Itachi and Danzo’s Remote Psychological Game 17: Chapter 17: Root’s Slip-up!
Itachi and Danzo’s Remote Psychological Game Uchiha Clan Compound, third row of rooftops in the southeast direction.
Itachi crouched on the tiles, his whole being perfectly blended into the night.
He did not approach that dilapidated small courtyard.
No need.
Standing at this position, the Sharingan’s insight was enough to see most details within fifty meters, naturally including the thin figure crouching under the corridor in the courtyard, slowly gnawing on a cold rice ball.
Uchiha Yuya.
Three days ago, that variable whom he had warned to his face not to cause trouble.
Itachi had watched him all day.
From dawn to dusk, Youye seemed to have grown into the courtyard; he didn’t step out the front door or the back gate.
He didn’t go to the Konoha Military Police Force to report anything, didn’t approach the area where Sasuke was active, and didn’t even have any proper interaction with any clan members.
The three red-line prohibitions, he hadn’t stepped over a single one.
Normally, there are two possibilities for this reaction.
Either he was completely scared out of his wits, stopping and playing dead until the heat died down; or he knew his end was near and was ready to just give up and let things fall apart.
But Youye didn’t fit either category.
He just stayed honestly in the courtyard, repairing a broken water bucket, drinking white porridge, spacing out, and when bored, even muttered a few words to the ant nest in the corner.
No matter how you look at it, this is a pure-blooded loser rubbed into the ground by reality.
But the problem is here—a standard loser, why would he attract uninvited guests for two consecutive nights?
Itachi’s gaze slowly shifted, landing on the side of Youye’s neck.
There was a shallow scratch there, already scabbed over.
The position was extremely tricky, right against the outer side of the carotid artery by two centimeters.
It definitely wasn’t something that could be caused by bumping or scratching.
It was more like some kind of sharp short blade grazing the skin, a kiss left by the Shinigami up close.
Itachi’s gaze then swept to the back of Youye’s right hand.
Three parallel scratches, slanting from the web of the thumb all the way to the base of the middle finger, uniform in depth.
This was clearly a scratch left instinctively to avoid a fatal attack in an extremely narrow, desperate situation.
This kid, he was hiding something.
Itachi didn’t rush to conclusions, but instead turned his gaze to the surroundings of the courtyard.
At the broken part of the wooden corridor, there was a cross-section of a wooden board that was obviously lighter in color; that was a new cut.
It wasn’t naturally decayed, but shaved flat by extremely sharp micro-Ninja tools.
The soil at the base of the courtyard wall had also been turned over; the surface looked smooth and traceless, but the color difference between the new and old soil underneath could not escape the capture of the Sharingan.
Even the broken tiles in the corner had something wrong with the edges of the breaks.
It wasn’t the radial pattern of natural falling and breaking, but rather, after being neatly broken, they had been deliberately pieced back together.
Someone had been here, and it was an expert at cleaning up traces.
Fast movements, clean methods.
Itachi rose silently from the roof ridge, changing his viewing angle.
He still didn’t think Youye was a completely innocent victim.
A true loser, almost having his throat slit in the middle of the night, would either rush to the Konoha Military Police Force to report it like crazy the next day, or hug someone’s leg and beg neighbors for help.
But Youye didn’t.
He chose death-like silence.
He didn’t cry out in pain, didn’t look for a medical Ninja, and let the wound scab over.
Was he afraid, or was he patiently waiting for someone to “discover” these laid-out traces?
On this point, Itachi still couldn’t figure it out.
But one thing was set in stone—Youye had been touched.
Just after he had drawn a line, someone had ignored his warning and reached out to this sensitive variable.
Itachi, like a falling leaf that had lost its weight, landed silently in a side alley inside the clan compound.
He needed more concrete evidence.
Ten minutes later, in the archives room behind the Konoha Military Police Force.
Itachi had already pulled out Youye’s personal file.
The first page was still that “Personal Major Decision Declaration” that gave all the officers a headache.
He skipped it directly and flipped to the back.
Second page, patrol record supplement.
Date: Two days ago.
“Nighttime strange noise, the person involved claimed to have fallen and broken a water bucket, no external injuries, mental state unstable.” Third page, neighbor complaint record.
Date: Yesterday.
“Continuous abnormal noises for two nights, the complainant claimed to witness an unknown black shadow jumping out from the person’s courtyard wall and running away.” Three records, the timeline interlocked perfectly.
The first night, the killer visited.
The second night, professional trace cleaning.
As it happened, the second night, while retreating, they were caught red-handed by the neighbor next door.
All of this happened after he had warned Youye.
Itachi put the file back in its original place and gently closed the cabinet door.
