The glow of the oil lamp flickered softly in Itachi’s eyes.
He couldn’t give Shuji an answer immediately.
The Uchiha clan had its own established way of handling problems: control the target with genjutsu, suppress any resistance with force, break directly into the suspected location, and search for evidence afterward.
Simple.
Direct.
Efficient.
Whether that approach caused conflict or dragged innocent people into the aftermath was rarely part of the calculation.
The weak weren’t owed an explanation from the Uchiha, while the strong had no need for one.
That was the clan’s creed, and in many ways, the shinobi world’s normal attitude toward ordinary people.
Under the mission system, assignments involving only ordinary civilians could be classified no higher than C-rank, with rewards topping out at roughly one hundred thousand ryō.
The moment enemy shinobi became involved, however, the mission immediately rose to B-rank, where payment started around eighty thousand ryō and could climb far higher.
But Itachi had never truly accepted the thinking behind that system.
Whenever he remembered the arrogance ingrained so deeply in many of his clansmen, his stomach churned.
He despised the clan’s way of doing things.
Even more than that, he hated the cruel fate that seemed to demand the loss of someone precious in exchange for greater power.
What suffocated him most was the way some Uchiha suffered that loss, gained power from it, and then took pride in the result, calling it the glory of the Uchiha.
There was something horribly twisted about it.
The dim lamplight swayed, drawing Itachi’s thoughts back to one painfully cold memory.
When the death of his teammate had awakened his Sharingan, his father, Fugaku, had looked at him with unmistakable approval and said, “As expected of my son.” Those words had made Itachi feel as though he’d been plunged into an icy abyss.
I didn’t stand beside them just so I could gain these eyes.
The thought had lingered in his heart for a long time, yet he had never spoken it aloud.
Now, faced with Shuji-senpai’s question, all those buried emotions stirred again.
Itachi raised his head.
In the shifting light, the two tomoe in each of his Sharingan seemed to appear and disappear within his crimson eyes.
“I’m sorry, Shuji-senpai,” he said quietly.
“I…
don’t have an answer.” “Then we’ll do it my way.” The next morning, before the thin mist had fully dispersed, Shuji and Itachi stepped onto the damp stone paths of Shirakawa Village.
Morning dew dampened their footwear, leaving faint wet marks across the blue-gray stones.
Smoke curled lazily from the village houses, but even the familiar signs of breakfast being prepared couldn’t dispel the tension hanging in the air.
They went from house to house, knocking on every door.
The villagers’ wariness was as solid as the wooden doors between them.
Even when speaking to shinobi, most maintained a distant attitude and answered with cautious evasions.
Some were even less cooperative.
Seeing that the two shinobi were only fourteen and eight years old, they simply shut their doors and refused to speak at all, not even bothering with excuses.
Shuji remained completely unfazed.
Instead of pressing them, he shifted to harmless everyday conversation.
“I heard the harvest was especially good this year?” “The inn seems to have fewer guests than in previous years…” The questions sounded meaningless, almost like casual small talk.
Yet each one was a tiny key, gradually prying open mouths that had previously remained firmly shut.
Itachi stood quietly beside him, his dark eyes calmly observing every subtle change.
He wasn’t particularly talkative, but his powers of observation were as sharp as a hawk’s.
A villager’s wandering gaze.
A slight shift in tone.
Fingers curling unconsciously when a certain subject was mentioned.
Itachi caught every detail and recorded it in the notebook he carried with him, marking how trustworthy he believed each statement to be.
By the time the setting sun painted the horizon warm orange, the two were standing beneath an old locust tree at the entrance to Shirakawa Village.
Itachi opened his notebook.
His voice still carried the youthfulness of an eight-year-old, yet his delivery was remarkably calm and methodical.
“There are thirty-seven villagers listed as living away from the village for extended periods.
Fifteen maintain regular contact with their families.
Six don’t communicate frequently, but we’ve confirmed that they have stable occupations elsewhere, so those accounts are credible.” He glanced down at his notes.
“The whereabouts of the remaining sixteen are unclear.
The villagers claim they’re still in contact with them, but their answers were vague and often contradicted one another.” “They can’t all be bandits,” Shuji said, looking toward the distant outlines of the village houses.
“Some probably left because they needed work.
Others may simply have wanted to see the world beyond this village.” He paused.
