute: delay the enemy at all costs.

Iwa’s strategy was rooted in overwhelming force, calculated timing, and attrition. As one of the most militarized and tactical Hidden Villages, Iwagakure was able to deploy an overwhelming number of shinobi to steamroll through smaller Konoha units. This brute-force method was effective against scattered or lightly fortified posts, especially in border regions where Konoha couldn’t spare large reinforcements. Their plan this time was to break through the frontlines and invade the Fire Country directly.

Initial reports claimed Iwa had the upper hand—using brutal, coordinated tactics to overwhelm Konoha’s defenses and reduce their forces to a fraction of their original strength. 

The 150 Konoha shinobi had been holding the line for days.

Rations were low. Medics were strained. Reinforcements were minimal. And still, they endured — a bastion against what was meant to be Iwa’s greatest push yet. The Kannabi Bridge was a strategic artery, and Iwa had thrown everything to reinforce it — or so they were told.

The first wave had come with the fury of a storm. Hundreds of shinobi surged from the treeline, overwhelming the first perimeter. Earth walls exploded from the ground, sealing escape routes and cutting squads in half. Mud clones laced with exploding tags scattered through the field, detonating trees and crushing formations. 

Konoha had fought tooth and nail. They stood their ground, even as comrades fell. And then—they watched, frozen, as the enemy gathered like a swarm on the horizon.

When confirmation came of Iwa’s massive deployment, Minato had been summoned.

He arrived one day too late.

By the time he reached the battlefield, Iwa forces had the time to regroup and reestablish a new formation and strategy. Konoha shinobi had reported to him their caution. Iwa’s numbers grew but there was something strange… 

Still, he descended like a phantom. One moment, the battlefield was chaos — smoke, fire, screaming. The next, bodies dropped in rapid succession, struck down by an unseen force. Hiraishin no Jutsu — the Flying Thunder God Technique — turned him into a shocking yellow blur of lethal precision. Marked kunai embedded in the terrain, in enemy flanks, even in the hands of allied shinobi, and became gateways for instant death. Throats were slit, spines severed, hearts pierced in a heartbeat. 

By dawn, hundreds of Iwa lay dead. Some Konoha shinobi stood paralyzed. Others wept—not in grief, but in disbelief that they had survived.

The blond butcher’s hands were slick with blood, but his expression remained cold and detached. He couldn't afford to feel anything beyond duty lest it breaks him.

But something gnawed at the edge of his senses. It was too quiet and too easy. Victory never came this clean.

Something was wrong.

Minato wiped the sweat and blood from his brow, surveying the battlefield. Hundreds of Iwa shinobi lay at his feet — but his stomach churned. How could it have been so easy?

A rusted kunai in one of the corpses caught his eye. Minato crouched beside a fallen boy — no older than twelve. His flak jacket was a poor fit, the vest too big on his little body. A girl lay nearby — her arm twisted unnaturally and her eyes wide open in terror. Her brand new hitai-ate had slipped down her neck like a necklace. 

Iwa was becoming ruthless. 

They sent children to fight like men and left the old to die like dogs.

Minato stood, pushing back the bile rising in his throat, and scanned the rest of the field again with new eyes. Small frames. Shaky stances in death. Scavenged gear. Some didn’t even have sandals.

“They sent fodder…” he whispered. “Why?”

Minato’s eyes narrowed. He swept his gaze across the battlefield once more, sharper now—cutting through the haze and smoke, seeing not what was left, but what was missing.

Jōnin-level signatures had seemed to disappear from the battlefield — not once present in all the hours of combat upon his arrival. That had struck him as odd initially, but the ferocity of the onslaught had buried the thought under instinct and urgency.

Iwa was methodical in war. Their earth-style bombardments could level entire battlefields, and their medics never stayed far behind. Despite their crude forces, their sheer size and power could leave battlefields trembling in their wake. But here, there was none of that.

They came to him like lambs to the slaughter.

His heartbeat quickened—not with panic, but with cold, creeping certainty. He moved faster now, checking faces, uniforms, the calluses on their fingers. Too many were young. Too many, old. None bore the marks of seasoned fighters. These weren’t the hardened Iwa soldiers that intelligence had warned of—nor the ones who had initially pushed Konoha’s unit to the brink of collapse.

He saw no officers. No known faces from Iwa’s command roster. Not even mid-ranked tacticians. Just too-young boys and gray-haired relics in mismatched armor, armed with dull blades and cracked kunai.

Not a single one of them should have been on this battlefield.

These weren’t reinforcements. 

They were sacrifices.

“What happened before I arrived?” He turned and asked.

“Sir?” His subordinate stepped carefully forward, head swiveling as he took in the wreckage around them. The destruction should’ve been greater. The bodies… different.

The jounin shifted uneasily, eyes darting across the carnage before addressing the commander, “Before you came, Iwa had the chance to regroup and came out with a new formation, larger formation.” 

“We were expecting the second wave of attacks. We-” he gulped, recalling the terror of watching as the size of the platoon across the field grew as they took that moment to pull their injured shinobi into safe zones. “There's no way we could've survived a second attack by ourselves, sir.” 

Around him, Konoha shinobi stirred—some nursing wounds, others combing through the fallen with stiff, uncertain steps. There was no cheering. No relief. Just silence.

They had prepared to die.

Intelligence had confirmed an additional force of one thousand Iwa shinobi advancing toward the Land of Fire's border. A full assault—raw numbers backed by Iwa’s signature Earth Release tactics. Craters were expected. Walls of stone. Ambushes erupting from the ground itself.

They braced for waves of hardened shinobi. For medics hidden in the rear. For shock troops and chakra-imbued siege weapons.

But none of that had come.

Instead, what they found were mismatched platoons. Uneven armor. Incomplete formations. Shinobi wielding chipped blades and brittle kunai. Most had no rank insignia. Some carried no weapons at all. What's more, this is only a fraction of their total force.

A Konoha chunin crouched beside a corpse, frowning. “It's like they sent their entire academy and the retirement homes to fight us after.”

Someone was vomiting in the trenches, doubled over with heaving breaths before the sobs came.

“What kind of unit is this?” they choked out. “Did—did I help kill them? No… no…”

Minato’s gaze narrowed. 

No medics. No chain of command. No jutsu coordination. No terrain control.

“Where are the others?” Minato asked, voice low but edged in steel.

His men froze, eyes darting from corpse to corpse, as if only now realizing what they hadn’t seen. The battlefield was littered, yes — but not enough. Not nearly enough.

There were bodies — two, maybe three hundred of them. But the intel had said one thousand. 

The blond commander stilled. His breath slowed. A muscle in his jaw ticked as his eyes swept the perimeter. A large force of enemy shinobi couldn’t just disappear. They wouldn’t be able to retreat quietly. Not without cause. 

Minato stood among his soldiers, his expression unreadable.

“Run a perimeter,” Minato ordered. A chuunin nodded and disappeared quickly. 

Minato crouched, palm pressed to the scorched earth. His chakra fanned out in pulses — feeling residual heat, blast scars, life signs.

And then — a gap. Not empty. Hollow. A space beneath the battlefield that absorbed his chakra instead of reflecting it.

He blinked once.

“There’s a tunnel,” he said aloud, more to himself than anyone. “Below us.”

“Get someone who can use Earth Release,” Minato ordered.

Within minutes, a second shinobi arrived. Hands clapped together.

“Doton: Retsudo Tenshō.”

The ground trembled — then gave way.

The earth shuddered and groaned before collapsing inward, revealing a dark, reinforced shaft with stone walls. It was wide enough for squads to pass. The air that wafted up was cold, damp, laced with the iron bite of old chakra.

“There's no way this was dug recently,” the jounin muttered uneasily.

“They were funneled,” Minato murmured. “They never meant to fight us here.”

The cave didn’t lead north, toward the Konoha defenses.

It led west.

Away from the battlefield.

His breath came slower now. Heavy. Cold.

West.

Towards the border.

Something glinted beneath the rubble. A half-buried radio transmitter, crushed and splintered. He picked it up carefully, turning the device over. Static crackled faintly through the receiver.

And then he heard it.

“…already passed. Border breach imminent. Medic camp in our path…”

The voice crackled, fading in and out. The transmission had been looping — repeating long enough to go unnoticed.

“Shit!” They cursed.

Minato’s blood thundered. He’d been played—used. While he cut down children, the real threat had moved beneath his feet.

He rose to his feet, gaze darkening as the pieces fit together.

The medic camp.

Konoha’s frontline medic camp was lightly guarded — a soft target. And he had wasted precious time here, slaughtering a decoy force. 

“Call for reinforcements,” Minato commanded, his voice cold and clipped, anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Minato lifted a kunai in his hand, fingers tightening around the familiar weight. His chakra flared briefly, crackling against his skin.

He was fast. Fast enough to stop them.

He had to be.

But even with the Flying Thunder God, doubt festered in his chest.

Because this time…

He might already be too late.

Notes:

This chapter was really hard for me to write. I honestly struggled with the timing and flow but I hope I got it okay this time.

Honestly, each POV deserves its own chapter but I didn't want to isolate them because of how Sakura didn't get to star as much hahaha

Hope you still enjoyed it though.

Let me know your thoughts!

Chapter 4

The Medic

 

Chapter 4:

 

Sakura jerked awake, her heart thudding against her ribs.

For a split second, she couldn’t remember where she was. The ceiling above her was dim, canvas shifting gently with the breeze, and the air held a stillness that felt… wrong.

She lay flat on her back, eyes wide, breath caught. Something cold crept along her spine—not a draft, not chakra. It was subtler than that. A prickling, invasive sensation, like the earth itself was stirring beneath her.

She held her breath and listened.

Akito was groaning again, his pained grunts cutting through the stillness of the medic tent. His body twisted against the sweat-drenched sheets, limbs jerking with every wave of agony that tore through him. The makeshift cot creaked under his weight.

Sakura blinked hard as she forced herself upright. Her limbs trembled, muscles burning from fatigue and the lingering effects of the pills. The toll of non-stop healing had left her feeling completely drained and her vision was blurring at the edges. 

She staggered to her feet, nearly collapsing before she caught herself against the side of the cot. Her hands found Akito’s arm, warm and clammy beneath her fingers. His pulse fluttered under her touch, erratic and too fast.

“Akito-san,” she whispered hoarsely. “Stay with me.”

It took a couple of seconds — longer than she was used to — before her chakra finally surged forward, sluggish and strained. The familiar warmth flickered under her palms, searching, soothing and calming the frayed edges of Akito’s shattered nerves.

He gasped, chest arching slightly off the cot as his eyes flickered open. His breathing hitched, a ragged, trembling sound that scraped against the still air.

Sakura’s heart twisted as she watched him struggle. She leaned closer, voice soft but firm. “You’re alright, I’m right here. Breathe with me.”

For a moment, he stared through her. Pupils blown wide, unfocused. She could see it — the panic clawing at his chest, the shock sinking its teeth deeper with every labored breath.

But slowly, finally, his body slackened. The tension bled from his shoulders. His breathing evened out, though every exhale still rattled faintly with pain.

Sakura let out a heavy breath too, relief sagging her shoulders. She kept the steady pulse of chakra flowing, working to mend torn muscles and shredded nerves.

“Good,” she whispered. “That’s good. Just hang on a little longer.”

Before long, Akito was calm enough for Sakura to finally withdraw her chakra. The flickering warmth under her palms faded, leaving her trembling fingers cold and numb. She exhaled shakily, brushing the sweat-damp hair from her face. She adjusted his drip, the fluid had been changed while she was asleep and his medication was not due in another four hours. 

But Akito was still staring at her. His hazy eyes struggled to keep her attention, as if the very act of looking at her was the only thing tethering him to reality. His lips moved against the bandages, soft grunts and half-formed words tumbling out, but none of it made sense. 

He wasn’t supposed to speak — not yet. His jaw had been torn open before they’d healed it. Even a groan should’ve been impossible.

But something in his gaze burned — frantic, desperate, like he was trying to say more than his broken body would allow. A warning. It reminded her of the strange feeling when she woke up. 

Sakura frowned, leaning closer. “Akito-san? What is it?”

Akito shook his head feebly. He tried to look around but he was still too weak to do that. He wanted to say something but all that came out was some unintelligible mumbling. Whatever energy he had mustered was immediately spent because seconds later his eyelids fluttered. He was stubborn, but finally, under the influence of so many drugs through his system and Sakura's calming induced chakra, he was unable to fight against sleep. 

She sighed and turned away from his cot — but couldn’t shake the strange tightness in her chest. The panic in Akito’s eyes unsettled her but she told herself a man in his situation had very much to fear; they all did. She turned and finally left his side.

Sakura had barely taken two steps when the stench hit — sharp, acrid, and clinging like a second skin. She grimaced, tugging at her collar as if that would somehow help. It didn’t. The scent clung stubbornly, pungent and jabbing into her senses.

She hated this part. The way her skin felt sticky and grimy, how the dried sweat itched along her back. How the rot of war seemed to sink deeper into her pores the longer it stayed. It made her stomach churn.

Speaking of her stomach — it let out a low, angry growl. She hadn’t eaten properly in… how long? She didn’t even remember. Her limbs felt weak, her head light, but the thought of food made her mouth water.

“Shower first,” she muttered to herself reluctantly, picking up her pace.

The showers were basic — a row of rusted pipes with thin curtains offering minimal privacy. The water ran cold more often than not, but Sakura didn’t care. She peeled off her sweat-soaked clothes with a grimace, the fabric clinging stubbornly to her skin. The first blast of water hit her like ice, stealing the breath from her lungs, but she let it run.

She scrubbed until her skin was raw, nails digging into her skin as if she could rub away the exhaustion, the guilt, the smell of death. It clung to her even when it wasn’t there. The scentless bar of soap didn't lather like her usual shower gel and shampoo, leaving an uncomfortable film over her skin, but at least it scrubbed off the grime. She worked her head of long hair, taking more time as she relished the feeling of water running through the strands and soothing her scalp. She mourned over the loss of her silky pink hair, now rough and coarse as she had to abandon care in order to focus on the war. The battlefield was no place for strict and frivolous hair routine.

A faint tremor passed beneath her feet—barely perceptible, but unmistakably real. Sakura froze, fingers buried in her hair, lather halfway through. Her breath hitched. The warm water continued to pour over her shoulders, suds trailing down her back, but she stood perfectly still. For a breathless moment, the room held its silence, as if listening with her. Then, nothing. Just the soft patter of the shower.

She stayed still a moment longer before shaking her head, exhaling through her nose. You’re exhausted, she told herself. Your legs are shaking. That’s all.

Sakura resumed scrubbing, her movements slower now. The unease didn’t vanish completely, but she buried it beneath the heavy veil of weariness draped over her limbs.

When she finally stepped out, skin tingling and hair dripping, she felt a little more like herself. The exhaustion still lingered, and the ache had settled deep in her muscles, but there was no denying it — she felt much better.

Her stomach growled again, sharp enough to hurt. Sakura barely managed to pull on a clean shirt and pants before her eyes landed on a couple of energy bars tucked at the bottom of her pack. It wasn’t much — fatty, sticky, and thick, but full of calories. She scarfed the first one down in three bites, barely tasting it. The second disappeared just as fast. 

Just as her stomach let out another angry growl, the tent flap rustled. Sakura looked up to see Shizune entering, balancing two steaming bowls of rice with what looked like mystery curry. The warm and savory smell hit her immediately, making her mouth water.

“I figured you’d be hungry,” Shizune said with a small eager smile, setting both bowls down in front of Sakura. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”

Sakura let out a breathless laugh, barely managing a thank you before grabbing the bowl. The energy bars had done little more than wake up the gnawing pit in her stomach. She wasted no time, shoveling rice into her mouth with barely a pause to breathe. It wasn’t pretty, but it was warm. It was the first real food she's had in days and she needed it. 

“They're both for you, I know how hungry you can get when you're this spent,” Shizune smiled when the pink haired medic pointed towards the other bowl. 

“Shizune, if you skip this meal—”

“Don't worry! They had extra this time so I just snatched some!” Shizune insisted, frantically waving her hands.

Food was scarce and meals were rationed. They’ve had people die of hunger while fighting on the battlefield. Sakura finds it very hard to believe that there happened to be an extra bowl of rice and mystery meat curry. Only commanders get to enjoy this type of meal, maybe. The rest of them get gruel or stale bread if they're lucky. She threw the younger girl a warning look.

“Okay, fine. Akimichi-san snuck this in for me when he heard you came back. You know how he is.” 

Sakura groaned, feeling a rush of guilt and gratitude flood her chest. 

“I’ll thank him later,” she mumbled around a mouthful of rice. The curry was watery and slightly spicy, masking whatever indistinguishable meat it was made of. She didn’t care. She would’ve eaten tree bark if it came with this much warmth.

Shizune lowered herself to sit beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed. She exhaled deeply, the kind of breath that came after hours on her feet — weary, but content.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The distant hum of the camp buzzed softly in the background, the quiet clatter of dishes and the occasional muffled voice carrying through the tent walls.

“I missed this,” Shizune admitted quietly, breaking the silence.

Sakura paused mid-bite, glancing at her. “What, watching me inhale food like I haven’t eaten in years?”

Shizune laughed under her breath. “No. Sitting with you, senpai. Being able to breathe for once.”

Sakura slowed, swallowing her mouthful. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Me too.”

A beat of silence passed, but Sakura could feel the tension still hanging between them. Shizune’s hands were clasped tightly in her lap, fingers twisting anxiously.

