The halo of the oil lamp flickered in Itachi's eyes, yet no answer came to his lips.
The Uchiha had a way of doing things—fixed, absolute. Genjutsu to control, force to suppress, storm the target, and seize evidence later. Simple. Direct. Whether innocents were harmed or conflict escalated had never mattered. The weak did not deserve the clan's explanation, and the strong would never ask for it. Such was the Uchiha's creed—such was the cruel logic of the shinobi world.
In the mission system, the scale reflected this divide. Missions involving only civilians rarely rose above C-rank, the rewards capped at a hundred thousand ryō. But the moment shinobi entered the equation, the mission became B-rank at minimum—rewards starting at eighty thousand, with no ceiling.
Yet Itachi had never accepted this. Every time he thought of the arrogance etched into his clansmen's bones, a quiet nausea stirred in him. He loathed the Uchiha's methods—and even more, the curse of power born from grief. To glorify strength bought with loss, to parade suffering as "the Uchiha's pride"… that suffocated him.
The wavering lamplight dragged him back to the memory he hated most: the day he awakened his Sharingan, staring at the still bodies of his teammates. And his father's words, cool and approving—"You are indeed my son."
In that instant, his heart had plunged into ice.
'I didn't walk this path for the sake of these eyes.' The thought had echoed inside him ever since, though he had never voiced it. Now, faced with Roshi-senpai's calm question, the emotions he had buried began to swell.
He lifted his gaze. In the shifting glow, the faint outline of the double tomoe shimmered in his eyes.
"...Forgive me, Senpai," his voice was low. "I don't have an answer."
"Then," Roshi said simply, "we'll proceed my way."
The following morning, before the mist had burned off, Roshi led Itachi down the damp stone paths of Shirakawa. Dew clung to their sandals, leaving dark prints on the bluestone. Cooking smoke rose lazily from the houses, but the tension in the air was thicker than fog.
They went door to door. The villagers' guarded faces were like closed shutters. Even polite questions were met with vague replies, and more than one family, noting the shinobi were only boys—one fourteen, the other eight—shut their doors outright without pretense.
Roshi's expression never wavered.
He shifted the rhythm, beginning with harmless chatter: "The harvest looks good this year." … "The inn seems quieter than before." Small talk, nothing more—but each word pried, little by little, at the villagers' silence.
Itachi stood by, silent but sharp-eyed. If Roshi was the hand that knocked, Itachi was the hawk that saw everything. Shifting gazes, hesitations in tone, the tightening of knuckles—he noted them all with precision, recording each with a credibility mark in his small notebook.
By sunset, the sky awash with orange, they stood beneath the old sophora tree at the village gate. Itachi opened his notebook and spoke in a calm, steady voice that belied his age:
"Thirty-seven villagers are habitually away. Fifteen stay in regular contact. Six more are sporadic, but with stable work elsewhere—those accounts match. The remaining sixteen…" his eyes narrowed, "their whereabouts are unclear. The villagers' claims are vague, often contradictory."
Roshi gazed at the rooftops fading into twilight. "Not all of them are bandits. Some left for livelihood, some for adventure. But…" he smiled faintly, "the chief's reaction last night told me enough. He knows."
Itachi snapped the notebook shut. "Another pattern—the number of traveling merchants dropped sharply after the bandit raids. The inn owner reported nearly thirty percent less income, and villagers complain of stockpiled goods. Trade has slowed. They're suffering for it."
Roshi's lips curved into a knowing smile.
If Shirakawa had been a barren village, only ruthless methods would have worked. But this place had tasted prosperity before—it had known the sweetness of trade routes. And for those who had once climbed high, even a fall halfway down was bitter enough to wound.
Which meant the timing was perfect. Where force alone might fail, cooperation could be bought. And bringing an eight-year-old partner left a window to resolve things with finesse rather than blood.
So the two turned back toward the chief's courtyard.
This time, Roshi's presence was colder than the night before.
"Village Chief Shirakawa." Roshi laid the neatly organized investigation scroll on the table with deliberate calm. His voice was steady, almost gentle. "Now… do you have anything you wish to tell me?"
The old man's Adam's apple moved with effort. His withered fingers curled into the fabric of his robe as though clinging to it for strength. "I….I not understand what you mean, sir…"
Roshi circled around the table, his footsteps unhurried, until he stood before the Village Chief. The last strands of sunset cut across the room, casting his shadow long and sharp on the floor. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering.
"Shirakawa Kisuke," his words dropped like stones into still water, "you know very well we could have chosen a much simpler—much harsher—solution."
The air in the room thickened. Even breathing became a careful, stifled act.
"Every line recorded in this scroll represents the restraint and respect we've shown your Village." Roshi's voice was calm, almost too calm, the depth of a still pond hiding unseen currents. "True, you can argue this isn't decisive evidence. But evidence… is rarely what decides matters. People believe what they want to believe. And if I were to submit this report to the Land of Rivers, letting word spread that Shirakawa not only breeds bandits but also shelters them—what do you think would happen?"
"Ninja-sama!" Panic cracked through the old man's voice as he lifted his clouded eyes, desperation flashing within. "Please—please, I beg of you, do not! Our Village would never—"
"Yesterday," Roshi interrupted, straightening with composed ease, "I already made things clear. Our goals can align. We want the mission completed, the trade routes secured, the threat removed. You want peace, the return of the caravans, your warehouses cleared of unsold goods."
He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, his eyes drifting toward the deepening twilight outside the window. "As for minor details—such as where these bandits truly came from—that lies far beyond the scope of a C-rank mission. My time is limited, Village Chief. If you insist on wasting goodwill…"
The unfinished words lingered in the silence, heavier than any threat. Roshi lifted a hand, almost kindly, and patted the old man's trembling shoulder before turning away.
"At your age, you should know better than to protect the wrong things, Village Chief Shirakawa."
Sliding open the paper door, he let in the evening wind—carrying with it the mingled scents of grass, smoke, and simmering meals. "Let's go, Itachi. There's nothing worth eating here. Tonight, we'll dine in Koizumi Town."
"Yes, Senpai." Itachi's quiet reply followed. He cast one last glance at the Village Chief, frozen in place, his back bent further under invisible weight—aged another ten years in a single moment.
The sound of wooden clogs echoed on the stone path, fading step by step until the village road swallowed them whole. Alone in the dim room, Shirakawa Kisuke slowly closed his eyes. Only the faint crackle of the oil lamp's flame remained, devouring what little warmth was left.