“But Shirakawa Kisuke started losing his composure the moment I asked about the villagers who had left.
That reaction alone confirms that there’s something worth investigating.” “There’s something else.” Itachi closed his notebook with a soft snap.
“Since the bandit attacks began, the number of merchants and travelers staying in the village has fallen sharply.” He recalled the helpless frustration on the villagers’ faces whenever the subject came up.
“The innkeeper said his income has dropped by nearly thirty percent.
The amount of unsold goods piling up in the village has also increased significantly.
The villagers are extremely unhappy about it.” A faint smile of understanding appeared on Shuji’s lips.
If Shirakawa Village had been nothing more than an impoverished settlement with little to lose, perhaps the only practical solution would have been the ruthless methods shinobi so often relied upon.
But this village was different.
Its people had tasted the prosperity brought by the trade road.
They knew what abundance felt like.
And for people who had once enjoyed prosperity, suddenly losing it hurt far more than never having possessed it in the first place.
It was like falling from the summit of a mountain.
Even if you stopped halfway down instead of crashing all the way to the bottom, the difference in height was enough to make the fall unforgettable.
That frustration was precisely what Shuji could use to persuade the village to cooperate.
And with an eight-year-old Itachi accompanying him, Shuji would rather resolve the situation as smoothly as possible while they still had the luxury of choosing how to proceed.
So the two returned to the village chief’s residence.
This time, Shuji was noticeably colder than he had been the previous day.
“Chief Shirakawa.” He gently placed the neatly organized investigation scroll on the low table.
“Do you have anything you’d like to tell me now?” The old chief swallowed with difficulty.
His thin fingers unconsciously twisted the fabric of the robe resting across his knees.
“I…
I’m afraid this foolish old man doesn’t understand what you mean, my lord…” Shuji slowly walked around the table until he stood directly before the old man.
The last rays of the setting sun streamed into the room from behind him, casting a long shadow across the floor.
He leaned forward slightly.
“Shirakawa Kisuke, you should understand that we could have chosen a much more direct way to solve this problem.” The room instantly fell into a suffocating silence.
Even breathing suddenly seemed like something that needed to be done carefully.
“Every line written on this scroll represents the restraint and respect we’ve shown your village.” Shuji’s voice was as calm and deep as still water.
“You could argue that we lack conclusive evidence.
But evidence isn’t always what matters most.” His gaze remained fixed on the old chief.
“People tend to believe whatever they’re already inclined to believe.
For example, imagine what would happen if we submitted this report to the authorities of the Land of Rivers and word spread that Shirakawa Village not only produced a group of bandits, but knowingly sheltered and protected them…” “Lord Shinobi!” The old man jerked his head up, panic flashing through his clouded eyes.
“Please…
please, you mustn’t!
Our village would never—” “I made myself very clear yesterday.” Shuji straightened, his voice remaining perfectly even.
“Our interests in this matter can be the same.” “We need to complete our mission and remove the threat along the trade road.
Your village needs peace restored so caravans will return and you can finally sell the goods that have been piling up.” Shuji calmly adjusted his sleeve.
“As for the other details—such as exactly where those bandits came from—that isn’t something a C-rank mission requires me to investigate to the bitter end.” His eyes drifted toward the deepening dusk beyond the window.
“My time is limited.
If you insist on wasting the goodwill we’re offering, then…” He left the sentence unfinished.
The unspoken threat hung heavily in the air.
Shuji raised a hand and gently patted the old man’s trembling shoulder before turning and motioning for Itachi to leave.
“At your age, Chief Shirakawa, can you truly not tell what is actually worth protecting?” “Come on, Itachi.” Shuji slid open the paper door.
The evening breeze swept inside, carrying the mingled scents of grass, trees, and cooking smoke.
“There’s nothing particularly good to eat in this village.
We’ll go to Koizumi Town for dinner tonight.” “Yes, senpai,” Itachi replied quietly.
Before following, he cast one final glance at the old man standing frozen in place, looking as though he had aged ten years in the span of a few minutes.
The sound of their wooden sandals striking the stone road gradually faded into the distance until it disappeared completely at the end of the village path.
Only then did Shirakawa Kisuke slowly close his eyes.
Inside the room, nothing remained but the faint crackle of the burning oil lamp.