“I’m worried about Shishou,” she said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

Sakura’s chest tightened and she set her emptied bowls aside. 

“Me too,” she admitted.

They hadn’t seen Tsunade for nearly a year now. One minute she was back in Konoha and the next she was somewhere deeper in the warfront. They barely knew what role Tsunade was playing, with only scraps of information passing down through hurried messengers and the occasional slug summon. It wasn’t enough to soothe Shizune’s worried mind. But they were at war, and there wasn't much they could do until everything was over. 

“She’s strong,” Sakura said softly. “Stronger than anyone I know.”

“I know,” Shizune whispered. “But strength doesn’t mean she’s okay.”

The previous war had dealt a heavy toll on Tsunade. Despite the years that had passed, the memories remained as vivid as ever — the blood, the loss, the faces of those she couldn’t save. They heard it most nights after Tsunade had spent hours drinking and gambling, her laughter loud and carefree until it wasn’t. 

When the night stretched on and the bottles ran dry, the cracks begin to show. Muffled sobs, the shattering of glass, and the way she whispered names long lost to time — names only she seemed to remember. Some nights she misses them, other nights she blames them for leaving her. Sakura had learnt to erect soundproof barriers to their room on those nights just so that Shizune could sleep better. 

By morning, she would walk out as if nothing had happened, head held high and makeup immaculate,  the legendary Sannin once again. But those who knew her best understood the truth. No amount of strength could bury that kind of pain. 

And yet, Tsunade had never faltered as a mentor. Even with the weight of grief on her shoulders, she trained them both with relentless precision — one out of love, the other out of exasperation that grew into pride. Sakura had hounded her, begging to be formally trained until one day her patience snapped and she threw a book at the pink kid’s head. She had read the medical text eagerly, a hot pulsing bump on her temple but a wide victorious smile upon her lips.

Sakura reached over, placing a gentle hand on Shizune’s knee. “She’s a Sannin. And not just any Sannin — our Shishou. If anything happened, we’d know. She’d never leave us without a fight.”

“But she's not okay, Sakura-senpai. She can't be here, be around-” the teenager struggled to find her words, looking anxiously around her, “- this!” 

Sakura knew what she meant. That was the reason why Tsunade had fought hard against their conscription and had ultimately been forced to join the war despite her disabilities. As the sole remaining Senju and its heiress, she was afforded immunity from conscription but her two disciples were not. The village had gone so far as to threaten them with treason and throw Sakura's remaining family into the pits of Konoha's dungeons if they weren't returned in time for the war efforts. 

Shizune would've been fine without her if only she had chosen to run away with Tsunade, but she had remained by her side — loyal, stubborn, and afraid that if she let go, everything would fall apart. Shizune had always been the quiet strength that steadied their trio, the one who reminded Tsunade to eat, who checked Sakura’s vitals when she returned from a bloody shift, who kept count of their dwindling supplies while the world around them crumbled.

But staying had come at a cost.

The fear in Shizune’s eyes now wasn’t just for Tsunade. It was for herself. For Sakura. For what little they still had left to lose.

Sakura dropped her gaze, jaw tightening at the memory of the day they were summoned. She could still see the coldness in the eyes of the elders — the thinly veiled threat in their voices as they offered her a “choice.” Join the war or be marked a traitor; her mother and father along with her. But in the end, Sakura knew she couldn’t let anyone else suffer for her survival. Not when she had the strength to fight.

Still, Tsunade hadn’t taken the news well. Sakura could still hear the slam against the table, the way her master had screamed in the Hokage Tower until her voice gave out, until her knees gave out. 

And then, Tsunade had vanished. 

When they heard from her again, it was through Katsuyu, assuring them that their master was doing okay and playing her own roles in the war effort. 

“She came back for us,” Sakura whispered, as if saying it aloud made it more bearable. “Even after everything. Even when it broke her.”

Shizune reached up and wiped her wet eyes. “I wish she hadn’t.”

There was no judgment in the words. Just pain. Just love.

Sakura didn’t respond right away. She knew Shizune didn't blame her but the guilt was like a stone in the pits of her stomach regardless. Taking out a little folded note from her breast pocket, she stared at the paper; stained with a smudge of sake and the faintest impression of a thumbprint. Tsunade’s writing — short, sharp, and slanted.

She read it again, even though she’d memorized the words long ago.

 

Stay alive. Both of you.

 

“She’s still fighting,” Sakura said, folding the note with trembling fingers. “So we will too.”

Shizune let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “You really believe that?”

“I do,” Sakura said firmly. “And so do you.”

Shizune smiled faintly. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

For a moment, they sat in the quiet warmth of each other’s company. No words. Just breathing. Just believing.

When Shizune turned to Sakura, she found her already deep in slumber, head tilted slightly to the side, breaths slow and steady. The tension that usually lined her features had finally eased, replaced by the rare softness of rest.

Quietly, Shizune gathered the empty bowls, holding them close to her chest. She cast one last glance at Sakura and let out a quiet sigh. She didn't dare disturb her anymore, knowing that Sakura needed her sleep in order to rejuvenate from the effects of her technique and the soldier pill.

“Sleep well,” Shizune whispered under her breath.

With that, she slipped out of the tent, letting the flap fall shut quietly behind her. The night outside stretched dark and endless, the stars half-hidden behind thick clouds. The camp buzzed faintly with distant voices — tired conversations, the clink of metal against metal, and the occasional crackle of the campfire.

Shizune adjusted her grip on the empty bowls, her breath misting in the cold air. She took a step forward… then paused.

The ground trembled.

It was faint — so faint that if she hadn’t been standing still, she might not have noticed it. Her brows furrowed. Slowly, her eyes swept over the camp.

Nothing.

Medics bustled between tents. Soldiers rested sombrely by the fires. The world continued as it always did.

Shizune exhaled slowly, shaking her head. Maybe it was nothing. Just exhaustion playing tricks on her.

She shrugged it off and kept walking, but someone wearing a cloak bumped into her causing her to almost drop the bowls.

The person stopped immediately and bowed his head in apology. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice low but clear. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Shizune steadied the bowls in her hands and looked up at him, taking in the stranger’s appearance. He was young with striking red hair that fell in jagged strands across his brow and down the sides of his face. His brown eyes were slightly hooded, giving it a heavy-lidded stillness, the kind that made him look perpetually unbothered, almost indifferent and yet, something about him made her skin prickle. He was wearing their traveling cloak, dusty and muddy from his travels, she presumed. With everything hidden underneath the standard issued cloak, she couldn't distinguish his rank nor position. 

“It’s alright,” Shizune said, offering a polite smile. “Are you lost? This part of the camp is for the medical unit.”

The red-haired man shook his head gently. “No, I was hoping to see Haruno-san.”

Shizune’s smile faltered just slightly. 

“Sakura-senpai’s asleep,” she said, keeping her tone even. “She’s been on her feet for nearly three days straight. I’m afraid she needs rest more than anything right now.”

“I understand,” he said smoothly, not pushing, not even disappointed. “Then I’ll come another time. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

There was something unnerving about how composed he was. Not cold — just… distant, like he wasn’t quite connected to the noise and chaos around them. For a brief moment, Shizune thought his eyes lingered just a second too long on the tent where Sakura slept.

“I’m Shizune,” she offered, hoping to ground the conversation. “I can assist you if you’re injured or need help. If you have a missive for her, I can make sure it is delivered as well.”

But the man stepped back with a small, respectful nod. “No need. Thank you.” With that, he turned and walked away, disappearing between tents with silent, measured steps.

Shizune watched him go, the strange chill still lingering in her bones. Something about him didn’t sit right with her. But the bowls in her hands needed to be washed and she still had rounds to finish.

She shook off the unease like a dog shaking off water. Maybe she really was just tired. She quickly walked away, ready to resume her duties.

The ground trembled again. Stronger this time.

And still, no one noticed.

 

---

 

There was a loud thud.

Sakura jerked awake, heart pounding, hands already reaching for her kunai holster. Green eyes swept the tent, looking for the source of danger. Her breath came fast and sharp — ready for a fight. But what she saw wasn’t an enemy.

It was Akito.

He had fallen from his cot, body writhing on the cold ground, grunting and screaming through his bandages. His breath came in ragged bursts, eyes blown wide with panic. His wounds reopened in his struggle yet he didn’t seem to notice — or maybe he didn’t care. Blood seeped through the cloth, staining the floor beneath him, but his desperation drowned out the pain.

“Akito-san!” Sakura scrambled toward him, trying to hold him steady. “Calm down! It’s okay, you’re safe —”

But he wasn’t listening. His movements only became more frantic, twisting against her grip. His terror was raw, wild — not the pain-induced delirium she’d seen before. 

This was different.

“Akito-san,” she pleaded. “What’s wrong? Tell me!”

He made a choked sound, lips trembling as he tried to speak but no words came. He tried to sign something, his hands trembling and shaking as he formed the letters and signs. But with missing fingers and spasming muscles, the gestures fell apart — impossible to read. 

Sakura’s pulse pounded in her ears. “I don’t — I don’t understand,” she whispered.

Akito let out a frustrated, terrified cry. He thumped the ground desperately with his battered, stubby hands, again and again, each slam more frantic than the last. His breathing hitched in a straggling, panicked bursts, the sound breaking against the tent walls. Other patients were beginning to stir, disturbed by the sudden commotion.

“Akito-san, stop—” Sakura grabbed his shoulders, trying to pin him down gently, to calm him before he hurt himself further. But he wrenched free with the force of a man possessed, thrashing against her grip. His eyes were wide, glassy with fear, darting wildly around the tent as if seeing something she couldn’t.

He choked out another desperate, garbled sound. Then, with trembling urgency, he grabbed her wrist and slammed her hand flat against the ground. His grip was weak but desperate, and before she could react, she felt a burst of chakra, breaking through his injured hands and into hers. It was dim and feeble but it urged her into the ground.

“Hi… wa!” he gasped, voice muffled behind the cotton and bandages. “Heee, waaaa!!!”

Hiwa? Sakura’s mind raced, heart pounding. 

What was he trying to say? 

What did it mean?

She froze, heart pounding. “Akito-san, —?”

He shook his head violently, gasping through clenched teeth. Sakura stared at him, breathless. His eyes were pleading, tears welling in the corners. He shook his head, and wailed as he desperately pressed her hands into the ground again.

She didn’t understand. She couldn’t.

But she knew fear when she saw it.

Following his lead, she surged her chakra into the ground, confusion twisting tight in her chest. Searching. Reaching. Her pulse pounded in her ears as her chakra spread out in frantic waves, brushing against the earth in desperate pulses. She felt the familiar thrum of life — the steady hum of the camp, the distant warmth of her comrades — but something else rippled underneath it. 

Deeper. 

Colder. 

It moved with purpose, slithering through the soil like a hundred twisting veins.

Her breath caught. She focused harder, sending another pulse through the earth. This time, the images came clearer.

A ripple. No — hundreds of ripples. Chakra signatures scattered beneath the surface, twisting through the soil like a nest of serpents. They were moving fast and coordinated, surrounding them.

Sakura’s eyes went wide, heart lurching violently against her ribs. She yanked her hand back from the ground, breath rushing out in a ragged gasp — just as the first explosion split the night apart. 

Sakura was thrown backward, the blast swallowing the world in fire and smoke.

And then, everything was chaos.

Notes:

This chapter was originally 10k+ long. So I had to split them up. Unfortunately this means a cliffhanger. Again. 😅🤪

But no worries. The other part will be updated soon!

I wanted to write Sakura a little more realistic. She's super strong here in this fic but at the same time I want to keep the side of her where she's always reacting and showing her emotions as she feels it. But she's a lot more reserved in this story, because of the war. And due to her position, she actually hasn't faced a lot of active combat. I initially wanna self-indulge and make her more of a damsel in distress kind of Sakura. But I think Minato with a saviour complex is going to be more fun. So yeah. Please excuse me sakura isn't punching gods from the first chapter.

Oh and just to clarify. In this timeline, Obito was saved. Madara is dead and had stayed dead. Tobirama made sure of it after prodding his dead body with his toe. Zetsu doesn't exist here either and to be frank, I didn't understand that plot with the Hagaromo thing so I'm making this story as straightforward as possible.

Also, who's that pokemon?! Er, I mean Naruto character?

Chapter 5

The Medic

 

Chapter 5:

 

Sakura blinked through the haze, vision swimming as smoke and dust thickened the air. The ringing in her ears was deafening, a piercing whine that drowned out the world. Her limbs felt heavy, each movement sluggish as she tried to push herself upright. The ground beneath her palms was warm and wet.

Blood.

Her breath came in sharp, frantic bursts; chest tightening with every second.

A shadow fell across her. She recognized that balding head… It was Tachibana. His mouth was moving — wide-eyed, frantic — but she couldn’t hear him. The edges of her vision blurred and she struggled to keep him in view. He frantically grabbed her shirt and shook her hard, trying to snap her back into focus.

Her head slumped forward. Her ears were bleeding and the ringing drilled into her skull relentlessly. Everything throbbed. Her hands lifted and pressed against her ears in a daze. She had to heal this. She should have already. It hurts. Tachibana shouted something, chakra flaring frantically as he yanked her hands away and forced his own to her head.

Warmth spread across her temples. Her hearing snapped back in a violent rush. 

“Enemy shinobi in the camp!”

The cry cut through the chaos like a blade. Sakura’s eyes widened as her surroundings sharpened into horrifying clarity.

Flames danced across the tents. Bodies littered the ground, some stirring weakly, others terrifyingly still. The coppery scent of blood thickened the air, laced with smoke and charred fabric. Medics scrambled to haul the wounded away but they were too slow. A burst of shuriken tore through the air, cutting down two of them before they could even scream. Konoha jounin surged forward but the enemy’s attacks were overwhelming — fast, brutal and unrelenting.

Panic clawed at her chest. She forced herself up with the help of Tachibana’s trembling hands. Shrill screams, thudding detonations, the wet thump of flesh striking earth — it was a blur of noise and motion. 

“What happened?”

“They've breached our defenses!” Tachibana cried,  tears running down his face. “They came from underground, from- from everywhere!” His voice trembled, but his grip on her was iron. “We have to get out of here!”

Another explosion rocked the camp. The ground split violently a few yards away, earth buckling as masked shinobi burst from the ground. Their headbands gleamed under the firelight — Iwa. Their hands flashed through seals too fast for the eye to follow.

Sakura shoved Tachibana aside just as a wall of stone spears shot toward them. She felt the wind of it whistle past her ear. Too close.

“Get the wounded to the northern checkpoint!” She ordered. 

“It's blocked off!” Tachibana yelled back, ducking as a kunai zipped overhead.

“W-We’re surrounded!”

Her mind raced, adrenaline flooding her veins. She could feel the sharp tug of chakra in the air — enemy signatures everywhere. It wasn’t just a handful. It was a force.

They had slipped past Konoha’s defenses. No one saw them coming.

A flash of movement caught her eye. It was Akito, still lying on the ground where she left him, struggling to sit up with one arm dragging uselessly at his side. A kunai buried itself into the dirt inches from his head. Beside him, a smaller body lay motionless, limbs sprawled in the dirt.

Sakura moved before she could think, bolting toward them as another explosion ripped through the tents. She slid to her knees beside them, chakra already flaring in her hands.

“Akito-san! I’m going to get you out of here!”

He shook his head violently, eyes wide with fear. He grunted but the sound was swallowed by the storm of screams and shouts around them. She reached for him but he caught her hand, stopping her.

His chest heaved as he slowly looked down. Sakura followed his gaze—and froze.

A jagged metal rod protruded from the center of his chest, slick with blood. It was buried deep, the wound growing darker by the second as his shirt soaked through.

No.

Her heart pounded in her ears. She reached for him immediately, palms open and flaring with healing chakra but his hand clamped around her wrist. His grip was weak, shaking, but determined enough to make her stop.

“Akito-san,” she breathed. “Don’t move. I can fix this. Just stay with me.”

But he wasn’t listening. His breathing came in shallow, gurgling gasps and blood bubbled at the corners of his lips. His eyes slowly drifted past her.

Toward Obito.

Sakura’s chest clenched as she shook her head, “No — no, don’t. I can save you both.”

Akito’s lips moved soundlessly for a moment. Then he swallowed thickly, eyes locking on hers.

They both knew only one would stay alive. 

Before she could even protest, his grip slackened against her wrist. His chest stopped rising. His eyes — so full of desperation just moments before — stared past her now, empty.

Lifeless.

She caught his weight before it crashed, and gently lowered him down into the earth. Her breath hitched and for a moment, she just knelt there, frozen. The ground trembled violently beneath her knees, smoke and fire twisting in the air — but she barely noticed as the world narrowed to the silence between her and the man who had just died at her feet.

That was what he wanted to warn her about. The signs had been there, but she had dismissed them—brushed them off in the haze of exhaustion and urgency. She understood now and she understood too late. War waits for no one, and it certainly didn't wait for her to catch up.

Another explosion shattered the ground somewhere behind her. A scream echoed from somewhere beyond the flames.

Sakura’s hands curled into fists. She gritted her teeth, chest heaving, heart slamming painfully against her ribs. She tore her gaze away from Akito’s lifeless body and turned toward Obito. His breathing was faint, his face pale beneath the streaks of blood. Everything they had fought for would mean nothing if he died now.

She scrambled toward him, hastily wiping the tears from her eyes. A quick assessment of his injuries brought relief—aside from a few minor lacerations, he was unharmed.

“Hold on,” she whispered, voice shaking. “We’re evacuating.”

