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The journey back to Konoha was a brutal, silent march, each step pressing them further into the weight of what had happened. Sakumo's focus was split between the dark forest stretching ahead and the boy slumped against his back, the faint rise and fall of Haruto's breath the only reassurance he was still with them. Every few hours, the pain would surface in Haruto, writhing through him like a living thing, dragging him toward consciousness. His eyelids would flicker, and with each flutter, his face contorted into raw agony, his mouth opening in a hoarse, broken groan that clawed its way out of his chest. He reached blindly for his face, his fingers trembling, searching for eyes that saw only darkness, only searing pain.

Sakumo stopped each time, his heart pounding with a helpless ache he was unaccustomed to feeling. He knelt beside Haruto, his voice low, steady. "It's all right, Haruto… you're safe. We're going home." But as he spoke, he could feel his words falling short, their weight inadequate against the torment in Haruto's mind. No amount of assurance could soften the pain Chiyo had carved into him. Each time Haruto's hand faltered, he reached into his pouch, pulling out the small vial of sedative he'd purchased back in the village, where he'd made his fateful decision to save his comrades instead of the merchant's son, failing the mission. That small vial now felt heavier than any kunai he had ever carried.

Every dose he administered felt like a temporary bandage, a fleeting relief that would fade before long. He could only hold back the suffering, not erase it, and each dose reminded him of how fragile that relief was. In all his years as a shinobi, he had never felt so powerless. No amount of experience or hardened resolve could prepare him for this—the sight of someone so young, so full of potential, reduced to a broken shell because of choices he had made.

Beside him, Daichi trudged forward, Each step felt like a stone dragging Daichi deeper into the earth, every muscle in his body begging him to stop, to rest, to just breathe. But he refused. His eyes never left Haruto, slung over Sakumo's back, looking so small and frail, each labored breath cutting through Daichi like a blade. He could feel his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, a relentless reminder of his exhaustion. The chakra reserves he'd burned through were gone, leaving him hollow and drained, yet none of that mattered now. Not when Haruto needed him.

Earlier, Sakumo had told him to stay behind, that he was too spent to keep up, that Sakumo could manage the burden alone. It had been spoken kindly but firmly, a command from a jonin meant to be followed without question. But the words had struck something raw inside Daichi. Leave Haruto? Even for a second? No. He couldn't.

He had looked Sakumo in the eyes, defiance clear in his face, and without a word, he'd trudged forward, every step a refusal. This journey wasn't something Sakumo could bear alone; Daichi had to be there. For Haruto.

Every now and then, Haruto would stir, his face twisting in agony even in unconsciousness, a low, broken sound escaping his lips. The sound tore into Daichi, sinking deep, stirring helpless rage and fear. He wanted to reach out, to do something, anything to ease Haruto's pain, but all he could do was keep moving forward, as though his presence alone could somehow make things right.

Each step felt harder than the last, his legs growing heavier, his breaths shallow and uneven. The world around him blurred, trees blending into shadows, the ground swaying beneath his feet. But then he'd look at Haruto, his friend, his brother in every way that mattered, lying so still. That sight alone was enough to push him forward, forcing him to dig deeper than he'd ever gone.

He thought of everything they'd been through—the countless training hours, the fights, the dreams they'd shared. Haruto wasn't just a friend; he was a part of Daichi's life he couldn't imagine losing. Seeing him like this, so broken, hurt in ways Daichi couldn't reach, felt like a hole ripped through his chest. The helplessness was suffocating, a bitter reminder of his own limitations.

But Daichi couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop. Every step he took felt like a promise, a vow that he'd be here, no matter how bad things got, no matter how much it hurt. The bond they shared was more than exhaustion, more than pain, more than anything that could make him falter. Each step was a silent prayer, a hope that somehow his presence could tether Haruto, keep him from slipping further away.

And so they walked, the oppressive silence of the forest broken only by Haruto's tortured breaths and the rhythmic sound of their footsteps. Daichi kept going, the loyalty he felt burning inside him like a fire that refused to die, even as he grew numb to everything else around him.

As they drew closer to Konoha, a sliver of hope threaded through Daichi's exhaustion. Tsunade. If anyone could help Haruto, it was her. She was the best medic the village had, the one they said could heal anything. Haruto would be fine they just needed to get him home.

Katsume trailed behind them, her gaze drifting constantly toward Haruto. Her eyes held a mix of sorrow and guilt, her face a mask of emotions she struggled to contain. Sakumo caught her gaze once, and the silent question lingered there—a question she dared not voice, though it was clear in her downcast eyes. She was grappling with her own failure, she had failed the mission, with the grim knowledge that they were bringing back a boy who was no longer whole. She hadn't spoken a word since leaving the village.

The forest loomed around them, the silence punctuated only by the crackling of leaves underfoot and the occasional, agonizing gasp from Haruto. Each breath he took seemed to carry the weight of their failures, a haunting reminder that no matter how fast they walked, no matter how quickly they reached Konoha, they would arrive with wounds that no medic could truly heal. And Sakumo knew, deep down, that Chiyo had ensured it would be that way.