Roshi and Itachi's silhouettes receded along the trade road. From the shadows, one watchful gaze finally withdrew; a figure darted back toward the village, while several others slinked after Roshi's departing Shadow Clone, trailing it toward Koizumi Town.
Beneath the broad shadow of a zelkova tree was Roshi with Itachi at his side. They watched in silence as the pursuers vanished into the distance. Itachi's eyes lingered, dark and unreadable, until the last hint of movement dissolved into the night.
Inside the village chief's residence, the oil lamp burned brighter than usual, casting restless light across the room. Several of the village's elders had gathered, their faces drawn tight, the air so heavy with unease it pressed against the lungs.
"I told you from the start we should have reported this!" A hoarse, angry voice broke the silence. The speaker's hands trembled with contained fury. "When those boys crept back in, I knew it would end like this!"
At first, no one in the village had known what their youths were doing after leaving home. But when news spread of bandits being hunted in the Land of Rivers—at the same time a dozen young men from Shirakawa went missing—the pieces began to align. And when those missing youths reappeared, so too did the raids. It didn't take much for the village leaders to connect the dots to an ugly truth.
Opposite the speaker, a middle-aged man adjusted his round-rimmed spectacles, the lamplight glinting coldly off the glass. "When the pursuit team questioned us, we swore ignorance. And now you want us to change our story? What will the authorities think?" His tone was soft, but every word cut clear. "Life is hard, yes, but still manageable. If the outside world learns Shirakawa harbors bandits, the village will collapse."
"Easy for you to say!" A scar-faced brute slammed a calloused palm on the low table, rattling the teacups. His bloodshot eyes burned. "Your warehouse is bare! Mine still holds half a year's grain, and it's rotting by the day! If this keeps up, the whole village will starve!"
From the head seat, Kisuke spoke at last. His dry voice rasped as though it had been wrung from the depths of his chest. "Those two ninja… already know."
The room froze. Silence deepened like a pit.
"Bang!" Shirakawa Sōsuke—an elder with a hawk's gaze and a mane of white hair—struck the table, sending water sloshing from the cups. His voice bore the weight of command, sharp and heavy. "Kisuke! We can't waver any longer. Those aren't peddlers—they're ninja on a mission." His skeletal fingers clenched the table edge. "Where are they now?"
Kisuke's lips quivered. "I… I sent word to Koichiro. To have them followed…" His voice faltered; his gnarled hands twisted the fabric of his robe. "That child… he was only led astray by outsiders. He was a good boy once…"
"Enough!" the scar-faced man barked, voice grinding like stone. "Koichiro's hands are soaked in blood! He's no child anymore! Chief—if you protect him now, you'll doom us all!"
Sōsuke rose slowly. His hunched frame stretched into a looming shadow that swallowed Kisuke beneath the lamplight. His voice rumbled, low and cold, like distant thunder. "This is no longer about a few outsiders dying. Once ninjas are involved, there must be resolution."
"…We can't hand them over," the man with glasses murmured after a long silence, his words taut as a drawn bowstring. "And we cannot—must not—let the world know Shirakawa's sons became bandits."
"Then what do you propose?!" The scar-faced elder snarled, eyes flashing with animal ferocity.
Sōsuke closed his eyes, the deep lines of his face cut deeper by the flame's trembling glow. "Since the Warring Clans era ended, this trade road has been our lifeline. Only in recent years have we lived decent lives. If Shirakawa's name is stained, the caravans will vanish, and every household here will fall with them." His eyes reopened, icy and resolute. "Our reputation is survival itself. Kisuke—you must cooperate."
"Brother, but—"
"No buts!"
The old chief's faint protests were devoured by the hiss of the lamp's wick until only heavy, suffocating sighs remained.
Moments later, when the watcher outside confirmed the ninjas had indeed left Shirakawa's borders, the tension in the room snapped like a bowstring. No more words were spoken. The elders dispersed swiftly, their shadows slipping into the night, carrying with them the village's secrets.