She gathered chakra into her arms and hoisted him onto her back. Her chakra held him in place keeping him secure. She could feel his heartbeat, faint but steady, pressing against her spine. She turned, scanning the battlefield for an exit.

But there was nowhere to run.

Massive stone walls had risen around the camp’s perimeter, rough and jagged, cutting off every escape route. She could hear the shouts of Konoha shinobi on the other side — frantic orders, the clash of metal against metal — but they were too far to offer hope.

Inside the walls, the slaughter continued.

Sakura’s breath caught in her throat. There was no time to think. She saw Tachibana cowering behind a crate, hands over his head, whimpering and shaking uncontrollably. She sprinted to him.

“Tachibana-san, listen to me!” she shouted, seizing his attention. “Take him!”

Sakura gestured to Obito. The older medic quickly scampered over and gathered the boy into his arms in a secure hold. 

“Get to the eastern ridge,” she said, eyes fierce. “There’s a slope that leads to the river. Use the trees for cover. Go now.”

She had sensed sparse enemy chakra in that direction earlier. The roots were dense, the terrain uneven, and the soil resistant to elemental manipulation thanks to Hashirama’s residual growth. The descent would be steep, but it was their only path out.

“But—”

“Now!” she snapped. “Find Rin, Shizune and any other medics you see on your way. Take as many as you can carry — I don’t care how hurt they are. If they can breathe, they can survive. Do you hear me?”

Tachibana nodded with difficulty, his jaw trembling. His hands gripped Obito tighter, reinforcing his hold with chakra. 

“I-I got it,” he stammered.

“Good,” she squeezed his shoulder once. Despite his constant fear and anxiety, Tachibana had always been quick on his feet. 

“You’re faster than you think. Go.”

Without another word, he spun on his heel, shooting off into the smoke like a bolt. Sakura watched him until his figure disappeared into the burning remains of the camp, weaving between tents and bodies with desperate speed.

And then she was running again — towards the fight.

Her chakra thrummed violently under her skin, begging to be unleashed. Ahead, a squad of Iwa shinobi blocked the path to the medical tents, their hands flashing through hand seals. Stone erupted from the ground, jagged spears piercing through the earth in a deadly wave. A group of Konoha medics and personnel scattered, one of them too slow — impaled before Sakura could so much as scream.

Her vision blurred with rage.

She didn’t stop running. With a sharp twist of her heel, she leapt into the air, chakra surging to her fist. The ground crumbled under her knuckles with a deafening crack, the shockwave splintering through the ground and threw the Iwa shinobi off their feet. Before they could recover, Sakura was on them.

The first went down with a single punch — ribs shattering under her fist, his body crumpling like paper. She caught the second by the wrist, twisting until she felt the bone snap beneath her fingers. He screamed, but she shoved him back hard enough to send him crashing into another shinobi and the wall of stone behind them. The third lunged at her with a kunai, the blade glinting through the smoke. Sakura dodged, twisting low, her chakra-laden fist connecting with his ribs. He flew back, landing hard and limp. 

She exhaled sharply, chest heaving. Her knuckles dripped red — whether it was hers or theirs, she couldn’t tell. 

A medic stumbled out from behind a collapsed tent, eyes wide with shock. 

“Haruno-san!” 

“Evacuate, now! To the eastern ridge!” Was her only order as she drew out a kunai and parried the dozens others aimed towards them. The medic fled, sprinting toward safety while Sakura held the line. 

Behind more wreckage a young kunoichi was struggling to pull her teammate along. He was unable to move fast due to his injury, dragging his immobile leg as they tried to take cover. Another volley of kunai shot through the smoke, slamming into the crates they hid behind with deadly force. It did not afford them the protection they needed. The girl screamed, curling over her teammate in a desperate attempt to shield him. 

Sakura vaulted over the broken crates, chakra surging to her feet as she slammed her heel into the ground. Stone erupted upward in an instant — a thick, curved wall shielding them from the onslaught. The kunai bounced harmlessly off the surface, clattering to the dirt.

“I’m going to heal you,” was all that she said before her chakra flared and flooded into his body. She could feel the shredded muscles and ligament knitting back together, the bleeding slowing — but it wasn’t fast enough. Sakura grimaced, as she felt herself beginning to scrape her reserves empty. 

Another explosion rocked the ground behind her. A shadow loomed over the wall. They were coming.

Sakura cursed under her breath. She couldn’t fight and heal at the same time — not like this, not when they were too deep under enemy fire. She shouted more instructions and the two chuunin nodded, receiving her orders without question in the midst of this chaos. They went quickly to find more injured and evacuate as ordered. Their movements were a little bit faster now.

The ground trembled violently beneath Sakura’s feet as another high coverage earth jutsu ripped through the camp. Iwa was going to wipe them out with their heavy bombardments. They weren’t aiming to break morale—they were aiming for total erasure. Smoke billowed thick and choking, flames licking at the torn remnants of tents. Screams echoed through the air — orders barked, the clash of steel on steel, the frantic shouts of the wounded.

But Sakura wasn’t listening.

Her breath came hard and fast as she sprinted forward, muscles burning, anger pulsing violently under her skin. Her body was being pushed to its limit. Despite her short nap, she had barely recovered enough energy. But Sakura was a master in controlling her chakra even in its deficit. 

She needed to see. She needed to find higher ground.

A flash of movement caught her eye. Two Iwa shinobi shot toward her — one from the left, the other from behind — hands moving through seals too fast for the eye to follow.

Sakura didn’t slow.

The first shinobi lunged, stone spikes erupting from the ground toward her chest. Sakura was getting really tired of this technique. She twisted at the last second, chakra surging into her fists. Her knuckles slammed into the stone, shattering it with a single explosive blow. The shockwave hurled the sharp fragments back toward her attacker, a bastardized volley of kunai. His gurgled scream told her everything she needed to know—he was as good as dead.

The second shinobi closed in from behind — kunai aimed at her neck.

She ducked low, twisting on her heel as the blade hissed through the air above her. In a blur, Sakura caught his wrist and yanked, dragging him forward with bone-snapping force. Her fist slammed into his ribs — once, twice — the impact reverberating with a sickening crack. He collapsed with a wheeze, breath rattling in his chest. She didn’t wait to see if he got back up. They never do. 

More enemy shinobi surged toward her, their movements tight and rehearsed—formations snapping into place, lethal combos executed with ruthless precision. But Sakura was faster. She weaved through them like a phantom, every dodge a breath from death, every counterstrike a brutal blur of bone and steel. The bodies dropped and she remained standing. 

Rushing away from the thick of the battle, she tried to find her bearings. The cacophony of war pressed in from all sides—shouts, clashes of steel, the sickening crunch of bodies hitting the earth. She pressed her back against a charred tree trunk, chest heaving, eyes scanning the chaos. Smoke stung her eyes, and every breath tasted of ash and blood. She forced herself to stay grounded, to push past the sensory overload and think. She needed to understand—how many enemies remained, where they were converging, and how to cut through before it was too late. 

She peeked from behind the tree, narrowing her eyes against the haze. Judging from the direction and intensity of the sounds—the steady, unrelenting clash of weapons to the west, the distant crackle of explosions rippling through the northern side, the sudden silence in sectors that should’ve been manned—Sakura recognized a deliberate pattern. The enemy wasn’t just swarming—they were isolating squads, cutting off exits, corralling survivors. The bombings weren’t random, either. They were surgical, coordinated to drive the medics and support units into kill zones. Iwa wasn’t testing the waters. They had committed fully. This was a full-scale mobilization—an ambush crafted with precision, designed to cripple Konoha’s largest medical backbone before it could regroup deeper within the Land of Fire. If the medics fell here, so would the wounded, and the war effort would bleed out long before it reached the frontlines.

She quickly retreated back behind the tree, hiding from view. This wasn’t a raid. It was a siege. Iwa was here in full force, and Konoha’s medical ground was the battlefield. She needed to figure out what to do, quick.

Then the ground shifted beneath her—not from a blast, but something worse. A deep, grinding quake rolled through the dirt, cracking the earth open and swallowing everything in its path. Weak struggling bodies had no chance against this level of disaster.

Sakura’s gaze snapped upward. There — a jagged outcrop of stone, rising just above the smoke. It was high enough to give her a full view of the camp.

She ran.

An enemy suddenly lunged at her from the side, ramming into her and driving her off balance. They crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs and instinct. Sakura twisted mid-fall, slammed her elbow into his jaw, and rolled free just as a kunai flashed past her cheek. She launched back to her feet, chest heaving, fists up. They clashed — his strikes were faster, sharper, but she only needed one.

And when it landed, it landed hard.

Her fist slammed into his face, chakra-infused and merciless. The sickening crack of his nose breaking echoed in the chaos, followed by a sharp exhale of pain as his head snapped back. He crumpled to the ground, blood spilling from his shattered face in thick, slow rivulets.

Sakura pushed forward, chakra flooding her legs as she sprinted for the outcrop. She leapt, grabbing the jagged edge with bloodied hands. Her muscles screamed in protest, but she hauled herself up, feet scrambling against the rough stone.

She reached the top — breathless, trembling — and froze.

Her heart dropped.

From her vantage point, she could see it all.

The camp was in ruins. Tents razed to the ground, bodies scattered across the battlefield — too many of them Konoha’s own. Too many of them are not in any position to fight back. Smoke twisted through the air in thick black columns. Leaf shinobi fought desperately below, but the enemy kept coming. 

More Iwa shinobi burst from the ground, splitting the battlefield apart with stone and earth. Walls shot up around the perimeter, cutting off escape routes. She watches as mud clones tagged with paperbombs run amok through the camp and explode on every corner, throwing teared limbs and visceral matter up into the air. They fought in formations, boxing people in and killing in multiples. The rest was hunted, picked off like game.

Sakura clenched her fists, breath shaking. Her heart pounded violently in her chest.

They were losing.

She could feel the chakra signatures — hundreds and hundreds of them. Maybe more. She had never seen a troop deployed for an ambush this size before. Not like this. Not with this kind of overwhelming, inhumane aggression.

Was this war? Or had Iwa finally crossed a line?

The brutality was suffocating and she felt bile rising up her throat. She could feel the weight of it, the hopelessness. The cold certainty that, even if they fought with everything they had, they wouldn’t survive this unscathed. If they made it out at all, Konoha would never recover from this. The cost was unimaginable.

Her jaw tightened. She wiped the blood from her chin with the back of her hand, fingers trembling—not from fear, but from rage.

That cold, dangerous kind of anger settled deep in her chest. The kind that cleared her head and sharpened her focus.

She couldn’t save everyone. She knew that now. But she could still fight and protect. She could make sure that Iwa paid for every inch of the blood-soaked ground.

From her perch above the battlefield, Sakura was fully exposed—but she didn’t move. Not yet. Smoke curled past her boots. For a moment, quietness rolled over the camp. It wasn’t peace—it was the pause between strikes, the hush of Iwa shinobi pulling back to regroup, to reload, to recalculate. A tactical breath before the next wave. Her eyes tracked the chakra signatures as they repositioned, tightening the noose.

Then came the voices.

“Well, well, well. What’s a sweet little medic like you doing all the way up there?” one of the Iwa shinobi called out, baring yellowed teeth in a grin. “Lost your squad? Or just hoping we’ll come rescue you?”

Another voice joined in, louder and cruder. “Maybe she’s hoping for a different kind of rescue. Medics are good with their hands, aren’t they?”

Laughter rippled through the squad as they fanned out beneath her, circling like wolves scenting blood.

“Pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be alone. Someone might accidentally rough you up.”

A third voice, mockingly soft, piped up. “Don’t worry, princess. We’ll be real gentle—after all, we’re not monsters.”

Sakura didn’t answer. She raised her gaze and met theirs—calm, unreadable. She just looked down at them, at their dirty smirking mouths, the red-slick hands, and let the silence stretch. This seemed to excite them somehow. They kept on laughing. Loud and stupid. 

“Damn, look at that sweet face!” One of them whistled and started panting like a dog in heat. It was disgusting.

“Bet she’ll cry real pretty too,” one of them jeered, elbowing the shinobi beside him. “Shame to waste her on the front lines.”

Just a sweet-faced medic, right? Helpless and afraid.

Perfect.

Her chakra pulsed once, subtly—no seals, no flourish. Just a twitch of a muscle on her temple as the genjutsu slipped over them like a veil. She didn't need much chakra for this illusion. Just enough to twist their perception and cloud their focus.

They didn’t notice. Still too busy jeering.

Another chimed in, voice thick with anticipation. “Let’s bring her down nice and slow. Make it last. Teach her what happens when Konoha sends dolls to do a man’s job.”

“She’s frozen up!”

“Come on, sweetheart—drop the act!”

“Don’t worry, we’ll take real good care of you—”

They laughed harder. Louder. Some doubled over, completely lulled by the illusion, convinced she hadn’t moved, convinced that she was terrified. Their instincts dulled, senses soft.

They didn’t see her shift her weight, didn’t register the kunai in her hand—or the faint crackle of the paper bomb laced around it. Her movements were steady, deliberate. She twirled it once in her fingers, then lifted her arm. 

One of them wiped tears from his eyes.

“You know what, let’s not waste time,” the first Iwa shinobi sneered, tapping his friend’s back and starting to move. “Gotta see if the carpet matches the drapes.”

She threw.

The kunai sliced through the smoke-heavy air, a single glint of silver against the dark sky. It landed right at their feet.

One of them blinked down at it.

“…wait—”

The explosion was swift, contained, but powerful enough to rip them apart. Fire and shrapnel erupted in all directions, the blast flattening everything within range. The air snapped with heat. Limbs flew. They weren't laughing anymore, they were dead. 

Sakura didn’t flinch at the gruesome sight. In fact, she was already drawing more tagged kunai. The little blast had drawn attention and now they were shouting, scrambling to find her already exposed location. She threw the other kunai, the explosion caving in the nearby underground tunnels she had seen them popping out from. Sakura was trying to flesh them out, baiting.

“There—up on the ridge!”

“She killed them—get up there, now!”

“Fan out! Cut off her escape!” someone yelled.

Sakura turned just in time to see Iwa rallying—more and more of them—bearing down in her direction. Not just a squad. Dozens. Maybe more. They were targeting her now.

Good.

Her chakra pulsed as she scanned the area for Konoha shinobi. Finding none, she watched as Iwa shinobi began clustering, their formation shifting to envelop her position. Her lips curled into a taut smile as the blood frenzy surged through her system, and she welcomed the chance to release it. Twelve shinobi had taken formation first—four cells of three, hands already flying through collaborative seals. Whatever large-scale jutsu they had prepared, she wouldn’t give them the chance.

Leaping from her high perch, Sakura slammed her chakra-laden fist into the earth. The ground detonated beneath her, ripping open with a deafening roar. A crater bloomed outward as soil and rock buckled violently. Shinobi screamed, then vanished—some crushed outright, others swallowed by the collapsing terrain.

Dust and debris choked the air as the shockwave rippled out in all directions. The battlefield fell deathly still for a breath. Blood soaked into the ruptured ground.

Then came the roar of war.

More Iwa shinobi surged from the trees and smoke—dozens, no, hundreds—flooding the camp’s edge in organized waves. Their faces twisted with rage, disbelief, and something close to fear. Word had spread fast. They didn’t know who she was, but they knew she could single handedly tear through them.

One shinobi shouted, his voice hoarse with urgency. “Who the hell is she?!”

Another pointed to the rhombus etched on her forehead. “That symbol… isn’t that–!”

Before they could process further, Sakura was already in motion.

She exhaled once, deeply, and met the flood head-on.

The first wave collided with her, and she tore through it like a typhoon. A punch caved in a man’s chest. A sweeping blow sent three crashing into one another, their skulls cracking on impact. A heel kick launched another into the trees with such velocity his body snapped in half against the trunk.

She became pure motion—rampaging and unrelenting. Chakra-enhanced taijutsu gave her fists the weight of hammers and the speed of a feline. She shattered bones, pulverized flesh, and carved a brutal path through enemy lines.

But they kept coming. For every one she dropped, three more took his place. By the time her kills reached the hundred, she was truly and well depleted of chakra. Whatever she had left was squandered away for her basic necessities. 

And still, she fought.

The world blurred around the edges, noise and blood smearing into a haze. Her limbs still moved with lethal precision, but her strikes no longer came as effortlessly. Each breath burned hotter than the last, shallow and sharp, as if her lungs were slowly filling with smoke. The ground beneath her felt heavier, much closer with every leap. Her chakra pulsed thinner beneath her skin, a steady drumbeat now dulled, stretched taut.

Sakura dodged the next strike late — too late — but adjusted mid-motion, letting it graze her ribs instead of puncturing her lung. She used the momentum to twist around him and pummel him to the ground. With her chakra, she could crush mountains and level terrains. Without it, she could still break bone and shatter will—her raw strength was the apex of her taijutsu.

She didn’t move like she had before — there was no grace now, only resolve. Her muscles ached and she was losing form, but her fists kept swinging. There was no way she was admitting defeat now. They would have to pry it off from her cold dead fingers. And the last thing Sakura ever wanted to do… was die. 

Between every strike, every scream, she caught glimpses of the camp behind her—medic tents torn open, bodies strewn on bloodied cots, medics frantically trying to shield the wounded from incoming flames. The camp was collapsing. Iwa’s attack was debilitating — it was a full-scale ambush, carefully coordinated to hit them where they were weakest.

And they had succeeded.

The bloodlust in her veins cooled, replaced by something far more dangerous: grim, focused rage. She had to eliminate and cripple their numbers, to be a distraction and give a chance for the others to make their escape. Sakura had to trust her medics to take care of the rest. 

