Chapter 10: A Blade Yet to Bloom
Kakashi stood before Iruka's modest home as the breeze gently tousled the silver strands of his hair. The setting sun spilled golden light across the rooftops of Konoha, warming the air with a glow that made everything seem just a bit softer, even if only for a moment.
It wasn't often Kakashi paid visits—not like this. The man preferred rooftops to front doors, solitude to company. But today, he had something heavier than guilt weighing down his shoulders.
He knocked once. It was a firm knock, the kind that meant, This is serious.
Iruka opened the door still wearing his teaching robes, a faint ink smudge on his cheek and a gentle smile that faltered ever so slightly upon seeing the expression on Kakashi's face.
"Kakashi-sensei," Iruka said, a bit surprised. "Is something wrong?"
"Everything," Kakashi replied with a dry chuckle. "Do you have a moment?"
Iruka stepped aside. "Come in."
The small home was cozy in a way that reminded Kakashi of the days before his own walls had grown cold. A pot of tea sat on the stove. A few papers were scattered on the low table—grading, no doubt—and a framed photograph of a younger Naruto, beaming, sat proudly beside Iruka's armchair.
"I'll make tea," Iruka offered, already turning toward the kettle.
"No," Kakashi said, his voice quieter than usual. "This won't take long. Or maybe it will. I don't know."
Iruka sat, gesturing for Kakashi to do the same. The jōnin didn't remove his mask—he never did—but his one visible eye carried enough weight for a dozen confessions.
"He needs you," Kakashi said plainly.
Iruka blinked. "Who?"
"Who do you think?" Kakashi exhaled and leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Naruto."
A beat of silence passed, broken only by the soft whistle of the kettle.
"He's lost so much," Kakashi continued. "Jiraiya… the Third… and now Sasuke." His voice cracked just slightly on that last name, but he pushed through. "He hides it well, but I can see it. That boy's heart is starting to crack under the weight. And I can't be the one to stop it."
Iruka frowned. "You're being too hard on yourself."
"Am I?" Kakashi chuckled bitterly. "I've been his sensei, yes. But I've never truly been there. Not like you have. Not when it counted. You, Iruka, were the first to believe in him. Before anyone else did. You fed him when others turned him away. You cheered for him when everyone expected him to fail. I saw how he looked at you when he graduated. That wasn't admiration. That was—"
"Love," Iruka finished, quietly. "Like a son."
Kakashi nodded. "Exactly. You're his anchor. He may not say it outright, but it's written all over him. With Jiraiya and the Third gone, and with Sasuke…" He trailed off, unable to say the word dead.
"I think—no, I know—he sees you as the last of the people who truly raised him. And he needs you now more than ever. You can help him deal with the pain I can't reach."
Iruka looked away, guilt flickering across his face. "I… I didn't think I could do much anymore. He's grown so powerful. So revered."
"He's still a boy," Kakashi said firmly. "One who's lost far too many people. Don't let his strength fool you. Naruto's grief runs deeper than even he realizes. Sasuke wasn't just a teammate to him. I think... I think they were brothers. Not by blood—but something stronger. Spiritual, maybe. Like two halves of the same storm."
Iruka folded his hands in his lap. "You sound like you cared for Sasuke a great deal too."
"I did," Kakashi admitted, voice hoarse. "I failed him. I failed them both. That's why I'm here. I don't want Naruto to become what I am."
Iruka raised an eyebrow. "And what's that?"
"A man made of regrets and graveyards. One who pretends silence is strength." He looked up, eye sharp. "There are already too many men like me in the world. I don't want him to be another. Let us carry the darkness. Let him keep the light."
For a moment, the room was silent except for the soft bubbling of the kettle.
Then Iruka stood.
"I'll help him," he said, firmly. "I was going to already. But I won't let you dump it all on me, Kakashi. I know what you're doing."
Kakashi blinked. "What?"
