Deep within the stronghold, Shinmi sat perched on a smooth stone. At first glance, he seemed utterly ordinary—average height, plain coarse clothes, a face that would vanish in a crowd. Yet when his eyes met Kisuke's, a fleeting glimmer betrayed the danger lurking beneath the surface.
"The Daimyō's palace has sent men again," Kisuke said, his voice dry, gaze fixed on Shinmi. "You all… had better go into hiding."
Koichiro and several young men muttered in protest, defiant. "What's there to be afraid of?" But Shinmi, to everyone's surprise, simply nodded, his manner sincere. "You're right. We should hide." He even bowed slightly.
The tightness in Kisuke's shoulders eased the faintest bit. "It's not easy out there. Tonight… eat and drink your fill before you go." He gestured for the men behind him to set down their burdens.
"Much appreciated…" Shinmi's smile deepened, faint lines creasing the corners of his eyes. "Koichiro, tell everyone. Eat well, rest, and we'll leave at dawn."
The stronghold quickly filled with noise and cheer.
Though many grumbled at the thought of fleeing again, Shinmi's calm words soothed them easily.
During the feast, Kisuke and his men were unusually warm, urging the bandits to drink more, eat more, over and over reminding them to be cautious on the road.
After several rounds, Koichiro's and the others' faces flushed red, their eyes hazy and unfocused. Shinmi drank deeply too, yet his gaze remained sharp, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
Kisuke watched him, heart sinking. Something cold coiled beneath that smile.
Night deepened. A pale moon hung in the treetops. Only when the stronghold echoed with the steady rise and fall of snores did Kisuke slowly stand. He waved toward the shadows.
A faint rustle, like a snake gliding across fallen leaves, rose from the trees.
Led by Sōsuke, villagers emerged from the dark, farm tools honed into weapons clenched in their fists.
Some faces wavered with hesitation—until the first scream tore the silence apart. After that, expressions hardened, and numb determination took its place.
"They chose this path themselves," Sōsuke said. His voice wasn't loud, but it pierced the night like an ice pick.
"Robbing merchant caravans, dragging our village into the fire." His sharp gaze swept the crowd. "Think of your empty rice jars. Think of the unsold goods in your homes."
Sōsuke's words cut through the chaos. "When the small caravans are gone, do you think they'll stop? No—they'll turn on the very merchants who trade with us."
"Once people taste easy profit, they never turn back."
"This is their retribution for trusting an outsider's poison!" His last words hissed through clenched teeth.
Under moonlight, dark red dripped from sickles and pitchforks, spattering the mud with dull thuds.
The elder strode to Shinmi's body, driving a pitchfork through it several times before straightening. "Gather your things."
He didn't spare Kisuke, pale and trembling, even a glance.
There wasn't much wealth in the stronghold. Sōsuke divided the meager loot among those who fought, bundling the rest.
"These, along with…" his hand pointed at the corpses littering the ground, "…take them to report, Kisuke. Tell those ninja this is all that's left. Say the rest was squandered by the bandits long ago."
"Yes… yes," Kisuke's voice shook violently.
"This matter ends here," the elder's eyes cut across each villager like a blade. "No one speaks of it again. The story is simple—the bandits were wiped out by Konoha's Ninja." Only when every head bobbed stiffly did he look away.
The Shirakawa villagers, burdened with their pitiful "spoils of war," vanished into the darkness before dawn, leaving behind silence and the stench of blood.
When the horizon began to pale, a corpse twitched.
Shinmi slowly sat up, brushing dried blood from his clothes. He gazed east, lips curving in a playful smile.
"I meant to keep them a while longer…" he muttered with mockery in his tone. "Now it's less trouble."
His eyes swept over the villagers' bodies, once so loyal to him. His smile widened. "At last, I can live peacefully in the Land of Tea."
"You're a ninja, huh?"
The cold, clear voice shattered the silence.
Shinmi froze, snapping his head up.
A young man stood atop the ruined palisade, dark-green attire blending with the dawn shadows, forehead protector glinting faintly.
He descended lightly, as if carried on the wind.
Shinmi's pupils shrank. He stepped back, muscles coiled tight, eyes fixed on the symbol gleaming on the stranger's brow—Konoha.
"A band of ordinary villagers, able to slip past the Land of Rivers into the Land of Fire, and even into the Land of Rain… there's no doubt someone's guiding them." Roshi's voice was calm, but his eyes gleamed like probing needles.
Shinmi's throat bobbed, but his tone stayed steady. "A gang of petty thieves, nothing more. At best, a C-rank mission. Fewer than twenty of them. The Land of Rivers wouldn't pay more than fifty thousand ryō." His gaze lingered on Roshi's hands, wary of forming seals.