Just as she drove her fist into a man’s sternum, launching him into the air like a broken puppet, Sakura’s nose caught a bitter, metallic scent beneath the stench of blood and smoke—faint, but unmistakable. Her eyes widened as she looked for the source.

And then she saw it; the crawling cloud of purple gas suddenly developing on the left side of the camp. Enemy nin scrambled to escape, dragging themselves across the battlefield before succumbing to the poison in a matter of seconds. 

Sakura’s heart dropped, and her instincts screamed for action. 

“Shizune!” Sakura shouted, her voice raw with panic. 

Her distraction earned her a kunai to the thigh, she screamed. Clutching the weapon and yanking it out, she flipped the knife and threw it back with deadly precision. The blade sank between the Iwa nin’s eye and he dropped. She quickly placed her hand over her wound. 

“Come on,” she bit out, her chakra flickering as she urged it to knit the broken flesh. Her eyes snapped back towards the purple cloud.

Without another thought, she leaped forward and quickly rushed to the scene, ignoring the barely healed pain.

Her sandals skidded across the cracked ground as she raced down the slope, chakra surging to her legs to push her faster and faster. She didn’t stop to dodge the debris flying past her, didn’t flinch when an explosion went off barely ten meters away. All that mattered was reaching the purple cloud— the unmistakable, choking scent of poison curling into the air.

Shizune’s Hidden Death poison.

It was still in its development — volatile, unrefined, and far from safe. A weapon they had only referred to in clipped, hushed voices during late-night lab hours. It wasn’t ready.

Sakura had warned her.

The formula was far too unstable. They hadn’t compounded a reliable antidote yet — hadn’t even managed to neutralize its primary components without secondary fallout. It was powerful, yes. The kind of poison that didn’t just kill — it consumed. The poison’s reach was indiscriminate, designed to incapacitate, eliminate, and control, reducing even the strongest shinobi to twitching husks. Shizune had no illusions about its cost; the poison’s reach was compact, saturating and consuming anyone within its explosion radius. Oxygen, chakra, movement — all snatched away in mere moments. 

And the worst part — Sakura was the only one partially immune to its key components. A fluke of her unique biology, years of exposure and chakra control, not something they could replicate nor rely on. Shizune, on the other hand, wholly and completely wasn’t.

That was why Sakura had been so firm and sharp in her warning:

“Do not use this poison. Not unless you’re ready to die with it.”

And now, standing at the edge of the medic camp — the ground twisted with signs of a violent struggle, the air saturated with a dense, creeping fog — Sakura felt her stomach lurch.

If Shizune had deployed it—

Sakura’s stomach turned.

“SHIZUNE!” she screamed again more desperately, voice cracking.

The battlefield twisted as she ran — bodies, fire, rubble. She jumped over a broken tent pole, ducked beneath a crumbling wall of stone. Her lungs burned, her vision blurred, but she kept moving. The purple fog thickened, rolling and folding over the parameter like a death shroud. 

Sakura took a large gulp of breath, covering her face with her arm and then surged forward into the cloud of gas.

Her eyes stung, her nose burned and she tasted metal down the back of her throat. In an instant, she felt the numbing buzz as the gaseous poison quickly invaded her lungs. Each inhale came with effort, shallow and rasping, but she forced herself onward, the last of her chakra pulsing beneath her skin in controlled bursts to keep her body moving. 

The poison was more potent than she’d expected. She’d developed the formula for Shizune, guiding the younger medic through the project. They had seen what it did to test samples in tightly sealed chambers. But nothing could’ve prepared her for the reality of it—how it crawled into every crevice, coated every breath, and made the world feel like it was dissolving from the inside out. 

Her blood pounded in her ears. But her body held. Her cells didn’t break down, didn’t surrender.

She kept one thing in mind and let it anchor her.

And then—there. A flicker of dark hair.

“Shizune!”

Sakura dropped to her knees beside the younger medic, hands already glowing with frantic green chakra. But she froze—just for a heartbeat—when she saw the state Shizune was in. 

Her clothes… they were torn — not by blast or debris, but by hands. Ripped with intent.

Sakura’s breath caught.

Bruises bloomed across pale skin, buttons torn off, sleeves yanked down. The implication was immediate. Undeniable.

She hadn’t been cornered in battle.

She’d been hunted.

That’s why she used the poison.

Sakura’s hands trembled and she took in the scene around them.

Corpses.

They surrounded Shizune like broken offerings to a cruel god, their bodies twisted in grotesque and unnatural angles. Some lay curled up, hands clawed at their own throats, eyes bulging, faces stained a sickly purple. Blood and foam crusted the corners of their mouths. Veins stood out black beneath their skin, as if the poison had burned its way through their bloodstream, thread by thread.

One man had managed to crawl a few meters before he’d collapsed mid-motion—his face planted in the dirt, fingers dug into the earth as though sheer will could’ve pulled him farther. Another shinobi had gouged long, ragged trenches into his own arms, perhaps trying to cut the toxin out in a moment of madness before it finally shut down his nervous system.

And there, to her left, half-buried in the cracked ground, was another. His torso still above the surface, one hand limp and outstretched, mouth frozen open in a silent scream. He must have tried to sink into the earth with a Doton technique, believing escape was possible if he could just get underground. He didn’t make it. The poison had moved too fast, faster than he could flee, and now his lifeless eyes stared up at nothing.

They were all dead.

Every single one of them.

And Shizune had been right in the middle of it.

Thankfully, she was wearing a gas mask. The same stupid mask Sakura had made her carry since the first time she started to dabble in poison at age twelve.

Half-melted, cracked down the side, the filter nearly burned through — but it had done its job long enough to spare her from the worst of the toxins. Still, the mask hadn’t protected her from whatever impact had slammed into her head. Blood trickled down her temple, matted into her hair and soaking into the collar of her uniform. A deep gash split the side of her scalp, pulsing sluggishly with each heartbeat.

Sakura pressed two fingers to Shizune’s neck. Her pulse was weak, but it was there.

Before she could act, Sakura felt her lungs seize—this time sharper, more constricted. The burn that had once licked at the edges of her breath now clawed down her windpipe like acid. Her chakra faltered for a heartbeat, her vision spinning as the poison tried to root itself deeper.

But she gritted her teeth and forced herself upright. Not now. Not when she was this close.

With a sharp inhale through clenched teeth, she pushed chakra through her system again, reinforcing her lungs and flushing the worst of the toxins from her bloodstream. Her body trembled with the effort, but she didn’t let it slow her down.

She needed to move Shizune. Now.

Sakura glanced around. The fog was beginning to thin at the edges, the poison already losing potency as it settled into the earth, but it was still lethal — to anyone else. She could feel it trying to eat at her skin, clawing its way down her throat, but her body held firm against it. Her cells didn’t react the way they should have. She was immune — not entirely, but enough. 

“Hold on,” she murmured, scooping Shizune into her arms. She cradled her friend against her chest, carefully avoiding the wound, and stood. The world spun slightly, her legs wobbling from exertion, but she grit her teeth and forced her chakra to steady her.

She turned, stepping over fallen bodies — enemy shinobi, some with terrified expressions frozen on their faces, others with their throats crushed mid-scream. The poison had done exactly what it was supposed to do. What Sakura and Shizune had made it to do.

But it had nearly killed her, too.

Sakura tightened her grip and began the long trek out of the cloud, her boots dragging through the scorched dirt.

The poison was affecting her even worse now. No one was meant to survive this long unprotected under the thick blanket of the poison fog.

Each step became heavier, her limbs leaden, her lungs seizing in waves. Her chakra surged to compensate, burning through reserves she no longer has. Sakura clenched her jaw, biting back the urge to cough — it would only make things worse. Her vision tunneled, black creeping in at the edges. She could feel the toxins trying to burrow deeper, latch onto her blood cells, eat away at her from the inside out.

She stuttered to a stop just as the clearing came into view — a break in the haze, where the air was clean and untouched. She needed to get there but her vision swam. She gasped, the first real breath in what felt like hours burning its way down her throat.

She wasn’t going to make it like this. Not both of them. 

Sakura’s legs buckled beneath her, the poison clawing deeper, seeping into her bones like ice. Her breath hitched — shallow, broken — and she knew the edge was too far. Shizune was slipping from her arms, her pulse barely there, her body limp.

No. Shizune needed more time.

With a guttural cry, Sakura summoned the last dregs of her chakra, forcing it into her limbs, burning herself from the inside out just to move. She staggered forward — once, twice — and with a final, desperate surge, hurled Shizune from the poison cloud’s choking grip.

Her limp body tumbled across the scorched dirt, skidding just past the edge of the smog.

Someone would find her. Someone had to.

Sakura collapsed, the world spinning, lungs refusing to work. Her vision dimmed at the edges. She needed more time.

Sakura tried to lift her head, but her body refused. The poison was a living thing now, curling around her lungs, tightening with every breath she couldn’t take. Her heart thudded weakly, the rhythm uneven. The air was poison, her skin was fire, and Shizune—

She was out of the cloud. Sakura had seen her roll clear. That had to be enough.

But it wouldn’t be. Not if Sakura died here.

Not if she didn’t try.

Her mind clawed its way through the fog, latching onto a single thought, a memory scorched into her muscles: the seal. She had chakra—her chakra—locked away in the mark on her forehead. It pulsed once, faint and dull, as if even it were struggling against the venom threading through her veins.

She grit her teeth. Move, damn it.

Her fingers twitched. Her chakra network was responding sluggishly, as though swimming through tar. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She’d trained to activate it in a blink, to release the stored chakra on instinct. But now—

A jolt of agony shot down her spine as she reached for it. Her lungs seized. A wet, rasping sound escaped her lips. She forced herself to breathe shallowly. In, out. Pain lanced through her chest, but she didn’t let go. She couldn’t.

Focus.

The seal flared again. This time brighter. Her skin prickled with energy, and it urged her on. With the last thread of her will, Sakura bit down hard on her lip, blood filling her mouth. The pain sliced through the haze.

And finally—

The seal bloomed open.

Chakra flooded her limbs like molten gold, filling every inch and crevices of her network. The poison didn’t vanish, but it staggered, recoiling from the sudden surge. Her heart kicked against her ribs. Her breath wheezed in. Shallow—but in.

The world snapped back into focus. Blurred edges sharpened, color bled back into the trees. The surge of chakra ignited a flicker of relief deep within her. Her body hummed with the sudden awareness of its own healing process, her cells waking up, working to push the poison back. She could feel the first threads of restoration weaving through her body, slow but undeniably real. The acrid sting in her throat receded. Light poured back in. She coughed, reeling as her lungs remembered what clean air felt like. 

There was a faint pressure against her shoulder.

She turned her head, barely.

And then — warmth.

A presence surged behind her, sudden and consuming. Arms encompassed her in one fluid motion, strong and sure, catching her before gravity could claim what little was left of her strength.

Heat pressed against her back — searing, solid — a barrier against the poison-laced air. The arms that locked around her did so with unshakable purpose, holding her upright even as her body threatened to collapse in on itself.

There was no hesitation in that grip. No fear. Only resolve.

And that was the danger.

Did he stop to ask what the poison was doing to her—what it might do to him?

Before she could even react, they were moving. Sakura gasped, dazed. The world tilted. He lifted her like she weighed nothing. One arm beneath her knees, the other anchoring her close to his chest. His body cut through the poison with raw force, chakra flaring in blistering waves.

She couldn’t see his face. Just the rhythm of his heart against her cheek. The steady rise and fall of a chest that wasn’t hers.

A low voice, rough with urgency murmured close to her ears, “I’ve got you.”

She clenched her teeth, her pulse hammering with panic. 

No, you don’t.

Not yet.

Notes:

Honestly, I'm not that satisfied with this half of the chapter. I feel like there's so much I wanted to fit in but then it starts to become overcrowded and lengthy. Like too many things were happening at once that it took away from the ambush scene. I ended up having to cut sooo many scenes and had to rearrange everything.

And then some things started to become repetitive. Or maybe it was just me rereading the chapters over and over again. I really don't know. I struggled with the pacing - wanted to make it tighter but it was kinda hard. It's my 'second language writing struggle' as I like to call it lol.

I overindulged myself with this chapter and it ended up being messy lol

And I didn't think I wrote my foreshadowing of what's going to happen in the next chapter that well. Did you guys at least get that last bit?

In any case, hope you guys still enjoyed it! I promise we'll get more minasaku moments later. I'm getting to it.. 😆

Ps. I read all your comments. Thank you so much for taking the time to share your thoughts! It definitely gives me extra shots of motivation to keep writing. Thank you once again!

Chapter 6

The Medic

 

Chapter 6: 

 

The poison fog behind them thickened as it settled, growing dense and cloying, heavy in the lungs and slow to move. It crept along the ground in sluggish streaks, curling around shattered stones and fallen bodies. Then, bit by bit, it thinned—sinking into the earth like something spent, leaving the air still and tainted.

Minato barely noticed. 

The filtration mask he’d secured before entering the fog was now damp with sweat and clinging toxin, the fine chakra-thread mesh saturated and spent. It had done its job—for a while.

He had dropped to the clearing, Sakura cradled tight against his body. Her weight was solid, but her skin remained unsettlingly hot like she was burning inside. His gaze stayed fixed on the faint rise and fall of her chest, the way each breath stuttered out in short, shallow bursts.

She let out a soft whimper, her pink eyebrows twitching together in pain before slowly relaxing. Her lips parted, and after a moment of stillness, she drew in a slow, shaky breath.

It wasn’t strong, but it was steady — the first real inhale cutting through the fog that had gripped her lungs. A faint tremor ran through her as her body remembered what to do, each breath growing a little deeper, a little easier.

“Sakura,” he called her name, quietly and carefully,  voice low enough not to carry. They were still out in the open.

Then he noticed it, the rhombus on her forehead blooming open — soft and pale at first, like ink spreading in water, before it pulsed once with light. The seal adorned her temple and he almost held his breath as the darkened lines stretched down her cheeks. 

Minato stayed still, watching closely. 

His eyes followed the lines as it traveled down her neck and dipped underneath her collar. Chakra surged from the seal and rippled across her skin, weaving through her network and pouring into every exhausted crevice of her body. Her wounds closed and even the tiniest bruise disappeared instantly. Her spine straightened and her breaths lengthened, the pinched look on her face was smoothing out into something much calmer, softer.

Right then, her skin glowed.

A warm red flush bloomed across her cheeks and her hair shined as the light caught between the strands, shifting between pink and gold like molten rose metal. She was radiating life as if her body had remembered, all at once, how to be whole and more.

Her thick lashes lifted, green eyes sharp and focused in a way that made Minato’s breath hitch. She looked… awake. More alive than anyone he had seen in days. More alive than he felt. She moved in his hold and he was surprised by his own reluctance to let her go. Still, he carefully let her slip away. 

She didn’t look at him immediately. Just scanned the horizon and read the silence. He knew she felt what he already knew, the danger hadn’t passed and the threat was just around the corner. Iwa was regrouping and recalculating as they pulled back. Minato’s eyes narrowed. It was never over with Iwa. Their retreat wasn’t surrender; it was a tactic. They were buying time — to rearm, to reroute, to strike harder. He had seen their patterns enough to know: the lull was a lie.

But time worked both ways.

If Iwa was regrouping, then so would they. He would make sure of it. There was no telling how long they had, but he would not waste the pause. 

His eyes shifted to Sakura. He watched her, searching for anything—an injury she hadn’t mentioned, a tremble, a falter. Something to tell him where she was at her point of recovery but she showed no signs of hurt nor weakness. She was already steady on her feet.

Then, finally, she glanced at him. Their eyes met—just for a second—but it landed harder than it should have.

Minato couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Her expression shifted too quickly. But her brows drew together, just slightly, and she took a small step back. 

He felt it like a tug to the ribs.

Quietly, he forced his expression flat, smoothing away the crack that almost showed. Calm, neutral and controlled. But inside, the feeling still pulsed — unsettling and intense, it was something he couldn’t quite name. She had looked at him like she didn’t recognize what was there and by putting the distance between them, it gave her control.

Minato straightened and pulled himself back into the shape of the weapon they needed him to be. Mind over matter and he was ready for the next course of action.

Suddenly, he staggered—and choked.

It began as a hitch in his breath, then a cough. Short, sharp, and unexpected. He clenched his jaw against it, swallowing hard as though sheer will alone could suppress the growing burn rising in his throat. But it clawed its way up anyway — raw and sudden — tearing past his composure.

Another cough escaped, harsher this time. He pressed a hand to his neck, fingers trembling just slightly, and tried to breathe through his nose. His chest shuddered once, then again. A sheen of sweat broke across his brow. Still, he said nothing.

No grimace. No sound.

Only the tight press of his lips and the hand that hovered like a failed disguise over the evidence unraveling in his body.

The chakra-thread filtration mask he’d secured before entering the fog had done its job—for a while. But the poison was too potent, too saturating. The mesh had grown damp, then heavy, then useless. It had slowed the toxin’s entry into his lungs—not stopped it. A bitter tang coated his tongue, like blood and the rust of an old blade. His knees buckled beneath him, the poison catching up all at once. He yanked the piece of fabric away, urgently seeking air.

He dropped to the dirt on one knee with a grunt, hand pressed to his chest, mouth opened in another ragged cough. This must be the poison, he felt it settling in his lungs painfully.

A shadow loomed above him.

He looked up.

Sakura stood tall against the backdrop of ruins, her entire body steaming as poison bled from her pores and evaporated into the air. Her silhouette burned against the dying haze. She was ethereal. Not untouched by the poison — no. She had taken it in, swallowed it whole, and forced it out of her veins with pure will. 