He had been in the Anbu directly under the Hokage for four years; he knew the tricks of the Konoha high-ups better than anyone.
The Anbu under the old man Third Hokage focused on restraint, concealment, and leaving no traces.
If it were the Anbu doing the job, they wouldn’t have left any flaws on the first night that required them to come back and clean up the mess the next day.
Then, whose style did this “seemingly professional but actually crude” logic fit better?
The answer was almost leaping out from the bottom of Itachi’s heart.
Root.
That bunch of guys living in the gutters believed in acting first and reporting later, and forcing a fix if things went wrong.
They only recognized mission efficiency and didn’t care how ugly their methods were.
Itachi suddenly remembered that cold remark by Danzo at the high-level meeting not long ago: “The Uchiha problem requires a more decisive handling method.” If Danzo was just coordinating with the upcoming clan extermination plan, there was no need to cause extra trouble at this critical juncture by moving against a worthless peripheral figure.
Unless…
this old fox had other calculations in private.
Itachi closed his eyes, stopping his thoughts from wandering further.
Now was not the time to draw conclusions; he needed ironclad evidence, not logical deduction.
He turned and left, his figure quickly disappearing into the heavy night.
…
At the same time, in Youye’s dilapidated courtyard.
The cold rice ball was finally finished.
Youye casually set the empty bowl on the corridor board, grabbed a rag, and slowly wiped the scab on the back of his hand.
His movements were clumsy as hell, looking just like a loser who couldn’t take care of himself.
But his heart rate at this moment had actually soared since five minutes ago.
That extremely hidden oppressive feeling, as if being scrutinized by some deadly beast from a distance, he was too familiar with.
There was no need for a system prompt; he could guess with his toes who was “checking the water meter.” Lord Itachi himself had come for a field inspection.
Youye didn’t look up, didn’t look around, and certainly didn’t shout like an idiot, “Who’s there?” A prohibition was a red line, and he hadn’t touched a single one.
He just sat quietly, carrying out the persona of an “ignorant loser scared out of his wits” to the end.
The main strategy was: If the enemy doesn’t move, I don’t move; if the enemy moves, I lie flat.
On the edge of his retina, the system interface flickered slightly.
[Current mission progress: 88%] The progress bar was stuck.
This meant that Itachi had come, had seen everything, but hadn’t yet hammered in the final nail of concrete evidence.
“Still missing that last bit…” Youye muttered to himself, throwing the rag precisely into the water basin.
Then he patted his butt, stood up, went into the room, closed the door, and turned off the light.
Sleep, keep waiting.
As long as he could stay steady, he would win big in this game.
…
At this time, in the Root stronghold deep underground in Konoha.
Danzo sat in the dark room, with only a dim light illuminating the three reports spread out before him.
The first was the trace-cleaning report submitted by the action squad last night.
The conclusion was extremely confident: the traces had been completely erased, and the target definitely hadn’t noticed.
The second was the urgent restrictive instruction copy from the Third Hokage.
“Root must not unauthorizedly contact or provoke Uchiha clan members.” And the third was top-secret intelligence just sent back from the Anbu’s outer perimeter informants.
It contained only one short line: “Uchiha Itachi appeared near the target (Uchiha Yuya)’s residence tonight, staying secretly for about fifteen minutes.” Danzo’s single eye stared fixedly at the third report, his withered fingers tapping heavily on the top of his cane.
Itachi had gone to the scene to investigate.
What did this mean?
It meant that the sharp nerves of that kid Itachi had already been triggered by that dilapidated courtyard of Youye’s.
With Uchiha Itachi’s cold, meticulous, and tenacious style, as long as he dug down along this line, it was only a matter of time before he found Root.
Danzo’s face was so gloomy it seemed like it could drip water.
He didn’t continue to think deeply, but instead expressionlessly swept that piece of intelligence into the secret compartment under the table, speaking in a hoarse voice towards the darkness in front of him.
“Pass the order.” In the darkness, a masked Root elite appeared like a ghost, kneeling on one knee.
“Since Hiruzen has given a strict order not to touch him, if it cannot be confirmed whether there is truly an expert protecting Uchiha Yuya behind the scenes…” Danzo paused, his tone as cold as if mixed with ice shards, “then we will change to a safer method.
Do not send anyone to physically contact him in person.” “My lord, what do you mean?” “Switch to remote confirmation.” A hint of vicious calculation flashed in Danzo’s single eye, “Use a tracking seal.” He didn’t believe it; since he couldn’t shake off this pot that had been thrown at him, he had to find out who was the mole behind the scenes.
“Stick it on.” His cane tapped the ground, emitting a dull echo, “I want to see exactly which deity dares to peel off the seal at this time.”