Soon after, on the threshing ground, more than forty young men gathered beneath the cold moonlight. In their hands were no longer hoes and rakes, but weapons that glinted with killing intent—sickles honed to razors, pitchforks sharpened into spears, hunters' bows drawn taut. Faces once familiar and warm were now drawn tight, their expressions shadowed by resolve.
At the head stood Sōsuke, his mane of white hair ghostly under the moon, with Kisuke beside him. Behind them, several villagers carried heavy loads of wine and meat. The moon stretched the procession into long, wavering shadows, each blade-tip casting distorted shapes across the earth. No words were spoken—only ragged breathing and the soft clink of iron filled the night air.
This was no era of peace. Barely fifty years had passed since the end of the Warring Clans era, when not only ninja but farmers and hunters alike had been dragged into bloodshed. Sōsuke was one of the few who had crawled out alive from that mountain of corpses. He still remembered how to lead men to slaughter. Under his command, the line of villagers wound into the forest like a silent serpent, gliding toward the mountain's dark heart.
"Did you foresee this, Senpai?" Itachi's young voice broke the stillness from the trees above the road. His dark eyes reflected the moving column below.
Leaning against the trunk, Roshi shook his head slowly. The shadows carved hard lines across his face.
"I considered many possibilities. They might confess and beg us to keep their secret. One of them could tip us off out of conscience. Or perhaps they'd collapse into infighting…" His gaze followed the cold gleam of sickles below. "But this? I didn't anticipate this."
Those blades were held by neighbors, by uncles he'd once greeted with casual warmth. "For the sake of their reputation, for their livelihoods, they've chosen to bloody their own hands."
An uneasy weight tightened in his chest. Were the villagers reckless fools—or had he been the fool, blind to the truth of this world?
"It is also the correct choice," Itachi said, his voice steady, far too calm for a boy of eight. His eyes remained fixed on the column of villagers. "By destroying the rot with their own hands, they make atonement. And they preserve the village's foundation."
Roshi turned, studying the boy's profile—the face still soft with youth, yet the eyes already fathomless, black as a midnight pond.
Perhaps it was true. His own understanding of this world was far too naïve. He turned away again, gaze sinking into the jagged ridges of the mountain, their outlines cut sharp by moonlight.
Halfway up, hidden in a natural hollow, lay the bandits' refuge: a crude stockade of wooden fences, its entrance guarded by only two men beside a bonfire. When they saw Kisuke leading a small group up the mountain path, their faces lit with familiar ease.
"Chief! You came all the way yourself? And with so many gifts!"
One of them stepped forward, smiling brightly. Koichiro. His face was full of vigor, still boyishly handsome. He reached to take the carrying pole from Kisuke's shoulders, as though welcoming an elder relative.
Kisuke froze, his steps suddenly heavy. Under the flickering firelight, his smile twisted stiffly across a face creased by age and fatigue. "Koichiro… Down in the Village, people are investigating again. It's a commotion. You truly don't plan to leave and lay low?"
"Oh, Chief, we already promised you!" Koichiro waved dismissively, a cocky grin tugging at his lips. "We're careful! We only rob foreign profiteers. Never the traders who deal with Shirakawa! Those greedy merchants deserve to be bled dry. You can rest easy!"
His eyes flicked to the bundles, where jars of wine and slabs of meat peeked through. His grin widened, boyish delight sparkling across his face. "You even brought so many good things for us! Wait—I'll call Brother Shinmi! He was just grumbling the wine wasn't strong enough!"
Kisuke's facial muscles twitched uncontrollably.
That outsider. That smooth-tongued parasite who had fed Koichiro dreams of an "easy life." Shinmi—the man who had twisted a hardworking, sensible boy into this reckless bandit.
Grief, rage, and despair crashed over Kisuke, threatening to break his frail body.
Because he knew—here, under this merciless moon—what had begun could no longer be undone.