Minato exhaled slowly, unable to hide the awe settling into his features. 

“Incredible,” he murmured hoarsely.

Not delicate, not soft — but terrifyingly alive. Her presence struck him like lightning. There was too much chakra in her now, too much light, like she was walking a line between human and something else. 

Minato had heard of this technique from his master Jiraiya in passing, spoken of in rare, reverent tones, as if describing something both miraculous and forbidden. The Strength of a Hundred Seal, Tsunade’s pinnacle achievement in medical ninjutsu, was said to grant its user near-limitless regenerative ability once released. It wasn’t just healing; it was a defiance of the body’s natural decline, a reversal of its inevitable withering. But no amount of secondhand knowledge prepared him for what it looked like in practice. 

Her eyes locked onto his.

She muttered something low under her breath — he caught both the word and the tone; sharp, frustrated and angry all at once. 

“Idiot.”

But she didn’t come to him. Not yet.

Instead, Sakura turned sharply and dropped to her knees beside the girl’s motionless body—the same one she had hurled from the poison fog in a final, desperate bid to save her, leaving the outcome to chance. Only she wasn't one to play with fate, she forged it. Her hands moved fast, glowing green again as she focused on healing the girl. Her brow furrowed as she took stock of the injuries; the cracked gas mask, the blood trailing down the girl’s temple.

Minato swallowed thickly. Even from a distance, he could see the way her jaw clenched.

But Sakura didn’t tremble. 

Her movements were swift, exact, as she laid both hands over Shizune’s chest. Chakra pulsed from her palms, guiding the body to mimic her own detoxification, every motion carried with ruthless precision. She felt the strain bleeding through her limbs. Every cell, every pulse of chakra, had to be exact. Life didn’t simply return because she demanded it. It took control, time and a piece of herself in return.

“Come on, Shizune,” she urged. “Just a little bit more.”

Minato watched from a distance, breath shallow, the sting of poison still clinging to his lungs. The battlefield around them pulsed with the aftermath — smoke curling from collapsed tents, the earth torn and blood-soaked, screams echoing in the far distance. But his eyes never left her.

Sakura continued, posture rigid and her actions razor-sharp. 

Then it happened.

Shizune’s body jerked like a puppet with its strings yanked taut. A sharp, guttural gasp ripped from her throat, filling the air with something primal — survival, desperation, life. Her back arched, then crumpled, and Sakura caught her, guiding her down with steady hands.

He should’ve looked away but he didn’t.

He saw the way Sakura brushed the girl's hair aside, the way her fingers moved with gentle urgency and care. Her voice was low — he couldn’t make out the words, but her expression said enough. 

Minato’s jaw clenched. There was something about her.

He couldn’t place it—just a pull at the edge of his attention, subtle but persistent. His eyes drifted to her without reason, lingering longer than they should. Maybe it was the way she moved, too precise for someone so worn down, or the weight she carried that didn’t seem to break her. Sometimes he thought it was her distracting colours, too soft to be jarring but too different to disappear in the back of his mind.

He told himself he was just observing. Assessing. But even when she did nothing at all, he kept watching. He kept wondering. And the questions, quiet as they were, didn’t go away.

He had seen brilliance before — power, resolve, sacrifice — but Sakura was different. She wasn’t just surviving the war. She was bending it to her will in her own little ways. And that was fascinating to watch.

Minato had always known where to draw the line — between admiration and distraction, between asset and anomaly. But as he watched Sakura pull a dying comrade from death's grasp with hands that didn’t falter, something in him slipped. 

His fingers curled unconsciously into the dirt. Not from pain, not from exhaustion — but from something harder to name. His breath hitched once in his throat, a barely-there pause that didn’t match the rhythm of his lungs. He blinked, and for a fleeting second, the battlefield blurred at the edges. Only her form remained sharp.

Minato hadn’t realized it at first but something about her kept his attention. She didn’t operate like a genin. There was instinct in her decisions, something honed and natural—like command. Either she had been overlooked, or she was holding back. In a world where shinobi lived and died by the chain of command, she moved just adjacent to it—never insubordinate, but somehow not confined by it either. That kind of self-assuredness in someone of her rank wasn’t common. 

And it wasn’t just that. He’d seen her outperform expectations in silence, push through impossible odds without waiting for acknowledgment. There was no fanfare. No posturing. Just this quiet, insistent capability. 

Maybe it was the reckless altruism that made him look twice—the way she moved without hesitation toward danger if it meant someone else might live. 

It itched at him—her persistent presence in his mind. And though he would not name it — not yet — it sat in the back of his mind, unresolved. Like a puzzle with one piece missing. He didn’t know what to make of it, only that she was still there. Still sharp in his memory.

And that was unusual enough.

Minato’s vision blurred. He coughed again, this time harder — his ribs spasmed. Blood flecked his palm. He braced his body, propping his arm against the bent knee. 

Sakura’s head snapped up.

She was beside him in a heartbeat.

“Hold still,” she said, voice hoarse but firm.

He didn’t protest. Instead, his body went with the motion as she guided him down, letting her press him into a seated position. Her knees braced the ground between his legs, and her hands found his chest, glowing faintly with chakra.

The contact was immediate.

A rush of warmth surged into his lungs, sharp and cleansing—like sunlight forcing its way through ice. His breath hitched, a choked inhale breaking past parted lips as the foreign chakra threaded through him. Startled, he instinctively grabbed her wrist, his longer fingers locking tight around it. Her chakra was too much, too fast, too intimate. 

“I'm trying to heal you!” she hissed, yanking her hand away — only for the blond haired man to grab it again the next second she placed it back on his chest.

Minato didn’t let go, nor did he interrupt her healing  but his grip shifted — sliding from her wrist to her hand, tightening until his fingers wrapped fully around hers. He looked at her, and despite the reprimand in her eyes, knew that his hold did not interfere with whatever it was she was doing. She clenched her jaw, clearly annoyed. Instead, she adjusted her chakra flow, forced to work around the way he held her hand—too tight from the pain, but steady enough that she could still reach the damage beneath his skin.

Minato gritted his teeth as the chakra surged into him. He let out a strangled sound, the pain ripping through him despite every effort to stay quiet. It burned. Not like fire — like purification. He didn't fully understand what she was doing but he could feel her energy threading through his veins, a current too precise to be wild, too aggressive to be gentle. It chased the toxin with single-minded focus, seeking it out where it clung, healing everything it touched and flushing it from every corner of his body. He felt his skin warm rapidly, like fever rushing to the surface. 

“I don’t have an antidote,” she said in a grimace, “Not yet. But I can synthesize the poison internally. It'll damage your organs but I’m healing them as it goes.”

“That explains the pain,” Minato grunted.

A pensive look spread across her face, “You're awfully calm for someone in pain.” 

In fact, he shouldn’t still be conscious — not with the way his body kept shutting down, system by system, only to be forced back online by her chakra. Part of her energy numbed the worst of it, but the strain was still there, crawling under his skin, pulling him apart and stitching him back together in the same breath. 

He should’ve blacked out by now. Or lost clarity—drifting somewhere between pain and shock. But her hand was pressed against his chest, and he was gripping it like it was the only thing anchoring him. He could feel the poison being forced out, flushed from the inside to the surface. It hurt. More than he expected. More than he let on.

She didn’t say anything, but he caught the flicker of a look—half exasperation, half disbelief. Like she was thinking he literally needed to hold hands to get through this.

Still he didn't let go. 

“I held my breath,” Minato shrugged, almost flippantly but the tightness in his voice and the pull at the corner of his mouth betrayed the rest.

She didn't bother to reply, just leveled him with a flat, unimpressed stare.

He closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of her chakra wash over him. It was nothing like his own. His was razor-sharp — efficient, tactical and fast. Hers was… alive. Tireless. Endless. Slowly, he felt the burning sensation ease into something cooler and his breathing came easier. He didn't need her hand to brace himself anymore but he kept it there anyway.

Minato opened his eyes again. 

She noticed. He could tell by the brief pause in her movements, the slight narrowing of her eyes. But she didn’t pull away. Didn’t comment.

Just resumed her work like nothing about this was unusual. 

Which, somehow, made it worse. He told himself it was a reflex. That holding on to her hand helped him endure. But his grip didn’t loosen even when the pain began to fade.

“You shouldn’t have come into the cloud,” she huffed. “That was insanely reckless.”

“You were going to die,” he rasped.

“I’m not easy to kill.”

But the hand on his chest tightened, and her expression twisted — for just a moment — with something too raw to name.

They were still under threat. Iwa hadn’t found them yet, but they would. The lull wouldn’t last. The smart move would be to retreat immediately.

But Minato knew, without asking, that Sakura wouldn’t leave. Not until Shizune could stand. Not until his lungs could draw breath without her chakra keeping them open. Not until she knew her people were safe.

And suddenly, he understood the real danger of the girl he carried out of the fog.

By the time the girl, Shizune, was finally stable after some rest and his own breathing had steadied, though she told him that faint traces of poison still clung like a shadow in his chest. There was nothing they could do for that until she'd have access to a lab. Sakura sat back on her heels, wiped the sweat from her brow, and exhaled. Then, without a word, she pulled away and pushed herself to her feet.

Minato watched her rise, silhouetted by the shifting light, battered and streaked with grime but unshaken. She turned and held out a hand to him.

He stared at it a moment too long.

Small. Slender. Smudged with dirt and dried blood, but her fingers were steady. The exhaustion he had previously assimilated to her had been replaced with renewed energy and strength. He placed his own hand in hers.

It surprised him — how soft she felt.

Despite everything. Despite what she had done and endured. Despite the poison and bloodshed and war — her hand was soft and warm. He noted how much smaller it was than his, how easily it fit against his palm.

She tugged him upward with more strength than he expected. And the moment he was upright, she let go. 

Too quickly.

His hand lingered in the space between them before curling slowly into a fist at his side. He could still feel her palm against his, like an imprint burned into skin.

“Thank you,” he called and she turned to him, eyebrows raised. 

“Sakura,” he said, a flicker of a smile crossed his face. The name slipped from him before he could think to temper it — no rank, no suffix, just her name. Unadorned. Familiar.

She stiffened.

Her expression shifted — scowling now, like she was trying to assert some invisible boundary.

“Whatever,” she muttered with a huff, already turning away.

Minato is momentarily puzzled by her anger, watching as her figure moves to Shizune and she fusses over the girl. 

The way her shoulders stiffened, the sharpness in her voice, the deliberate refusal to look back — it didn’t make sense.

He hadn’t said anything wrong.

Had he?

Minato replayed the moment in his head, the simple words, the honest tone. There was no sarcasm, no command hidden behind it. Just gratitude. Sincere. Earnest.

And yet, she had recoiled from it like it was an insult.

He exhaled, a long quiet breath through his nose. His brow furrowed — but not with frustration. If anything, what bubbled up in him was…

Amusement.

A reluctant smile ghosted across his face as he watched her supply Shizune with a soldier pill and giving her water to drink from her canteen. She was quick to anger. Guarded. Too used to pain, perhaps, to recognize simple kindness without flinching. 

And yet, that same sharpness had dragged him out of the mud. Had helped carry half the ridge on her back. Had kept going when others dropped.

He wasn’t offended. He found he couldn’t be.

Minato shifted his weight and tested the waters by going close to her. He found the corner of his mouth twitching upwards when he saw her stiffen, but resolutely trying to ignore his presence.

Instead, a pair of dark eyes stared wide eyed at him so he shot her a smile. She blushed, naturally, despite her exhausted state. 

“Namikaze-taicho!” She greeted him and Sakura whispered her reprimand to take it easy.

“Are we ready to move?” 

Minato asked the question calmly, but his gaze swept the treeline behind her. The air was too still. The kind of stillness that made instincts sharpen and breath catch in the throat. The kind that came before a kill.

Sakura didn’t look at him right away. She finished adjusting Shizune’s bandaged head and was about to answer when a rustling noise snapped their attention forward.

Then — footsteps. Fast, light, uneven. Erratic.

Sakura and Minato both tensed, instantly shifting into battle stances. She dropped low, palms flat against the ground, sensing for chakra beneath the earth. He straightened, kunai in hand, eyes narrowed. The sound grew louder — closer — and oddly… zigzagged?

Minato’s brows furrowed. Sakura mouthed a silent what the hell?

Then — a sudden, lurching figure popped up over a slab of broken stone like a gopher.

“Tachibana-san?” Sakura blinked.

The jounin scrambled up with all the grace of a drunken beetle, nearly tripping over his own feet as he launched himself into view. His flak vest was crooked, his headband pushed so far back it flopped. He saw them — both standing ready to kill — and let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Shizune! Haruno-san! And the Commander!” he practically wailed. “Oh, thank kami, you’re alive! I thought I was the last one! You have no idea how many times I almost died just trying to find someone with a pulse—wait, what's that on your face?”

Sakura blinked slowly before shaking her head, “It's just a jutsu. Don't mind me.”

As she made that remark, Minato noticed the seal starting to recede, the trail of dark lines withdrawing into the rhombus. He could sense it was still activated though, the chakra pulsing there behind the darkened seal. In any case, Sakura was much more rejuvenated than she was before. Her technique had completely erased the traces of war on her fair skin and supplied her with more than enough chakra.

Tachibana clutched his chest like he was about to cry. 

“I thought you were ghosts,” Tachibana choked out, voice cracking as he stumbled closer. “You look like ghosts! I haven’t seen a single soul in hours—just bodies.”

Minato gave him a once-over, quick and practiced. Scrapes, soot, somebody's blood. Nothing fatal.

“We’re real,” he said curtly. “You’ll be fine. But, please, settle down. We’re still under the enemy's siege.”

Sakura gave Tachibana a soft, steady look as she stepped past him. “How far did you come?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, eyes darting behind him like he expected something to leap from the trees. “I’ve been trying to shake the Iwa off my trail but then, there was this massive earthquake…”

Minato rubbed a hand over his face. “Did you run here in zigzags?”

Tachibana blinked. “Of course! That’s basic evasive maneuvering, sir! We are under attack!”

“It really isn’t,” Sakura muttered quietly under her breath.

The older medic was breathless, clearly shaken, but not critically injured. Even with the slight limp in his step, he was still fast. He swiped his forearm across his face, trying to steady his voice as he launched into the report 

“I’ve been looking for survivors. They’re holed up past the eastern ridge. I’ll be honest, the numbers are not looking good. Half of them can’t even crawl. They’ve dug in near the outcrop, where the rock face splits and the trees towers. The terrain’s shielding them for now and we have two full squads still standing. It's really good cover but with the way Iwa is pushing—”

“They won’t hold,” Minato finished grimly. 

Tachibana nodded, swallowing hard. “I tried looking for more survivors… checking the bodies, but Iwa’s still combing the fields. I nearly got clipped twice just now. If I’d stayed out there any longer…”

Minato’s silence was cold, focused. He turned his gaze eastward, the faint trails of smoke rising just above the broken treeline.

“We can’t run,” he said at last.

Tachibana blinked. “Sir?”

Minato’s voice was steady, but laced with iron. “If we abandon that ridge, Iwa takes the survivors. They’ll cut through the rest of the wounded before they can even scream.”

“But—but we don’t have the numbers—”

“We hold the line,” Minato cut in.

Sakura stepped forward and asked, “How long do we have?”

Minato turned to her. “Three full squads are on the move from the northern front. They’ll be here by dusk tomorrow. We just have to last until then.”

Tachibana’s mouth parted, disbelief giving way to grim hope. “That’s… that’s over a day.”

“But that's the only option we have,” Sakura said quietly.

Minato nodded. “You’ll reinforce the ridge. Set up healing stations between the rocks, set traps in the forest. Use the terrain. Keep them standing if they can fight. If they can’t—keep them breathing.”

“And you?” Sakura asked, though part of her already knew.

Minato turned to her, expression unreadable, and stepped closer. Sakura held her ground. She didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. The air between them stretched tight as a drawn wire. Her breath caught, not in fear—but anticipation.

He leaned in, slow and deliberate, the distance between them shrinking to a breath. She could smell the smoke on his skin, the tang of blood and scorched chakra. His hand brushed against her hip—not carelessly, but with a precision that made her skin prickle. His fingers slipped into her holster without asking and she realized what he was reaching for.

Her eyes flicked up to his, and he was already looking at her—too intently, too quietly. Minato’s gaze didn’t waver as he drew the hiraishin kunai that he had given to her from the pouch. His fingers grazed her thigh, lingering just long enough that she felt the weight of the contact.

Sakura’s jaw tightened slightly, but she didn’t move. 

He straightened slowly, the kunai now balanced in his hand between them.

“I want them watching me,” he said, “not you.”

Then he pressed the blade into her palm.

She curled her fingers around it reflexively, and his hand stayed a second too long.

“They’ll follow me the moment I appear,” he continued, his voice just a touch quieter. “That will leave you free to retreat with Shizune and Tachibana.”

“You’ll go against them alone?” she asked in disbelief.

“If they’re concentrating on me,” he said, voice low and calm, “they’re not looking at you. They won’t even realize you’re reinforcing the ridge until it’s too late.”

Her eyebrows knitted together from his words. A part of her was furious, she wanted to stay and wreck havoc on the enemy, hunt and bury them alive. 

But she was a medic first, and with a commander like Minato on the field, she had a role that she couldn't afford to abandon. Too many lives were counting on her, too many medics had died. Konoha didn’t need another fighter, not when its most elite were already here on the battlefield—it needed someone to keep its wounded breathing. And Sakura vowed to bring her people home, safe and alive.