"You think you're a lost cause. You think Naruto doesn't need you. But you're wrong. He looks up to you. Maybe he doesn't say it aloud, but the way he talks about you—"
"He doesn't need a ghost."
"No," Iruka interrupted sharply. "He needs both of us. You were his father's student. That makes you family, too. You've run from that truth for too long. It's time you stopped."
Kakashi looked away, clearly stung.
"If you keep distancing yourself from him out of guilt, Naruto will notice," Iruka warned. "And one day, he'll stop reaching out. That's how it starts. That's how the shadows creep in. And we're not going to let that happen."
The kettle gave a small hiss.
"I'll make tea now," Iruka said briskly, moving toward the stove. "You're not leaving until we figure out how to fix this."
Outside, the breeze whispered through the leaves.
Inside, two men made a quiet promise.
They would not let Naruto walk the path of grief alone. Not again.
Not ever.
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Tenten:
The clang of steel against steel echoed through the Higarashi Weapon Shop like a heartbeat. Tenten stood at the forge, hammer in hand, sweat on her brow, her knuckles white from gripping the handle. Sparks danced in the air with every strike, each one flaring and vanishing like the thoughts that flitted through her mind—too quick to catch, too painful to linger on.
Her father had left her alone in the shop for the day. He hadn't said much—he never did in moments like these—but he had handed her the key, placed a firm hand on her shoulder, and simply nodded. That was all she needed. Space. Time. Silence, broken only by the sound of grief made tangible in the forging of cold steel.
She had already remade three kunai and was now reshaping a chain-bladed fan. She didn't need more weapons—Konoha had enough of them. But she needed to do this. Her fingers trembled each time she stopped, so she simply didn't stop.
Because stopping meant thinking about him.
Neji.
The name was like a blade in her chest.
She never told him. Not once. Never confessed that she had loved him—not just admired him or respected his strength, but loved him. He had always looked ahead, eyes filled with the future he wanted so desperately to carve for himself. A future free from clan hierarchies and branding seals. A future where he wasn't a tool, but a man with choices.
And she had told herself that that was more important. His dreams were more important than her feelings. He had too much on his shoulders to carry her love, too.
So, she waited.
And now it was too late.
Another strike. Sparks flew.
The shop's front door creaked open, the chime above the entrance jingling softly.
"Hello, youthful spirit!" came the unmistakable voice of Might Gai.
Lee pushed him into the shop in a new wheelchair—sleek, reinforced, and etched with tiny green flames on the sides that only Gai would find stylish. Gai's legs were draped with a warm cloth, unmoving, and the bandages beneath his sleeves peeked out like remnants of a war they hadn't fully escaped.
Tenten didn't stop hammering.
Lee, ever tactful in his own earnest way, cleared his throat. "Tenten... we came to check on you."
She said nothing at first. The hammer paused only for a moment as she switched grips and continued shaping the fan.
"Didn't think you needed to ask," she said flatly, eyes never leaving the glowing steel. "You already know."
Lee stepped forward, guilt flickering in his eyes. "We heard what happened at the graveyard."
Gai's voice grew quieter, sobered by the weight of what wasn't said. "They asked non-Hyuga to leave after the rites. I know that must've hurt."
Tenten let the hammer rest on the anvil. Her shoulders slumped ever so slightly, as if the forge's fire had burned through the armor she wore just to face the day.
"I didn't ask for much," she said, voice raw. "I just wanted to stay a little longer. To say goodbye."
She turned to face them, eyes shining with unshed tears. "I loved him. And I never told him. I waited because I thought he needed time to be free before he could love someone. I thought I was being patient. Selfless. But now—now he's gone, and I didn't even get to hold his hand at the end."
Lee's eyes dropped to the floor. Gai's fists clenched lightly in his lap.
"It is one of life's cruelest lessons," Gai said softly, "to carry words we never spoke."
Tenten swiped her wrist across her eyes, furious with herself for crying again.