"This sum," Shinmi continued, subtly steadying his breathing, "isn't worth two shinobi risking their lives. I didn't act directly, and my name's not on the Land of Rivers' wanted list. If you report truthfully and let me go, the mission still counts as complete." He spread his hands, a gesture of harmlessness. "Why gamble with your lives for pocket change? A shinobi battle is far too unpredictable."
Roshi's fingers brushed his tool pouch. "You seem to know the market well. Kept the scale small, just enough to avoid raising the bounty high enough to spark a shinobi conflict?"
A faint smile tugged at Shinmi's lips. "The corpses at your feet will be proof enough for your report."
"In theory, yes." Roshi inclined his head. "But the Land of Rivers posted the request to Konoha, Sunagakure, and Amegakure. To calculate so precisely… Sunagakure's work? Or perhaps Amegakure?" His gaze narrowed. "So careful. I'd say you're—"
Before the words finished, one of the "corpses" behind Roshi burst upright with a violent crack, splinters of wood flying. A cold, humanoid puppet emerged, joints grinding as its jaw clattered open. Dozens of senbon, glowing faintly blue, shot forth!
Roshi spun with lightning reflexes, countering instantly—
But Shinmi's hands blurred the moment his focus shifted.
His wide sleeves snapped open like a viper's hood, and hundreds of poisoned needles fanned into the air.
At the same time, Shinmi's chest swelled, the surrounding air sucked inward—
"Wind Release: Great Breakthrough!"
A roaring gale exploded from his mouth, sweeping the cloud of senbon into a deadly storm. The wind drove the projectiles with terrifying speed and force, weaving a whistling net of death across Roshi's back.
"Puff, puff, puff—"
The sickening rhythm of metal punching into flesh echoed like rain striking broad leaves.
Roshi convulsed, blood blossoming in countless tiny bursts across his body—eyes, cheeks, neck, chest, limbs. The venom spread in dark veins from every wound. He staggered, then collapsed face-first into the mud, still.
Shirakawa Village lay cloaked in the grey mist of dawn. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of earth and leaves, undercut by a faint metallic tang.
At the gate, Itachi stood silently, watching the villagers file in with small bundles on their backs. Their faces carried no grief—only exhaustion and a hollow numbness.
Kisuke walked last, his steps faltering as though each one might bring him to collapse.
The sight of Itachi was like a stone dropped into stagnant water. The line of villagers froze, all eyes shifting to the small shinobi standing before them.
Sōsuke pushed forward, his bark-like face hardened by years, his gaze sharp as a hawk's.
"Ninja-sama of Konoha," the elder rasped. "The bandits have been cleared. There isn't much left—just this." He pointed to the bundles. "The Village Head will explain."
Itachi's gaze swept over them—farm tools, rough clothes, all smeared with dark stains. His black eyes returned to Sōsuke, calm and unwavering, voice cutting through the mist:
"Roshi-senpai asked me to deliver his message."
Silence fell so deep that even breath seemed to still.
"First—Konoha knows everything that happened in the stronghold last night."
The words struck like ice water. Several villagers swayed unsteadily.
Kisuke's head jerked up, horror etched in his face.
Sōsuke's expression darkened, the veins on his cane hand bulging.
"Second," Itachi continued, voice flat, "outwardly you will give one story only: the bandits were tracked and destroyed by Roshi and myself, Uchiha Itachi. The villagers of Shirakawa merely provided assistance."
He paused, locking eyes with the elder. "Third, cleansing your own house is your internal matter. Konoha will neither judge nor interfere. On the condition that it ends here. No further incidents. No harm to trade routes. No breach of the client's trust."
Sōsuke's chest heaved, his gaze burning into the boy before him. After a long silence, he ground out a single word: "…Understood." His voice rasped like sandpaper.
Itachi gave a small nod. He spoke no further, simply turned, and melted back into the fading mist. His small silhouette vanished toward the stronghold.
Only when he was gone did whispers erupt—fear, unease, dread curling like mist around the villagers.
Sōsuke slammed his cane down, voice cracking like a whip. "Enough! Do exactly as the Ninja-sama commanded! Finish cleaning up, get to your work! And remember—if any man, woman, or child speaks one word of today's events—"
His bloodshot eyes swept over them, the unspoken threat freezing their tongues. Not even cicadas in winter could have been quieter.
Kisuke glanced at Sōsuke, lips trembling, but no words came. His back hunched lower still, as if crushed under the weight of it all.