She bit her lips as she regarded the kunai. Finally, she sighed and accepted it—only to find his grip still firm. Minato didn’t let go until her eyes met his, and he could read with certainty that she was able to take the command. The depth in those green irises, the way they burned with defiance and duty — he took it all in. When her face finally hardened with resolve, he finally released the kunai. He watched in silence as she tucked it into her holster once more, now even more acutely aware of his presence.

Shizune was staring at them, completely dumbfounded and Tachibana looked between them, pale. The tension was holding his ribs apart and he felt very close to breaking down, “But sir, there’s hundreds of — commander, forgive me, what exactly is your plan?”

Minato’s gaze slid back toward the battlefield—the smoke still curling against the sky, the faint echo of detonations rippling through the trees like distant thunder.

He didn’t blink when he said it.

“Annihilation.”

Sakura stared at him, heart kicking once hard in her chest. “Namikaze-taichou —”

“No more dragging this out. No more waiting for them to come to us. Iwa has crossed too many lines today,” he said, voice cold and clipped, “and I plan to rectify that mistake.”

Tachibana paled, the gravity of his words was enough to make him shiver more than the fear he felt against Iwa. The weight of those words settled like ice in his gut, heavier than fear. Minato’s presence shifted subtly, his killer intent bleeding out in slow, deliberate pulses. It seeped through the air, into the ground, into Tachibana’s bones. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a quiet, pitying thought stirred—for the ones who’d be on the receiving end of that intent.

While others might have recoiled from the cold shift in him, Sakura stood firm, eyes locked on his—his features already starting to blur with the faint shimmer of impending movement.

“Then you’ll need a point of return.”

“I already have one,” his eyes flicked to her—sharp, golden, unreadable. 

“Make sure it’s still there when I get back.”

And then he was gone, swallowed by a flash of yellow light.

 

---

 

The battlefield was painted in chaos—charred earth, bodies strewn like discarded puppets, blood spilling faster than the dirt could soak. The screams of the dying mingled with the clang of steel and the thunder of jutsu, all muffled beneath the oppressive weight of smoke and chakra.

Minato Namikaze moved like a phantom.

One second he wasn’t there, the next—death.

A flash of gold. A kunai whistling through the air. The dull thunk of blade meeting flesh. And then silence—brief, terrible silence—before another flash and another scream. Iwa shinobi fell like wheat to the scythe, their attacks collapsing before they even landed. They proved to be hardy, Iwa had sent their best. But Minato was death personified, and he brought only the inevitable.

He did not pause. He did not breathe. His kunai sailed in impossible trajectories, embedding themselves in soil, bark, and bone. He was everywhere and nowhere—an avenging ghost in the yellow flash. 

Farther away near the eastern ridge where the survivors had set up another makeshift emergency camp, Sakura’s hands were drenched in blood that wasn’t her own.

Unfortunately, the enemy had found them, and the handful who could fight was giving their all to keep them from getting closer to the injured. The Iwa was hellbent on killing them but Sakura wasn't going to let that happen. Pushing and redirecting the force as far away as she could from the fallback point, she fought them brutally.

Screaming, she tore a tree from its roots and swung, wiping out multiple Iwa shinobi in a single brutal arc. They didn’t even have time to react. The impact snapped bones and crushed skulls, ending their lives in an instant. Then, she hurled the tree to block the hole they’d crawled from, sealing it shut. The ground shook with the effort.

“Oi, Haruno!” someone called out, breathless.

A group of three bloodied Konoha shinobi and a canine companion rushed toward her from behind a cluster of broken trees, eyes wide, relief etched deep in the lines of their faces. Most were scraped and bruised, one was limping badly and he was bracing against a tree for support. 

“Holy shit, we didn't know you could fight like that!” A kunoichi gasped, pushing wild blood-streaked hair out of her face. 

She grinned at Sakura and exposed the sharp gleam of her canines. “Aren't you a medic?”

“I’m a combat medic, Inuzuka,” she growled and the other kunoichi simply barked out an amused laugh in response.

“You just took out an entire flank,” the injured shinobi choked, glancing back at the carnage she had left in her wake. “I don’t know what the hell that was, but— thank you.”

Few had ever seen the full extent of her strength in combat; she’d been tied to the medical front for most of the war. Even before that, she was hardly ever in the village—always away with her master and Shizune, traveling between outposts, training hospital staff, reporting directly to the Hokage on external affairs.

Sakura didn’t stop moving, already tending to the wounded man and checking for pulse, muscle damage, and chakra circulation. Her hands glowed green as she sealed off a severed artery with a sharp press of chakra. His leg would take no time to heal if she was efficient.

“You can thank me later, we gotta hold the line and make sure they don't get through,” she said, not looking up as her chakra flowed steadily into the torn muscle. 

“How many of you are left? Are there more pinned down?”

The kunoichi nodded grimly. “They're funneling us into a predictable push pattern. We were scattered when the second wave hit. We thought we’d bought enough time—”

She froze.

Everyone did.

A pulse of chakra hit the air — dense and fast-moving. From the west. Then another. And another. Heavy footsteps. Dozens.

The ground trembled again, but this time it wasn’t from Sakura.

“They’re regrouping,” muttered the limping shinobi, voice tight with exhaustion. “Already? That’s the third wave in less than an hour. Just how many of them are there?” 

He turned to his teammate, a jounin wearing dark glasses and high-collared jacket, his arms outstretched to receive the answer to that question. 

“This might as well be a village-level offensive. Iwa’s committed to total engagement,” Shibi Aburame noted, grimacing as his kikaichu buzzed back to him in erratic, agitated patterns. “Tactical encirclement. Their sensory units are spread wide, and they’re masking movement behind high-yield chakra signatures.”

He turned slightly, addressing his team lead. “They’re corralling us.”

Tsume clicked her tongue and cursed, already thinking of strategies, group formations and direction.

“There’s another chakra signature,” Shibi murmured. “Faint. Distant. But it’s not moving like the others.”

“One of ours?” Sakura asked.

“…No,” he said after a pause. “It’s odd. Like a man… and something else with him. Wooden. Jointed.”

Tsume hummed, “Keep an eye on that until we figure it out.”

The wounded shinobi whose leg Sakura was healing took a sharp breath and stood. He flexed his leg — shaky, but functional — and gave her a nod before joining the rest of his squad.

“Wait,” Sakura called out. They looked at her, puzzled, as she reached out and tapped each of them in turn.

They exclaimed in wonder and surprise, eyes wide as the sudden vitality pulsed through their limbs. Even the canine companion howled appreciatively. One by one, they turned to her, breaths catching, silently asking how she had done it.

“My slug summon carries extra chakra. You’ll be carrying some of them with you. Don't bother looking for Katsuyu-sama, she’s very tiny right now to assimilate mobility,” she explained, as the jounin tried pulling his collar to search for the summoning animal.

“Yes, we can sense her,” Shibi noted, as he orders his kikaichu to allow the slug summon to temporarily take point on their nest.

“Tap other shinobi you find as you fight and Katsuyu-sama will relocate to boost their chakra and healing if needed,” she quickly informed them.

“Which one of us carry her?” Asked Inuzuka Tsume, her nose twitching as if trying to sniff out the summon.

“All of you, she can multiply,” Sakura simply replied before gesturing for them to assume position. 

Sakura had tapped as many shinobi as she could, creating a living network of chakra pathways linked by Katsuyu. With her summon dispersed across the field, she could monitor vitals, send bursts of chakra, and keep the wounded alive even from a distance. It was taxing work but with her seal pulsing silently on her forehead, she had enough chakra to go by. 

The group moved automatically, like gears clicking into place. Weapons drawn. Stances lowered. Coordination born from desperation.

Sakura rose with them, chakra coiling in her fists, eyes sharp and voice steady. “Intercept them at the split. Don’t let them flank the fallback camp.”

“And you?” Tsume asked again, amused by the medic taking charge. She let her anyway because the suggestion was sound.

“I’ll provide backup and keep the others alive,” Sakura said, already sprinting toward the wounded screams behind the trees. “Now go!”

And without another word, they scattered to meet the storm. 

She barely had time to breathe between blows, but she made time to scan—always scanning—for fallen allies. One shinobi collapsed from shock and she was already there, transferring chakra and tagging him with Katsuyu before he jumped back into battle with renewed vigor. Another shinobi cried out as his leg snapped underneath him from a brutal attack that splintered bone and tore through flesh. She was quickly there, cauterizing the open wound in one motion before sending him crawling to the rear.

They were outnumbered. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to let them break through.

A gust of wind kicked up dirt and blood around her, blinding her for half a second. Screams rang out again, too close. She whirled around and launched forward, chakra laced in her heels as she sprinted toward the sound.

Someone was groaning in pain, calling out for a medic and she immediately raced to him. She knelt in the cratered mud beside a downed shinobi whose body was littered with stab wounds. Her chakra pulsed through trembling fingers, forcing the wound shut, cell by cell. Every second mattered. She had already lost too many. If she healed him enough, he could stand back up and keep fighting.

Another medic sprinted past, cradling a boy no older than thirteen. Sakura looked up briefly, sweat trailing down her temples.

“Get him to the fallback point! I’ll hold this side!”

A surge of chakra behind her made her pivot, eyes scanning. Her senses were razor sharp now, honed by desperation and battle—she felt the flicker of killing intent, the subtle twist in the air, like the breath before a scream.

An enemy chakra signature flared, almost right on top of her. Too close.

She didn’t have time to move. The shinobi beneath her was still bleeding, helpless. She couldn’t risk abandoning him or shielding herself at the cost of leaving him exposed. She’d have to take the hit—or better yet, let the enemy get close enough. Proximity was her only chance. She needed him within range to strike back without leaving the injured vulnerable.

Her breath hitched. She braced herself, ready for the impact—

But a flash of light tore through the air.

Yellow.

Time fractured.

Minato materialized between her and death, a blur of blond and steel, his kunai slicing through the Iwa shinobi’s throat before the man even registered the change. Blood sprayed across Minato’s flak jacket. He didn’t flinch.

The enemy fell, gurgling, twitching.

For a beat, the world around them slowed. Her hands hovered across her chest for the impact that never landed. He stood just above her, breathing softly, kunai dripping red. The scent of scorched air clung to him like a second skin.

Their eyes met.

Her breath caught in her throat. His were ice blue, sharp and alive with tension. Beneath the controlled rage and cold focus, something else flickered—something she didn’t understand yet, and it made her heart pound in a way no battlefield ever had.

She swallowed hard, chest tight.

“I had it,” she murmured, but her voice was hoarse, uncertain. 

“Of course,” he said quietly. 

It was almost unsettling, 

He just stared at her, the golden light of his chakra pulsing like a heartbeat. 

Then—another flash.

Gone.

She blinked, and he was already across the battlefield again, a streak of yellow fury. Another Iwa shinobi screamed. Another body fell. Her ears rang, and she suddenly remembered the injured man beneath her, wheezing for breath.

Sakura bent over him again, chakra flaring, lips pressed into a grim line.

She had work to do. Lives to save.

But for the first time that night, her hands trembled.

Not from fear. Not from fatigue.

But from something far more dangerous.

Something yellow.

 

Notes:

1. So, the Third Shinobi War in this fic isn’t just the setting—it’s basically a pressure cooker for Minato. Like, we already know the coldest parts of him: the killer, the tactician, the guy who always gets the mission done no matter what. But that part’s always been tucked neatly underneath all that sunshine-and-daisies golden boy charm.

So here's the plan:

Sakura shows up, is unapologetically herself— and suddenly, he starts… unraveling. Not in a soft, romantic way. More like a “why can’t I stop watching her / is this fixation or an early breakdown” kind of way. War messes people up, so yeah—he goes a little unhinged instead of... having a fluffy school boy crush. Besides, the man has literally slaughtered hundreds—thousands if we’re counting. That trauma gotta manifest somehow, right?

Not gonna lie this is new territory for me so here's hoping I can translate that in my writing hahahaha

2. Also, not to be dramatic, but… the war is wrapping up in another chapter. How are we feeling about that? Nervous? Excited? Emotionally damaged? (Because I am.)

3. Thank you for reading and screaming with me in the comments. You all make writing this fic ten times more unhinged and fun.

Chapter 7

The Medic

 

Chapter 7:

The medical camp, once filled with frantic shouting and the sounds of pain and urgency, no longer screamed.

It hummed. 

A quiet symphony of low, grotesque vibration of dying lungs, twitching limbs, and severed nerve endings still spasming against blood-slick dirt. The kind of silence that came after too many ruptured vocal cords, too many exploding windpipes. Konoha’s enemies no longer roared. They whimpered and cried, pleaded and prayed. Until they couldn't.

Where chaos spiraled and the human mind fractured, Minato Namikaze stood—focused, detached, and lethal.

A flash of yellow. A thud. A splatter.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Each movement was precise. Every step, every strike was calculated with the precision of someone who had long since stopped seeing people and had begun seeing threats. His kunai didn’t just cut—they ended. One clean slice opened an artery with surgical efficiency. Another thrust drove up beneath the ribcage and pierced the heart. He didn’t pause as he sank his blade into the soft jelly of an eye socket, nor did he falter as one swing opened two throats at once in a spray of arterial red. A single flick of his wrist embedded steel directly into the spinal cord of an Iwa shinobi who hadn’t even realized he was under attack.

His breathing didn’t change. His heart didn’t race. 

His mind was clear, calm and locked onto the mission.

He was not unaware of the blood on his hands, on his uniform, in his hair. He simply did not feel it. The screams didn’t reach him. The pleading didn’t touch him. Every sound and every sensation was filtered through the narrow scope of the mission, stripped of emotional weight. There was no room for doubt. No space for mercy. No place for anything human.

Not even the ghost of hesitation could break through his mind.

He could almost feel it—those mental compartments clicking shut, like drawers in a filing cabinet. Emotions, locked away. Morality, suppressed. Remorse? Disassembled. All that was left was cold, hard focus. A clarity so sharp it bordered on divine.

He wasn’t just in control.

He was free.

And in that freedom, he slaughters.

The world blurred at the edges as his body flickered between spaces, golden chakra illuminating the blackened battlefield like a cruel parody of sunlight. He was bright, brilliant—even beautiful. But all around him was red. Red in the mud. Red in the smoke. Red on his hands. 

Red raining down in a fine mist.

It soaked into his uniform. It slicked the grip of his kunai. But it never touched his core. That part was sealed behind walls so thick they might as well have been made of stone, reinforced with iron.

He landed in front of a wounded enemy squad. Four Iwa shinobi, cornered into the earthen wall of their own making. One tried to rise but slipped, his shaking legs failing him. Another raised a trembling kunai in a pitiful defense. He saw their faces; wet from tears, blood and mucus. 

The youngest among them—a teen, couldn’t have been more than fifteen—shouted through sobs, “W-we surrender!”

The others echoed him.

One by one, they dropped to their knees. Palms raised. Eyes wide with terror.

Minato didn’t pause.

Because surrender wasn’t safe; not here, not now and certainly not when every Iwa shinobi was trained to weaponize their own death. Chakra triggers. Suicide tags. Earth-release implosions that buried both attacker and victim. He had seen it too many times before—mercy repaid in detonations. The battlefield didn’t forgive hesitation, only punished it. Iwa had made the rules of this war brutal. He was only there to end the game they started.

And in surrender, they had simply saved him time.

The boy died first with a kunai driven deep into his throat. The next two went before they could even scream. The last one tried to scramble away on hands and knees, sobbing something that might have been a prayer but he didn’t get far. 

Minato doesn't allow him to.

He watched the blood bloom across the ground, dark and thick like overripe fruit crushed underfoot. The way it pooled around their corpses made it look like the earth itself was bleeding.

He stepped over it, unfazed.

Their deaths meant he could get to the next target faster.

And that was the objective.

Minato heard the heavy footfalls rushing in and he leapt backwards, missing the punch by an inch. He threw a three-pronged kunai, watching it spin away in a clang as the Iwa nin swiped it away with a rock-reinforced hand. Every subsequent swing was then countered and parried. 

Minato’s eyes narrowed. The fight was taking too long and he'd only need one opening. 

The Iwa nin attacked again, rock slamming into Minato's side only for it to be swept aside. Before he could react, Minato pivoted and tapped his back, leaving behind his seal. Then he blinked out of existence, the soft whoosh of teleportation echoing behind him.

“Rasengan!”

The spinning chakra ball struck with devastating force, grinding into the Iwa nin’s spine and driving him into the earth like a meteor. The ground split beneath the blow, dust erupting in a shockwave. When it cleared, the body lay broken, twisted into silence. No one could match him, only slow him down before meeting their own demise. 

There was a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision.

He turned, instincts bracing for an attack—but it wasn’t an enemy. Pink petals, like blush atop fair skin, drifting downward in a slow, spiraling fall. It settled upon bloodstained mud without sinking, a fragile defiance against the ruin.

Above it, a tree still stood.

Tall and unscorched. Its leaves are dense and vibrant, defiant against the chaos around. It bloomed in full, insulting the ash and blood at its roots.

Something about it caught in his chest—

A note out of place in a song of violence.

Sakura.

Without meaning to, without conscious command, he flashed.

The seals he had placed—dozens of them, scattered across the fallback perimeter like a second skin—tugged at his chakra. One pulled harder than the rest. He let it take him.

He reappeared on the ridge, a shadow above the broken field, his body still blood-wet, kunai loose in his hand.