"I wasn't just mourning at the funeral," she whispered. "I was angry. Because the clan that caged him wouldn't let me stay. As if my love wasn't real. As if my grief wasn't worthy."
Lee stepped forward then, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You're worthy. And Neji knew. Maybe not the words, but he knew."
Gai's voice lifted with quiet resolve. "Neji saw everything. His eyes may have been trained for battle, but they always saw deeper than the rest of us. You were beside him in every mission. Every moment. He knew."
Tenten finally let herself sink onto a nearby bench. The grief that had been forged into every blade she shaped now found voice in quiet, trembling breaths.
"I'm tired," she said. "Of losing people. Of pretending I'm strong because I make weapons."
Lee knelt beside her. "Then rest. We'll sit with you."
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Tenten broke.
The moment Lee crouched beside her and wrapped his arms around her shaking shoulders, the dam burst. All the tears she had buried behind hammer strikes and clashing steel poured out, hot and bitter against the worn fabric of Lee's green flak vest. Her hands clutched at him, as if the act could somehow anchor her back to a world that hadn't fractured completely.
"I should've saved him," she choked. "I was right there. I could see it happening. And I froze. My weapons—my stupid, useless weapons—they couldn't do anything."
Her voice cracked under the weight of her anguish, the rawness in it laying bare everything she'd carried since that cursed day.
"If I'd been better... if I could make blades like the Seven Swordsmen... or if I had one legendary weapon, just one, maybe—maybe—he wouldn't have—"
Her words dissolved into sobs, and Lee held her tighter, his usually exuberant demeanor dimmed by the grief they all shared. He said nothing at first, letting her cry, knowing that words too soon would feel like paper over a wound that bled too deep.
It was Gai who spoke, his voice soft—hoarse, even—as he leaned forward in his wheelchair.
"Tenten, my dear student," he said, his eyes gleaming with restrained emotion, "you must never say your weapons are worthless. They have protected lives. They have stood against gods. And they were wielded by you, someone who fights with heart and purpose."
"But it wasn't enough," she whispered, still trembling in Lee's arms. "I wasn't enough."
Gai's hands clenched the wheels of his chair. "Then become enough. But not out of regret. Out of love."
Lee looked at her then, his brows furrowed in fierce determination. "You are one of the best weapons masters in the village, Tenten. Maybe not at the level of the Seven Swordsmen—yet—but you're still young. You've made weapons no one else here can. That means something. You mean something."
Tenten sniffled, pulling away slightly. Her eyes were puffy, her cheeks flushed, but there was a flicker of something else beginning to return: clarity.
"What's the point of improving now?" she asked, voice barely audible. "He's gone."
Lee gently cupped her shoulder. "Because he believed in you. He would never want your grief to chain you down. If Neji were here... he would have said the same thing Gai-sensei said: Don't stop moving forward. Not for guilt. Not for pain. Move forward because your future still matters."
Gai gave a small nod, his eyes moist but filled with pride. "Remember him not through what you lost—but through what you can still become. Make blades that would make even the Seven Swordsmen pause. Honor him by growing beyond your sorrow. That's what it means to carry someone with you."
Tenten looked at the forge across the room—where embers still glowed softly, stubbornly refusing to die out. She thought of Neji's quiet confidence, the way he would stand unshaken in the face of impossible odds. His belief in destiny... and how she, more than anyone, had seen that belief start to change. How he began to believe in people, in choice, because of Naruto... and because of them.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve.
"I still love him," she said softly.
Lee and Gai didn't speak. They didn't need to.
Tenten took a deep breath and stood. Her legs were shaky, but she moved to the forge once more. She stared at the metal waiting on the anvil. She didn't pick up the hammer yet—but her hand hovered close.
"I'll keep going," she said. "I'll keep making better weapons. And one day... I'll make something worthy of Neji Hyuga."
Outside, the wind stirred the wind chimes above the shop door, a soft, almost musical whisper in the air. It sounded—for just a moment—like a thank you.