Below, the fallback point simmered with heat and desperation. Screams tangled with smoke. Steel rang out like distant bells. He scanned instinctively—target, movement, chakra flare—

And then he saw her.

Time starts counting.

She was a vivid shape against the rot. Pink hair and green light. There was a glowing array of seals around her, pulsing with chakra and connecting to everyone she touches. Her medical techniques were astounding and mesmerising. She knelt in the mud below him, surrounded by ruin and smoke, her hands slick with blood that hadn’t come from her own veins. Even here, in the thick of death, there was no hesitation in her movements—only precision, urgency, and a strange kind of grace. 

Twenty.

She moved from one fallen body to another, stabilizing the wounded and keeping them alive. Her mouth moved constantly as she barked orders and reported assessments. His ears were still ringing from a scream, but her lips moved. From the soft pinch of her eyebrows and the gentle expression, he could imagine the quiet encouragement she was giving to the injured shinobi. Chakra radiated from her like the cool suppressing the flame. 

Forty.

Then, she pointed. Shouted. Slid across broken ground to the next shinobi. She yelled again. One of her assistants looked like he’d been sobbing — she grabbed his collar and pulled him back to his feet. 

Minato watched her for sixty seconds.

Exactly sixty.

His blood-soaked fingers twitched.

He didn’t understand how he stayed so long, why his body refused to flash away, why his mind allowed him this reprieve. She had told him before that she didn’t need saving. That she could stand on her own.

Yes, of course. 

But still… he had never seen someone resistant to death like that. Not even himself.

A tightness caught in his throat, but he swallowed it. Closed the drawer again. Sealed the emotion behind the wall.

His objective hadn’t changed.

He flashed away.

And in his wake, another scream was cut short. He tracked chakra and footsteps, hunted breath and movement like a bloodhound let loose on scent. Every shift in the air, every flicker of killing intent drew him in with surgical precision. He did not charge; he appeared. A phantom in human skin. One step ahead, and always one second too fast to counter.

But for the first time since the slaughter began, Minato Namikaze felt something lift from his chest. 

He moved faster. Killed cleaner. Thought sharper.

Like her presence had smoothed over something jagged inside him.

He was still death.

But now… he was smiling.

And after a while, red eventually deepens into crimson.

 

---

 

Iwa’s full-scale offensive had been designed for speed: a quiet launch from the Kannabi Bridge—now rubble—and carve a path beneath the earth. Just before breaching the border, they staged a concentrated surface assault, sending waves of expendable soldiers behind a smokescreen of false intel. The misdirection worked—Konoha’s scouts and forward units focused on the visible threat, never realizing the true army was tunneling beneath them, fast and deep, carving a path of destruction aimed directly at the heart of the Land of Fire. 

But their momentum slammed into an unexpected chokepoint: the medical camp. The blitz became a siege the moment Iwa met resistance. They hadn’t anticipated fighters in white coats—or more specifically, a pink-haired kunoichi who shattered their formation with brute force. 

Iwagakure’s attack wasn’t a whisper campaign or a probing maneuver. It had been a declaration. A full-scale advance, a decisive line of destruction drawn straight toward Konohagakure. The medical camp wasn’t even the true target—it was collateral. A calculated obstruction meant to be crushed swiftly under the heel of war.

But it hadn’t been.

They met resistance where they had expected collapse.

What was meant to be a soft flank of medic tents and wounded shinobi had dug in, held and drawn blood. Surprisingly, they had a hidden weapon between their ranks. She wasn’t in any of Iwa’s reports. Unlisted in the bingo book. No scouts had named her a threat. And yet, there she was—

A young and unassuming anomaly tearing through half their ranks with nothing but chakra-laced fists.

The Pink Earthbreaker.

Their intelligence had failed. Their formation had crumbled. Their plans collapsed. She shattered both bodies and battle plans with her fists alone.

Every punch rewrote the terrain—what should have been their advantage became a graveyard. Hiding beneath the earth meant nothing when the Earthbreaker walked above it. She flushed them out, fought through them and unwittingly buried scores of their shinobi alive.

They threw more at her. Dozens. Then hundreds.

She cut them down just as swiftly.

It was only then, in whispers across the battlefield, that older Iwa shinobi began to make the connection.

She moves like Tsunade. But Tsunade was supposed to be gone, too emotionally unstable and mentally incapacitated. Restricted to the village and out of the war.

And this girl—this pink-haired thing—wasn’t her. She was too young and too unknown. 

And that was what terrified them most.

Their intel had failed. Their ranks had thinned all because of a girl who prior to the war, Iwa had never taken note of her existence. A powerhouse like that needed preparations and long hours of strategy to fight against.

Worse still—every Konoha shinobi they cut down, inches from death, got back up. Then, whispers of a healing network spread.

Iwa field reports noted an unprecedented recovery rate among enemy forces—blunt trauma, deep lacerations, even organ damage reversed within minutes. Those who had been fighting for days were instantly rejuvenated. They began referring to it as a distributed healing array, likely linked to a single high-level medic-nin. The common factor: a pink-haired kunoichi stationed near the center of the formation. Every time she resurfaced, the casualties they inflicted simply… stopped dying. Even with their bigger numbers and better forces, Iwa quickly realized that Konoha’s forces would not stay down. That they were bleeding energy against an enemy that refused to die.

And once Minato Namikaze arrived, their advance ultimately dissolved into corpses and confusion.

The Yellow Flash.

His name spread like wildfire, slipping through smoke and silence, echoing from foxhole to command post. 

Minato Namikaze had descended on Iwa’s ranks.

Alone, he carved a scar into their forces so deep that no reinforcement battalion made it to the next point. He chased down every single shinobi and though they tried to run, he was much faster. He didn’t just attack—he annihilated. Men disappeared in flashes of yellow. Units vanished in minutes. Blood dyed the ravines and soaked through the roots of trees older than nations.

Some said he killed a hundred men in an hour.

Others said he butchered a thousand in one night.

But numbers no longer mattered. Because for the first time in the war, Iwa pulled back.

News of Iwagakure’s sudden withdrawal came not through celebration but through absence—no new battalions, no fresh reinforcements. They stood on still earth, processing the change.

At first, no one believed it.

For weeks, Konoha’s shinobi had fought like their lives depended on it—because they did. Iwa’s offensive had come like a flood: relentless, calculated, unyielding. Each wave had bled Konoha forces thinner, each new regiment sharper, more desperate, more brutal than the last. The very earth seemed to quake beneath the weight of Iwa’s war machines and marching lines. Even when they broke through one wave, another would follow. The enemy didn’t retreat. They regrouped. And then they came again.

But then—

They didn’t.

One week passed. Then two.

The ground that had once trembled with the stampede of enemy forces was now still. The sky, once thick with soot and paper bombs, cleared in fractured streaks of colorless light. It wasn't a victory. Not really. It was total abandonment—there was no more army to deploy, no more army to save anymore. 

Iwagakure left behind their dead. They no longer sent scouts, no longer launched attacks into the forest. No more messages reached their forward camps—not because the lines were disrupted, but because the men meant to carry them were gone. Slaughtered. Silenced. What remained of their advance squads had either been buried in blood-soaked soil or fled into the dense mountain passes, only to be hunted down like animals.

By the time the Yellow Flash had traced their mobilization routes, he found entire Iwa camps charred to the bone—tents scorched, food stores incinerated, scrolls and coded logs turned to ash. It wasn’t sabotage from Konoha. It was Iwa’s own retreat—desperate, fast, and without dignity. They had torched their own supply lines to prevent information from falling into enemy hands. But it didn’t matter. The damage was already done.

They feared him.

They feared what followed him.

When Konoha’s backup squads arrived—a day too late and breathless from their own battles—they didn’t find a warfront. They found a graveyard. Scattered remnants of an army that had once been a beast, now fallen in a land foreign to them.

Under Minato’s command, they were not spared.

Stragglers were hunted. Interceptors were dispatched in waves. They ran through the woods like wolves—precision-tight, fangs bared, kunai slick. No quarter was given. Orders were simple: take no prisoners, scavenge for bloodlines and Earth Clan secrets, eradicate all survivors. There would be no regrouping. No counterattack. No reprieve.

But whatever valuable bodies were recovered often crumbled to ash before intel could be extracted. Some latent jutsu—still unclassified by Intelligence—had been embedded in key Iwa shinobi. It activated at the moment of death, erasing all traces of kekkei genkai or forbidden techniques. A ruthless but effective failsafe. 

The death toll was staggering.

And somewhere amid the shattered hills, the bones of Iwa’s grand campaign lay buried—along with their pride.

Their siege had become a massacre.

Their thunderous march toward Konoha had withered into silence.

They had gambled everything on a fast kill.

And Konoha, by tooth and fire, by blood and the medic’s hands, had outlasted them.

The war wasn’t over yet. But Iwagakure’s ambition was.

And in its place, silence.

The kind only medics knew.

Because when the killing stopped, the dying didn’t.

The situation for Konoha — especially from the medic corps’ perspective — was far from celebratory. Victory had come, yes, but it was carved out of exhaustion, trauma, and staggering loss. The medics were among the few who didn’t have the luxury of resting. 

For the medics, the end of active combat simply meant a transition into triage on a scale they’d never seen before. They moved from dodging jutsu and defending their camps to dragging broken bodies out of craters, clearing smoldering rubble, and setting up emergency posts wherever there was still breathable air and space.

The air was saturated with blood, ash, and death. Flies swarmed too quickly, rot settled in and diseases spread. The earth had been scorched, soaked, and pounded beyond recognition — and underneath it all were bodies. 

The remaining medics, most of them genin or chuunin-level with limited training, followed orders from Sakura, who had become the de facto lead despite not holding formal authority. Most of the senior medic lead or jounin were either dead, incapacitated, or missing. Even Tomo Tachibana, a tokubetsu jounin medic with a habit of reappearing against the odds, was still unaccounted for. He was last spotted dragging a gutted chunin behind a tree line before being chased by Iwa.

No one had seen him since. He was untagged by Katsuyu, so Sakura had no choice but to wait until he reappeared; dead or alive.

And yet, when the chaos stabilized just enough for the chain of command to reassert itself, it wasn’t protocol they responded to. It was her.

Sakura Haruno remained operational, Katsuyu anchored to her shoulder, even when the others had long since collapsed from injury, fear, or sheer depletion. So when she issued directives, compliance followed. When she returned to the center of the fallback zone—strong, steady, Katsuyu still deployed and her healing network stretching across the ravaged terrain—they fell in behind her without hesitation.

By unspoken consensus, she had assumed control. Not by hierarchy, but by function.

Because whatever she was, she was no longer just a medic. She was the stabilizing constant in a collapsing system. And for many, the only reason they were still alive.

With so many corpses and not enough time for traditional rites, the medics had to adapt. Bodies were sorted and tagged. Messages, scrolls, jutsu lists, sealing scripts — anything that must not fall into enemy hands is removed and secured.

Any shinobi bearing a dōjutsu, kekkei genkai, or clan abilities that manifests physically — usually marked by distinct ocular traits or identified through their identification number embedded in their hitai-ate — were prioritized for sealing. They were to be returned back, as they were found, sealed in reinforced scrolls and set aside for their respective clan retrieval squads to recover the genetic material safely.

An Uchiha genin with a slashed throat. A Hyūga kunoichi whose Byakugan was still faintly visible under her half-lidded eyes. An Aburame, his kikaichu buzzing erratically and trying to survive with the few remnants of chakra in the dead body. 

They were all sealed. Bodies with missing dojutsu were reported; whether it was Iwa scavengers or Konoha deserters, no one could say for certain. The medics did what they could. Every sealed body was tagged and categorized, cross-referenced with pre-war clan registries.

The cremation detail had no rest. A division born from necessity—hidden in the structure of the medical corps, but trained to handle the unthinkable. Silent and efficient, they moved with dignity as they gathered the fallen and prepared them for release.

By dawn, smoke curled gently into the sky, dark against the pale morning light.

 

---

 

“Sakura-sensei,” Rin called, stepping closer to the pink haired medic currently writing a report to be sent to the command centre. Her voice was low but urgent, respectful despite the exhaustion etched into every line of her face.

Without a proper medical commander, and the lack of medic rushing to take leadership, Sakura had been forced to take over. Not just treatment rotations or triage priority — but everything. Supply counts. Death tallies. Field decisions. Reports. Command centre had yet to respond to their request for the appointment of the next medical commander and Sakura was waiting to be relieved from the de facto leadership position she was forced to hold on to. 

She didn’t look up.

“In a moment,” Sakura murmured, her brush not pausing. Her handwriting was still crisp despite the tremble in her fingers. Exhaustion was creeping in again and Sakura only had exactly two enhanced soldier pills left. 

The report was finished, addressed directly to the Hokage’s desk. She blew gently on the ink to dry it, then finally looked up.

“What is it, Rin-san?”

“Minato-sensei is here,” Rin announced, not noticing the twitch on the medic’s forehead at the mention of his name. “He requested for you.”

“Is there anything that he needed in particular?”

“Well, it’s the lingering toxins in Sensei’s lungs,” Rin said quietly. 

“Most of it has already been cleared, but he’s still dealing with some residual effects—shortness of breath, coughing, pain... I did what I could to ease the symptoms, but I’m not trained in advanced poison treatment. He asked for you specifically.”

She hesitated, then added with a note of guilt, “I know you’ve been stretched thin… but with Shizune-san still recovering, there aren’t many of us left who can handle this.”

“No, that’s fine,” Sakura said, exhaling softly as she brushed aside Rin’s concern with a tired but reassuring nod. “You did the right thing by coming to me.”

“I’m requesting backup medics to be deployed, along with a fresh rotation team,” Sakura said, gesturing to the report she had written. “We’ve lost too many, and the ones still standing are exhausted. We need a new medical commander as well.”

“I think you should be our medic lead,” Rin said suddenly, her voice firmer than she probably intended, though her cheeks flushed red right after.

Sakura let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh. 

“That’s generous of you,” she said, not unkindly. “But I’m a combat medic, Rin. I punch enemies and patch people up. I don’t… lead.” 

It was a weak deflection, and they both knew it. Rin gave her a look—half incredulous, half expectant—and said nothing. Because the truth was plain: there had been no one else. Not since the command structure collapsed. Not since the war hollowed out the ranks. Just Sakura. And they all kept turning to her anyway.

But the elders hated Tsunade. And by extension, they hated her too. If talent alone had meant anything, she would’ve made jounin years ago. Instead, she remained a genin with battlefield command and a new target on her back.

Pressing two fingers to the seal, she summoned a small segment of Katsuyu onto her palm. With a flicker of chakra, the scroll vanished into the summon’s body, absorbed seamlessly.

“Please take this to the Hokage, Katsuyu-sama,” she murmured.

The slug dipped its head, then disappeared into a poof.

She turned in her seat and glanced up. “How’s your teammate?”

“He’s still unconscious,” Rin replied quietly. “Kakashi’s with him now. He hasn’t left since he got here.”

Sakura blinked. “Hatake? He’s in the camp?”

Rin nodded.

“That’s… unexpected,” Sakura murmured, brows drawing together slightly. “With the implant so recent, I assumed he’d be sent straight to the command centre for evaluation. Not here.”

There was no judgment in her tone — just a medic’s instinct calculating recovery timelines, risk assessments, and command protocol. “Well, I suppose even he needs a place to breathe.”

“He just completed debriefing with Minato-sensei,” Rin reported, posture straightening slightly before she faltered. “Ah—well, I may have… suggested he report to you as well, sensei. But only if you’re available, of course.”

She glanced away, clearly flustered. “He came to me for post-mission treatment but… well, Kakashi mentioned he activated the Sharingan during the mission. Just briefly, but enough to strain the graft site.”

Rin shifted, visibly uneasy. “I administered a mild anti-inflammatory, and the swelling’s gone down, but he’s still reporting a persistent low-grade burning sensation behind the eye. I thought it best you have a look at it, sensei.”

Sakura raised an eyebrow but said nothing at first. The title still threw her.

Technically, Rin outranked her—one of the many quirks of wartime promotions. Her advancement had been driven by necessity, not merit. But everyone in the corps knew Sakura’s medical expertise had long since exceeded protocol and expectation. Even Rin knew it.

Sakura never challenged the hierarchy. She had enough battles to fight without adding pride to the list. Yet, it was the younger girl who refused to drop the title “sensei”. Just because Sakura had tutored her briefly back in the hospital during those long nights.

She never corrected her. It wasn’t worth the fuss. If anything it shows Sakura that the younger girl respected and held her in high esteem.

But that didn’t stop the awkward pinch at the back of her throat every time it came up.

Sakura exhaled softly and nodded. “Understood. We're supposed to redirect any Sharingan related issues to the clan’s healers but since we don't have anyone on site currently… and considering his circumstances… ah…”

Rin looks a lot more nervous as she follows her train of thought, anxiety flickering in her eyes.  A non-Uchiha receiving the Sharingan without formal clan sanction wasn’t just irregular—it was a breach of protocol with political ramifications they weren’t equipped to navigate. The moment they returned to Konoha, this would no longer be just a medical matter.

Sakura noticed the tension creeping into Rin’s shoulders and spoke gently, deliberately steering them back to the task. “We’ll document everything thoroughly and focus on stabilizing the graft. The clan can raise their concerns once we’re back, but right now, I’ll take a look at him once I’m done here.”

Rin nodded hesitantly, “And Minato-sensei?”

“Him first and then your teammates,” she reaffirmed.

Before the younger medic left, Rin mentioned which tent Minato was waiting in. Sakura frowned. 

The supply tent?

Like every tent in the camp, it was a shadow of what it had been before the attack—walls patched with simple tapes, crates spilling open, equipment shoved wherever there was space. It wasn’t meant for anything but storage, and with the camp in ruins, every standing structure had been scavenged and repurposed here in their new makeshift site. A few cots were wedged between cluttered shelves and bundled linens, offering exhausted medics a place to sleep in, usually collapsing from chakra fatigue. 

Minato had probably chosen it because it was still intact—and easy to access.

She stood slowly, feeling the ache settle deep in her bones—the kind of weariness that soldier pills couldn’t fix. She circulated her chakra and instantly felt the suction on her forehead. She had used a significant portion of the seal and there was now a large amount of space to be replenished. The stored chakra was used to maintain the Katsuyu: Immense Network Healing technique during the siege. It has been incredibly helpful. They had lost only a few men after the technique was activated and had lessened the strain for the remaining medics. For now, she closed that path and would look to store it later when she could rest and will make do with her current supply. 

Outside, the wind carried the scent of damp soil and burnt linen. The camp was quieter now, not out of peace, but because there were fewer voices left to speak. Most tents had been patched haphazardly after the last assault, their seams frayed and walls stained with ash and blood. The soft thump of boots on packed earth followed her as she moved between rows of improvised medical shelters, ducking past a runner hauling water and another folding bloodied linens into a waste pile.

She found the supply tent tucked near the edge of the collapsed triage sector—its canvas lopsided, one corner pinned down with a salvaged crate. It looked like an afterthought, forgotten but still standing. Most wouldn’t bother going in unless they needed gauze or somewhere to collapse.

Sakura paused just outside, brushing her hand against the flap.

Minato could’ve chosen anywhere. What remained of the command tent, the medic quarters, even a quiet spot beneath the trees. But he’d chosen this—close, dim, overlooked.

Private, she thought. Or calculated.

She pushed the flap aside and stepped in.

Minato was already seated when she stepped into the tent, his posture straight, one arm resting lightly across his thigh, shirt open just enough to hint at old bruising and fresh skin beneath. His flak jacket was folded neatly beside him. A clipboard—untouched—sat on the edge of a nearby crate.

“Sakura,” he greeted, voice low but even. “Thanks for coming. I know you’re busy.”

She didn’t respond at first, trying to ignore the way he said her name; like he was rolling it across his tongue, savoring the sound like something rich and stolen.

Her gaze flicked briefly over the setup—the stretcher placed oddly far back in the narrow tent, hemmed in by sealed crates and trays of antiseptic jars on either side. Not enough room to maneuver around. Barely enough to stand in front of him.

She noticed, tucked the detail away, and moved on without a word.

“You should’ve gone to the village’s hospital.”

Sakura knew he could’ve made the trip in seconds with his Hiraishin, blinking between coordinates faster than anyone could track. Minato was too important to the command structure to be left vulnerable at the front for long; he was constantly moving, relaying information, executing high-value strikes, coordinating entire offensives from the shadows of battlefields. And yet—he was here.

“They’re overwhelmed,” Minato replied simply. “They also said you would know best how to deal with the remaining traces of the toxins since it was your poison, after all.”

She gave him a look that wasn’t quite suspicious—but wasn’t trusting, either. 

“Of course they did.”

She stepped forward.

And that was when the space closed in.

No room to kneel. No bench to set tools on. The stretcher was fixed too far back to allow distance. The crates flanking it were stacked chest-high, immovable without making a scene. The tent itself, narrowed with careful clutter, left her exactly one option.

Direct, forward and between his knees.

She said nothing as she stepped in. Didn’t ask him to shift. Didn’t complain. 

But Minato noticed the tension in her shoulders.

He kept his own movements relaxed, even unbothered—hands resting palm-down on the stretcher, chin tilted slightly as if trying to offer easier access to his chest. Sakura's eyes quickly dropped to his left shoulder, but not before catching the line of his jaw, set firm with something that wasn’t quite tension. His posture looked calm, but there was a quiet precision in the way his body held itself. Even the stillness felt intentional, like he was waiting for something.

“Residual effects are mostly in the lungs,” he said, voice mild. “Burns a little when I breathe too deep.”

“That mask you wore wouldn’t hold up to prolonged exposure, even one second is too much.”

“I’m aware,” he said, not unkindly — but it was the ease in his tone that grated.

“And yet, you dove in. Recklessly.”

“Yes, you told me,” he replied, calm as ever.

Sakura paused, the corner of her mouth tightening.

She drew a slow breath, kept her hands steady, her voice even. But something in her chest had gone tight.

He’d saved her. She knew that. But he hadn’t needed to.

And now he's here, looking at her like the risk he took was irrelevant — like she was overreacting for caring at all.

She fumbled. No, she did not care. As a matter of fact, she felt downright irritated. Irritated that he’d made the decision for her. Irritated that he’d stepped in like she wasn’t capable of handling it herself.

Konoha’s favorite. Untouchable, unshakable, just enough charm to be palatable, just enough brilliance to excuse the rest. He made war look easy. Like it never stuck to him. Like he could wade through blood and still come out shining. He'd even made the time to clean himself, he was pristine from top to bottom while she was still stuck with yesterday's grime. 

And maybe that’s why it bothered her—that he had stepped into her fight, her storm, with clean hands and a calm voice, like he already knew how it would end.

But what could she say to someone like him? What could she say that wouldn’t sound emotional, or worse — insubordinate?

They didn’t know each other. Not really. Not enough for him to gauge what she could endure, what she could survive. And she didn’t know him well enough to tell whether this was habit or arrogance — or simply strategy.

How do you explain that being saved can feel like being undermined?

Then, slowly, the pieces clicked into place.

Maybe that was the difference between them.

Perhaps his deflection wasn’t indifference — it was calculation. A cold, clear judgment made in the chaos of war. He thought he was saving a subordinate. She thought he was dismissing her strength.

And maybe, in both their minds, they were right.

Taking a calming breath, she focused on the task instead. The faster he was out of her hair, the better.

Sakura’s hands hovered over his sternum, and chakra flickered to life in her palms—cool, precise, thorough. She avoided his gaze, focusing on the bloom of energy as it seeped into his chest. He inhaled reflexively, slow and steady, as the healing began to work through him.

She kept her eyes shut. She had to. Every time she looked at him, it was like he was already waiting for it—watching her. Trapping her in that gaze of his. So instead, she focused inward, on the cadence of her chakra and the threads of damage still hiding deep within his system. The poison was not metal based, so extraction was unnecessary. 

No iron filings, no corrosive grit laced into the bloodstream.

But that didn’t make it any kinder.

This strain was cellular — complex, chemical — engineered to bypass filtration and anchor itself in the tissue. The body could break it down on its own, in theory, but only by pushing the burden onto the organs. The liver, the kidneys, the lungs — all would suffer for it. 

So she repeated the steps. The same method she’d used before.

A dual process: one thread of chakra to dissolve the toxin molecule by molecule, and another to knit together what the toxin had already begun to fray. It required precision — a delicate balance of force and restraint. Push too hard, and she’d overload the organs. Heal too fast, and she’d trap the poison inside.

Her hands stayed steady. Her face didn’t flicker. But beneath the surface, her pulse ticked faster than she liked.

There was too much of him in the space between them — too much warmth, too much waiting silence. She could even pick up a subtle scent from him, like clean laundry, crushed leaves and cold wind. 

She could feel his eyes on her even now.

She inhaled quietly through her nose and forced herself to focus.

Minato said nothing.

He didn’t have to.

With her eyes closed, she couldn’t see how he studied her. How still he became. Not stiff, not uncomfortable—just alert in a way that felt deeply personal. Like she had become the center of his world for these few minutes. And maybe she had.

And she was close now.

Close enough that the edge of her hip brushed his inner thigh when she adjusted her footing. Close enough that he could see the way the light caught in her hairline, where strands clung to the sweat along her temple. Her hair was tied in a low ponytail—it had grown a few inches longer, definitely from the regenerative technique she used during the last battle. He noticed that.

He was still not used to that shade of pink though. It caught the eye in a way no regulation should allow—too soft for the battlefield, too vivid to forget. Even now, dusted with ash and blood, it shimmered like it didn’t belong here. It wasn’t jarring like red—didn’t scream or burn itself into vision like blood or flame—but it lingered. A hue too gentle to alarm, yet distinct enough that his mind returned to it without permission.

Again and again.

Like it was meant to be remembered.

Like she was.

His eyes shifted to her face, how the color flushed faintly in her cheeks from exertion. Her pink lips were glossy from where she kept unconsciously licking them—dry, maybe, from working nonstop.

His gaze lingered, but not obviously. Not hungrily. He observed.

He took in the slope of her brows first—fine, slightly arched, not too groomed, not too wild. Like her hair, they were pink but a touch darker. Her skin was sallow from exhaustion but still flushed faintly across her cheeks and nose from the chakra strain. There was a sheen of sweat glistening along her forehead, on the high points of her cheeks and above her lips, catching the lantern-light in a way that made her look… he let his thought drift before it could take shape.

Her lashes were thick. Her nose was small, faintly upturned, and she had a tiny scar just below the left eye—faint and faded, like a healed nick from a broken bottle or flying shrapnel.

Barely noticeable unless someone looked too long.

And he had been looking too long.

He filed away each detail like a jounin memorizing a battlefield. And through it all, he said nothing.

No interruptions. No unnecessary movement.

Just subtle stillness.

Deliberate silence.

And Sakura, to her credit, never called him out. Never questioned why he hadn’t moved to give her more space. Never asked if he realized just how close she had to be to reach his lungs properly.

And Minato, for his part, had cleaned up.

Maybe it mattered—showing her this version of himself. Clean, quiet, whole. Not the one who stepped through blood and didn’t stop running. Not the version that made even seasoned jounin hesitate. If he had scrubbed the war from his skin before sitting down, it was because he wanted her to see something else.

She smelled like the field—earth, blood, and overwhelming antiseptic. The faint sting of chakra burn still clung to her skin. If there was a softer scent beneath it, something distinct and hers, he couldn’t find it.

Maybe later.

His fingers itched. Not for a weapon, not for defense—but for contact. To reach up, maybe. To brush her damp pink bangs away. To feel if her skin was as warm as it looked under the field tent’s glow. But he didn’t move. Not yet. That would come later. He was certain of it.

A flicker of pain tugged across his diaphragm—chakra reacting to hers, flushing toxins.

She opened her eyes.

Just for a second.

And Minato knew he’d been caught.

But instead of scolding or stepping away, she just exhaled and said tightly, “Almost done.”

Her voice was low, clipped. She was trying to stay clinical, even as her fingers shook ever so slightly. She pushed more chakra in, cleansing the last stubborn residue out of his lungs, then retracted her hands and took two swift steps back.

Too swift.

As if space was the only thing that could reset the atmosphere.

“I’ll check your vitals again in an hour,” she said, already turning away.

He smiled.

Not the polite smile he wore for his superiors. Not the distant one he gave to subordinates. This one was softer, almost teasing.

“Thank you, Sakura,” he said, voice quieter than necessary.

She scoffed, not turning around. Then she ducked out of the tent, the flap swaying behind her like a door left ajar.

Minato stayed seated, hands folding across his chest once more.

He never looked like he’d done anything wrong. Never smiled too wide. Never let the tension show.

But the crates would stay where they were.

For when she next comes back. 

In an hour.

 

---

 

The medical camp was silent now.

Not just with the hush of aftermath, but the finality of abandonment. Where once there were tents, triage lines, the steady churn of chakra and shouted orders—now there was only ruin. The healing ward was gone, its canvas shredded and blackened. Crates lay splintered, scrolls burned or taken. Konoha had salvaged what they could, stripped the site bare of anything usable, and relocated to the fallback point, setting up a new temporary base elsewhere due to the unsafe and unstable the area has become due to extensive ground damage.

The ground, once a place for mending, was no longer safe. No longer protected. Even the dead had been taken away—at least, the ones still whole enough to carry.

Too much of the terrain had been carved open by Doton, scorched by jutsu, cracked from within. The earth here was unstable now, crumbling in places, poisoned in others. It was no longer a place to heal.

A quiet crunch sounded as a boot stepped over the twisted remains of a burned stretcher.

The red-haired shinobi moved like a ghost. No one stopped him. No one saw him.

Not truly.

And then… a hum. Barely audible but unmistakable.

The faint buzz had been following him for hours. Subtle at first, like static in the air. But now it grew—an irritating, persistent whine just at the edge of his hearing. He didn’t glance upward, didn’t swat the air.

He knew what it was.

The Aburame.

He had felt the tracking bug brush against him back in the tree line, and had allowed it to cling—briefly—long enough to decide whether the inconvenience was worth indulging. It no longer was.

Two fingers found the insect where it nestled beneath the folds of his cloak. He didn’t swat or crush it. He pinched. Slowly.

There was a twitch. A crunch. A whine.

“You should’ve chosen a quieter insect,” he murmured, brushing the fragments from his glove.

With a slow exhale, he let a fine pulse of chakra thread outward; thin, invisible to all but the most acute sensors. It snagged on debris, slid across cooling skin.

In the underbrush, a corpse shifted—just barely. Another was pulled deeper into a crater, its limbs folding unnaturally as if moved by gravity, not intention. One by one, the broken bodies were rearranged—stacked in unnatural repose, as though they had died shielding each other, or crawling for safety, effectively hiding his footprints. The decaying scent alone would overpower and mask his scent. A medic might hesitate, seeing them like that. Might turn back, thinking someone had already come.

It was the art of suggestion. Misdirection.

His fingers moved only slightly, but the earth answered—slow and silent, covering prints with dragged canvas, overturned crates, and the trailing sweep of a stretcher’s torn leg. He wasn’t erasing evidence, merely rewriting it as he saw fit.

He stepped around a broken tent post, his gaze dropping to a shallow depression in the mud — where violet shimmered faintly against the black earth. There he found a small, viscous puddle. It hadn’t dried, not yet. The puddle sat there—unnatural in its color, undisturbed despite the chaos that had razed the camp, its surface still and oily. At its center, the faint shimmer of purple bloomed like a bruise. It was the poison in its most concentrated form, the first spill from its shattered ampoule. 

His stolen cloak whispered as he knelt beside it, gloved fingers uncorking a hidden vial from his sleeve. With surgical precision, he dipped a thin instrument into the liquid, letting a few drops fall into the container.

He studied the color shift — the iridescent sheen, the slow ripple as it reacted to the air. The poison was no longer active, but it wasn't without value. With time, he could study it. Maybe even reverse-engineer the compound.

“…Interesting,” he murmured, almost to himself. 

A click of glass. He sealed the vial and slipped it back into the folds of his cloak.

Then he rose, eyes scanning the remnants of the medical camp.

“All this,” he said softly, “from a kunoichi who still bleeds.”

The wind stirred the ruined canvas, snapping faintly in the distance.

“A medic, no less.”

There was no malice in his voice. Just calculation and intrigue. As if every scrap of wreckage and ash had offered him a clue. He looked down once more at the stained earth, the craters and the broken trees.

A slow curl of a smile ghosted his lips—small, unsettling, fascinated.

“Every flesh is different by design… but yours is unusually refined.”

He’d seen her in motion—chakra-laced fists, precise enough to shatter his finest craftsmanship. Her flesh was warm and alive, her chakra was contained and full. She was exponentially stronger than any materials he had worked with before, and it would be a shame if she was to waste. 

Ever since then, he’d watched. From the edges of smoke and ruin, from shadows behind the broken, he tracked her—flitting between battlefields not for the sake of war, but to measure her. Study her.

He walked without hurry, like a shadow slipping back into the dark. His steps are silent and measured, the vial in his sleeve was still warm.

And in the back of his mind, her face—the girl with chakra-laced fists and the nerve to stand in his way. She had shattered his creations, shown him that there were stronger prey out there—rarer and more exquisite.

The kind worth chasing.

The kind worth claiming.

“Haruno Sakura…”

The name hovered in the air, fragile as a thread of silk.

Then, a smile touched his lips—quiet, anticipating, like a craftsman awaiting his next masterpiece.

He turned, disappearing into the treeline without a sound, rotting bodies and shifting earth covering his tracks.

Behind him, the puddle began to hiss—just faintly—before dissolving into nothing.

 

Notes:

1. Hey.

2. You guys want unhinged Minato? I will give you unhinged, the one I drew up in my mind. That man is one chakra surge away from unhinged and honestly, I love that for us.

3. Yes — power dynamics are alive and tense in this one. She’s a Genin in name, but everyone listens to her. He’s her superior. Everyone’s her superior. But she gives the orders — and they follow. AND HOW ARE WE FEELING ABOUT HER NEW MONIKER? THE PINK EARTHBREAKER WOOOOOOOO!!!

4. Oh, rating has been changed to "E" because I think it's suitable for the level of violence I have in here. Right?

5. Also, I’ve seen a few of you hoping (or very passionately campaigning 😆) for Sakura’s promotion — and trust me, I hear you. I love that you’re rooting for her rise, and I promise… it’s not being ignored. I’m dropping lore, unraveling plots, and building toward something. So hang tight — it’s coming. I love slow burns. I live for cliffhangers. Your reactions keep me going.

6. Let me cook 🫡💖

7. Anyone guessed who the redhaired was?

Notes:

Hi. I finally recovered my account!

This also means a new story that's been in my head for a while and I finally get to put it out here.

Hope you enjoyed my story!

And as usual, any facts/medical facts and procedures in my stories are treated with a generous dose of Naruto magic (it is most likely and largely inaccurate).

See you soon :)